Note: zoesmith asked for Justin/Brian with Justin being the dom. Making that happen was a nifty experiment.

Justin's New York loft is what a loft is supposed to be. Nothing like Brian's. It's drafty and dimly lit and too expensive, and strewn with Justin's work rather than real furniture.

The kid has become a walking cliche.

Brian throws his bag down, articles of clothing dropping as he wanders deeper into the apartment, and he feels a chill of familiarity zing down his spine. The ghost of a memory, in another loft in another city, when Justin was just a scared kid, and Brian owned the world.

Now Brian is the lost one. Not that he'd ever admit it. Only here.

The wood flooring is hard on his knees, but they're only starting to ache when he hears the elevator rattle to their floor, cage clattering open. His head bows, hand tightening its grip around his wrist in the hollow of his back.

There are thuds and footsteps, soft coming-home noises that Brian has secretly missed. But when Justin stops behind him, there's nothing soft in his voice, and his hand is harsh when it twists into Brian's hair.

Brian shudders, contracts, expands. Tomorrow, there will be sarcasm and swagger and a return to himself.

For tonight, Justin has him.