DISCLAIMER: QAF and its characters are the sole property of Showtime and Cowlip Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

Justin loses something treasured. Brian is perplexed.

"Will there be anything else, Sir?"

Justin sighed. "Vic, how many times do I have to tell you? My name is Justin. My father was Sir." Vic had been a faithful servant in his father's employ for as long as he could remember, and he had always called him Justin, just like their maid, Lula, and her nephew, Emmett - one of his best friends since childhood - did. Now, however, it appears that with the passing of his father a few months ago, he had taken his father's place in seniority, in addition to inheriting all of his wealth.

Frankly, he couldn't care less about all the money his father, a widower, had accrued over the years with his smart investments in stocks and bonds. Yes, he admitted; he did enjoy the finer, more comfortable things in life, and had never wanted for any creature comfort, or any of the high-quality art supplies his passion in painting demanded. But even if his father had been some ordinary banker or accountant or, hell, even a Wall Street trader instead of an extremely intuitive financial advisor, he would have never been one to demand formality among the staff. He would have been happy doing all the tasks they always did quite willingly - and wouldn't have complained.

But by some stroke of fate, he had been born into an affluent family, and despite his mother sadly dying in labor, he had grown up surrounded by love from his father for his only child, and all the staff who doted on the golden-haired young man with the brilliant smile and sky-blue eyes that sparkled whenever he was excited or passionate about something.

As Justin grew into a young man of nineteen, however - a beautiful man - he was the object of admiration and stares from all the gay men (and straight women) that he encountered in the streets of Manhattan as he engaged in one of his favorite activities - walking the busy streets of New York City, visiting some of his favorite parks, or riding the Staten Island Ferry, sketchpad clutched in one hand as he drew something that caught his eye. His father used to assure him that he could have a driver at his dispatch any time he wanted to go anywhere, no matter where it was, or what time of the day or night it was. But Justin had always preferred his freedom, independence, and self-sufficiency, even though he had been aware that even after his father's death, he had still managed to keep an eye on him by virtue of a small band of loyal, long-employed security men who observe the young man's forays around town with a discreet but scrutinizing eye to make sure he stays out of harm. Now that his father was gone, to his consternation he learned that he had placed a condition in his will that these men would continue to be paid for their services through a trust until he was 21. So despite his wish to be on his own, they continued to remain faithful to his father, even after his death. Vic knew it irritated him to no end, but the man still allowed it, preferring to be secure in the knowledge that Justin was safe from harm - well, at least as safe as one could be while roaming such a big metropolis as New York City. For he had come to love Justin as much as his father had, and would never want any harm to befall him.

Justin had probably realized for certain that he was gay back in junior high at the exclusive Academy he had attended, when none of the girls who batted their eyelashes at him, or coyly flirted with him in hopes of being invited to the first freshman dance, were left virtually ignored; instead, a tall, dark-haired boy a year older than he had caught his eye in English class, and he had found to his shock that he wanted to invite HIM to be his date. It was then that he realized why he had never really found any girl attractive enough to ask out on a date, or even hang out with - except for Daphne. Daphne was the child of the housekeeper, Matilda, and like Emmett had grown up with Justin in the household; albeit in the separate carriage house behind the main house. But he, Emmett, and Daphne had quickly bonded through their similar ages and fun-loving natures, and he considered both to be his dearest friends. He had never thought of Daphne as a possible girlfriend, however; or even Emmett as a potential boyfriend, either, for that matter. But both had proven valuable a few years ago in finally explaining to him why he had felt the way that he had for the tall, dark-haired boy that he had never dared actually ask to the dance: he liked boys. He was queer. And, as both Emmett and Daphne had explained, there was nothing wrong with that.

Once that was clear to him, Emmett had even sneaked Justin into some of the gay clubs at night after his father and the wait staff had gone to sleep, even deceiving the security men that - unbeknownst to Craig Taylor - his son had been aware of all along, but had ever disclosed. Justin had found the clubs to be exciting with their techno beats, pulsating lights, sweaty men, and the smell of just plain, heady masculinity that surrounded them. And he had loved dancing in the middle of all those male bodies that came in all shapes and sizes - many of whom boldly propositioned him on the dance floor, whispering all sorts of dirty things in his ear that they wanted to do to him or with him, and making him blush beet red. Only with Emmett by his side was he able to escape some of the more aggressive ones, and the entire experience had left Justin doubtful of ever meeting 'the one' in that manner. But still, the experience had been exhilarating in a daring sort of way.

No, the fact of the matter was, Justin had everything a nineteen-year-old gay male could want; except love. And he craved it, he longed for it; he thought about it night and day. He dreamed about it in his sleep - about a tall, handsome, gorgeous man who would come and sweep him off his feet, unknowing of his wealth and only caring about him as the person he was inside, and not how much money he had. He wanted someone to love him and for HIM to love back. But how could he find the right one? How would he ever know that their motives were pure? That was the question uppermost on his mind. Because Justin Taylor - for all the luxuries he had, and the company that constantly surrounded him - was lonely. Lonely and starving for love.

"Justin? Something wrong?"

Vic calling out his name - his first name, thankfully now - brought him out of his temporary ruminations as he blinked, turning away from his breakfast to shake his head. "No, Vic," he told him, wiping his mouth with his napkin and setting it down on the table beside his plate. "I'm fine."

Vic nodded as he walked in with the tray he had been carrying, and began to stack the soiled dishes on top of it; the house was abnormally quiet at the moment. Typically Daphne and Emmett would come bustling into the kitchen for a breakfast of their own, chirping about what had been happening in their lives. But they hadn't shown up this morning, leaving Justin alone at the table for the remainder of his meal.

"Where're Emmett and Daphne?" he asked curiously. When his father had been alive, he had persuaded his father to dispense with tradition, and had allowed everyone to eat together, including not only his two friends, but all the staff as well, after the meal had been prepared and served. Today, however, neither friend had shown up for breakfast like they normally did, and all the household staff had already eaten before he had come down.

"Remember?" Vic told him gently. "They decided to go to Coney Island for the day."

"Oh, yeah," Justin replied, crestfallen. He had forgotten they had asked him the other day if he wanted to come along. Actually, he would have jumped at the idea, if it hadn't been for the fact that he had an art class this morning at the New York Public Library, of all places. It would have been the last place he would have expected to take exclusive art classes with Frederick Faberini, the noted impressionist painter. But the eccentric artist, it seems, had developed a liking to the light-filled rooms on the upper floor that overlooked Bryant Park that were infused with stain glass, dark, rich, mahogany floors, and tall, floor-to-ceiling windows, insisting the rooms were the perfect spot for creating art. So he paid an insane amount of money to the library to rent one of the larger rooms on a weekly basis, and Justin paid an even more insane amount of money (or rather, his father had when he was alive, and now through his will) for his tutelage. He had to grudgingly admit, though, that since he had started taking the classes six months ago, he had not only noticed his technique improving, but he had also grown to love the stately, educational icon, as well as the shade-sparkled park adjacent to it, so it wasn't exactly a disappointment to him not to accompany his friends today. More like a part of his life: compromise.

He sighed, scooting back from his chair. "I'd better gather my things together," he told Vic, glancing up at the ornate Tiffany clock located above the dining room mantel. He had just enough time to catch the subway and arrive on time for his morning's lesson. The first time his father had found out about his mode of transportation, he had appeared aghast at the thought of his son using the subway like some 'commoner,' as he had put it back then, which had made Justin laugh at the time. He knew his father was no longer around to see that his security men were abiding by his wishes, but Justin would still play the game his father had always construed, even if he was no longer there to watch over him. That made him feel a pang of sadness. He and his father had never been what he would call very 'close,' per se, but he knew he had always loved him, at least in the way he could show love. Just once, however, Justin had wished his father could have been more demonstrative and affectionate. It just hadn't been his way, though.

"See you this afternoon...Mr...uh...Justin," Vic told him with a smile as Justin nodded, pleased. "What shall I tell Cook to prepare for dinner?" he asked.

"Vic..." Justin warned him in exasperation. "I'm not my father. I don't want to create a weekly schedule of menus. Just suggest something to her. You know what I like, and what everyone else likes. Surprise me," he told him with a smile. "Just make sure she makes some kind of dessert to go along with it."

Vic chuckled as Justin passed him on his way out of the room. "Oh, that's always a given." Shaking his head in amusement, he watched pensively as his young charge headed toward the upstairs of the penthouse, thinking how special this young man was, and wishing that - just once - another young man he fancied would feel the same. Not a lothario at some gay night club or bar, cruising for some fresh meat and a one-night stand. But someone of substance who recognized Justin for what he was and who he was: a creative, intelligent, beautiful young man whose heart was filled with love, and just needed some lucky man to be the recipient of that love. "One day, Justin," he murmured. "One day you will find him."

Three Hours Later...New York Public Library...

Sketchbook splayed out on the library's table, Justin studied the distinguished, wizened, old man sitting nearby at one of the other sturdy, oak tables, reading a book silently as his lips moved in sync with the words. He stood out among the other patrons with his decidedly dapper appearance, a remnant of a bygone era when men his age dressed impeccably, no matter where they were going, be it a high-end business meeting, to church, or to the market or post office. He was dressed in a suit and bow-tie, a crisp, white, shirt, and a fedora hat with a banded ribbon, tilted slightly at a jaunty angle to reveal a thatch of gray, almost white, hair underneath that matched his bushy eyebrows perched atop a set of piercing, blue eyes. A white handkerchief triangle could be seen poking out of his breast pocket, and his wrinkled hands grasped the edges of the book on either side as he read, oblivious to Justin's quiet sketching from a few feet away.

Justin had found him fascinating from the moment he had seen him after his class; as he often did, he would wander downstairs into the main room where the books were kept to surreptitiously observe the patrons, and see if there was anything or anyone that caught his eye for his next art assignment. His instructor had requested a character sketch for next week's lesson homework, and this man had instantly caught his attention. Now - his tongue peeking slightly out between his lips in concentration - his eyes darted back and forth from the man to the paper as he furiously worked on his latest sketch, focusing on every wrinkle, every angle; every line of wisdom in the weathered face. Justin was captivated by the man's depth of character - that was what he always called it whenever he ran into a subject that fascinated him. He always felt a bit awkward sketching someone who was unaware of it; but he always thought that was the only way to capture a candid, natural pose, and this man was a wonderful subject.

Sensing that the man was about to finish reading his book when his lips stopped moving, Justin hurriedly penciled in the outline of what would be his finished sketch just before - sure enough - the man stuck a tasseled bookmark between a couple of pages and slowly, almost reverently, closed it. He watched as the man slowly ran his fingers over the top of the dark, leather covering before he reached for a wooden cane hanging over the back of the chair next to him and scooted back stiffly from the table. Using the cane to rise, Justin watched as he slowly rose to his feet, adjusted his hat slightly, smoothed out his suit jacket, and then retrieved the book to shuffle toward the checkout counter. He continued to watch the elegant-looking gentleman until - with his book clutched under his arm - the elderly man disappeared through the entrance and out of sight.

Taking time to shade in the outline of his sketch, it took Justin several more minutes of work before he was finally satisfied with his product. He smiled, thinking how pleased he was with what he had done. He was a true perfectionist when it came to his work; if he wasn't happy with his sketch, he didn't think his teacher would be, either, and this one seemed to almost jump off the page. He thought it was one of his best works yet. He took a moment to finish up the man's hat before finally, with a soft sigh, he closed the sketchbook and placed his graphite pencil down onto the desk, stretching his arms out in front of him and flexing his fingers to ease some of the weariness he always felt whenever he had sat too long in one place.

Deciding that he had stayed long enough at the library and feeling restless, Justin scooped up his sketchbook and some library books about art he had found interesting before grabbing his coat and duffel bag. Hefting his art portfolio over his shoulder, he was back outside a few minutes later among the bustling sidewalks of the Big Apple.

An Hour Later...

Justin entered the subway station near the 9-11 Museum, rushing toward the train that had just approached and would be taking him back toward his apartment in upper Manhattan. Even though he did use the subway fairly often, normally his preferred method of transportation would be to travel on foot back to his home, but he had walked more than he normally did today, and hence he found the idea of riding the subway back home more appealing at the moment. He grinned as he saw the familiar trio of security men frantically hurrying to catch up with him, realizing that it would be too late by the time they reached the doors to enter. Sure enough, just as they were about to board the car directly behind his - giving them a good vantage point to subtly observe him - the tinny-sounding, familiar 'stand clear of the closing doors' message sputtered out through the loudspeakers above him, and with a swooshing sound the doors closed a few seconds before the men could embark. Smiling at the frustrated expressions on their faces, for just a moment he thought he knew what it felt like to have paparazzi following you wherever you went, and how free it felt to know that - at least just for a brief moment - he didn't have to worry about someone constantly looking over his shoulder. It felt good. It felt liberating, he decided, as he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, the slowly rocking car relaxing him.

He fell asleep a few minutes later, used to and therefore unfazed by the slowing and starting of the subway car as it stopped and started to let passengers embark and disembark. He had ridden this very train so many times before that he knew the stops instinctively, and it was almost like a lullaby to him. His eyes closed in brief slumber, he didn't see the man sitting next to him, eyeing the expensive-looking, leather portfolio and duffel bag that sat between him and the stranger. Nick Bonnafanti was a small-time thief, taking advantage of any opportunity he could find to snag something of enough value that he could pawn, just to earn enough income to feed his alcohol and heroin addiction. If the blond next to him hadn't had the loops of both his duffel bag and portfolio threaded through his arm, he would have just snatched both objects at the next stop, right after the car had opened its doors, and he would have rushed off before the other man even had a chance to realize what had just happened. But for now, he would have to make do with whatever he could find.

An expensive-looking, dark-brown book of some type was poking out of the young man's duffel bag; the insignia on it instantly recognizable as being an Armani. He mourned the fact that he just couldn't have the entire bag - it would have brought a tidy little sum at his favorite pawn shop, he knew - but he figured the other man would awaken instantly as soon as he tried to take it. He would just have to be satisfied, then, with a small item this time. So with an experienced, steady hand - borne by years of practice, he slowly slid his left hand into the duffel bag and grasped the leather-bound book, his eyes darting around to note that no one was noticing, before he curled his fingers around the smooth-feeling material and deftly pulled it out before sliding it into the large pocket of his coat. Not getting any sort of reaction from his victim or anyone else nearby, he smiled in triumph and leaned back into his seat, no one the wiser regarding his new possession.

Twenty minutes later, both Justin and his companion thief emerged from the train car, Bonnafanti heading quickly in the opposite direction for fear his prey would discover what he had done. It was always that way with him; making a concerted effort to create as much space between him and his victim always helped to ensure his anonymity as well as his success.

Peering back to make sure the blond-haired man had gone his own way, he finally felt safe enough to sit down and examine his catch more thoroughly. Sitting on a worn bench with his back to the marbled tile wall, he pulled the leather-bound book out of his pocket and opened it up, scowling with dismay as he realized it was merely a bunch of drawings: buildings, people, what appeared to be Central Park, a skyline scene of lower Manhattan, and some idiotic still-life representations of statues and fruits. Nothing that would be of value to him - or to a pawnbroker. He knew well enough by now what would or wouldn't sell, and if he presented this to any of the various shops he patronized, they would laugh him right out of the store. He would be lucky to even get enough for a fucking cigarette. "Damn!" he growled in disappointment, slamming the book shut and slapping it down onto the bench. Shaking his head in disgust, he rose to his feet in search of a new victim, spying a well-dressed, older woman standing by the platform for the next train, clutching an expensive-looking purse against the side of her body. Smiling smugly at her attempt to protect her merchandise, he ambled over closer to her, knowing that she would be an easy target once the opportunity presented itself, and completely forgetting the treasured book.

Fifteen Minutes Later

Brian Kinney jogged down the steps of the subway station, muttering obscenities under his breath as he attempted to swipe his Metro card through the metal scanner, but getting an irritating buzz instead as his body rammed into the obstinate turnstile that wouldn't budge. "Fuck!" he barked. He normally wouldn't have been caught dead riding this damn, dirty subway, but after trying unsuccessfully to flag down a cab, he had decided getting to his appointment with a potentially important client was more important at the moment than his pride. It had been embarrassing enough having to enlist the aid of a little old lady at the ticket purchase machine to buy a one-time ticket, but how hard could it be to swipe a damn card through a slot?

"It goes this way, gorgeous," a tall, willowy blonde told him with an indulgent smile as she took it from his hand and turned it the other way to re-swipe it, earning a green 'entry' message. Brian mumbled a curt 'thanks' and scurried away before the woman decided he owed her a favor that he had no intention of bestowing upon her.

No sooner had he reached the correct platform for the northbound train, however, than he peered up in consternation at the flashing 'delay' message that indicated the train he needed wouldn't be arriving for at least twenty more minutes. Sweating in the stifling underground space, he stomped over to the closest empty bench and heavily dropped his body onto the worn, wooden seat. Sighing in disgust at his misfortune and the unpleasant smell of too many bodies and God knows what sort of other aromas he detected, he glanced down beside him and noticed a leather-bound book lying there. He frowned at the oddity of finding something so expensive and luxurious looking in such a dank, filthy place. Picking up the book, he ran his fingers over the smooth surface with its gold-leaf trim and the initials "JT" etched in the corner before curiosity overcome his trepidation and he opened it up.

The book was full of sketches; intricate and rich in detail, they filled the pages. His eyes widened in surprise at the talent inherent in the multitude of drawings. People, places, animals, street scenes. There were several New York sketches of familiar landmarks: the Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, the fountain at Central Park, Radio City Music Hall. But the ones that captivated him and drew his eye to the page were the character studies. The artist had taken advantage of the vast diversity the city contained, and had found some amazing subjects to draw. They almost seemed to leap off the page with their meticulous attention to detail, and the artist's use of shading to evoke emotion. In short, they were exquisite, and Brian was extremely impressed. If only his own artists at Kinnetik could draw as well! Completely forgetting his discomfort and aggravation temporarily, he took several minutes to study each drawing until he finally was able to put the object down beside him. "Wow," he murmured, impressed, shaking his head as he wondered where the book had come from, and who this "JT" was who had drawn them. These put his art department to shame.

The blast of a loudspeaker - heralding the approach of the delayed train he needed - caused Brian to mutter, "At last," before he rose to his feet and headed toward the platform to catch his car. After a few steps, however, he turned and impulsively walked back over to the bench, grabbing the sketchbook and slipping it into his briefcase before hurrying to catch his train that would take him to his appointment with not a moment to spare.