It's Tuesday night.
"Justin?" Brian calls, entering the loft to hear the familiar blare of the television. "What are you watching?"
He hears a muffled grunt as Justin topples off the chair and scrambles for the remote. The TV is off before Brian can see what Justin was viewing. "Nothing!" Justin yells, a little too loudly and not at all convincing.
Brian approaches him and holds out a hand for the remote. "Give it to me."
"N-no!" Justin exclaims. Without thinking, he shoves the remote in his pants.
Brian doesn't care. He calmly unbuttons and unzips Justin's pants, slips his hand inside, and retrieves the remote. "Justin," he says calmly, "you know I don't have a problem with you watching porn."
"It wasn't porn," Justin squeaks.
"The fuck it wasn't."
The television clicks on, and a blinding blue screen overpowers Brian. He raises an eyebrow, reading the words at the top of the screen.
Justin was watching American Idol.
"What the fuck?" Brian demands.
Justin squirms uncomfortably. "I don't like the show or anything…" he mumbles.
"I know that," Brian informs him. "So why were you watching it?"
An indecipherable mutter escapes Justin's lips, rushed, like he doesn't want anyone to hear. Well, he did that well enough. Brian can't figure it the fuck out.
"What was that?"
Nervously, Justin repeats, "One of the guys is hot?" He says it like it is a question.
Brian calls upon his knowledge of the terrible "reality" show. Cynthia watches it, and he can remember a few names of the performers from hearing Cynthia gush about it on the phone to her friends. "Uh… Simon?"
"What? Ew, no way. Although he does have a sexy accent," Justin admits.
"I don't know any of the other names. Who is it?"
On the screen, someone – the announcer? – is showing flashbacks of the evening's seven performances. The first is a bald white guy. "That him?" Brian demands, ready to yell at Justin for having terrible taste.
"No!" Justin exclaims, horrified.
"Good."
Next up is a dark-haired white girl with a terrible voice. Brian cringes. "And they call this Idol?"
"Yeah, well, she sucks," Justin mutters. "And she's going to win."
"No shit," remarks Brian, and refocuses his attention to the screen.
The third performer is a black girl whose voice is so screechy Brian's hands fly automatically to his ears. "Who is that?" he demands.
"LaKisha," Justin replies mournfully. As a new performer takes the screen, he says, "And that's Blake."
"He's kind of hot," Brian remarks, squinting. "Looks like a twink. I guess I see what you see in him – he looks kind of like you, but – "
Justin looks disgusted. "Blake," he says loudly, "is not the one I think is hot."
"Oh. Good."
A black girl comes next, with a fake smile the size of the Mississippi River. "That's Melinda," Justin says. "She's… she's really, really bad."
Brian winces. "I can see that."
The next performer looks like Blake – the American Idol performer, that is, not Ted's Flavor of the Week. He also happens to sing like every other shitty boy band performer in the world. "Is that him?"
"No," says Justin.
The screen flickers. A seventh performer is singing now.
"That's him," says Justin. "His name is Sanjaya."
He isn't gorgeous, exactly, but if Brian squints he can see the appeal. He's tan, with curly black hair featuring the occasional blond streak. His smile isn't quite Sunshine material, but it's close.
"Hmm," says Brian, pondering. "He is hot. A little."
Justin grins. "Hey… you wanna do something different?"
"How 'different'?" Brian asks wearily. The last time Justin talked him into doing something "different," it involved sex in the woods, which led to a pretty bad rash on – you guessed it. Brian's cock.
With a giggle, Justin suggests, "You be Simon, the American Idol judge who hates Sanjaya and wants him off the show, and I'll be Sanjaya, who'll do anything to stick around a little longer."
Brian scoops his hypersexual twink into his arms and carries him into the bedroom, where a string of corny dialogue ensues.