Work Text:
Mondays are:
up late, morning hair, morning breath. Jon wakes without the duvet. He is cold, and Daenerys is warm, rolled up tight beneath the covers. He tells her:
“It is time to wake up,” and she says:
“You can go to the bathroom first,” so he does.
The tiles are freezing. He tiptoes under the shower. As the water bashes down, he brushes his teeth beneath the stream. He uses her shampoo. He smells of ginger and lemon. When he’s done, she’s still asleep, her alarm pushed by five minutes five times.
Coffee. Cornflakes. The milk is out of date. Jon eats the cereal dry. He reads the news: the American election, Boris Johnson’s dad without a face-mask, a review of an indie movie. The theatres are still shut. He wonders if he can download it online.
“Morning.” Daenerys yawns. Her robe is pink. Her eyes are shut. He pecks her cheek, her lips.
He says: “You look nice,” because he loves the way her silver hair sits messy on her head and how her cheeks are red from sleep and the feeling of her soft buttocks through the thin fabric.
She says: “You’re full of shit,” and slips out of his arms.
They drink coffee. They listen to the radio. They’re both on their phones; scrolling, scrolling. The time ticks by. Jon gets up. He says: “I’ll go get dressed,” and Daenerys asks:
“In the bathroom?” and when he nods, she moans: “But I need to get ready!”
They dress together - a weak fight for space to move around in, for a touch of the others’ body, for a moment of privacy to pee. Jon is ready first. His suit is blue. His helmet is yellow. His bike is black. Before he sets off, Daenerys reaches out of the bathroom and knocks him on the head. The helmet echoes: dunk, dunk, dunk, beneath her knuckles.
“For good luck,” she says.
He gets to work safely.
Tuesdays are:
Jon wakes at sunrise. It is two hours too early. He goes back to sleep.
Tuesdays are:
Jon wakes to the beep of the alarm. He shuts it off. He turns to Daenerys. He says:
“It is time to wake up,” and she says:
“You can go to the bathroom first,” but he lifts the duvet and presses his hands to her buttocks instead. He is cold, and she is warm. She lets him touch her - between the legs, through her pants. She is wet. He asks:
“Did you dream?” and she says:
“Yes,” and he imagines: her and him, fucking on the sofa, the legs giving in, the sheer force of his thrusts enough to make her drool. So he asks:
“What did you dream about?”
Daenerys turns. She looks at him. She replies: “I was back in school, and late for my exam.”
Jon goes to the bathroom. He jerks off in the shower. It is not the same.
Coffee. Cornflakes. The milk is still out of date. Jon eats the cereal dry and reads the news: the American election, Boris Johnson’s plea to the nation, ten ways to ask for a promotion. He’s been in his job for six years. He’s never had a pay rise. He memorises the steps. Then he forgets them.
Daenerys smells of ginger and lemon. Her hair drips when she enters the kitchen. “Are you using my shampoo?” she asks.
“No,” Jon lies. He doesn’t let her smell his hair.
They put the TV on. There’s a children’s show playing. They’re both on their phones; scrolling, scrolling. Downstairs, there’s an argument. They can hear their neighbour through the floor:
“Learn not to piss on the toilet seat, you twat!”
Jon raises his voice and mimics: “You twat!”
Daenerys elbows him. “Shut up,” she says, “or they’ll hear you.”
Jon goes to get ready. He makes sure not to pee on the toilet seat. His suit is brown. His helmet is yellow. His bike is black.
Daenerys kisses his forehead and says: “For good luck!”
He arrives at work in one piece.
Wednesdays are:
up early for a run. Jon breathes in the cool morning air. It tastes of rain. A storm is coming. On his way back, he swings by the corner shop. He buys two croissants and two danishes. He reads all the newspaper headlines: the American election, Boris Johnson can’t afford a nanny, the reason beer is good for your health.
Daenerys is still asleep. Jon tiptoes to the kitchen. He makes coffee. He bins the milk. He swears under his breath: “Should’ve gotten a new one.” He makes a shopping list:
MILK
EGG
NUTELLA
He wants to eat pancakes for dinner.
Daenerys hugs him from behind. She buries her nose in his hair. She says: “You stink.”
“I went running.”
“I like when you stink of sweat,” she says, and Jon wants to say:
“Bullshit!” - but when her hand starts stroking him through his shorts, he doesn’t care anymore.
They fuck on the kitchen counter. Hard, rough, quick. Daenerys bumps her head to the cabinets. Jon stabs his toe on the oven. When they’re done, she showers whilst he cleans. He uses a disinfectant wipe. He feels bad about the germs. He feels happy about the sex.
They eat in front of the TV. Flakes from the croissants litter the floor. Jon pushes them under the sofa with the tips of his toes. Daenerys sees it. Daenerys doesn’t say anything.
Jon says: “I need to get ready,” and Daenerys groans:
“In the toilet?”
They race each other to the bathroom. Jon is quicker. He locks the door in Daenerys’ face. She knocks and knocks and knocks, and moans: “I will be late!” but he takes his time to shower. He uses her shampoo. He doesn’t even feel guilty about it. By the time he lets her in, the room is clammy with steam. She says:
“That wasn’t funny,” and he says:
“I think it was!” but when she brushes past him and locks the door, he’s not so sure.
His suit is green. His helmet is yellow. His bike is black. He lingers in the hallway. Daenerys doesn’t knock on his helmet or kiss his forehead for safety. He doesn’t want to ask for it. He still waits. The time ticks by: five minutes late, ten minutes late, fifteen.
Jon presses his mouth to the keyhole. “I’m sorry,” he says.
Daenerys opens the door. She stares at him. She sighs. She says: “It is okay.” She still doesn’t kiss him.
He hits red lights all the way to the office.
Fridays are:
up on time, the shower is hot, Daenerys is awake. She greets him as he steps under the stream: “Space for another?”
They wash together. They wash each other. It is fun: foam for hats and moustaches. It is sexy: the slip of a hand, the push of a finger. It is tedious: the stream only covers one person at a time, and the heat soon dies out.
Coffee. Leftover pancakes. Jon heats them on the frying pan as he reads the news: the American election, Boris Johnson is ‘guided by the science’, how to look like Katie Price. Jon doesn’t know who she is. He shouts:
“Is Katie Price an actress?” and Daenerys replies:
“Piss off,” and he says:
“No, really, who is she?”
Daenerys steps out from the bathroom. She has a toothbrush hanging from her mouth. As she stares at Jon, she brushes her teeth. He can see foam escaping the sides of her lips. “You need to start reading the news,” she says and slips back into the bathroom.
Jon could protest. He doesn’t care to; it’s Friday, and they’re both in good moods. When they eat, they make plans for the weekend - pub in the afternoon, dinner on the Saturday, drinks on Sunday. Jon texts Daenerys as she dries her hair:
“TGIF!” and she replies with a gif of a dancing cat.
They waste time in the hallway. They giggle and pretend to dance. Daenerys is good. Jon has two left feet. The wood creak beneath them. The downstairs neighbour shouts:
“Shut up!”
It could be unrelated. They still stop dancing.
Jon gets dressed. His suit is black. His helmet is yellow. His bike is black. Daenerys kisses him on the nose.
“For good luck,” she says.
Jon gets to work early. He greets his boss: “Happy Friday!”
The man laughs: “It’s Thursday.”
Jon checks his phone. His heart sinks.
Thursdays are:
the worst day of the week. Jon doesn’t get any work done that day.
Fridays are:
a quick fuck in bed. Jon is hard. Daenerys is tired. They try missionary. Their breaths stink. She lets him take her from behind. The bedroom soon smells of sweat and sex. When Jon is done, he opens the window. He basks in the sun. He says:
“It is time to wake up,” and Daenerys replies:
“You can go to the bathroom first,” but Jon protests:
“It’s your turn,” so she goes.
Jon goes back to bed. He smells her on the duvet. He jerks off twice. By the time Daenerys returns, he is exhausted and happy. He doesn’t use her shampoo when he showers. He’s got his own: black bottle, MEN on the label, a promised scent of granite. It doesn’t smell of anything. He dislikes it at once.
Daenerys has prepared overnight oats to be healthy. She has added in chocolate chips to make it edible. Jon forces every bite down with coffee. He hates oats. He loves her. He watches her do the dishes. She is in her robe. He asks:
“Do you want any help?” and she says:
“You do it every day,” and he asks:
“Are you taking over my role?” and she smirks:
“Sure!”
They take the joke further. They dress her in his clothes. His shirt is too big. His jacket is too big. His trousers don’t fit over her thighs. She looks stupid. She looks sexy. He undresses her with care.
“I will be late,” Daenerys reminds him.
“I don’t feel well,” Jon says.
They call in sick. They snuggle up in bed. Outside, rain hammers against the window. They’re both on their phones; scrolling, scrolling. Jon reads the news out loud: the American election, Boris Johnson’s upcoming announcement, the benefits of having a pet.
“I want a cat,” Daenerys says.
“I’ve always had dogs,” Jon protests. He doesn’t like cats; they’re too quick, and too smart.
“But they are quick and smart,” Daenerys says, “like me!”
Jon looks at her. Maybe he could love cats anyway, he thinks. He kisses her suddenly. She giggles:
“What was that for?”
“Good luck,” Jon says. But the luck is his; as he settles back into bed, he sees her Googling dog breeds out of the corners of his eyes.
Saturdays are:
breakfast at noon. They order from McDonald’s. They eat on the sofa. They play music, and Daenerys paints her nails, and Jon calls his siblings. His brother is in town. He wants to get drunk.
“Do you want to go out tonight?” Jon asks Daenerys. “Robb is bringing Margaery.”
“She’s so pretty, I hate her,” Daenerys says, followed by: “I love her.”
Jon smiles. “I know.”
It is not morning. It feels like morning. Jon reads the news: the American election, the American election, the American election. “When does the election end!” he groans. “I’m starting to feel like I’m living there!”
“I want to go to America,” Daenerys says. “I want to see Florida.”
They Google holidays. They can’t afford the airline tickets. They look at Europe instead; Daenerys likes Spain, Jon likes Norway, they both agree Austria could be interesting. Daenerys wants to go skiing, and Jon wants to drink their beer. Daenerys suggests:
“A beer whilst skiing?” Jon thinks it’s a ridiculously good idea.
They shower separately. They get dressed separately. Jon wants Daenerys opinion on everything - do tees go with jeans, do button ups go with slacks, do brown shoes go with black denim? He thinks of his brother. Robb always looks smart. He wants to impress.
Daenerys wants to impress too. She tries on all her dresses. Jon compliments all her dresses. It makes her angry. “You are not helpful!”
“It’s not my fault you look good!”
He wants to fuck. She is too stressed. As she goes to get dressed, he tries to masturbate. But the downstairs neighbour is too loud. She sings opera. Jon wonders if it’s on purpose.
The morning that is an afternoon becomes an afternoon that is an evening. They leave, hand in hand, battling the wet wind. They regret going out. By the time they’ve had a drink, they forget to be angry. Robb is funny. Margaery is sweet. Jon decides: it’s good to be alive.
Sundays are:
hungover, headaches, and painkillers aplenty. Jon is warm in bed. He sweats under the duvet. He thinks: it’s bad to be alive.
Daenerys returns from her run. Her cheeks are pink. Her lips are tugged back in a smile. “Get up, lazy-head,” she says, “it’s weekend.”
Jon doesn’t get up. He drinks the coffee she brings, and eats the crust off a slice of toast. Else he sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps. He feels dizzy. He feels out of breath. He’s certain no person has ever felt as poorly as he.
Daenerys stays close to him. She is on her phone; scrolling, scrolling. Sometimes, she shows him a cat video or a text message or a meme that makes him laugh. Else she watches Youtube videos and crams down salty popcorn by the handful. The sticky smell lingers in the air. It makes Jon feel sick.
Jon is sick. He wipes the toilet clean afterwards. He suddenly feels fresh, and awake. Daenerys waits for him in the kitchen. She gives him a glass of water. As he drinks, she says:
“You stink.”
“I know,” Jon says. “You like when I smell of sweat.” He reaches for her.
She pulls away. She shakes her head: “You stink of vomit.”
Jon showers. Jon gets dressed. His jeans are black. His jumper is green. His hair is still wet when he rests his head in Daenerys’ lap, the sofa soft, the TV playing old movies. She braids his hair. He closes his eyes. He says:
“Tomorrow is Monday,” and she sighs:
“Yes, unfortunately.”
He looks up at her. She looks down at him. He asks: “Ready to do it all again?”
“With you?” Daenerys asks and smirks. “Always.”
They kiss. For good luck. After all, tomorrow is Monday - so they’ll need it.