The bed is a wreck. Only one of the seven pillows is even still on it, and John and Rodney are sharing it. The fitted sheet has popped off of three of the four corners, and the flat sheet is wrapped around John's left ankle. Both of their bodies, as well as the remaining bedding, are streaked with lube and come and traces of chocolate sauce and honey. Three condom wrappers litter the floor. There are wads of sodden tissues on the night stand, one perilously close to a still-lighted candle.

John has fingertip bruises on his hips and three new hickeys - inner thigh, center of his back, low on his neck. Rodney has one on his left hipbone. They're sated. Spent. Sticky. Other words that begin with "s".

John's fingers draw little trails through Rodney's sweat-damp chest hair. "So," he says, trying for casual, not making it. "There's a company holiday party tomorrow night..."

Rodney bursting out laughing isn't exactly the reaction he expected. "I know," Rodney says, rolling onto his side and propping his head onto his hand. "You told me three weeks ago. I rented a tuxedo."

"Oh," John says faintly.

"Not that I don't appreciate the noble sacrifice of your ass and all," Rodney says, "but you should probably try to remember which things you actually have to bribe me for in the future." He flicks the end of John's nose.

"Oh," John says again.

"Get up," Rodney says. "Bigger idiot has to make the grilled cheese. House rule."

John sighs and tries to remember if they have bread.

read the story this is connected to: rub you the right way