Happily, I also have a well-honed sense of self-preservation, and I know that if I made him fuck up the painting, he’d never… well, he’d never go with me, never mind anything else I’ve got planned.

So I wait until he stands, cocking his head appraisingly at the work-in-progress. Then I say softly, “Justin.”

“SHIT!“ His arms pinwheel as he spins in place, and tiny splatters of red-orange paint scatter onto the nearest wall. They’re an improvement in the decor, actually.

“Brian. Fuck.”

I’d love to, really, but Justin scowls at me, shaking his head. I definitely made the right move in not accosting him when I walked in the door. Speaking of… “The door was open,” I say. A little white lie never hurt anybody.

“Shit.” Justin tosses his brush into a nearby can of cleaning fluid and strides to the door. “Thing never shuts properly,” he mutters after ascertaining that the door is, indeed, fully closed. His eyes narrow as he takes me in, so I raise a shoulder and do my best to look innocent.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asks. His eyebrows have crept up his forehead, and he‘s watching me with that I don‘t know what the fuck Brian is up to but it‘s definitely not good look. I can never quite figure out how he manages to be fucking irritating and fucking sexy all at the same time.

“Dinner,” I blurt out.

“Dinner,” he repeats flatly.

I do the shoulder thing again. “I know what you’re like when you get immersed--”

“You’re right. You do. And I can’t just leave right now. I’m in the middle of a project.”

-- Not THAT kind of project --

I blink. “You told me yourself you have no food here. You have to eat.”

“You channeling Debbie now?” he asks, but his lips have quirked in a smile. I know I can move in for the kill.

“I made reservations at Le Chinois.”

“Brian--” he says half-heartedly.

I cross my arms at my chest and watch as visions of lobster thermidore dance across his face. He sighs, because having to leave his dirt-encrusted apartment for a four-star meal is such a hardship. “Just let me get cleaned up,” he says.

I smirk as I watch him cross to the sink. He’s so fucking easy. But I have to turn away from him as I realize what’s still to come. I close my eyes and hope-wish-dream that the rest of the day goes as well.

I picked at my food, too tense to eat. Justin, on the other hand, is stuffed with a C-note worth of seafood, no great surprise, and there’s a satisfied smile on his face, so he doesn’t protest when I tell him that I don’t want to go straight home. To his home.

I have something to show him.

We spend most of the ride in comfortable silence. I love that we don’t have to fill up the empty spaces with mindless chatter.

We wander through the house slowly, at Justin’s pace. I attempt to ignore the lurching jump of my pulse and stuff my hands in my pockets so he won’t notice the way they’re shaking. I leave Justin exploring a second floor room with floor to ceiling windows -- perfect studio space -- to light a fire in the sitting room.

I want everything to be perfect.

The light is fading, and the dust-cloths covering the left-behind furniture look dingy and grey. Dust mites dance in the air…

-- I’m really allergic to a lot of drugs. The doctor gave me penicillin once, it nearly killed me --

I want everything to be perfect, but this will have to do.

He says Yes.

He says, “Yes, I will marry you.”

His lips taste like sugar.

We spread a drop cloth on the floor and undress, slowly, caressing each new patch of skin as it’s revealed. I feel his heartbeat stuttering beneath my lips. Sink to the floor and kiss him, kiss him, perfect lips parted under mine, never want to kiss anyone else. Never will.

Feel our flesh heat, breaths hitch, and --

-- Just… go slow, okay? --

-- press my forehead against his, slide his leg over my shoulder and ease into him, take my time, his lips on mine, breathing him in. Lick the sweat from his skin, my hand stroking him in time with my thrusts, watch the flush creep up his chest, his head fall back, his eyelids flutter. Watch his lips form my name.

He comes for me, and it feels like healing. It feels like home.

After, sated, I lay flat out beside him. The floorboards dig into my shoulder blades, my knees feel raw, and I have the fleeting thought that I’m too old to be crawling around on the floor without the comfort of futon and pillows.

But Justin’s legs are tangled with mine.

I can lie here a little while longer.

“You know,” he says casually, breath warm against my chest, “we could get a dog.”

-- To prove to the person that I love how much I love him…that I would give him anything, I would do anything, I‘d be anything… to make him happy… --

Fuck.

“Uh,” I manage.

“A lhaso apso?” he muses. “No, too frou-frou. Oh! We could get a couple of pomeranians, that way they’d keep each other company when we’re not home.”

Home. He said yes.

“Uh,” I repeat. It is not my finest hour.

“I’ve got it,” Justin says. “A sheepdog.”

“Uh, Sunshine,” I say. If we stay until Christmas, I may manage a full sentence. “Justin,” I try again.

“Yeah, a sheepdog,” Justin says. He rolls over and straddles my chest, hair tangled and sweaty, eyes shining. And I love him.

Justin grins. “Something that sheds all the time.”

That fucking little…

“You little shit.” I tumble him onto his back, gently, gently, cradle his head in my palm and kiss him until he can’t see straight, until I can’t see straight, swallow his laughter before joining in with my own.

“Don’t worry, Brian,” he says when we part, “I wouldn’t do that to you.” His eyes shift to the side, then back to mine. “We’ll start with a cat.”

I press my lips together. “Would you believe? I’m allergic.”

He taps my chest with the back of his hand. “I’m the one with the allergies.”

--Codeine! Codeine’s the worst. Like, I get diarrhea and start vomiting uncontrollably at the same time --

I eye him hopefully. “Are you allergic to cats?”

“No.”

“Dogs?”

“No.”

I’m getting desperate. “Gerbils?”

“I do have a rather irrational dislike of monkeys,” Justin says, clearly taking pity on me. “I blame it completely on being subjected to The Wizard of Oz at far too young an age.” When I just look at him, he screws up his face. “Flying monkeys are creepy.”

I huff out a laugh. “You’re fucking weird.”

“Yeah, okay, Mr. I’ll Never Go Camping Now That I’ve Seen Blair Witch.”

He grins at me smugly, eyebrows arched. And I love him. So I slide down his body and take him in my mouth. My back aches, my shoulder aches -- fucking Liberty Ride -- but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but this… this moment. This now.

We ride back to the ‘burgh in comfortable silence. His eyes are closed, his hand resting lightly on my thigh.