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The first time Seth Meyers falls asleep on Stefon is on the subway, en route to New York’s hottest falafel stand, and Stefon is concerned. Not ‘cause of the falling asleep part - Seth had been going on about how he’d had to stay up all night and revise scripts for Saturday’s show - but the fact that he was asleep on a New York subway train.

Stefon loves this city, and he would, on his life, never sleep on its underground hellscapes. These tracks can smell vulnerability, and crush it faster than a college sophomore’s dream of becoming a Vine star.

So Seth Meyers with his eyes closed and head on Stefon’s shoulder means that he entrusts Stefon with the utmost of importance: to protect him in the treacherous, filthy NY transit system, the city which he adores. Stefon immediately stiffens, shoots a warning glare to all passengers. Ain’t no pizza rat gonna touch his man-to-be.

Stefon, preoccupied by sending his most ruthless ‘I will cut you’ vibes in the air telepathically, was not expecting it when Seth shifts his body towards Stefon in his sleep, this time putting his half his body weight on Stefon and grabbing his arm, hugging it. Stefon wonders for a second if this a straight boy way of copping a feel, but then because he’s not some weirdo he counts Seth’s rhythmic breaths and yep, nope he’s still out.

One of Seth’s hands remains wrapped around Stefon’s bicep, while the other slides down his forearm. Stefon’s been doing a great job remaining absolutely still, even though his chest feels like there’s a hamster running in full speed out of his rib cage any second, which is fine, it’s all fine, drugs are bad for you, kids, especially if they come in the form of adorable sleeping fake newsmen.

Stefon gingerly interlocks his fingers with Seth’s, making sure the jagged edges of his rings don’t hurt him, only because there might be any number of subway creeps who could be into biting your fingers off crawling around the metropolitan city of 8 million that Stefon would die for. (Go Jets!)

To his surprise, Seth holds his hand back even tighter, reminding Stefon of giving a finger to sleeping babies and they grip it with all their might like it’s baby’s first joint. It’s enough PDA that some passengers roll their eyes at them before looking back at their phones and Stefon almost hisses back at them. No subway etiquette anymore of minding your own business. The guy masturbating in the corner gets it.

They ride like this, Seth dead-asleep and halfway on Stefon, who guards him faithfully from the many, many dangers of his beloved hometown, until they reach their stop, when Stefon gently taps Seth awake with his free hand, his left side almost completely numb at this point like it has been for the past 4 years.

“Hu — Oh, I’m sorry,” Seth blinks groggily, realizing his predicament and shaking awake, freeing one of his arms from Stefon’s. He looks half embarrassed, and his hair is all mussed up — no drool though. “I didn’t mean to—“

“Better me than a homeless man,” Stefon smiles brightly, waving the apology away and jumping up to lead Seth Meyers out the opening gates. He keeps his grip loose enough on their interlocked hands that Seth can easily pull out of it, should he want to. “C’mon, Seth Meyers, this falafel stand has everything. It’s going to make you shit your pants!”

They hold hands the entire way out of the station.




The second time Seth Meyers falls asleep on Stefon is less surprising. They’ve just had actual multi-course sex in a bed - as opposed to a quickie on a couch/tryst on a table/frottage in a foyer/rut on a rug - for the first time, and Stefon kinda did take him apart once he got the green light. The speed is impressive, though. Stefon’s just tossed the condom into the trash and turned his head to ask if he’d like something to drink, and Seth’s already gone entirely lax against the askew pillow and rumpled sheets.

“If you’d told me that letting me take a turn on top would have knocked you out, I might have saved it for another time,” Stefon says quietly, arranging Seth’s damp hair into little waves. He knows it isn’t any kind of big dick energy on his part. Immediately after the time he’d talked Stefon into ‘doing his worst’, Shy went right back to making witty observations about social conventions and rhapsodizing about his girlfriend and whether she was going to like the sex tape.

He decides to go find a washcloth or something, because Seth Meyers doesn’t seem like the type of person who enjoys waking up sticky (bless). But the moment he shifts the slightest bit away, Seth loops an arm around his waist and settles his face in the crook of Stefon’s neck.

The dimly shining lamp is on Seth’s side of the bed and Stefon can’t reach it without moving, so he has absolutely no choice whatsoever but to study what it illuminates. As usual, Seth looks like “New Hampshire” is a codename for some branch of the Faerie Summer Court and he got kicked out for being too nice to humans, but right now he also looks like he might disappear if Stefon breathes wrong. Stefon’s fallen asleep under strobe lights and also dropped off while surrounded by the cries of a dozen Human Klaxons, so one lamp ain’t no thang. He pulls the blankets up over both of them, though, because Seth should be warm, and also Stefon might not be able to sleep if too much of him is on view.

Proves that his cuddliness is not just about heat, Seth responds by crossing one leg over both of Stefon’s and tightening his grip around Stefon’s waist. Though ‘tight’ is a relative term. Stefon’s experienced tighter grips during Arthritic Old Ladies Drink Free Night at Your Mother and I Are Separating. When Stefon nudges Seth’s hand, though, Seth makes a forlorn sigh that’s significantly more powerful at keeping Stefon in place than anything Stefon’s experienced at [dying tauntaun noise] All You Can Beat bondage buffet.

“Well, I guess I’ll stay here until you wake up or I die,” Stefon concludes, tracing a hickey he left on Seth’s collarbone. There is no audience to go awwww, but Seth hums.

Stefon wakes to the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen, and puts on the robe that’s been left draped over a chair for him. In order, he’s most used to seeing Seth Meyers in a suit, then naked, then smart casual (polos and such). This is the first time he’s seen him in an obscure comic book t-shirt and Northwestern track pants. He’s standing at the kitchen counter rather than sitting at the table to eat his toast, and Stefon would like to take a moment to flatter himself over this.

Seth grins at him and Stefon nearly has to go lie back down again. “Sorry I conked out on you, buddy. That was, uh, new.”

“You could make it up to me in the shower. I’ll go easy on you so you won’t drown.”

“Now, Stefon...”

“Lemme turn on the water.”

It turns out that Seth Meyers is also good at clinging to Stefon when both are slippery with Old Spice body wash. Useful data.




“I don’t know why you wanna show up, it’s like, not at all for guys who make it a point to not watch the Emmys, but check who won online anyways to ‘congratulate a buddy’ in show business.” Stefon is staring a greenish purple bruise on his cheekbone, and wondering if he should cover it up with concealer and risk accidental elbows to his face in the mosh pit, or keep it unconcealed and get elbowed purposefully in the face.

Seth looks up from his phone indignantly. Wow, Parks and Rec was completely snubbed yet again, “I don’t— It’s your friends’ party, and it’s important your friends like me.”

“Why?” Most of Stefon’s friends don’t even like Stefon, and they’re all happily not on speaking terms. He’s gonna wear some concealer, just so he gets a nice little surprise when he washes his face later. “Stefon’s friends don’t like you, Stefon likes you.”

Seth’s sprawled on the sofa, his jacket on the floor discarded and he looks exhausted in the hot way. Like an BBC male lead detective with a dark past and a murdered wife and latently referenced alcoholism. Seth’s mentioned something about overworking and late night and Jimmy Fallon, but Stefon’s usually busy getting lost in those haunted eyes to pay attention to plot points, much like the viewers of those shows.

“Joel likes me!” Seth protests.

“Joel likes everyone.” Stefon mutters under his breath. It’s strange that Seth Meyers wants to come along to one of their parties; he’s usually too tired to even barhop half a dozen times. And Stefon’s friends have definitely called Seth a ‘dirty capitalist sellout’ because he had shown up to a club in his Weekend Update outfit and they had mistaken him for a Wall Street bro. Though they apologized profusely, and then they learned he works at NBC.

“You have no idea what you’re in for. Cheers!” Stefon lets him know solemnly, pouring him a shot because it’s only good manners to pregame from home.


Seth Meyers definitely didn’t know what to expect, not sure why Stefon insisted on a wearing four layers to a pool party. Or why there were actual shrieking pink flamingos in the pool. Seth does not envy whoever has to go to City Council to get permits for that.

“I’m not gonna leave your si—Eliza! Did you leave your philandering husband yet?!” and with that Stefon goes away, leaving Seth to awkwardly stand wearing a parka.

The party looks somewhat like a regular pool party, if regular pool parties had no one in the pool and a lot of drag queens passionately arguing about New York politics, and how much Michael Bloomberg sucks, a conversation even rich white guys can partake trash talk in.

“You wanna play Russian Roulette?” A human pinecone, and yes that’s what he asked to be addressed as, threateningly asks Seth in a way where you’re not supposed to say anything but yes.


“Are we playing Russian Roulette? I love that!” Stefon pops out of nowhere from behind Seth, grinning widely with a red mark on his cheek.

Black George Washington, two Human Pinecones, Jacked Beth - a darling lesbian bodybuilder with a sweet wife and a mean right hook - and Stefon all form a circle. Seth is expecting someone to brandish a gun, but the human pinecone just holds out a Tic-Tac box.

“The way it works is: you shake it, then pop whatever you get. Ecstasy, molly, prescription pills, Xanax, and if you’re really unlucky; a regular Tic-Tac. Then you pass it along.” Stefon explains, shaking it enthusiastically and popping a tiny pink tablet.

“Oh, yeah, cool, that makes sense,” Seth shrugs, trying to play off as nonchalant and painfully aware he hasn’t touched unprescribed prescription drugs since college, “So that way everyone gets inebriated at the same time. Efficient.”

Stefon keeps the fact the game’s called roulette cause you’re supposed to pass it along till someone dies from it, and instead hands the small bottle to Seth.

Seth nervously shakes it, a harmless looking white pill lands on his palm.

“Looks like you got a tranq. Those’ll put you out for hours.” Jacked Beth lets him know, which is... reassuring.

“Ooh! I love those, I use them for naps!” Stefon hops on the heels of his feet.

Seth can feel everyone’s eyes on him.

“You don’t have to try anything you’re not co—“ Seth cuts Stefon off by dry swallowing the pill and then smiling at him and Stefon blinks, surprised, before raising an impressed eyebrow.

Seth kind of loses track of the party after that, the circle disperses after a while and at first Seth thinks the pill isn’t doing anything — which is a relief, but he starts to feel really fucking tired. He makes sure not to drink any alcohol, since mixing downers and booze is never a great idea, and Stefon seems to notice since he doesn’t even call Seth to do body shots on him.

Stefon sits with him at the edge of the lone sofa by the pool in silence, where they both watch Joel feeding the birds popcorn.

“That can’t be ethical.” Seth yawns mid sentence and leans back against Stefon to cuddle like gross overly PDA couples and not because he’s gonna close his eyes for one second.

By five minutes, Seth is curled up in a ball on Stefon’s lap and sound asleep, who’s patting his hair softly. “You’re such an idiot.”


Seth wakes up with that haze of ‘this is not a bed and all your bones will now ache in punishment’ and sees Stefon above him, huh, that’s an unflattering angle, “And it’s like, recycle people! Don’t just throw them in the Hudson like that—oh, good morning.”

“How long was I out?” Seth asks sheepishly, sitting up, half embarrassed he fell asleep at a party. It’s definitely been an amount of time because the birds in the pool is gone and the music is much softer, and half the people are gone. “That stuff was really strong, huh?”

Stefon just smiles at him, stretching his legs. Seth feels bad that he had basically rendered Stefon immobile for the whole time, and Stefon decides to not mention the dance party on the sofa... or when it caught fire...Seth is a heavy sleeper. “Let’s get you home, Sleeping Beauty.”

Stumbling their way past a few blocks, with Stefon singing a Bowie song off tune and stops. “You,” he points at Seth in the middle of the mostly empty street to punctuate further, “Are burning yourself out.”

“Yes, since I was 23.” Seth admits honestly.

“You fell asleep. At a Stefon party. Only dead people are legally allowed to sleep through it.” Stefon points out in an accusatory tone.

“Yeah, cause of the pills? Beth said those are —“

“You think I’d let my friends drug Seth Meyers?” Stefon asks slyly, throwing Seth off his track. Wait, what? Yes? Seth distinctly remembers someone handing a strip they found on a floor to Stefon and him being disappointed it was plain old gum, instead of LSD.

“You’re working constantly, and yes, Stefon doesn’t listen to rants about how difficult it is to coordinate calculators or whatever, but Stefon knows when you’re doing things just cause it feels like you should. And you shouldn’t care so much what my friends think of you. Cause it’s hurtful, let me tell ya. So you had a mint you thought was a fucking tranq and off you went to snoozetown on me.” Stefon monologues, and Seth is met by the horrifying realisation he wasn’t drugged and instead, genuinely fell asleep at a party.

And there’s truth in what Stefon’s saying, Seth had been pulling all nighters to manage the hectic schedules and co-opting more work than he can keep up with but he really didn’t expect to be called out like this.

“You’re unbelievable. I can’t believe you didn’t drug me!” Seth exclaims in mock outrage, and not for the first time realising just how intuitive Stefon can be, over his happy-go-lucky demeanour. He adds a quiet, “Thank you for letting me sleep on you.” meaning an unspoken thank you for caring.

Stefon shrugs it off, “Least I can do to get you to keep sleeping with me.”




Becoming the champion of PUSH’s vodka spitting contest earns Stefon the right to three free days in a minibeachhouse made from the comfortably furnished minishell of a former minibus that he's been promised probably isn't haunted and definitely has hot running water. This isn’t nearly as much of a win as convincing Seth Meyers to come with him this summer, especially once Seth finds out that Stefon actually doesn’t party that much when he’s on vacation. Stefon explains: “I’m loyal to the New York scene, plus the point of a vacation is to be different from your humdrum everyday life.”

(He doesn’t miss Seth’s cute snort at his use of “humdrum”. He’s not as clueless about what people think about him as some assume. He just rarely cares.)

That doesn’t mean he plans to be totally sedate. Wholesome things like swimming and sunbathing while rereading Catch-22 can only be so fun for so long. On the first night, he takes Seth to a more normal gay club to help continue his education, though Stefon drags him off to make out on the quiet sands when he starts to get too much attention. They return to the house when Seth starts (between gasps) making noises about not wanting to be arrested for indecent exposure.

Then Stefon suggests they try a more exotic pose than usual, and Seth is both tipsy and game, and at first it’s going well…

“I’m so, so, so, so sorry, Stefon has never injured someone during sex before. Well, not by accident.” No sleeves are long enough for Stefon to hide his hands in.

“Google says it’s probably not serious. Of course, WebMD says it’s spine cancer.” Seth gives Stefon a small smile. After about an hour of embarrassed teamwork, Seth’s dressed comfortably and they’ve found a position for him to sit up in bed that doesn’t hurt him. Lying down seems to be out for now.

Despite Seth’s protests that he’s not made of wounded pipe cleaners - Stefon pointed out that he’s obviously not made of glass because glass would not be bendy - Stefon goes down on him more gently than he did on Sloan “Brittle Bones” Malone on New Year’s Eve ‘08. By the time he’s done, the painkillers Stefon dug out from his fuzzy green backpack have kicked in. Stefon doesn’t quite remember what they are, but he knows they’re safe in small doses and by now Seth Meyers trusts him.

“I’ll...I’ll make it up...t’you,” Seth murmurs drowsily, head tilting to one side.

“That was me making it up to you, silly. Now we’re even.” Stefon loosely wraps him in a microfiber throw blanket and settles next to him, moving his head so it’s against Stefon’s shoulder. “You fell asleep on me kinda like this when we were on the subway, so you can do it again.”

He lifts Stefon's hand to kiss the pad of his thumb. “You have nice shoulders.”

“I do, don’t I?” Stefon turns out the light.



Stefon doesn’t know Kate McKinnon well enough to consider her a close friend, but she happened to be at the Pride fundraiser SPICY did this year which Stefon helped drum up support for. She bought him a rainbow Jello shot, made him laugh until he cried, and exchanged phone numbers with him. Sometimes they platonically drunk text. Some of the texting is about their respective love lives. (Her woes make Stefon relieved that he’s not into girls, because they sound complicated - and make him wish he was, because they seem more willing to talk about their feelings and whether they’re just friends with benefits or not, because he loves spending time with Seth Meyers but this is getting a tiny bit old and they are, eventually, gonna have to talk about it.)

Then one day she actually calls him in the middle of the afternoon, when he’s gotten back from taking Bark Ruffalo for a walk and is considering going back to bed. “Stefon? Hey, sorry to bother you, but I think Seth needs you.”

Stefon nearly trips over the leash he’s unclipping from Bark’s collar. “Oh my god, is he okay?”

“His brother got in an accident. He’ll be fine, but he’s in the hospital for observation, and Seth is clearly upset that Josh is all the way in L.A. right now and that he can’t visit him. And he’s being a pain and not listening to anybody. I know you live near 30 Rock…”

“I’ll be right there.”

Kate makes sure Stefon makes it into the rabbit warren of offices without any trouble. That’s an extra-appropriate term because Seth Meyers is scolding Vanessa Bayer, who beyond being Kate’s platonic gal pal is remarkably similar to a cornered baby bunny.

“You’re going to have to rewrite this whole Bar Mitzvah Boy routine,” Seth is saying. His voice isn’t raised, but his sleeves are rolled up and he’s kinda leaning into her wide-eyed baby-bunny space. By his sweet, charming, outwardly upbeat standards, this is like a screaming meltdown.

“Ahem. Mr. Head Writer.” Kate crosses her arms and tilts her head. “Yeah, she can rewrite it. With Colin. Meanwhile, you’re going to go back to your office and cool off. I brought you something.”

Stefon peeks out and waves from behind the table covered in empty pizza boxes.

“I’m really busy right now,” Seth says, not looking at Stefon.

“I heard what happened,” Stefon says, getting to the point rather than fluttering around it for once. Seth freezes, then takes a deep breath and follows him.

The couch in Seth’s office is so old and ugly that Stefon wonders if people have been having amped-up pressure-relieving sex on it since the ‘70’s. That’s not what they’re here for, though. Stefon surprise-hugs Seth, then takes a seat at the far end and pats his thighs. “Like I’m an unprofessionally touchy-feely therapist.”

Seth snorts and lays down like a good, tired boy, kicking off his shoes and putting his head on Stefon’s lap. He has to curl on his side to fit. “I can’t believe Kate snitched on me.”

“Can’t you?”

“Okay, maybe I can. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to.” David fussed like hell that time Stefon OD’ed in college a tiny bit. Just a teeny tiny bit. Nothing the E.R. couldn’t fix. This isn’t a good time to tell Seth about it.

“I didn’t get much rest last night.”

“I can tell. You look like you stole eyeshadow from Makeup but put it under your eyes by accident. Have you ever tried eyeliner? You’d look good.” Stefon provides a steady stream of more dumb, friendly stuff while petting his hair.

Soon after Seth falls asleep, he bunches the hem of Stefon’s shirt in his hands like he’s testing the strength of the fabric. His fists stay clenched tight even as the rest of him relaxes and his breathing evens out.



They’ve been married for months now, and Seth’s made some observations.

Stefon is an incredibly light sleeper. Seth had actually written him off as a nocturnal creature that needs no sleep, and must tire self to exhaustion and pass out. There has been many a time Seth has found a Stefon passed out in or near the vicinity of his (now their) apartment hallway, lobby, and other people’s patios somehow. He’s become quite adept at checking for a pulse, and perhaps wrapping a blanket over him or directing efforts to move him somewhere safer.

Seth should’ve known, considering Stefon was always up for hanging out after the show — at 2AM. But the first time that Seth really noticed was when he arrived late for date night, caught up in last minute meetings, and came to the apartment to find two bags of unopened takeout making him feel a pang of guilt, and Stefon curled up on the couch. Almost as if sending his presence, Stefon opened his eyes and smiled up at him. The few seconds of that not really awake haze — something really vulnerable that Seth ought be grateful he’s allowed to witness, before Stefon jumped to his feet with catlike agility, fully awake and reprimanding Seth for being late and how he can make up for it after dinner. Needless to say, Seth got distracted.

But right now, there’s no distractions. Seth’s not sure what time it is, or when he woke up. It brings him back to the days to being a kid when you’d fall asleep in the afternoon and wake up not knowing if it’s the next morning, or that evening. The blinds are drawn, and only a lone bedside lamp shines and Seth’s so completely comfortable, all his muscles slack that his brain hasn't fully kicked in yet.

Facing him, Stefon lies asleep. Sleeping sleep, not passed out of exhaustion. Seth didn’t know there was a difference but he can see it, the calm of Stefon’s rhythmic breathing — almost statuesque peace, something he can never quite attain in his waking hours. He realizes he’s never quite seen Stefon in his light, and he has seen Stefon under UV lights and all ranges of the electromagnetic field. The freckles, the moles, the almost faded scars if you know where to look. Vulnerable isn’t a word that Stefon would agree with.

They’re very close to one another, but not touching. Close enough Seth can feel the body heat emanating from him. Warm. He associates Stefon with warmth.

(Seth would never know Stefon isn’t naturally a fan of cuddling to sleep. He doesn’t mind it on normal occasions, in fact he often instigates it, but an entire young adulthood learning how to not overextend his welcome and quietly sneaking out from the arms of a one-night lover he’d never see again took its toll. Intimacy that isn’t performative, leading up to something, is foreign to Stefon but like the taste of his first shitty beer, he's adapted.)

There’s so much he’ll never know, the different people they were and everything that led up to it. Some of it slips occasionally, like when Seth thought Stefon had fallen asleep before dress rehearsal and was hesitating to wake him up before Stefon cracked an eye open and wryly said, “You’ve never been homeless, have you, Seth Meyers?”

Or how Stefon will never understand how Seth can so easily fall asleep anywhere, doses off on Stefon’s shoulders like he implicitly trusts him to be there for him. In fact, to teach Seth Meyers this very important lesson that’s on the $1 bill, ‘trust no one’, because people suck and they will let you down, Stefon carefully drew a Salvador Dali mustache with eyeliner on him. Instead of learning the very important lesson, Seth Meyers woke up delighted and refreshed and took a selfie for Instagram captioned: ‘keeping it surreal.’

Seth is overwhelmed with the urge to touch Stefon, run a hand through his cheek or trace the ridges of his nose. When you’re in an art museum as a kid, clearly labelled ‘don’t touch the art’ and you’re filled with the desire to feel the texture of the paint against the canvas. He watches Stefon instead, hyper-aware of his own breathing to make sure he doesn’t wake Stefon accidentally and disturb the peace. It could be any time right now, any place, anywhere in the world — and Seth is perfectly content. The kind of validation that’s usually from his work, or having done something worthwhile, he’s perfectly happy just to be here right now in this moment.

I could get used to this.

Seth’s almost afraid Stefon will wake up with how sheer loud he’s thinking “Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou” in a constant hum, and Stefon could totally wake up because Seth is thinking too loud. Seth’s breath catches when Stefon moves ever so slightly, tangling their legs together, but still fast asleep. Seth counts the heartbeats, blood thumping in his neck. He smiles at the realization this is probably the first time he’s awake and Stefon is the one asleep on him.

Seth goes back to sleep.