At first, the house was too quiet.

Justin had gotten used to the muted traffic noises at the loft, and then the assorted and seemingly never-ending car horns, loud music, and whoops and hollers that came from living in a busy New York neighbourhood. The silence of Britin was sort of eerie.

Now, after a few weeks of adjustment, he had no trouble sleeping. In fact, he was consistently getting the best nights of sleep of his life. Which was why he got really annoyed when Brian started whispering in his ear when he’d been working on storyboards since eight a.m. and hadn’t eaten dinner and was completely fucking dead to the world.

When Brian brushed a hand through his hair and whispered something about shoe polish, Justin shot up in bed. “Fuck! Leave me alone!”

Brian turned from the closet where he was hanging his suit, and arched a brow.

Wednesday, 6:47pm

“Hey.” Justin dropped his bags in the foyer and toed off his shoes. “Wanna order Chinese? I’m starved.”

Brian stood motionless in the middle of the sitting room.

“Oh,” Justin said, taking off his coat, “Michael wants you to call him. Something about the store.”

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Brian?” Justin took a few steps into the room, his face blanching. “Oh. Oh shit. Did someone die? Did you… fuck, was your doctor’s appointment--”

“I know,” Brian said, “that we’re doing this sharing what’s mine is yours what’s yours is mine bullshit. But that doesn’t mean that you can just walk all over my shit.”

Justin decided not to mention that since they were doing the what’s yours is mine thing, Brian didn’t technically have any shit.

“Do you have any idea how much this cost?” Brian continued.

Justin glanced from Brian’s face to the new sofa, some designer label by Lestrange or Sirius or… some name that reminded him of a character from Harry Potter. And yes, there in the middle of the sofa… a muddy footprint. Justin was surprised that Brian hadn’t had an aneurysm right there on the spot.

“Uh, Brian?” he said. “I’ve been out all day. And you might have noticed that it hasn’t rained in about a week. So… where did the mud come from?”

Wednesday, 8:12pm

“You didn’t research the fucking house before you bought it?”

Brian sucked back his fourth Beam. “Yes, Justin, I researched the house. I had it inspected.”

“Checking for termites isn’t quite the same thing as checking for murder victims!” Justin spun back toward the computer and scanned the article again, muttering under his breath. He double checked the address. Squinted at the grainy black and white photo. It was Britin, all right.

Site of a goddamn motherfucking double homicide.

Saturday, 11:43am

“Oh. My. God. Your house is haunted!” Emmett squealed.

Brian rolled his eyes. “It’s not haunted.”

“I don’t know, Brian,” Michael countered. “The article says those people were murdered on a rainy night.”

“And one of the victims had just been down to the stables,” Justin pointed out.

“Mud on his shoes!” Emmett squeaked out. “It’s definitely haunted.”

“It’s not fucking haunted!” Brian shouted.

“What’s haunted?” Debbie asked as she passed by their booth.

“Brian’s house.”

Brian hung his head in his hands. “It’s not haunted,” he mumbled.

Saturday, 3:30pm

Justin and Brian glanced from the puddles of water on the floor of the foyer to the bright sunshine baking into the dry ground outside the door.

“Do you know Mysterious Marilyn’s number?”

Brian grimaced. “I’ll call Emmett.”

Saturday, 7:13pm

Brian sat, drumming his fingertips lightly on the countertop. Justin paced, absently chewing on a thumbnail. They both looked up quickly when Mysterious Marilyn strode purposefully into the kitchen.

“Well?” Justin asked.

“Honey, this isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

“Sure. But--”

“I can tell you this much. I’m not getting any negative vibes or bad mojo from this house.”

“Sooo…” Justin prompted.

“I suggest you just live with it.”

“Just live with it?” Justin repeated slowly, eyes wide. “Just live with the ghosts of two people who were bludgeoned to death with pruning shears? JUST LIVE WITH IT?”

Brian laid a hand on Justin’s shoulder.

“Pruning shears?” Marilyn cocked her head. “Was it the gardener?”

“OF COURSE IT WAS THE FUCKING GARDENER.” Justin looked like he might have an aneurysm of his own.

“Let me just show you out,” Brian said evenly, taking Marilyn by the arm. “And while you’re here… what does the great beyond say about my chances of landing the Dakota shoe account?”

Saturday, 11:22pm

“All right. Your killer was caught. Pruning shears, hello? He didn’t exactly try to hide it. And he’s in jail right now. And I checked and everything, and he’s not even close to getting out.”

Brian stopping unbuttoning his shirt. “Justin,” he said slowly and carefully, “what the fuck are you doing?”

Justin shooed a hand at him and returned to his contemplation of the ceiling.

“So there’s really no reason for you to hang around here. The bad guy’s in jail. Justice has been served. You can, you know, rest easy.”

Brian glanced upward. “Do the ghosts live in the attic?”

Justin scowled. “You’re not helping.”

“Maybe,” Brian said, coming up behind Justin and wrapping his arms around him, “Casper and his buddy are just missing a little one on one action. An incorporeal state is not conducive to hot hard fucks long into the night.”

Justin squirmed a little.

“Maybe,” Brian leaned down to press a kiss onto Justin’s neck, “they were trying to wake you up the other night so you could take advantage of me.”

“Huh.”

“They could see you were stressed out. You needed release.”

Justin turned in Brian’s arms. “You are such a bullshit artist. You can spin anything.”

“Uh huh.”

“So what about the muddy footprint?”

Brian pondered for a moment. “It could have started a big argument. And makeup sex is hot.”

Justin resisted, but he had to smile. “So. We just live with it.”

“We live with it,“ Brian nodded while slipping the condom into Justin’s hand. “Now. Come to bed.”

They put on a hell of a show.