The first thing he notices is that the light comes in differently; he figures it's because they're on another side of the house. He's used to the loft sort of fading into day, not this bright sunshine that makes him squint and bury his face in the pillow. Window blinds needed, soon.

“Motherfuck,” Brian mutters beside him, sticking his head under the pillow and drawing the sheet up.

“We should have thrown a blanket up there,” Justin sighs, feeling the creeping sun warm the back of his neck.

“You should blow me,” Brian says from under the pillow, and Justin groans.

“I blew you last night. Twice. Once in the stables and once by the fireplace.”

Brian does nothing but grunt in response and Justin flings an arm over him. “Are you getting up with me? I want to see the other wing of the house.”

“So go.”

“I might get lost. It's fucking huge.”

“Go big or go home. Words to live by.” Brian remains under the pillow, so Justin throws off the sheet and gets out of bed.

“Fine. Do we have any breadcrumbs? I need to leave a trail.”

Brian ignores him, so Justin pads into the bathroom in bare feet. He brushes his teeth and pulls on sweatpants and leaves Brian trying to avoid the insistent sunlight.

Twenty minutes later finds him indeed lost.

But pleasantly so; it doesn't bother him. Justin sort of likes it, peeking into each room, and figures he can yell out a window or something if he gets hungry. If Brian gets horny enough, he'll come looking.

Bedrooms upon bedrooms are all he sees for a while, with the occasional bathroom thrown in. Justin thinks Liberty Avenue could all come and stay at the same time, and Debbie could cook. She'll love the kitchen. And what the hell does anyone need with all these bedrooms anyway? Justin still has disbelief that the house belongs to them. Maybe they could rent part of it out.

A room with the faintest pale pink walls reminds him of Emmett. He would like it, Justin thinks, since he claims pink is soothing and manly. Justin doesn't know where the manly part fits in, but he usually nods and smiles at most things Emmett says. The closet is big, with three shelves built in. Good for Emmett's shoes.

The next bedroom has multi-paned windows that look out over the backyard. Justin can see the slide and the tire swing hanging from a low branch and smiles wistfully. This is Gus's room, no doubt. Justin can see airplanes or trains on the wall in his mind's eye and wonders if Brian would let him paint them.

Rooms for Mikey and Ben and Mel and Linds are next, all in a row, and Justin alternates between furnishing them in his head and feeling slightly melancholy that they aren't here to see it. But soon.

More bedrooms after that, with one that looks like a playroom for Jenny and Gus, until he starts to get tired of looking and wishes he had his cell phone to call Brian to come and get him.

But the next room he finds doesn't look like a bedroom.

So far it's been the only one with anything in it besides carpeting. Justin blinks at the sturdy new easel that faces the east window, catching the morning light. And it's the expensive Soltek one he's coveted for months, the one he always turns to first whenever his new art catalogue comes in the mail.

“Huh,” he says out loud, and ventures in.

The room is warm, so he cracks a window and takes a breath of the sharp winter air. Turning to the easel, he puts a finger on the blank canvas, despite the oils he knows he'll leave. He wants to touch it to absorb the feel, to make it real. To make it his.

“You didn't leave breadcrumbs,” Justin hears, and looks up from the canvas to see Brian leaning against the doorjamb.

“Hey,” he says wonderingly. “Did you put this here? Whose is it?”

Brian raises an eyebrow, then looks at the floor. “Yeah, well.”

Justin feels his mouth curve in a half-smile and he shakes his head. “It gets good sun.”

“I know,” Brian says carelessly, still studying the Berber carpet.

“I wanted that easel. It's expensive.”

“So's this house,” Brian shrugs. “What, I'm gonna furnish it with Big Q?”

Justin crosses the floor and stands in front of him, resting his hands on Brian's crossed arms. “Can we take the carpet out?”

“Whatever,” he dismisses with a casual wave.

“It's a perfect studio, Brian.”

Brian looks up at him through messy bangs. “Mm-hmm.”

“Okay,” Justin laughs. “I'll stop.”

“Show me appreciation,” Brian demands, tugging Justin to the floor.

The rug is soft under Justin's back, a testament to the quality, but he wouldn't care if they were fucking on bare concrete. He pushes toward Brian, his earlier complaints about too much sex (stupid of him, never been such a thing) gone with one touch of Brian's hand on his cock. He's sweating suddenly, trembling and shaking when Brian lowers his head for a taste, groaning out loud into the stillness of the room.

His fingers twist involuntarily into Brian's hair, and vaguely he realizes it must hurt because he can feel the tension in his hands, but when Brian smiles against his skin it doesn't matter. Teeth on his hip, leaving light indentations, enough to mark but not to wound. Tongue making wet stripes on his inner thigh, licking at his balls. Too much sensation and not enough at all, Justin writhes and begs and closes his eyes against the torture.

Brian mouths him softly for a while, then there's the press of his dick against Justin's stomach and he marvels that Brian can strip him without Justin even noticing. His legs pushed back, the light feel of Brian's thumbs on the back of his thighs, the insistent look on Brian's face. The first push in is a little fast and tight, but Justin doesn't care and would never tell him anyway, the expression Brian has is all Justin needs for painkiller.

Brian is unusually tender, a word Justin would never apply to his partner, but he can't explain the lingering touches and soft mouthing against his skin any other way. Face-to-face isn't so uncommon anymore, the impersonal on-his-stomach-rough-hand-in-his-hair more the exception than the rule. He relishes the stretch and burn, wanting a memory of this time tomorrow; a reminder of how they fucked on the first morning in their house with no furniture or appliances or even curtains on the window.

Commitment is only a word. Justin knows anyone can say it. The straights call it “married,” and they wave their rings around and have two kids and then get divorced and hate each other. Justin doesn't think much of rings, anymore.

Commitment is Brian reaching up to entwine their fingers, his hand closing protectively around Justin's and his knuckles turning white. Commitment is Brian nibbling at Justin's bottom lip, nuzzling his hair aside to lick around the outside of Justin's ear. Commitment is Brian trying to stay silent but failing, gasping out the first syllable of Justin's name when Justin clenches his ass around Brian's dick.

Right before he comes, Justin looks up at his easel.

~End