John, he says, and sure, Silver's been called John before--from Madi, from Flint, even Benedict--but it's different like this. Benedict ends the sentence with it like it's the end of a love letter.

Or maybe he's just overthinking it, because that's what he wants. He's never really been fond of his first name, but when Benedict says it, it's alright.

"Goodnight." He resists the urge to march back over to Benedict, lean down and kiss him. Instead, he heads to bed.




Silver's usually an early riser--not as early as Flint, who he swears never sleeps, but he's not surprised he's up at 6, only a few hours after sleeping. He spends a great deal of time awake and staring at the cieling, acutely aware there is a handsome noble sleeping a party off on the couch in the next room. He's also aware that said man kissed him.

Eventually, he takes a shower, pulls on a pair of grey sweatpants, and decides to make coffee. He's as quiet as he can as he begins to make food--nothing simple. Far from it--as the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, there's also the mistakable smell of oil and onions as Silver, with his hair still went and no shirt, begins to cook enough breakfast for two.