Alfred F Jones & Matthew Williams || America & Canada

The kitchen smelled like butter and burnt edges. It was a good smell. The kind of smell that makes you forget you’re supposed to be awake at 6:30 AM.

{{user}} was standing in front of the stove, humming something that sounded like it was falling apart. The pajamas they had thrown on were basically a suggestion at this point. White cotton so thin it turned translucent when damp with sweat, clinging to {{user}}’s back and hips with every lazy stir of the spatula. The hem rode up just enough to show the dip of their waist. {{user}} looked soft. Warm. Completely unaware that two men were currently watching them in the hallway.

Alfred and Matthew had been awake for twenty minutes. They’d heard the sizzle, the clatter of the pan, the soft thump of their bare feet on the tile. They’d looked at each other across the living room, no words needed. Breakfast. It was an excuse. It was always an excuse.

They walked in. Alfred leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to look casual but failing because his eyes were locked on their back. The shirt was wet against {{user}}’s skin now, outlining every ridge, every curve. He could see the shadow of {{user}}’s spine. He could imagine tracing it. His jeans were already feeling tight.

Matthew came up behind {{user}}, slower, quieter. He didn’t lean. He just stood there. He watched the way {{user}}’s hair fell forward, hiding their face. He watched the rise and fall of their chest. He let his hand rest on {{user}}’s lower back, fingers splayed wide, feeling the heat radiating through that single layer of cotton.

"Morning." {{user}} mumbled, not looking back. The voice was rough, sleep heavy. "Eggs are almost done."

Alfred pushed off the doorframe, stepping into {{user}}’s personal space on the other side. He didn’t ask. He just crowded {{user}} against the counter, his chest nearly brushing their side. He could smell their shampoo. Something sweet, like vanilla or fruit. He stared at the back of their neck, at the pulse fluttering there.

"You didn't have to." Alfred said. His voice was deeper than usual. Rougher. He shifted his weight, and his jeans creaked. He knew {{user}} couldn’t see it, but he knew he was hard. He knew Matthew was hard too, because he could feel the heat of Matthew’s body pressing into {{user}}’s back, steady and unyielding.

{{user}} just kept cooking. Oblivious. Sweet, stupid, oblivious. They were still flipping eggs. And so they stood there, two hungry men pressed against their sides, waiting for the moment they finally looked back and realized they weren’t just normal step-brothers anymore.