He doesn’t remember the last time he felt this tired, this bone-weary, limbs like lead weights, eyes burning, thoughts skittering across his brain too fast for him to catch. And he reeks, aged whiskey and sweat and whatever swill the drunk in their cell had marinated in slithering across his skin. He wants a drink. He wants a shower, hot water cascading down his back. He wants the cool comfort of his sheets and the luxurious softness of his duvet.

The elevator door has never felt so heavy.

Brian fumbles once getting the key into the lock. He finally slides the door open and is surprised to see Justin sitting at the table, except in the way that he is not surprised, not surprised at all. Because Brian has spent half the night curled awkwardly in one grimy corner of holding cell number one, picturing Justin as the clock ticks past 3am, past 4am, past 5am, as Brian misses the only curfew he’s ever agreed to respect, picturing images of leering tricks and car crashes and bodies found in dumpsters playing havoc in Justin’s mind.

No, he’s not surprised at all.

He doffs shades and jacket and hides his amusement when Justin first feigns indifference to the grinding squeak of the door and the soft pad of Brian’s feet on the hardwood.

“What happened to you last night?” Justin finally says.

“Don’t ask,” he answers as he slips out of his shoes. The floor is cool on his bare skin. Brian flexes his toes and feels free for the first time since stumbling from the jeep at 2am.

“We have an agreement,” Justin says.

Brian hears the hitch in Justin’s voice, sees the way his body tenses despite his best efforts at nonchalance. The way his eyes remain trained on the sketches on the tabletop, sketches that he doubtlessly threw himself into to avoid thoughts of crashes-tricks-dead bodies.

“Home by three or my balls turn into pumpkins,” Brian drawls, and when Justin relaxes and grins, Brian turns to the fridge for the beer he’s been fantasizing about for hours, through all of Michael’s apologies and Theodore’s whining.

Still. Someone -- Lindsay? -- told Brian once that the most important ingredient in a relationship is trust. Brian knows that Justin lies. Has lied. The kid is eighteen, and lying is almost second nature when you’re just past the point where everything you want to do and see and feel has to be filtered and approved through mommy and daddy. But Brian trusts Justin, in the things that count. He expects the same.

“Believe me, you didn’t miss a thing,” Brian adds.

He takes a swallow of his beer, cold, crisp, just what he wanted, and waits for the follow-up, the questions, the demands, waits for downcast eyes. But Justin doesn’t ask, doesn’t demand, doesn’t want.

Brian knows that trust can be a minefield.

“How was the party?” Brian says carefully.

“Incredibly tedious,” Justin says. “I left early.”

Brian knows that Justin lies. He’s eighteen, and that’s what eighteen year old boys do. And he knows Sap, knows what his parties are like, because Brian was once an eighteen year old boy, too. He hears the things unsaid, harsh truths whispering against his skin, and as he unbuttons his shirt and heads to the bedroom he tries to remember that Justin is strong-willed, that Justin is smart.

“I bet the Sap didn’t like that,” Brian says, taking his own shot at nonchalance. He sets his beer on the bedside table and closes his eyes and hears fabric ripping under eager hands. He swallows and remembers: Justin is stubborn. Justin is smart.

“Fuck the Sap,” Justin says around a yawn. “I quit.”

Brian pauses in the act of taking off his shirt, and learns to breathe again.

He takes off the rest of his clothes, too tired for a shower, too tired and too suddenly, undeniably serene, and he climbs into bed and listens as Justin explains his reasons for quitting. He listens and knows that half-truths are sometimes acceptable, that everyone has tales that need to be buried away in some cobwebby corner of the brain.

“I need to prioritize, concentrate on my art,” Justin finishes. “So... I’d like to take you up on your offer. If it still stands.”

The answer flits across his mind, words that would define, clarify, stamp conclusive on this relationship. He bites down on the dialogue and peers under the duvet instead. “It still stands,” he smirks.

And Justin smiles, strips off his shirt, and clambers onto the bed, because this is the Brian he knows. Loves. Trusts.

Justin slings a leg comfortably over Brian’s, and Brian listens while Justin prattles on about repayments and interest. He nods and agrees, because he’ll agree to anything right now if it means no more dancing on bars, no more late nights, no more Sap-hosted parties, if it means keeping Justin safe in his bed, his home, his life.

Then he’s pressing his hand to Justin’s shoulder, pushing him down onto the mattress, searching his eyes, and -- “So what made you change your mind?”-- and he never meant to ask, never meant to say anything at all. Brian knows about locked chambers and secret compartments.

But he needs to know that Justin is whole.

“A man needs to know when to ask for help,” Justin says simply.

Brian remembers that Justin is only eighteen, prone to eighteen year old whimsy and eighteen year old temper. But Justin is strong. Brian remembers patting soothing salve on a cut on Justin’s hip, courtesy a metal locker door and some fag-hating student that Justin wouldn’t name. He remembers shouted defiance in an alleyway, a declaration of independence for the world to hear. He knows that beneath the shock of silky blond hair at Justin’s temple, there is a tiny white scar.

Justin is strong. It would take more than someone like Sap to break him.

Justin slides his hand across Brian’s chest, shifts their positions so he lays across Brian’s body, and Brian feels the exhaustion drop away with the press of Justin’s lips on his own. He finds the condom, could find the condom in his sleep, and starts to open it, only to have Justin pluck it from his fingers.

Justin’s hand pushes gently against his shoulder and...

Someone -- probably Lindsay -- told Brian once that the most important ingredient in any relationship is trust.

Brian rolls onto his stomach and clutches the pillow, tries to relax his body, tries to ignore that Justin, in his anticipation, has failed to properly prepare him for this. His fingers seize and twist the pillowcase with the stretch, the burn, the reminder that this is too much and it has been much, much too long, and then Justin is draped over him, letting him adjust. He concentrates on the slide of Justin’s lips against his neck, the scents of sandalwood soap and sweat and cinnamon toothpaste and lust gliding over him, surrounding him. Justin’s palm skims over Brian’s side, down to his hip, and finally, finally he starts moving, slow steady thrusts, body still draped over Brian’s, slow, slow, until Brian can’t tell whose heartbeat is whose anymore, whose pulse is scampering beneath his skin.

He rolls his hips and lets himself feel, arching up into Justin’s strokes, mouth open, eyes closed. Justin’s breath is hot and wet on his back, stuttering now, and Justin’s hand creeps beneath them to fist Brian’s cock, short bursts in time with the pounding in his ass.

Justin’s tongue laps along his spine, and Brian’s orgasm hits him without warning, a silent explosion of heat and light. He shudders through the aftershocks, knowing Justin has followed, dead weight pressing against his back, heartbeat slowly coming back to normal. Soft kisses on his shoulder blade. Gentle fingers on his hip.

After, he can’t move. He lays with his eyes closed, not caring about the sweat drying on his skin, not caring that he’s sprawling in the wet spot, limbs and eyelids heavy. Content.

The mattress shifts and dips as Justin settles beside him. Brian knows that if he looks, he will see Justin watching him, eyes wide and shockingly blue, expression hovering somewhere between astonishment and smug satisfaction. Brian will blink and look away. He knows that Justin will kiss him then, lips soft and warm. Justin will sigh against his mouth. Brian will press their foreheads together and say... and say...

Instead, he keeps his eyes closed, and palms his hand against Justin’s face to playfully shove him away. “Go to sleep,” he mumbles into the pillow.