Chapter Text
It’s five thirty in the morning, which is far, far too early for any human to be awake. Yet here Jon is, splayed over an empty bed, one eye crusted shut, and a pillow half-folded over his face because the sun has decided to arrive too. Rude.
The cruelty of the hour is redeemed only by the fact that Elias is nearby, humming quietly as he stands in front of the mirror. He’s buttoning a lilac shirt, tie draped casually around the collar, his hair damp at the nape of his neck. His trousers frame his arse pleasingly in the morning light—pressed and tailored for the first day of work after their ill-advised American honeymoon.
Jon would be sad about missing out on so much of Elias’s skin, except this view makes his sleepiness evaporate. It’s… different from the Elias who snores, who cuts his thumb trying to slice a strawberry and mutters under his breath about Americans after visiting the world’s biggest pistachio. This Elias is a mask presented for the rest of the world—the head of the Magnus Institute, who approves research funding and courts donors and only smiles when he’s about to inform you that you fucked up.
Elias says nothing, but there’s a weight in the air; he knows Jon is watching. It’s an odd, breathy symbiosis. Looking, being looked at. The careful, precise movement of Elias’s fingers as he fastens each button. The sharp twist of his wrist as he knots his tie. The way the muscles of his back shift as he reaches for his waistcoat and shrugs it over his shoulders like a seal’s coat, utterly at home.
Jon’s boss. His husband. His reason.
In the mirror, a grin flashes across Elias’s lips. “Most people prefer to see the clothes come off.”
Jon grumbles and rolls onto his back, sprawling sideways over the sheets. “They’ve got poor taste, frankly.”
“Do you plan on joining me?”
“Not before eight, thank you.”
Instead of pulling on his suit jacket, Elias steps towards the bed. His face looms upside-down as Jon looks up at him. “6am didn’t stop you from barreling towards the Rainforest Cafe in San Antonio, did it?”
“Different. That had mimosas.”
Elias laughs. Jon should protest, because the Institute has more than enough money to provide mimosas to upstanding employees who show up before nine (he’s seen the budgets), but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is an answering giggle. Elias is wearing a goddamn suit and they’re married and Jon’s brain is clouded enough without the scent of cedarwood inviting him to pull Elias back down in bed.
As if he’s heard, Elias leans down. His lips brush Jon’s in an imitation of a kiss. “You know what’s better than a mimosa?”
Jon closes his eyes. “What?”
Elias kisses him properly in the breathless silence, his mouth full and warm, the edge of his tie dangling and tickling Jon’s forehead. His fingers find Jon’s on the bed and intertwine until there are no spaces left between them.
“I don’t know,” Elias says. “I guess you’ll have to come to work to find out.”
He flees before Jon can whack him.