It's too early. Far too early to get up, the sun is barely halfway through the sky; it can't be any later than 11, but John really has to piss, and unfortunately, the call of nature overrides any laziness.

So he rolls out of bed and heads straight for the bathroom, yawning and not quite conscious enough to register you sleeping on his couch until he's finished his business and shuffling back to bed.

His gaze drifts to his couch, eyebrows furrowing as he squints at the blankets all piled up. That's odd. It's almost as if someone is breathing under there. "Oh, shite!" John jumps backwards, the force of his exclamation of surprise waking you up as well. "Christ, love! I forgot you were here. You scared me shitless, nearly tried throwing a fireball at you."

Is that something John can actually do? Regardless, your head hurts, and John's shouting isn't making it any better. You fall off the couch as John lights up a cigarette, looking like he's about to fall asleep standing up.

"What? Yeah, you can make a sandwich. I don't care, just—" he yawns, "—just don't make too much noise, I'm going back to bed." With that, John nearly trips over a pile of clothes in the hallway and closes his bedroom door with a little more force than he probably intended.

A B.L.T. sounds good right about now. You could have sworn you saw lettuce stuck in the sink, so John must have lettuce in the fridge, and what kind of weirdo doesn't have tomatoes? ...Or not. John's fridge is concerningly empty, there's only half a package of cheap ham, an unopened package of bacon, several bottles of tonic water and a slightly mouldy avocado.

All the lettuce appears to have shoved down the sink, and the bread on the counter is three days past its expiration date.

Okay. The bread doesn't look bad, so you suppose you're simply having a bacon sandwich. Not as good as a B.L.T. but— Oh. Neither the stove nor the oven is working. Fine, no bacon. Just... Bread and ham. No butter or even margarine.

Something catches your eye in the corner of the fridge when you go in to get the ham, and your heart does a little backflip when you pull it out to find pre-shredded mozzarella. Thank God, thank Satan, thank whoever is listening to your silent pleas for a semi-edible breakfast.

Half an hour later, John returns to retrieve the lighter he accidentally left on the table, only to find you sitting in front of a deconstructed cheese and ham sandwich, looking like you're on the verge of tears.

"Oh. You uh, used the cheese, did you? Guess you didn't taste it beforehand. I left it because it's barely edible, all you can taste is the stuff they use to make sure it doesn't all clump together."