Jonathan tosses and turns, trying to find the position that'll switch his brain to sleep mode instead of repeat, going over and over the pitch for the Turner Contemporary exhibition. He's never regretted giving up medicine: he couldn't do what Grant does, not in a million years. But there are times when he wishes he'd gone into almost anything but photography instead.
This side's no good either. He rolls onto his front, even though he knows it's hopeless. Even if he does manage to fall asleep this way he'll only wake up suffocating in the middle of the night with a face full of pillow. Fuck it.
“You OK, love?” Grant says, draping an arm across his shoulders.
“Can't sleep,” Jonathan grumbles. “Read to me?”
“Read to you,” Grant says, fondly sceptical.
With reason: he'll make it through a page and a half at most, and they both know it. Because Jonathan can't resist him in those new glasses, and Grant can't resist Jonathan when he starts fondling him and kissing his neck, which on past form is what happens next.
“You're a menace,” Grant says, obviously trying not to laugh. “All right, then.”
He switches the light back on, puts on his glasses and grins down at Jonathan. Christ, he looks so hot like that. One of these days Jonathan is going to fulfil his secret ambition of having sex with Grant wearing those glasses and nothing else. So far, Grant’s always managed to take them off and put them carefully on the bedside table.
“There must be a scientific explanation for it,” Grant says.
“For what?” Jonathan says distractedly.
“Your glasses kink,” Grant says. “I should write a paper about it.”
“You'd never get it past the BMJ,” says Jonathan. “Pure filth.”
“Have to give it a fancy name,” Grant says. “Lenticulophilia maybe.”
“Ha,” Jonathan says, squirming a bit. It's ridiculous that Grant can still make him blush.
“So, what do you want me to read you?”
“Anything,” Jonathan says, with a blissful sigh.
Whatever Grant reads, this is definitely the best cure for insomnia ever invented.