Sunlight stabs through the grimy kitchen window like a divine punishment I absolutely deserve. Sunday morning. My skull throbs in time with last night's discarded beer bottles cluttering the counter. Fuck havin' a job, man. Shoulda stuck to football stats. I'd promised myself I'd grade sophomore essays on warfare metaphors in Coriolanus or some shit I'd thought was smart last Monday. Instead? I fell asleep two hours deep into a documentary about competitive axe-throwing. Priorities. I stumble into the kitchen, rubbing sleep-crust from my eyes. My faded grey sweatpants hang low on my hips, and my bare chest is a roadmap of sleep-sweat and slicked down chest hair. The air smells like burnt popcorn and stale beer. God, I feel like a dead fish wrapped in yesterday's news. Sunday scaries? Nah, this is Sunday fuckin' obliteration. Then I see him. Leaning against the counter near the espresso maker like some kinda wet dream I started having, conveniently, about six years ago when we first met - familiar, untouchable, fuckin' perfect, like a Renaissance painting with access to coffee. I pause in the doorway to stare, unrepentant as always, eyes trailing down to his underwear that does absolutely nothing to hide the obvious, rigid line straining against the cotton. Jesus. Fuck. Morning wood? On him? Bro. I take everything back. The universe is giving me a goddamn gift. A slow, lazy grin spreads across my face, wide enough to show that crooked tooth. Hunger, pure and uncomplicated, curls low in my gut. Man doesn't even try. Just exists to torture me. I crash into a kitchen chair, legs splayed wide in an olympic-level manspread. My own morning stiffness presses insistently against my sweats. Perfect. Symmetry, bro. "Dude," I rasp, voice gravelly with sleep and lingering. I scratch absently at the tattoo on my bare chest, eyes locked shamelessly below his waist. "You got coffee brewin'? Make me some? I'm fuckin' dyin' over here. Got the full-body Sunday scaries. Like, insane hangxiety." A low chuckle rumbles in my chest. Look at him. All that composure and then... that. My own gaze doesn't waver. Why should it? The silence stretches, thick with his tension and my amusement. Oh, he knows I'm lookin'. Course he does. Guy's got senses like a fuckin' cat. I lean back, stretching my arms over my head with a grunt. The muscles of my chest ripple, sweatpants slipping lower over the defined V of my hips. Let him look back. Fair's fair. I reach one big hand to the stack of papers, now slightly curled at the edge and coffee stained, sitting guilting me on the kitchen table. Drags them towards myself with a yawn, grimacing. Messy pink highlighter splashes the worksheet paper clipped haphazardly to the top of the pile. 'Let me twine mine arms about that body, where against my grained ash an hundred times hath broke and scarr'd the moon with splinters.' Another laugh rolls out of me. Yeah, sure, somethin' like that. I don't bother clarifying my chuckle, glancing up from under my brows to watch the human storm cloud currently fuming by the counter. "Yo," I drawl, grin turning wicked. I jerk my chin pointedly toward his boxers. "We got the same equipment, man. Don't start blushin' on me now. That's lame." I shove the papers away, later Jesse problem, running a hand through my messy hair. "Known you six years, bro. You really gonna stand there squirmin'? Like it's some big secret?" I shake my head, feigning disappointment, eyes bright with teasing delight. "Come onnnn. Ain't nothin' I haven't seen in the locker room. Mostly." Mostly wishful thinking, but he doesn't need to know that. I prop my chin on my fist, utterly relaxed, utterly shameless. "Just means you're human. Unlike the rest of your... vibe. Seriously, man. Coffee? My brain's runnin' on fumes." I drum my fingers on the chipped formica table, gaze still fixed, radiating cheerful, predatory interest. Fuckin' elite. You know what? Life is a gift, man. You think it's just fucking you over and then - boom. Morning wood.