A/N: Everything mentioned happened in R/L, but the timeline is off.

Brian had gotten his foot in the door with the Flash vodka guy, whetting the man's appetite, but he still needed to deliver, and he had just one day for that. Well, technically a day and a half.

Myriad images covered his desk. The photographer had produced both digital and hard copies. The latter lay in front of him. Young women flirted, kissed, and even climbed all over stylish young metrosexual men in these images. Brian drew his hand lightly over the patchwork, images sliding randomly in and out of view as he did so. He'd looked at all of them several times. This new perspective with its random order was Brian's last ditch effort to come up with an interesting presentation strategy. He needed a multichannel approach (something for TV, radio, magazines, and the Internet). In fact, within Internet channel, Brian needed to prepare something for different areas: Facebook, YouTube, twitter, and Instagram, or some combination thereof.

He needed something edgy, youthful, and even subversive – the point was to convince customers that Flash would empower them to transgress norms in a liberating and very millennial way. Brian drew his hand along the pile again. One image in particular emerged then that grabbed Brian's attention. A blond in eyeliner, chainmail, and check. Brian traced the blond's figure lightly with his index finger. Unbidden, memories of Justin's growling and shoving Brian onto the bed floated to the surface … Brian unconsciously licked his lips and swallowed hard. He stared for a LONG moment. His dick started stirring. Brian growled in annoyance. Then he jerked his hand, quickly covering the image with a slew of others that had no impact whatsoever.

Brian stood and turned to look out the window. He sighed. During the day, midtown didn't look all that spectacular. No inspiration here. He panned slowly, tracing the skyline. Then he looked straight down. By chance his eye caught a splash of color: red. "F- THA'" in blood red. The impression was helped along by the drip effect at the bottom of the letters. The letters appeared to be bleeding in long streams. And all around, the graffitist had created a splatter effect … like what you might see on the walls of a crime scene.

Brian narrowed his eyes and roared (but not unkindly), "Cynthia!"

Cynthia appeared a couple moments later. "Yeah, boss?"

"What's that?"

Cynthia moved closer to the window and followed the line of his gaze. She huffed a laugh when she realized what Brian had spotted. She cleared her throat. "F- THA' is a reference to the iconic protest song by N.W.A. called Fuck tha P-"

Brian interjected, "I know THAT! What motivated it? Who created it?"

Cynthia nodded slowly. "Ah. Don't know the who, but I know the why. A cop shot a black teenager, 19 years old, I think, in Brooklyn a few months back. The kid was unarmed and had never even committed a crime. The cop said he was startled and shot. Grand jury ruled it an accident. A lot of people are wondering how a kid 'startled' a trained law enforcement professional enough for him to get the gun out of his holster and shoot before realizing the kid was harmless."

"Fuck."

"Yup."

"Huhn."

Brian didn't have the chance to pose another question or issue an order, as that was the moment Justin 'decided' to walk in.

The second Justin glimpsed Brian, everything faded away. He froze, startled by the light in Brian's hair and against Brian's skin as he turned slowly toward the sound of Justin's entry. Without thinking, Justin smiled a slow lazy smile, a post-orgasm bliss smile. The sunlight created a nimbus around Brian's head and neck. He glowed. Justin laughed. The face of God.

Cynthia broke Justin's trance with a greeting. She offered brightly, "Justin! I forgot today was an internship day."

Justin shook his head and blinked a few times, as though waking from a dream. "Oh. Ummm … hello."

Cynthia approach Justin and purred, "So … how was the date last night?"

Justin cleared his throat. "Oh …" How could he describe it? He couldn't call to mind a single adjective. He widened his eyes and breathed out quickly. That was about the best description he could form.

Brian saved Justin from further discomfort, by suggesting in a voice decidedly NOT suggesting, "Shut the door on your way out."

Cynthia rolled her eyes and muttered, "No fun. No fun at all" as she breezed past Justin.

When Brian had turned all the way around, Justin's breath caught in his throat. Brian truly looked amazing in a suit. Justin didn't think he'd ever get used to it (despite the fact that that was what he wore most often).

Brian tilted his head toward the graffiti and spun back around slowly. Justin approached and peeked down. He breathed, "Wow!"

Brian nodded. "It's a protest of police brutality."

Justin bit his lip and pondered. He turned and walked over to the couch, plopping down when he arrived. He narrowed his eyes. "We had a speaker in design class today. Some contemporary artist. He mentioned the pixadores of Sao Paulo. Apparently, they innovated a special form of graffiti. They tag the straight, plain white buildings in the downtown area, in the rich part of town. It's called pixaçāo. They started doing it in the 1940s and 1950s and continued in the 1960s and 1970s to protest the oppressive military dictatorship. Sao Paulo's seen a resurgence recently, this time as a socioeconomic protest. Started off as responses to political slogans but now pixadores throw up their names in very artistic stylistic letters (unique to them) as a way of saying, 'We're here. We exist,' where we refers to the poor and marginalized. Graffiti is considered an art form there, but not pixaçāo. The speaker told us about a group of them … the Germans invited them to participate in an art festival in Berlin, to teach their unique lettering style … they offered the pixadores a space inside a church. At the appointed time, for the workshop to start, the pixadores climbed the church and demonstrated their technique, on the brick." Justin laughed and shook his head. "They had tried to tell the curator that pixaçāo was what it was because it was unauthorized, illegal. It's an act of occupying spaces forbidden to you. The danger of possibly falling and possibly being arrested is part of the art form. It's all subversion." Justin leaned back and shook his head. "I really admire them for that. They live by their own rules. They won't allow the government or the business world to sully their acts of protest, their message, or their identity by participating."

Brian smirked and his eyes danced. "You any good with a spray can?"

Justin laughed and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. "What? Why?"

Brian drawled, "Well are you or aren't you?"

Justin shrugged. "Yeah. Course. What are you thinking?"

"I'm not exactly sure … but the millennials are all about presenting themselves to the world … even, especially, in ways that are risky. They're hackers or admire hackers … they steal copyrighted shit …. They take pictures of themselves doing illegal crap … maybe the best way to reach them is to break a … MINOR law or two."

"What?" But Justin was smiling. He was intrigued. And not just because he needed Brian to get the Flash account. He wondered if whatever scheme Brian was hatching might inspire HIM to bring something raw and edgy to his own style.

"Don't bother unpacking." Brian grabbed his coat. "We have a lot to do and only a few hours before night falls."