After spending the afternoon reading about Chris Hobbs and what the only unbiased article Brian could find called 'the bashing,' Brian had paced his loft. Thinking and pacing. Justin Taylor was a complication in every sense of the word. Brian had learned that Justin had been brutally attacked in the parking garage after his prom. Friends of the assailant, Chris Hobbs, had claimed that Justin had been making unwanted advances toward Hobbs in the weeks leading up to the prom, which was tantamount to sexual harassment. They further claimed that the last straw was Justin's asking Hobbs to dance at the prom. They felt that Justin deserved what he got and that Hobbs should not be punished.

The only person to speak out on Justin's behalf, Daphne Chanders, who Brian recognized as Justin's friend from the art show, told a completely different story. She said that Hobbs had made a pass at Justin, early in their senior year, one that Justin had not rejected. However, after the one 'sexual' encounter, Hobbs started bullying Justin, she theorized, because Hobbs was in the closet and resented the fact that Justin did not hide who he was or feel ashamed of it. According to Daphne, Hobbs was the one who asked Justin to dance, although the request was meant as a joke. Hobbs later followed Justin out to the parking garage and bashed his skull in with a baseball bat. Justin needed emergency brain surgery, was in a coma for a week, and spent two months in rehab trying to regain mobility in his right hand.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. According to the one sympathetic article Brian managed to find, Justin still drew and painted, but doing so was a struggle. It was a wonder he had managed to get into the Art Institute and thrive there, let alone qualify for participation in a school-sponsored art show so soon. Brian couldn't help but be impressed (seriously impressed) by the boy's determination.

According to that one sympathetic article, 'a profile in courage' Out published, Hobbs had gotten off with community service and had then moved on as though nothing had ever happened. He still received his football scholarship and was Pitt's new shining star. Unfortunately, Justin's life would never be the same. Not only did the attack make doing art much more difficult but he had also started receiving hate mail and threatening phone calls. Before the attack, he had been hoping to attend the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts, but, afterward, he felt it prudent to apply to schools outside of Pennsylvania. To make matters worse, Justin's father had disowned him and refused to pay for his schooling. So Justin had spent the next year, what should have been his first year of college, working as a waiter in a diner and living with Daphne, who attended NYU, while he expanded his portfolio and applied for scholarships. In the end, the Art Institute had awarded Justin a scholarship that would pay for tuition, books, and studio fees for his first year.

Brian wondered what Justin would do for the remaining three. King & York might be willing to pay for it if Justin interned there and promised to work for them for some period of time after graduation. Brian really wanted to make that happen. He told himself that that was only because Justin was a brilliant artist who could potentially give them an edge over the competition, but, deep down, he knew that that was bullshit. It wasn't even that he felt bad for the kid, although, of course, he did. He couldn't stand the thought of homophobic assholes winning. Potentially ruining Justin's life while Hobbs lived a normal life, unencumbered by physical impairment, punishment, or even social stigma. He couldn't stand the thought that Hobbs had gotten off scot free. But sympathy was not Brian's primary motivation in wanting to bring him on as an intern. Brian wanted Justin around. Plain and simple.

That's where the situation got even messier. Brian didn't just want Justin around. He wanted to fuck him again. And again. And again. Brian never did repeats, and the less he knew about his sexual partners the better. He certainly never fucked where he worked, and he absolutely did not mix feelings with fucking. What little feelings and (ugh) caring Brian had were generally reserved for friends and his son.

Well, until now. Brian was going to not only offer Justin an internship (and get him money for school) but also fuck him, many, many times. And he already cared about the kid. Hell, he'd forfeited an opportunity for a marathon fuck in favor of talking. For some strange reason, he had wanted to get to know the boy, and he'd even taken him on what many would have called a date. He just couldn't help himself. Yup. Brian was fucked. Thankfully, he had many rationalizations prepared. Brian sighed heavily and picked up the phone. After a few rings, he drawled, "Justin. It's Brian Kinney. Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?"

*************

For the hundredth time that day, Brian wondered what the hell he was doing. He'd only ever gone on one date (before lunch with Justin the previous day), and he'd ended up fucking the waiter. Mikey and company would laugh their asses off if they could see Brian now, fussing about what to wear in preparation for a date with a fucking teenager. What they'd find even more ridiculous was that Brian had cooked. Brian-Fucking-Kinney had cooked. The world was clearly coming to an end. After much internal debate, Brian had decided that he didn't want to go out for dinner, as that would delay the fucking. Yet he still wanted to impress the kid (why, he had no fucking clue), so he'd spent the last few hours making perfectly tender prime rib (Brian-Fucking-Kinney never did anything half-assed), Waldorf salad (Justin had actually mentioned how much he liked it; the kid could probably work food into any conversation), and fried sweet potatoes. Brian rarely ever ate such high-calorie meals, especially after 7pm, but he intended to spend most of the night working it off. That put a smile on his face. More of a smirk, really.

Brian had considered picking the kid up, in the company limo, of course, but he didn't want to risk burning the loft down, and he'd be hard-pressed to justify the limo's use to ferry someone to his loft. Fucking a twink into the mattress was hardly an accepted recruiting method. Brian ran his fingers through his hair one more time and adjusted his maroon silk shirt. Just then, the buzzer sounded indicating that his company had arrived. Brian unfastened another button on his shirt (making it three), sighed, and moved to answer the door.

Brian slid the loft door open to reveal a flustered, but very hot blond. Justin was wearing a tight sky blue short-sleeved shirt and form-fitting grey pants. Apparently, Justin had decided that Brian would be fucking him tonight. If Brian hadn't already planned to, his cock, which was stirring at the very sight of Justin, would have forced his hand. In fact, it took all Brian's willpower to usher him in without ravaging his plump cherry-red lips or groping his luscious bubble butt.

Justin, feeling Brian's eyes roaming his body hungrily, which was, of course, the reaction he'd been hoping for, blushed a pretty pink and said nervously, "Hey."

Brian smiled and drawled, "Hey." After a pause he added, "Come in and have a seat at the table. Dinner's about ready."

Justin's eyes widened. "You cooked?"

Brian just nodded.

During dinner, Brian asked Justin about his classes and his show, but, as much as he tried, he couldn't focus on Justin's answers. All he could see were those gorgeous lips sucking dressing off of the grapes and apples in the salad and his little pink tongue darting out and gliding slowly, so slowly, over his lips after eating a particularly succulent piece of meat (What Brian wouldn't have given to feed Justin a different kind of meat). All he could hear were the husky "mmm" noises vibrating in Justin's beautiful throat. The boy's skin was soft and smooth and looked like porcelain. Coupled with those scrumptious lips, crystal blue eyes, and silky blond hair, he was quite simply a work of art.

Justin became more and more nervous as dinner progressed. Brian didn't speak much and ate very little. He spent almost the entire dinner fixing Justin with the most intense gaze Justin had ever seen, his hazel eyes dark with desire and burning into him. Justin hadn't felt anything like that since his mystery lover had popped his cherry. It was disconcerting, but it was also turning him on like crazy. He kept fidgeting in his seat because his cock had been painfully erect for most of the meal. He wanted to straddle the man in his chair and be consumed by those soft, but firm lips, feel the man's strong hands all over his body, and grind their cocks together until they both exploded.

Both men had decided that now was the time, for Justin, to straddle Brian, and for Brian, to feed Justin his cock, to see those perfect lips sliding over his shaft, when the door buzzer sounded. Brian had every intention of ignoring the intruder, but then she (as it turns out) banged on the door and called out, "Brian, it's Cynthia. We have an emergency."

Brian growled, which, unfortunately, just made Justin's cock ache more. Then the man rose, slid the door open, and frowned at the blonde woman. Through gritted teeth, he hissed, "Someone better have died."

She smiled and walked in. "Nope. Worse. Brown Athletics decided that, despite everything they said when you pitched the idea, they want something a little different."

Brian sighed heavily and slammed the door shut. "You're fucking kidding me!" King & York were set to launch the Brown Athletics campaign the next day.

"I wish I were." Observing Justin (and the home-cooked meal, the home-cooked meal??) for the first time since she'd walked in, she approached a very embarrassed Justin (you'd have to be blind to miss his erection). "Hello. I'm Cynthia, Brian's assistant. You must be Justin."

Justin nodded, his eyes widening. Had Brian mentioned him to her?

"I'm sorry to interrupt your…"

Brian closed his eyes and implored her (in his head) not to say the word.

Don't say it.

Don't say it.

"…date."

Fuck.

Brian sighed and avoided her very amused gaze. Justin looked over at Brian uneasily. "If you need to work, we can do this another time…"

Brian smirked and shook his head. He pointed to Justin. "You stay."

Then he pointed to Cynthia. "You go."

Cynthia smiled. "Sure thing, boss." Turning to Justin, she said, "It was nice meeting you."

Justin nodded and smiled.

As Cynthia glided out the door, she said, "Have fun on the rest of your..."

Don't say it.

Don't say it.

"…date." Brian winced and fixed Cynthia with an icy glare.

Brian muttered, "Just get the fuck out."

Cynthia giggled and did just that. Brian slammed the door and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't even notice that Justin had risen and approached him until he spoke. "Are you sure you don't want me to go?"

Brian nodded. That was the only thing he was sure of. "Maybe you can help me."

Justin quirked an eyebrow.

Brian smiled. "You are, after all, a brilliant artist, are you not?"

Justin smiled and blushed. "I don't know about brilliant…"

So Brian and Justin spent the rest of the evening brainstorming. Just when Brian was sure his fate was sealed, and that he was going to lose the account he'd spent a month winning, Justin piped up, "What if you used animation?"

Brian quirked an eyebrow.

"You could start each segment with a blur of colors that change shape to form the athletes and then have the actual athletes (or the actors and actresses playing them) emerge from the animation. That would draw audience members in, make them curious, and would suggest fluid motion, indicating that the sports paraphernalia…"

Brian smiled at Justin's use of the word paraphernalia. Clearly, Justin wasn't the sporty type.

"…was an extension of the athlete's bodies. Comfortable and performance enhancing."

Brian pulled Justin into his lap and kissed him passionately. Then he drawled, "And you said you weren't brilliant…"

Justin blushed (and not just because of the compliment).

Brian and Justin worked into the wee hours making a presentation for the next day. They didn't fuck, but Brian did offer Justin an internship, which Justin gladly accepted. While Brian put some finishing touches on the presentation, Justin fell asleep on Brian's bed, fully clothed. Twenty minutes later, Brian, also fully clothed, gathered Justin into his arms, covered them with the duvet, and fell asleep, too.