He dropped back into the mattress with a dull thud, head turning slowly as he scanned the room. The clock on the bedside table read shortly after 11 a.m. if he tilted his head and squinted enough. He caught sight of the glare reflecting off of the metal frame of his glasses. He reached for them with a grunt, slamming them on his face in hopes that seeing clearly would improve his mental acuity as well.
The room took up most of the top floor, if the windows on both the east and west walls were any indicator. A half cracked door along the north side led to a bathroom, while the only closed door was the one leading out of the room itself. He faintly recalled being hauled up three flights of stairs in his fugue state the night prior. Ah, right. Arthur’s townhouse. Funny, he thought, that he’d never actually been inside of it in all the nights he’d driven the other man home.
And it was undeniably Arthur’s, all modern sophistication and clean white walls and sharp lines. A pair of obnoxiously well organized built in bookshelves on the west wall bracketed a fully functioning brick fireplace, neatly framed by windows with heavy blue drapes. The fireplace had a set of tufted chairs and dark wood table in front of it that made the place look like a staged home décor catalog. Even the laundry bin looked posh, all wicker white shell and ivory linen lining that contrasted nicely with the matching dark wood of the mantle, floor, and bed frame.
The bed itself was nestled against the eastern wall between its set of windows, Arthur’s side already neatly made up. The drapes were still tightly shut, however. Were it not for the light coming from the bathroom, he’d be in total darkness. Thoughtful of the man, really. Syler wasn’t particularly well suited to the morning sun. Actually, Syler conceded, given his penchant for making a mess, he wasn’t particularly well suited for a place like this at all, objectively gorgeous though it was.
He hauled himself out of the bed, feet digging into the fluffy white rug beneath the bed, and headed for the bath that already looked just as ridiculous as the bedroom. Now that he was awake enough to smell himself properly, his own odor was beginning to offend him. He found a spare toothbrush and change of clothes waiting for him on the counter. God, but the man was sweet.
---
“You,” Syler announced upon entering the ground floor kitchen, “are incredibly domestic.” Arthur turned from his place at the stove to pass him a cup of coffee. Syler hummed contentedly as he swallowed half of it down in a single go, leaning against the counter across from the other man as he inhaled it.
“Pretty sure I warned you about that already,” he teased. “Clothes fit alright?”
Syler broke away from his mug long enough to nod. “Mm, your collection of too small shirts is dual purpose as it turns out. What is that fantastic smell?”
“Breakfast. Brunch? Food for engineer’s who manage to get up before noon,” he settled on, finger chasing back a damp curl tumbling over Syler’s forehead before leaning in to kiss him, slow and thorough. “Sit down and I’ll plate it up for us.”
A few minutes later, Syler blinked down at an oversized plate stacked with what could only be described as an American breakfast buffet, befuddled. “Did you make all of this?”
“Doesn’t take that long, sweetheart,” Arthur replied, setting out an honest to god caddy of jam and syrup and butter and god only knew what else before tucking into his own plate of pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, potatoes—lord, he hadn’t discriminated against any varieties of breakfast foods whatsoever. “I’m from a farm in rural Iowa. Feeding people is genetic. Now eat up.”
Syler hurriedly stuffed a bite of egg on toast into his mouth lest he offend his host, groaning when his body chose that moment to inform him that he hadn’t eaten since the prior afternoon. “Oh, that’s fucking good.”
“Don’t tell me your other boy toys never fed you.”
“Oh, are we talking about that now?” Syler shoved another bite of toast in his mouth, chasing it with a piece of bacon, and gestured with his free hand to indicate that Arthur could have at whenever he was ready.
“As good a time as any,” Arthur replied. “So, Marcus never fed you then?”
“Marcus,” Syler snorted gracelessly, “was an egotistical jackass who didn’t think I was worth sticking around for on the best of days, let alone the effort of cooking breakfast. Something of a running theme for me, actually.”
“Their loss.” The gleam in his eyes suggested he really, really didn’t think so. “They did set the bar low enough for me to impress you with minimal effort, so I suppose I should thank them for that.”
“You already tended to the blowing up of a convention center most of them were at, Arthur. I think they’re sufficiently terrified of you by now and totally content to never see or hear of your existence again.”
Arthur hummed, allowing the conversation to lapse while they cleared their respective plates. Once his cutlery was down, however, all bets were off. “I’m serious about you. You get that, right?”
Syler blinked at him balefully over the rim of his coffee mug. “Yes, Arthur, you’ve said. I know. I agreed.” He gestured at himself impassively. “This is me. This is who you get. A sarcastic mess who’s going to leave hand prints and coffee rings on all of your expensive tables and stumble blindly through every attempt at heart-felt conversation.”
“Good.” He stood, pressing a kiss to his temple before he started collecting the dishes. “That’s what I want.”
The younger man felt a flush travel up the back of his neck, pleased. “So, so, so domestic,” he
