The Lost Sheep

“I will never wash the mental image away!” Matthew shudders for the upteenth time that evening, face nestled into forearms resting on the pub counter, muffling his complains. “My brother, naked, pressed against the shop table… how can you even work there, knowing what’s going on?”

Lars shrugs, “Would it make it better if we’d do it there too?”

The negative answer consisting of a rather painful shoulder slap makes him spit the beer all over his jeans, which Matthew sees as an adequate punishment.