Work Text:
On Wednesday, the sun doesn't rise. A green-grey light pushes through the naked windows and settles in like a cold mist.
They fumble through the kitchen, through breakfast.
Jon has lived here three weeks. He doesn't know where he keeps the bread; he doesn't have a toaster.
There are crumbs in the grape jelly, and Stephen eats it with a spoon.
Jon listens to the spoon clink against the jar, and it's the emptiest sound he has ever heard.
"Stephen," he says, coffee cup pressed to his lips. He thinks he's trying to hold back the words.
When Stephen looks at him, Jon learns to hate the phrase puppy dog eyes. He swallows his words, chasing them with scalded black coffee.
He gestures to his mouth and says, instead, "You've got...jelly."