Brian glanced around (his eyes jumping from object to object quickly, as though their resting on any individual one caused him great pain) and frowned. Why the fuck was he here, in Lesbian Flagship One?

The living room was littered with clutter: blocks, books, paintbrushes in paint-spattered jars half filled with grey water, a balled up inside out dress, as though someone had divested it in haste, stacks of documents and newspapers, a "cat teaser" that looked a lot like what Brian had used on Justin Wednesday night, and on and on.

A sculpture of a naked "woman" (no head, arms, or legs) sat in the corner. Brian shuddered. Her ass was okay (a little more than okay), but she was fat. And her breasts hung low. Another shudder.

Paintings of nude women lined the walls. One in particular caught Brian's eye. No matter where you stood, she always seemed to be looking at a point an inch or two to the left, never right at you. Brian turned his head to the left and then to the right. With her hand covering "the cradle of life" (he'd seen the newest Summer's Eve commercial "Hail to the V") and ignoring her breasts and face, he couldn't help but think of Justin. They shared the same porcelain white skin, the same nearly-but-not-quite-flat belly, the same perfectly shaped neck, the same rounded ass.

Brian shook his head, swallowed hard, and sat down on the couch (barely—he sat on the edge of the cleanest looking cushion). He had not just seen Justin in the portrait of a naked chick. Nope. That would suggest he was sprung, seeing Justin everywhere he looked. And he was NOT that. He tugged (uncomfortably) at the cuffs of his leather jacket, which he kept on because (while they were still at Mikey's party) Gus had grabbed fistfuls of cake and smeared them onto the front of his shirt. So he was now bare to the waist or he would have been if had neglected to bring his leather.

A huge black and brown tabby was lying on an old (nearly flat) pizza box that was sitting on a table across from Brian. All piled up and regal looking, he continually threw Brian sidelong glances.

Brian jumped.

Did he just roll his eyes? Could cats do that?

Justin was sitting cross-legged on the floor (Brian didn't even want to walk on the floor, let alone sit on it). Gus was standing next to Justin, holding onto his shoulder, wobbling a bit. Justin looked him up and down with exaggerated head movements. "I've seen your picture on your daddy's desk. Have you grown since then? Are you allowed to be this tall?" He punctuated the question with a poke to Gus's belly.

Gus giggled. He nodded furiously. Then he said, clear as day, "Obama says I can."

Brian started at that. He'd never heard Gus speak more than the occasional one-syllable word (ma, da, yes, and no). He wondered at that for the span of exactly one second, before Lindsay came barreling into the living room (from the kitchen)—clad in an apron with flour on her face (she was making cinnamon rolls for them—not including Mel, who had grabbed a brief from the coffee table as soon as she walked through the door and stomped up to the bedroom—to eat during Shrek). "Oh my God! Did Gus say that?" She snatched him up into her arms and held him against her chest. "What a good boy!"

Justin glanced at Brian. Their eyes met. Brian raised an eyebrow. Justin smiled coyly and let his head fall. His cheeks were burning (Brian had taken to saying that very thing to him).

"I'm so proud of you!"

Brian looked up at Gus. He'd leaned his head against Lindsay's neck. But he was looking at Brian. He seemed oblivious. Like he had no clue he'd "done something right" and was just enjoying being held. Brian's chest was suddenly so tight. Gus was … might be … they didn't know. All they could say for sure was that he was behind developmentally speaking, and very often, he seemed disconnected from the world. Like he was looking and not really seeing or listening and not really hearing.

Brian swallowed hard but then smiled and winked at Gus. Gus laughed. He pointed and muttered, "Oh ma." Lindsay looked where Gus was pointing (at Brian) and smiled.

Three things happened then, the first two simultaneously.

One … Justin suggested, all happiness and light, "We should have Gus up some weekend," to which Lindsay replied, eyes wide and trained on Brian, "That would be great!"

Two … right before Justin opened his mouth, Brian turned on his cell phone, so just as Justin suggested that they spend a weekend together at the loft, together babysitting, Brian's phone was informing him that he'd received an email (dated the day before, Friday). It read:

Brian,

I'm glad you're interested in expanding the purview of your job. We definitely want to keep you on if we can. Show some initiative. We're also considering Jackson. Let's (you and I) meet on Tuesday to discuss this further.

George

Brian swore under his breath.

"Brian!" Lindsay shot Brian a stern look.

Brian looked up at her, shrugged, and then looked back at his phone. Lindsay sighed and turned back to Justin. "So which weekend were you thinking? This would be soo great! We could all go. Gus can spend time with Brian and you, and Mel and I can go to a Broadway show! Or out to clubs! It's been wayyy too long."

Justin hmmmed. "I don't know. How about next weekend?"

While Lindsay and Justin were talking, Brian was thinking …

George was VP of sales. He'd come to Brian a few weeks ago asking whether he'd be interested in expanding his job responsibilities to include snagging clients (rather than simply coming up with ideas for advertising for clients they had already approached and/or signed and overseeing the implementation of those ideas via the Art Department). Brian, assuming the additional responsibilities would come with a raise and a promotion, had smiled and nodded and then proffered a yes and a handshake. George had promised to provide him with further details soon. This email was his providing further details? Crap. Since when had this become about "keeping" his job? And why was George suddenly considering Jackson?

So when Justin looked over (and up) at Brian and asked, "What do you think?" Brian, completely unaware of what he was being asked, waved his hand and muttered, "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

Three … That evil tabby (who had left his pizza box throne at some point unbeknownst to Brian) puked a hairball onto Brian's left shoe. Brian clenched his teeth and balled his right fist so hard that his nails, short though they were, left marks on the palm of his hand. Brian hissed, "Those are my new pradas."

And they were beautiful. Justin nodded. Half boots made out of the softest leather. He was totally jealous. Justin grimaced, wrinkling his nose (cutely Brian thought—that was the only thing preventing Brian from kicking his left foot into the air and sending the hairball flying onto the boy's leg), and turned away.

Lindsay was laughing.

Brian looked up at her sharply and turned his hands (his phone still sitting in his left). He widened his eyes, as if to say … "Aren't you going to do something about THAT?"

She kept laughing, but she did grab a roll of paper towel. Then she threw it at him.

Brian shot her a look that could melt steel, tossed his phone next to him on the couch, and unrolled two lengths (three sheets each) of paper towel. He didn't sever the paper from the roll (not yet), but looked down, grimaced himself, and then unrolled two more.

"I hate cats."

The tabby looked over at him impassively. Then he started licking his balls.

TBC…