Justin tilts his head under the spray and lets the water pelt against his upturned face. He swivels the tap higher, hotter, and squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught, and relishes the sting of hot water on his skin. His lips.

He stays under the spray until the water starts to turn cold, and still doesn’t feel any cleaner. He wraps a towel around his waist and stands at the mirror, watching the beads of water drip slowly down his cheek. If he closed his eyes, he could see Brian standing at this same mirror, inspecting his own face for damage, clutching his bruised ribs. If he closed his eyes, he could see himself, leaning against the wall, assuring Brian that he looked great. That he always looked great. If he closed his eyes, he could hear himself, apologizing for his father’s brutality. And hear Brian, telling him that apologies are pointless and regrets are meaningless.

Justin does not close his eyes.

He dries off, still watching himself in the mirror. He’s not sure he likes what he sees.

He drops the towel on the floor and pads softly back to the bedroom. Brian is laying on the bed, propped on his elbow, much as he left him fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes before. Justin drops to his knees on the bed, and Brian’s eyes raise to meet his, but there’s no spark there, and Justin regrets that more than anything else.

He presses a hand to Brian’s shoulder and gently pushes. Straddles Brian’s body and deftly removes his clothes.

There are dozens of ways to say I’m Sorry. Justin uses the brush of his lips. The warmth of his mouth. The butterfly caress of his fingertips. The flutter of his lashes on sensitive skin. The light scratch of his nails.

Then Brian pulls him up and away, wraps firm hands around his biceps and drags him across his chest, and kisses him, hard, and fast. His hands warm the sides of Justin’s face as he presses their foreheads together, and his eyes are soft and dark.