Author's note: slash requires a warning? Okay, WARNING: SLASH.

Now that we've got that over and done with... Yes, this is an edited version of the original posted story. Yes, Emerson is from Liverpool, which explains the almost-indecipherable thoughts and words sometimes. Yes, they are already established minor characters in a different story. No, you may not read that one. Not yet.

Even before his alarm clock went off, Emerson awoke with an unassailable feeling of unexplainable dread. There was a honey-blonde head resting against his chest, and though it was still attached to a body – a long, muscular, fully functioning one at that – Emerson still felt as if he had personally decapitated someone and fallen asleep with a trophy head tucked under his arm.

He lay quite still in his black-and-white CK sheets for a few moments, the other person’s breath whispering against his bare skin, waiting for his short-term memory to catch up with him. Did this person have a name or did they go by a stripper name? Did he owe them any money for last night? Were they male or female or – he suppressed a shiver – both?

He stared at his red-painted wall and it all came back to him: the name of the person curled around him was Hugh Walker, and as far as Emerson could remember, he wasn’t a hooker. A professional would’ve been out of here long before now.

Hugh mumbled something in his sleep and turned his head, pressing his ear to Emerson’s jutting clavicle, and Emerson caught his breath – he was gorgeous.

Damn that. More like angelic. Emerson’s heart thudded.

Hair like spun gold in artistic, silky disarray; long, wispy eyelashes brushing chiseled cheekbones; a perfectly straight, sculpted nose; breath whispering against lips like a Renaissance seraphim’s, parted in quiet exhibition of perfect white teeth; a defined jaw line and a hard chin… Even his subtly groomed eyebrows were a work of art. Though they were currently horizontal, Emerson could tell that there would be, vertically speaking, at least six feet of that perfectly tanned skin.

Emerson lifted a pale, hesitant hand and gently touched Hugh’s shoulder blades. He felt tremulous, Bella Swan-like, and perhaps even a little worshipful as he ran his palm down Hugh’s smooth back, vertebrae tickling his fingertips.

Was he checking for wings? Was it a sin to shag an angel?

He found a soft white feather resting on the sheets and suppressed a gasp. He reverently lifted the feather to his cheek, marveling at its purity, before realizing that it had probably worked its way loose from his goose-down pillow, not from a sleeping angel’s wing.

He rolled his eyes at himself and let the feather fall back to the bed. What he needed, he thought, gently untangling himself from Hugh’s lovely though perfectly human arms, was a large mug of coffee.

Emerson stirred his coffee vigorously, almost violently, leaning his forehead against the varnished overhead cupboards. He sighed and adjusted the waistband of his black boxers, staring into the depths of his mug, waiting for his distorted reflection to settle.

“Good morning,” said a soft voice from behind him. Emerson jumped, sloshing coffee onto the bench, and twisted around to look over his shoulder, blinking a few times before finding words with which to reply.

“Uh, hi,” he said. It was hard to imagine how any morning could be anything less than good if there was some kind of man… angel… whatever… standing in the doorway of one’s bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes and wearing only jeans. That stomach. Emerson laughed nervously, breathlessly. “D’you wan’ some coffee?”

“Actually, yeah,” Hugh smiled. Emerson’s white shirt suddenly seemed far too small to contain his shivering heart. Hugh was on the other side of the room, simultaneously too close and too far away.

Emerson tried to breathe. “Sugar?”

“Bit early for pet names, isn’t it?” Hugh joked weakly, stretching; the waistband of a pair of undoubtedly expensive briefs peeked over the top of his jeans. Emerson’s laugh sounded strained even to his own ears. He wanted to lick Hugh’s skin off.

The tinkling of the spoon on the ceramic mug roared throughout like a thunderstorm.

“Two sugars, dash of milk –” Hugh sighed. “Actually, maybe I should just go.”

“No, bu’ – your coffee…” Emerson turned huge grey eyes to Hugh, who balked, startled, and sat down at the dining table.

Emerson turned back to the kitchen bench and took a deep breath, composing himself. Then he picked up the two mugs, swiveling on his heel, and gingerly placed one in front of Hugh before sitting across from him.

Hugh sipped his coffee.

Emerson sipped his.

They continued sipping in silence, determinedly looking anywhere but at each other, until their knees accidentally brushed under the table. Tilting his head to the side, Hugh glanced coyly at him, a half-smile on his face.

Emerson’s respiratory system practically stopped then and there, and as much as he tried to convince himself it was because he needed to cut back on the cigarettes, it was more likely to have something to do with the green of Hugh’s eyes.

On second thoughts, they were more like hazel. Either way, they were completely and utterly beautiful.

Hugh chuckled softly and shook his head, smiling softly at him. Emerson stared down at this coffee, trying not to blush.

“This is awkward,” Hugh said evenly, raising his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I’m no good at this morning-after business.”

“You’re good a’ other things,” Emerson replied, nodding and then immediately feeling stupid for such a remark.

“Thank you,” Hugh grinned, his eyes looking suddenly very, very green. “I think.” His hair was sticking up in an adorably messy way that he was probably blissfully unaware of.

Emerson took a deep breath – or tried to. “’Ave you ever considered modelin’?”

“I… um, well…” Hugh blinked. “Have you seen the Gucci ad on Crown Street?”

“I think I ’ave. No’ sure, though.” He paused. “Is this the bit where you tell me it’s you?”

“Yeah.”

“An’ you’re in my kitchen.”

“Yeah.”

“Drinkin’ coffee.”

“Well – yeah.”

Emerson exhaled noisily. “Fuck.”

“Whom? You? Already did. Should probably get going.” Hugh drained his mug and smiled softly. “You probably want me out, right?”

No. Don’ go. Seriously. He wanted to touch Hugh, to see if his hair was as soft as he thought he remembered it to be.

But Hugh was on his feet, crossing the room, and he was bending in the doorway of Emerson’s room, picking up his shirt from the floor… and Emerson was watching him a little more closely than was necessary.

“Jus’ ou’ o’ curiosity,” he said, standing and carrying the two mugs over to the sink, glancing over his shoulder. “D’you remember my name?”

Hugh’s bemused expression disappeared as he pulled his shirt over his head and emerged at the right end, taking cautious, blind steps towards the front door. “Emerson. Emerson Franklin. And I think your middle name was Peter?” He tugged on the hem of his shirt. “And you’re a Scorpio.”

“Tha’s righ’.” An’ d’you know wha’ else is righ’? The way my name slips off your tongue, an’ the way tha’ you’re a Leo, an’ our star signs are so ’orrifyingly, ridiculously incompatible tha’ it’s like we’re meant to be together jus’ to prove them wrong… Emerson leaned against the bench, his limbs shaking with the exertion of not crossing the room and doing things he shouldn’t’ve even been thinking. He flushed.

“I’ll see you around, maybe.” Hugh smiled softly, checking the time on his mobile and then awkwardly shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I doubt i’.”

“Alright then.”

Extracting a barely-manicured hand, Hugh swung the door open and flashed him a devastatingly beautiful smile. After a long, meaningful look that both of them silently wondered at, the door clicked shut behind Hugh, and Emerson slumped against the kitchen bench, sighing with relief. If Hugh’d stayed, been more of a presence than the lingering smell of expensive cologne, then Emerson’s world would’ve fallen apart.

One or several of the sparks flying between them would’ve ignited and burned through his carefully constructed life before he could’ve grabbed even a teaspoon of water. There would be more mornings and more cups of coffee, because Emerson would’ve never wanted to let him go. If Hugh’d stayed, Emerson would’ve definitely done something he would’ve regretted. He would’ve decided against self-control altogether and kissed him, or let himself be hypnotized by Hugh’s eyes, or placed a pale hand in the small of Hugh’s back and led him back to bed, or worst of all, fallen in love with him – more so than he already had – and the connotations of that scared him more than anything else ever could.