She presses the "Talk" button and pauses for a second, hoping that the word will somehow magically enter her brain so she'll know how to greet the person on the other end. It only takes about half a second before said person gets impatient and beats her to the punch:

"Daph?"

"Yeah," she answers, trying hard to sound as alert as possible.

"You asleep?"

She sits up, stretching widely, then falls back against the bed, managing to crush the phone between her shoulder and cheek in the process. "No," she lies. Half-lies. "I'm awake. What's up?"

"I have this... problem," Justin says, and Daphne mentally braces herself for his latest story of marital woe. If she had to guess, she'd probably assume that their newest brand of lube was chapping Justin's ass or that Brian had bought no-pulp orange juice again. Considering how dysfunctional they both are, it never ceases to amaze Daphne how rarely the couple really fights.

"Mmm," she mumbles, encouraging him to continue. "Rough night at the honeymooners'?"

Justin sighs in obvious exasperation. "I'm serious, Daph. This is serious."

He actually sounds worried, and that makes Daphne worried, too. Brian and Justin don't fight -- that much is true -- but they've definitely had more than their share of tragedy, and it seems like every time they think their lives are okay again, something else barrels along to fuck them up.

She pushes herself up in bed and rubs her face with her free hand. "Okay," she says, more seriously this time. "I'm really up now. Are you okay? What's going on?"

"It's bad," Justin says. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

"Fuck, Justin," Daphne answers. "Yes, I'm sure. Tell me what's wrong. Did you and Brian break up again?"

"It's worse than that."

"Worse? Oh my god, you have a brain tumor. I knew it. I had this dream a few months ago that you--"

"Stop, Daphne," Justin orders firmly. "I don't have a brain tumor."

"Oh, thank--"

"It's worse than a brain tumor."

"What the fuck? Worse than a brain tumor? Justin, what's worse than a brain tumor? You're really freaking me out!"

"I think," Justin starts, then pauses. "Daphne, I'm pretty sure..." She can hear him inhale deeply before he starts again: "I think Brian's in love with my mother."

----------

Jennifer had to admit, she was fairly surprised -- alright, really surprised -- when Brian called her at work and announced that he wanted to have lunch with her after his morning meeting. She'd called Justin at the loft late the night before, mentioning in her answering machine message that she was planning to go Christmas shopping the next day and was wondering if there were any particular pieces of clothing that he wanted. If not, she said, she'd just pick some things out that she thought he'd like.

Justin didn't call her back, presumably because he and Brian had stayed out even later than she'd called, but then the next morning she got the return call from Brian inviting her to have lunch, and now she was waiting in her office for him to come pick her up. Brian had chosen the restaurant -- Thai, she thought he'd said -- and Jennifer had let him, chuckling to herself at the thought that Brian would get to see exactly from whom Justin had inherited his huge appetite.

When the phone rang several minutes later, the caller ID read "Kinnetik."

"Hello, Brian," Jennifer said smoothly into the receiver.

"Can you meet me outside?" Brian sounded slightly agitated. "I can't find a fucking parking spot out here."

"Sure," Jennifer answered. "Give me a minute to grab my coat and purse and I'll be right down. Just pull right up to the building."

She quickly gathered her things and headed toward the elevator, not wanting to make Brian wait long. Despite Brian's general bad attitude and sarcasm, he'd always tried very hard to be polite to her, and she knew that he probably hated not being able to play the gentleman and come inside the building.

The Corvette was idling out front, just where Jennifer had suggested, and she smiled in greeting as she caught Brian's eye from the sidewalk. He leaned across the seat to open the door, she slid in, and they were off, Brian swerving out into the coming traffic.

"So," Brian said, glancing at Jennifer before turning his eyes back to the road, "Is Thai still alright?"

Jennifer smiled and nodded slightly. "That's fine with me. I'm easy."

Brian choked out a laugh, and Jennifer blushed, realizing what she'd just said.

"I'll bet you are, Mother Taylor."

Glad that the slight tension she'd felt was broken, Jennifer let the rest of their ride continue in companionable silence. She'd been a little nervous, much to her surprise, when she'd first gotten in the car with Brian. It wasn't that she didn't like him, or even that she didn't trust him, only that the whole get-together had come completely out of the blue; neither one of them had ever pursued the other for any kind of relationship before. And while Jennifer cared for Brian in that way that every mother cares for those her children love, she'd always felt a little anxious around him, a lingering emotion from the days when she didn't like him, didn't trust him, just wanted him to leave her son alone.

She realized now that Brian had told her the truth way back when, during their conversation on her front stoop: he cared about Justin -- a great deal, and looking back over the four years that Brian had been a part of her son's life, she realized that he probably always had.

"We're here," Brian said, snapping her out of her reverie, and Jennifer looked around confusedly.

"I thought we were having Thai," she answered.

"We are." Brian gave her a fleeting look, then unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car door. Jennifer climbed out behind him, taking in their surroundings.

"We're downtown, though," she said, "and the only Thai place I know is near the mall."

"Yeah. About that," Brian said, "This one's much better, and I was thinking that maybe I could help you do some of your shopping for Justin."

Slightly taken aback, Jennifer shrugged. "That'd be great, Brian. I'm only planning to go to Old Navy, though, so we really are on the other side of town."

"I had something a little different in mind," Brian said rather cryptically, and walked off toward the door of the small restaurant in front of them.

----------

Daphne can't stop laughing, not that she's really trying very hard. Where does Justin come up with this crap?

"Justin, maybe I'm just really tired, but I thought I just heard you say that Brian -- your gay, queer, homosexual boyfriend -- is in love with Jennif--"

"That's what I said Daphne," Justin says irritably, "and what's so fucking funny?"

"I repeat: Brian Kinney. Gay. Queer. Homosexual. Has fucked more men than I've met in my entire life."

"What's your point? Things happen, Daphne!"

"Where, Justin?" Daphne manages between giggles. "Jerry Springer?"

"Daphne! In my mother's house! I saw them together!"

"Oh my God," Daphne says and pushes herself upright once again, shocked out of her laughter. "Wait, you saw them? What were they doing?"

"They were--"

"No, wait. Do I want to know? Yeah, I want to know. Tell me."

"They... I walked in, and I saw them, and they were--"

----------

Brian Kinney was one slick, genius motherfucker. He couldn't believe how easy it had been to convince Jennifer to go along with all of his ideas. All it had taken was lunch, a few drinks, and his most charming grin, and then it was goodbye Old Navy, hello Kenneth Cole.

It wasn't like Justin was ugly -- shit, the kid was fucking hot -- so Brian couldn't figure out why he continued to wear such unattractive clothes, crap that would've looked less out of place on the Littlest Hustler than it did on Justin. And now that they were full-force into the middle of Pittsburgh's winter weather, Brian didn't think he could stand seeing another t-shirt-hoodie-coat combination. Justin's fashion choices were enough to make any self-respecting gay man suicidal.

"I'm not sure that I can afford this," Jennifer had said when Brian first suggested that they visit some more upscale stores. "I am a single parent, you know, and with Molly to think about, too..."

"Don't worry," Brian had answered, having thoroughly worked the idea over in his mind ahead of time. "I was thinking" -- he placed his hand on her shoulder and grinned the aforementioned charming grin -- "that it would be much more special for Justin if the gifts came from both of us, you and me."

Jennifer had regarded him oddly for a second before breaking into a huge smile, telling him what a sweet, loving partner he was, how lucky Justin was to have found someone like him, and blah blah blah all the way through almost two thousand bucks worth of clothes. Clothes that he couldn't wait to see stripped off and thrown on the floor -- no, hung neatly in the closet -- while he fucked Justin's tight little ass.

He'd gone home feeling like a million fucking bucks, having charmed the shit out of Jennifer Taylor and helped improve Justin's wardrobe at the same time, and Justin had been so surprised and pleased at Brian's good mood that they'd fucked in the kitchen as soon as Brian walked in the door. He'd taken special pleasure in ripping Justin's clothes roughly off him, especially enjoying when the sleeve of Justin's favorite hoodie went into the pot of tomato sauce and, he hoped, got ruined forever. Justin balked, but all Brian could think about was that there were only five more days until Christmas, five more days until he could systematically destroy every fucking hoodie, t-shirt, and ratty sneaker in his loft without repercussion.

Jennifer called him two days later, and Brian answered the phone with a firm "You'd better not even be considering returning the spoils of our labor, Mother Taylor."

Jennifer laughed nervously across the line, making Brian roll his eyes. Fucking yuppies with their buyer's remorse.

"Actually," Jennifer said, "that's not why I called. I was just wondering if--"

"He's not here."

"Oh, okay. I mean--" Jennifer hesitated, and Brian could hear her taking a deep breath like she was steeling herself for something. "I wasn't calling for Justin, I mean. I was just wondering if you maybe have plans tonight?"

"Just the usual," Brian said, trying to keep his tone casual instead of asking exactly why the hell Jennifer wanted to know. "A few grams of coke, two hundred of my most beautiful concubines, a couple of goats..."

Jennifer laughed again, even more nervously, and Brian decided to put her out of her misery. The coyness was getting irritating. "Was there something that you needed?"

"I have this date tomorrow night, and I'm just wondering if-- well, if you would help me find something to wear. The guy's really stylish--"

"Gay."

"Not every man is gay, Brian. I just feel like everything in my closet looks like it belongs to an old school marm, and after our little shopping spree yesterday, I realized that you're certainly the best person to help me out. If you're willing, that is."

"Jennifer," Brian started.

"I'll throw in dinner -- low fat, low carb -- and a bottle of wine."

"A woman after my own heart," he said, his voice saccharine-sweet. "Make it two and you've got yourself a deal."

----------

"I can't even say it," Justin says, and Daphne would almost swear that she hears him gagging on the other line.

"Justin, what?" she says. "Fucking? Oh my God, was she blowing him? Was your mother blowing Brian?"

"Daph, it was almost worse than that. God, I can't even say it! I mean, I've seen Brian get blown before. I've seen him fuck other people... but this-- I've never seen anything like this..."

"Justin," Daphne orders, "you are going to calm down, and you're going to tell me right this second what you saw your mother doing with your boyfriend in her house, or I'm going to march over there and beat it out of you."

----------

Well, that had been simple. One quick phone call and Jennifer had her own personal fashion consultant, ready to help her prepare for her date. She found it a little out-of-character for Brian to be so-- well, so friendly, but then again, she knew that appealing to his vanity was almost a sure-fire way to enlist his assistance, and she mentally patted herself on the back for convincing him so well.

While she waited for Brian to arrive, Jennifer went through her closet, pushing the most embarrassing of her clothing to the back to spare herself the inevitable ridicule that she'd receive if Brian saw any of her maternity clothes or, even worse, the stirrup pants and puff-painted sweatshirts she'd worn when Justin was little. She had just finished stuffing an argyle sweater vest into her underwear drawer when the doorbell rang, and she paused to reapply her lipstick and fix her hair before going downstairs to let Brian in.

"Brian," she said, slipping easily into her old role as WASP hostess. "Thanks for coming over."

Brian was dressed casually, a black button-up shirt with rolled sleeves, shirttail out, and a pair of charcoal slacks; even Jennifer could admit that he looked great, and she felt confident that she'd picked the right person to help her out. If nothing else, he was better, at least, than Emmett Honeycutt... or Debbie Novotny.

He shrugged slightly and smiled. "You offered alcohol. I'm not stupid enough to pass that up. Besides, I'm always happy to help someone look as devastatingly gorgeous as I do."

Smiling back, Jennifer led Brian through the entryway and into the kitchen. "Could you grab the wine pull?" she asked, gesturing to where it lay on the counter while she brought down two wine glasses. Brian handed it to her, and Jennifer held up a bottle for his approval.

"Is a shiraz okay?"

"That's fine," he said with a nod, and she uncorked it, pouring a glass and handing it to him.

"None for you?" he asked; Jennifer shook her head.

"I don't want to accidentally spill it on anything I might want to wear," she explained. "And besides, if you're a few glasses ahead of me, by the end of dinner we'll end up at the same place."

Jennifer turned and headed toward the stairs, Brian following her a few steps behind. "I thought about getting a few things out that might look good," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "But then I decided that I'd just leave it all up to the master."

"That's me," Brian said and raised his glass in a mock-toast. "Or at least that's what I hear."

Once they reached the bedroom, Jennifer opened her closet door, and Brian immediately went to work, sifting and sorting through her clothes. Every few seconds, he'd pause to take a drink from his glass or laugh at what Jennifer imagined was some offensive blouse she'd forgotten to hide; after two minutes or so, he'd finished the wine, and Jennifer took his glass to refill it.

When she returned, she found Brian meticulously laying out combinations of tops and skirts on her bed, stepping back to analyze each one. "Where did you say you were going again?" he asked, not looking up from his task, as she gave him his refilled glass.

"Laforet."

At that, Brian looked up at her, an eyebrow cocked, then picked up the most conservative outfit and passed it to her. "Expensive place," he explained, "If he's shelling out that kind of cash for dinner, you'll definitely be putting out afterward."

"So then why should I wear this one?"

Brian looked at her as if she'd grown a tentacle out of her head and said slowly, "You shouldn't. You should put it back in the closet."

Jennifer blushed, and Brian plucked the hangers from her hand, sweeping past her into the closet again. "We need something slutty," he said.

Jennifer started to object, but Brian cut in. "Not hooker slutty, Mother Taylor. We're going for the upscale slut. The subtle slut, the kind with a halfway demure exterior who turns out to be a dynamo in bed."

Brian smirked and handed her his wine glass, which had somehow gotten empty again in the very, very short period of time since Jennifer had refilled it.

"Kind of like your son."

Jennifer couldn't be sure that she'd heard Brian correctly-- did he actually just call her son a slut? He must have; he was standing there grinning like the cat who ate the canary, and yes, this was the real Brian Kinney, coming out in full force. Who would've thought it would take that little wine? "I think I'm ready to start drinking now," Jennifer said, spinning on her heel and wondering how much alcohol she'd have to down to erase the image of exactly what made Justin such a "dynamo in bed."

She returned upstairs with two glasses in one hand and the half-full bottle in the other, preparing herself for what might amount to be a very long evening.

----------

"They were drunk, Daph," Justin says, and Daphne thinks that he might be covering his face with one hand, because it comes out kind of like, "Theradrnk Dmph," but she knows what he means.

"How drunk?" she asks. "Five drinks? Six?"

"Um, try about twelve," he says, and she thinks his panic might have subsided a little bit, moving into the territory of melancholy. "There were three empty wine bottles on the living room table when I got there."

"Justin, I'm still not exactly sure what they were doing."

"They were..."

"Spit it out, Taylor."

"They were sitting really close together... and I'm pretty sure they were giggling... and they were..."

"Justin..." Daphne says, putting on her most menacing tone.

"Daph, they were looking at my fucking baby pictures! They were drunk and laughing hysterically like they were best friends and looking at my bare, naked two year-old ass!"

----------

Dinner turned out to be fucking excellent -- Brian guessed that Jennifer probably took Cooking for Your Breeder Husband 101 at Williams-Sonoma or some such shit -- and it tasted a hell of a lot better than most of the flavorless excuses for food that he kept at the loft.

Then again, after downing a good three liters of wine, he imagined that anything would taste great, and promised himself that he'd try the drunk-before-dinner strategy next time he and Justin got invited over to the Love Shack for one of Mikey and The Professor's all-healthy, all-tofu, all-the-time meals.

He and Jennifer moved to the couch after dinner, and he wasn't sure exactly how it happened, but somehow her profuse thanks of his fashion expertise had turned into family fun hour, which consisted of Jennifer pulling out all her old family photo albums and the two of them, laughing like maniacs, looking at pictures from Justin's childhood.

"That one's from the time that he played circus with one of the little neighbor girls," Jennifer said, emitting something that sounded frighteningly like a cackle to Brian. "They only had two costumes, a clown and a ballerina. Guess which one Justin insisted on being."

Brian didn't really have to guess, seeing as how the photo featured Justin, at age four, wearing a tiara and a tutu. "Once a princess, always a princess," he said, and Jennifer refilled both of their glasses, spilling a little on the carpet as she did so.

"Oops," she said. "Shit, that'll never come out."

"Come," Brian suggested, laughing at Jennifer's puzzled expression. "Come gets out a lot of stains."

Jennifer gaped, but then her mouth quirked upward and she said, "I thought it-- well, that it was a stain, Brian. But, I guess if anyone would know so intimately the restorative properties of semen, it would be you."

She closed the album that lay open across their laps and opened a new one, then clapped her hands a few times. "Oh, you'll love this one. Justin was in the third grade, and--"

The phone rang, and Jennifer leaned across Brian to answer it, managing to drop the open photo book on the floor in the process. Brian picked it up, leafing through the pages in search of some sufficient blackmail fodder for the next time Justin did something particularly irritating, like using his razor or smoking his last cigarette.

"Hi, honey," she said, mouthing 'Justin' at Brian and gesturing at the phone, as if Justin was actually inside the receiver.

"Oh, I'm not sure that that's such a good idea. I mean, I--

"No.

"No, it's just that I--

"Really Justin, why don't you just wait until tomorrow and we can--"

Just then, as if on cue, the door swung open and Brian came face to face with his partner, whose jaw had dropped to about an inch and a half from the floor.

"Hey, Sunshine," he answered lamely, taking in the sight of Justin's mother, clad in black boots, silk skirt, and slinky lace top with one bra strap hanging down, climbing over his lap to greet her son.

"We were looking at your baby pictures," she offered.

"Jesus fuck," Justin said.

----------

Daphne's laughing so hard that she barely hears Justin's huffing and puffing on the other end, and she's about to tell him to quit queening out when he breaks in: "Shit Daph, shit. He's home, I've gotta go right now."

She sits on her bed for a long time after that, cracking up until tears run down her face and her ribs ache.

----------

Justin doesn't speak to Brian for three entire days, until Christmas morning, and then it's just to say, "We have to be at Deb's in two hours, don't forget." They still fuck, of course; come hell, high water, or Mother-in-Law Oedipal Complex, Brian Kinney and Justin Taylor will have a fan-fucking-tastic sex life. They just don't talk.

They go to Deb's, and the whole situation reminds Justin of something out of a bad 1980s Christmas movie, the ones with the oh-so-wacky families and their equally wacky holiday shenanigans. It's times like this that he envies Kevin McCallister, left accidentally at home while his family went to New York. What he wouldn't give to send them all packing right about now...

He's grumpy as hell the entire time; he can tell that it's making Brian irritable too, but fuck that. There are some things that you simply do not do with your lover's mother, Justin thinks, and getting drunk, dressing her up, and looking at humiliating pictures of your boyfriend is one of them. Justin can handle the tricking, the drugs, and the self-deprecation, but this time? Brian has crossed the line.

After Deb's, they're off to Jennifer's for another meal; on the ride over, Justin ignores Brian's offhand remarks about how he'll have to run on the treadmill twenty-five hours a day for a year before he works off all that spaghetti. Who the fuck eats spaghetti on Christmas day, anyway?

They arrive right on time, and Justin considers sitting in the car to sulk for awhile, thereby punishing his mom and Brian both, but he's a little fearful of exactly what will happen if they're left alone again, so he settles for slamming the door of the Corvette really hard then plastering on his best innocent smile.

"What?" he asks when Brian shoots daggers in his direction.

Somehow, he suffers through dinner, even the part where his mother says, "It's all low-carb, low-fat, Brian. Just the way you like it!" He only rolls his eyes twenty-four times, as opposed to the twenty-four thousand times that he restrains himself.

Molly suggests that they go open presents, and Justin agrees, excited for the first time all day to get to show his sister what he's bought her. This is, he realizes, the first Christmas where he's had enough money to actually buy gifts instead of drawing a bunch of dinky portraits.

There's an unusually large number of gifts with his name on them under the tree, and under closer scrutiny, he notices that they all say "From: Mom and Brian" on the card. Fuck, he thinks, now they're buying Christmas presents together, too.

When it's his turn, he grudgingly accepts the packages, ignoring the tight-lipped smiles that have come across his mother and Brian's faces. The first gift is a shirt, button-down and white with one single vertical red stripe spanning from collar to hem. It's a really nice shirt, and it looks like something that Brian would pick out. He feels his tough veneer starting to crack a little and starts on the next present.

Jeans, then another pair, six more shirts, some sweaters, a few pairs of slacks, and two gorgeous coats -- one wool, one leather -- round out the collection, and now he's starting to feel like maybe, possibly, a little bit of an idiot.

He smiles weakly up at his mother, then at Brian, and Jennifer grins in unabashed joy. "Oh honey, do you like them? I wanted to go to Old Navy, but Brian talked me into buying you some nicer things, and we went in on it together! We really wanted to make this special for you, Justin."

She looks at Brian, whose face has that deer-in-headlights look, and Justin knows that Brian probably died a little inside when Jennifer said that they wanted to make Christmas "special."

"Thanks, Mom," he says. "I really appreciate it. I love you."

He gets up from his place on the floor and hugs her, then moves to Brian. "And thank you, too," he says quietly, wanting to give Brian public recognition for his good deed and, at the same time, wanting to keep the display private. "I love you."

Brian pulls Justin down onto his lap and kisses him, and Justin kisses Brian back. Just as he's about to get up, Brian puts his mouth close to Justin's ear and whispers, "You're going to let me see you in every fucking piece of that clothing when we get home, little boy."

And he does. Kind of.

Brian immediately drops all the bags he hauled up to the loft once they're inside the door, and as soon as Justin follows, he's being pushed roughly backward against the steel support beam. Brian kisses him, and Justin uses his tongue to coax Brian's own into his mouth, stroking and sucking while Brian's fingers press hard into his hips.

Abruptly, Brian breaks away, and Justin's mouth follows Brian's without his even meaning to. "Take off your clothes," Brian orders, and Justin quickly obliges, divesting himself of coat, then hoodie and t-shirt, then finally his sneakers and cargoes.

"Good," Brian says, and Justin can feel the heat of Brian's eyes on his almost-naked body. "Now, take these--" Brian picks up the shopping bags Jennifer had sent home with them to hold the gifts. "--and go over there--" He cocks his head toward the sofa. "--and commence with the stripping."

It's not stripping if I'm putting clothes on, Justin wants to say, but he has a feeling that Brian won't listen, and anyway, there are lots of clothes there and he's going to have to take some off before he can put more on. Brian leads the way, moving the coffee table aside and settling himself on the couch, legs arranged in a casual spread. He raises his eyebrow in a gesture that seems to mean, I'm waiting...

Clad only in black briefs and tube socks, Justin sets about finding a shirt and pants, then tosses what he locates onto the sofa next to Brian. He picks up the shirt -- this one's red, a pullover with kind of a darted pattern on it -- and slides it over his head. He starts on the buttons, which span the upper half of the shirt, but Brian stops him with a word: "Don't."

He feels a little like a dorkier version of Tom Cruise in Risky Business, minus the sunglasses and the whole white thing, but Brian's eyes already look a bit glazed and Justin's not sure that he's blinked since the first article of clothing came off, so he keeps going. Leaning seductively over Brian, he takes the jeans, pulling them up his legs. The pants sit snugly on his hips; when he reaches down to zip them, he puts his hand inside, rubbing his palm against his covered dick, and smirks when he notes the slight catch in Brian's breath.

"Come here," Brian says, and Justin moves closer to him, kneeling on the sofa with his knees planted on either side of Brian's thighs.

"Zip them for me," Justin says.

Brian's hands slide up the backs of Justin's legs, cupping his ass briefly before moving around to the front of his jeans. One hand holds the fabric taut while the other pulls the zipper, achingly slowly, upward. Justin can feel each of the little teeth closing, sending vibrations out against his cock. When he reaches for the button, Brian's fingers slide under the waistband of the jeans, brushing Justin's stomach and bumping against the head of his dick, and if it's going to be that kind of fashion show, Justin really doesn't have any idea how he's going to get through trying on all these pants without coming in any of them.

His fingers slide around the back of Brian's neck, and he leans in, closing the distance between their mouths, but at the last second, Brian pulls back. "Now take it all off," he says.

Justin slides off the couch and stands just out of Brian's reach. If this is how he wants to play, then this is how they'll play. "What's in it for me?" Justin asks, fingering the button on his jeans.

"Undo that button and you'll find out," Brian says, and Justin's breath quickens at the thought of all the possibilities those few words open up.

He flicks the button through its hole; Brian mimics the action on his own jeans. He watches Brian intently. Brian watches back.

The zipper comes next, and Brian follows mere seconds behind, revealing that there's absolutely nothing between the denim and his cock, now lying hard against his belly.

Justin bites his lip, still staring straight at Brian. If he takes his jeans completely off, that means Brian should... he pulls them down, taking his briefs and socks with them, leaving him naked, and Brian pushes his own pants down, but not off, settling them around his thighs and spreading his legs as far as they can go.

He wraps a hand around his dick and strokes himself hard, twice. Brian strokes himself, too, but keeps going after the requisite two times, and Justin carefully steps around him, staying out of arm's reach and picking another pair of pants and shirt from the bag next to him. He starts with the pants, a bluish-gray wool; they're soft, but not soft enough that they don't scratch against his cock and ass when he pulls them up.

Brian's eyes follow Justin's every movement, his hand still jerking himself lazily, and Justin wonders what it would take to make him pick up the pace.

Leaving the pants undone, hanging loosely from his hips, Justin pulls the shirt over his arms, buttoning it and tucking it into the slacks. He lets his fingers pass over his balls when he tucks in the front, then slides one finger across his asshole when he does the back, and he knows that Brian recognizes the tiny jolts of pleasure registering on his face without even being able to see exactly what he's doing.

When the shirt is completely tucked in, Justin zips and buttons the pants, then smiles. "I look like your intern," he says, going straight for the kill. He moves in closer and plants his hands on the back of the couch, one on either side of Brian's head. "Do you like what you see, Mr. Kinney?"

And that does it. Brian's hand starts moving faster -- much faster --, and Justin reaches hastily for his button, undoing what he's just done and grabbing his own dick in his fist.

Brian's nearly gasping, seemingly focused entirely on his cock and Justin's face, and he must sense the urgency there, because when Justin starts to feel the little spikes of heat that signal his coming orgasm, Brian grits out, "If you come on those clothes, I'll fucking kill you."

Justin stops, but only for as long as it takes to unbutton his shirt with shaking hands, shrug it off his shoulders, and shove his pants down around his knees, and then his fingers circle his cock again, aiming low toward Brian's stomach.

He rubs his thumb over the head of his dick, dipping it across the slit, and it's so fucking wet and that's all he can take--

He comes in long spurts, ribbons that splash across Brian's chest and drip toward his navel, and then Brian shuts his eyes tight, throws his head back, and comes too, their fluids mixing together with Brian's sweat, thick and white on his slick skin.

Once he thinks his knees might work again, Justin pushes himself upright and heads toward the kitchen to grab a dishtowel so that they can clean up. He throws it at Brian, and it lands in the pool that covers his stomach.

"Fucking amazing," Justin says, his breath still heavy and uneven, and makes to sit down next to Brian on the couch. Brian stops him with a hand on his arm and raises an eyebrow.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

"I think it's called sitting down," Justin says, but Brian tightens his grip.

"Oh no you don't. I spent all day with your mother -- I bonded with your mother over your baby pictures; you're going to try on the rest of those clothes, and I'm going to fuck you in every single piece of them."

"And if I refuse?"

"You'll have to be put on Father Kinney's naughty list."

Justin smiles. "Sounds hot," he says.

Brian reaches into the shopping bag, pulling out another shirt and pair of pants.

"It's not," he assures Justin, thrusting the clothes into his open hands. "But this will be."