Emmett likes to watch Julian. It doesn't matter what Julian is doing; he just likes to watch. Right now, Julian is lying on the couch reading the sports section with his bare feet kicked up on the armrest. Julian wore socks - and frequently shoes - around the house for a long time, but Emmett taught him the joys of going barefoot.

He likes Julian's feet. They're long and slim and pale - the skin is smooth and soft. Sometimes at night, Julian's feet are cold. He bitches when Julian presses them to his thigh, but in reality, he's just happy to have even more points where Julian touches him.

Julian's chest is bare, too. In fact, he's wearing nothing but a pair of thin cotton pajama pants. From where he's standing in the kitchen, Emmett can see the line of dark hair that leads to the pants' waistband. He can see the outline of Julian's cock. He can see the large muscles of Julian's thighs, the hard line of his shins.

Julian lets the paper slide to the floor and hitches himself over on his side, bending his knees so that his lanky frame fits onto the too-short sofa. When he reaches over his head for the blanket folded over the sofa's back, the pajama pants slip down even lower, revealing the top curve of Julian's ass and the livid mark of a bruise on that swell of flesh.

Emmett remembers holding that skin in his teeth, remembers the way that Julian squirmed under him, trying to get away from the bite while pushing himself down on three of Emmett's fingers at the same time.

When Emmett let go, Julian had pushed back against him, growling, "More."

At that, Emmett pushed in with all four of his fingers and bit down hard, feeling it in both places when Julian came.

In the kitchen, Emmett sighs as the mark is covered by the blue blanket; smiles at the soft sounds Julian makes as he falls asleep. It's Sunday, and he's got nowhere to be that isn't here.