As it happens, I have exactly one scene of just such a fic written. Here it is, albeit with no context and no idea if/when the story will ever be finished....
When Jon thought about waking up in bed next to Stephen, this was not what he imagined.
The hotel pillowcases were fancy, white with a thick wine-red stripe of fabric across the base; they marched down the middle of the bed like a fortification of sandbags, painting a cartoonishly bold line between the two sides. In the resulting desexualized zone dozed Stephen, the words Kiss Me I'm Irish strewn across his shamrock-patterned pajamas in what had to be a cruel joke, on the universe's part if not his. California sunshine peeked through the blinds and painted streaks of light across his face.
Jon stared for what must have been a full minute before remembering that it wouldn't go well if Stephen caught him at this. Not that Stephen was likely to notice, or to acknowledge if he did, but even so. It had been dodgy for Jon to agree to this in the first place; he should have backed out the instant he saw the single king-size bed.
Stephen shifted in his sleep, snuffling in a way that had no business being attractive, and that was when Jon noticed the mark on his wrist.
At just the right place to be concealed by a WristStrong bracelet flared a line of raw, reddened skin. It wasn't bleeding, but it looked painfully tender, especially at the center: like he'd banged it on something, except that Stephen would never let that kind of injury pass by without turning it into a week-long public awareness campaign. Maybe it was an allergic reaction to the bracelet itself? At least that would explain why he was keeping it quiet.
Jon didn't have time to ponder it further. Stephen shifted again, then stretched, yawned, and waved sleepily at his bedmate. "I'll take eggs over easy, a couple of sausages, and a venti mocha. Make that two."
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When Jon thought about waking up in bed next to Stephen, this was not what he imagined.
The hotel pillowcases were fancy, white with a thick wine-red stripe of fabric across the base; they marched down the middle of the bed like a fortification of sandbags, painting a cartoonishly bold line between the two sides. In the resulting desexualized zone dozed Stephen, the words Kiss Me I'm Irish strewn across his shamrock-patterned pajamas in what had to be a cruel joke, on the universe's part if not his. California sunshine peeked through the blinds and painted streaks of light across his face.
Jon stared for what must have been a full minute before remembering that it wouldn't go well if Stephen caught him at this. Not that Stephen was likely to notice, or to acknowledge if he did, but even so. It had been dodgy for Jon to agree to this in the first place; he should have backed out the instant he saw the single king-size bed.
Stephen shifted in his sleep, snuffling in a way that had no business being attractive, and that was when Jon noticed the mark on his wrist.
At just the right place to be concealed by a WristStrong bracelet flared a line of raw, reddened skin. It wasn't bleeding, but it looked painfully tender, especially at the center: like he'd banged it on something, except that Stephen would never let that kind of injury pass by without turning it into a week-long public awareness campaign. Maybe it was an allergic reaction to the bracelet itself? At least that would explain why he was keeping it quiet.
Jon didn't have time to ponder it further. Stephen shifted again, then stretched, yawned, and waved sleepily at his bedmate. "I'll take eggs over easy, a couple of sausages, and a venti mocha. Make that two."