The fact that the sofa would not look out of place in the sitting room of a geriatric facility did not bother him. It was a place to toss his coat and gloves, to fling his bags of supplies before he puts them away, and occasionally to sit and stare at whatever painting he’s currently working on, as though he can find inspiration for the next brush stroke through force of will alone.

Justin had never really noticed that the tweed was rough and prickly, or that the sofa itself smelled faintly of car oil and what may have been cat piss. Of course, Justin had never before been bent over its arm, shirt rucked halfway up his back and jeans around his ankles, face smooshed against the cushion, getting fucked to within an inch of his life.

He loved when Brian came to visit.

He shifted a little from where he’d flopped on the cushions, snuggling a little deeper, his limbs managing to feel weighted and weightless at the same time. Somewhere behind him he could hear Brian cleaning up, but he didn’t want to move just yet. They had plenty of time before their reservations. He could just close his eyes for a moment. Just rest.

The first thing Justin noticed when he opened his eyes was the light. Sunlight should have been streaming through the skylight. Instead the glow was murky, the half-light of dusk. He blinked away the last vestiges of sleep and pushed himself to his knees before swinging his legs off the sofa.

The second thing Justin noticed was Brian.

The muted glow of the setting sun favoured Brian, sparking highlights in his hair and hiding the minute imperfections of his body, the flaws that invariably came with age, that Brian fixated on and obsessed over and which Justin secretly adored.

The shades Brian had chosen surprised him. Reds and oranges and yellows splashed across the canvas. There didn’t seem to be a method to his colour choices, nor to the depth or strength of his strokes, and from where Justin sat he could see Brian’s forehead creased in thought, his hand hanging limply at his side, sprinkles of ochre spattering the drop cloth from the dangling brush.

Justin rose from the sofa and ran a hand softly down Brian’s back, cool and smooth; he rested his forehead between Brian’s shoulder blades and gripped his hips lightly in sweaty palms and thought he’d never found Brian more hot, more sexy, long limbs drenched in orange-yellow hues and spatters of vivid watercolours peppering his skin.

“Shit’s harder than it looks,” Brian said into the silence.

“I can teach you,” Justin murmured against his back.

Brian turned in his arms, and smiled, and outside the sun made its final descent and streetlamps lit up and Brian glowed and somewhere in the East Village a table was being set with fine china and gleaming crystal glasses that they weren’t going to use.

“Yes,” Brian said, wrapping the fingers that held the still-dripping brush around Justin‘s hand. “Teach me.”