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Beats a Handshake

Chapter 8

Pairing: Jason Kolchek/Salim Othman

Tags: Post-Canon, Reunions, Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Denial Of Feelings

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Summary:

Following his release from quarantine, Jason is sent home under strict orders to keep his head down and mouth shut. Return to civilian life as if nothing happened. But moving on proves impossible—and not because of the alien vampires. Rather, because of the bond he formed with an unlikely ally.

Determined to find Salim and make up for their unsatisfactory goodbye, Jason tracks him to London, where their reunion sparks a deeper connection than either of them anticipated. Now Jason must choose: face up to what he is feeling, terrifying as it is, or run away.

Word Count: 6K

Warnings: Homophobia, Childhood Trauma and Abuse, Past Drug Use and Addiction, Religious Guilt, Anxiety/Panic Attacks, Eventual Smut

Jason didn't see much of Salim over the next few days. Between the long hours and back-to-back shifts, finding time together became difficult.

During one of his fly-by visits, it became apparent that the job at the supermarket couldn't be Salim's only one. There had been a barista apron hanging to dry among a row of polo shirts—before it was tugged down and buried in a large pile of clothes.

He noted the reaction, but said nothing. Even if he had wanted to, there wouldn't have been an opportunity. Not with the increasingly frequent interruptions.

Mrs Goddamn Parker.

The woman had been sniffing him out like a bloodhound any time he set foot in the neighbourhood. The buzzer would ring, and through the crackling intercom, they'd be gifted with another paper-thin excuse:

Her cat had gone missing. Salim's car alarm was going off, conveniently forgetting that he didn't drive. She needed to borrow a cup of sugar like it was the 1950's.

One time, Salim actually invited her inside, forcing Jason to endure a live reenactment of The Wire. The woman glared daggers over her teacup, firing off every intrusive question in her arsenal. Except for the one that she was clearly dying to ask.

Salim handled the situation expertly. Clearly, it wasn't his first rodeo. Nodding, humming, politely entertaining each unhinged tangent, until sending her off on her way with the promise of afternoon tea next week.

It was remarkable how he'd managed to stay so patient. He must've been tired. Hell, he looked it. All the careful grooming and nice clothes couldn't hide the dark circles, even more prominent than they'd been a few weeks prior.

There had been a particularly telling incident during a stolen movie night—one of the few evenings where Salim wasn't working a graveyard.

They had gotten about halfway through the runtime when Jason heard snores rumbling through the on-screen explosions. As he shifted sideways, Salim did too, his head tipping limply onto Jason's shoulder.

A brief attempt had been made to rouse him before Jason gave up and manoeuvred carefully off the couch. After leaving a note explaining where he had gone, he draped a throw blanket over the sleeping man's body.

Pacing beneath the streetlights outside, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk, he felt a sense of defeat.

He knew he could help, but there was little point in offering. Salim wouldn't let him pay for McDonald's. Almost had an aneurysm when he realised how much Jason had paid for dinner. He sure as hell wouldn't accept anything more substantial.

So, really, the only thing Jason could offer was something that didn't advertise value. As the lunch with Zain fast approached, he was given the perfect excuse.

Stopping in at an impressively sized department store, his first objective was to find Salim a new wallet. It was hard not to notice the state of his current one, so old and worn it was nearly disintegrating.

Next came Literature—purely because there wasn't an Art Nerds section. After scanning multiple shelves with underwhelming results, he finally found something promising.

An Encyclopedia on Ancient Weaponry. Swords. There was a whole section about knights, including legends and customs. And there, among the glossy illustrations, was a painting. The painting. The one Salim had claimed as his favourite.

To make things fair, he'd also got something for Zain. Found hidden in Gifts, wedged behind a Grow-Your-Own-Bonsai and Queen Elizabeth Commemorative Spoon Set. The scales had been what drew his eye, bright yellow and iridescent, reflecting the fluorescent lights above.

When the cashier rang up his total, it became clear that the building's fancy exterior wasn't just for show. It would be fine, though—as long as he remembered to get rid of the price tags.

Back at the hotel, doing just that, Jason decided that one of the presents needed a more… personal touch. It had been vaguely self-motivated; a shameless attempt to jog Salim's memory. At the same time, an opportunity to flex some belated pop culture knowledge, courtesy of reruns on UPN:

Buffy the Vampire Slayer,

I don't know if you remember this, but you once told me that a sword isn't worth much without a shield.

But you also told me that a soldier isn't the same as a knight. So you're not always right.

Because from where I'm standing, you run circles around some prissy fairy-tale prince in chain-mail underpants.

You ARE a hero. A real one. Never forget that.

Your American Jarhead,

J.K.

The note was scrawled on the inside of the Encyclopedia's dust cover. He amended it afterwards. Added a 'Favorite' above the 'Your' and 'American,' realising it might sound a little much without it.

Before he could get caught up thinking the whole damn note was too much, Jason left to catch his train.

As soon as he turned the corner toward his destination, he saw a curtain shuffle from the house across the street. He rolled his eyes and kept walking. Unlike Salim, he wasn't going to reward the woman with the attention she so obviously craved.

He was briskly led into the apartment, Salim forming a protective barrier as he waved placatingly at his neighbour. So eager to get them out of sight that he didn't notice the gift bags hanging from Jason's wrist.

When he finally saw them, his mood shifted. Floating between surprise, gratitude, and reservation, unable to settle on one."You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know, but I did." Jason took off his hoodie and pressed the presents to Salim's chest before he could refuse. "At least look inside before deciding you hate them."

"Them?" the man echoed, his voice audibly strained. He muttered something under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, before manners overtook humility. Carefully, he opened the bag, pulling out a small cardboard box and inspecting it. His fingers loosened as he focused on the branding, as if afraid to grip too tightly.

"This is from Harrods."

Jason winced at the knowing tone. He'd failed to consider that the store name alone might be a tip-off to how much he'd spent. "No idea what you're talkin' about."

If Salim was hesitant to hold the box, he definitely didn't want to open it. As though doing so would pass a point of no return. Jason, for his part, refused to back down. Keeping a close vigil, arms folded expectantly.

Ultimately, Salim caved to the pressure, running his thumbnail along the seal until the lid popped off. He paused, admiring the sleek, embossed leather nestled in tissue paper, before reaching in and tracing it with a featherlight sweep.

"...It's lovely," he said, lips pressed together in a tense line. "Thank you very much."

When he reached for the second present, his reaction was different. No disapproving sighs or muttered complaints about overspending. Just…silence. As if his mind had gone blank, unable to process what he was seeing.

He repeatedly scanned the title, his eyes growing wider each time. With slow, almost painful deliberateness, he opened the cover and leafed through the pages.

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, but never became a smile. The closest it came to this was when he reached the painting. His gaze filled with stars, the same as it had when they'd seen the canvas in person.

Skimming to the end, his curiosity was piqued by the half-smudged note on the dust cover. He squinted at the text, trying hard to read it, before giving up and turning toward a nearby coffee table.

"One moment, I need my glasses."

Jason could've laughed, joking about just how much this announcement had aged him. Instead, he was struck with an unpleasant wave of introspection and quickly interrupted:

"You, uh, don't need to read that now—might not be able to anyway—my handwriting's pretty bad."

Salim stalled in place, his back still turned, before glancing quizzically over his shoulder. He never had a chance to question the unusual urgency, as the apartment's buzzer went off.

Jason scowled, assuming it was Mrs Parker, back for another round of neighbourhood surveillance. But when the receiver was lifted, an unfamiliar voice echoed through. Distinctly youthful—male.

Salim cursed. One of the few Arabic words Jason could confidently translate. He set the handset down and looked at his watch.

"This boy… never keeps to a reasonable schedule. Always early or late." Instead of heading to the door, the man pivoted towards his kitchen. Seemingly conscious of the oven and the potent smells leaking from it. "I'm sorry, could you let him in? This won't take me long."

Jason descended the stairs, adjusting his shirt to smooth out the creases. This was before a quick reality check that the person he was greeting was a teenage boy. Not exactly a group known for being hard to impress.

However, this assumption was shattered within seconds of opening the door.

The first thing Jason noticed about Zain was his impressive height. He was several inches taller than Salim and considerably leaner. There were hints of his parentage, like full lips and a rounded nose, but overall, his features were sharper.

The biggest difference, though, was his energy. A complete absence of the warmth and softness that defined Salim. Bright eyes were narrow and calculating, already guarded before the American said a word.

"...Uh, hey," Jason mumbled, realising the younger man had no intention of speaking first. "Zain, right? Your daddy has told me a lot about you. I'm Jason."

He extended a hand, but with the way it was received, he may as well have flipped the bird. Zain did not move. Just continued to stare, silent and scrutinising, as the atmosphere shifted from awkward to hostile.

Saying Jason was put out would be an understatement. He was totally blindsided, having no idea what he could have done wrong. Then, he saw it—what Zain was focusing on, and what had earned the instant disdain.

Up until now, he had never been ashamed of his tattoos. Albeit, not proud either. They served as a reminder of the performative patriotism he'd chosen to leave underground. Far harder to ditch than a hat, but nonetheless, a tacky misfire made by the man he no longer was.

But Zain saw them differently.

Red, White, And Blue. Death Before Dishonor. Through harsh, sceptical eyes, they stood for something much more sinister.

Footsteps echoed overhead, and soon, another figure had joined them in the entrance hall.

"أهلاً يا بابا." Zain coolly sidestepped around Jason, pulling Salim into a hug. The shift in attitude was so sudden and effortless that it was a little disorienting. "She's at it again."

Salim withered at the statement. There was no question as to who 'she' was. Everyone already knew.

Sure enough, across the street, Mrs Parker was slinking around her driveway. 'Trimming' a rosebush with shears that barely made contact, all the while, openly gawping at the three men on the doorstep.

"يا إلهي... هذه المرأة. She'll be the death of me." With a hand still clasped on Zain's shoulder, Salim returned his focus to Jason, smiling calmly. "I take it you've introduced yourselves?"

By this point, Jason had lowered his arm—accepted it would hang there indefinitely if he didn't. But for the sake of keeping the peace, he re-attempted his greeting. This time, with added formality.

"Yeah, it's…" He cleared his throat, trying his best to sound sincere. "A real pleasure to make your acquaintance, Zain."

"You talk like a cowboy," came a blunt reply, the kind of thoughtless, disjointed comment you'd expect from a toddler, not a college student. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

Salim was visibly taken aback. His grip faltered along with his smile, and words were exchanged. Hushed and sharp, with very little English featured. Jason managed to get the gist.

Not long after entering the apartment, Zain loudly announced that he needed to use the bathroom. He then disappeared behind the door with a decisive slam. Salim didn't react—not so much as a flinch. Either he was genuinely oblivious to the steam hissing from his son's ears, or he had gotten very good at ignoring it.

"...Not sure if you've noticed," Jason whispered, mindful of the thin walls in the tiny apartment, "but he already hates me."

"He's eighteen," Salim said plainly. "I'm sure he'll warm up once he sees his gift."

"Aww, I can't believe you peeked—you better not give the game away."

"Please don't take offence to this, but I just had to make sure you weren't giving him anything inappropriate."

An audible cackle escaped his lips before Jason could catch it. "Sorry to break it to you, man, but your kid's in college. He doesn't need me buying him weed and condoms. He's got that shit on lock."

The other man groaned, burying his face in his hand. "I would much prefer it if we didn't talk about my son's sex life."

There was a flush, accompanied by a brief rush of water, before the bathroom door swung open. Zain reappeared, giving them an accusatory look. The kind reserved for someone who knew they'd just been the topic of conversation.

Things didn't get much better when they sat down. Despite Salim's well-meaning reassurance that the hostility wasn't personal, Jason had doubts.

He'd definitely imposed. Zain wouldn't stop glaring at him, nose flared, and jaw clenched, as if he were trying to will him out of existence.

He reckoned the kid would've preferred if he had been a stray dog, picked up by Salim at a bus shelter. Rubbing against the table legs with its flea-bitten hide, begging for scraps. At least then he wouldn't have to see the tattoos, listen to the accent, or whatever offence he had decided was pissing him off most.

When Jason reached for the water jug, avoiding eye contact, he made a new, inexcusable mistake. Moved his arm too close to one of the bowls.

Zain yanked it back with urgency, hissing under his breath, "Don't touch my Dolma."

"Jason brought you a present," Salim cut in, followed by a stern demand loosely disguised as a question. "Would you like to open it now, Zain?"

The bag was handed over and held at arm's length, as if handling a live grenade. But when the young man looked inside, something changed. The honed edge of his gaze blunted, and the ugly tension eased from his face.

"Oh wow, this is…pretty cool, actually." He sounded shocked, maybe a little annoyed at his own approval. In any case, he buried these feelings beneath a show of indifference. "Nice colour."

It wasn't much of a compliment. The functional equivalent of, "Hey, this isn't the worst thing I've ever received." But to Jason, Zain may as well have given him a standing ovation.

Still, he wasn't about to make a big deal out of it, just happy to have made a small dent in his armour.

"A little birdie told me you're studying Mythology. I went through a phase in high school. Wyverns are my favourite. Pisses me off when people call them Dragons. They're different, they—"

"Have two legs, not four," Zain finished, tracing the wings of the statue thoughtfully.

The moment didn't mark a major turning point; it passed as quickly as it came. However, the Wyvern stayed on the table, watching over them as a silent peace gesture. Jason was grateful—all the more when he saw how this affected Salim.

The man had mostly kept his head down, only giving passing acknowledgement to the exchange. But there had been a small smile, a glimmer of hopefulness.

"So, who was the first to make the distinction?" he pressed, encouraging his son to keep talking. "Decided that two-legged dragons should have their own name?"

"Well, winged snakes have been around in folklore forever, but nobody knows who came up with them first. The whole 'two legs versus four legs' thing comes from British heraldry, mostly, but the name is—"

As the passion spilt out, unfiltered by coldness or restraint, Jason finally saw it. The Salim in Zain. Their conversation eventually wandered from mythical beasts over to living arrangements and vague allusions to 'extracurriculars.'

Really, this was just a creative way of saying 'nightclubs' and 'house parties.' Jason had to tilt his hat to hide his snickering, with Salim equally unconvinced. He exchanged multiple glances with the American, rolling his eyes each time.

The tall tales stalled as Zain became too preoccupied shovelling food into his mouth. As soon as Jason took his first bite, he understood why.

Salim was a hell of a cook. The sort of good that didn't just happen without significant effort. A lot of the dishes were familiar, the same food they'd eaten at the restaurant. But this was better. Richer and more flavourful.

However, the more he thought about this, the more his enjoyment soured. Because, yeah, Salim probably had gotten a fuckton of practice—but not because he'd wanted to. Rather, because his circumstances had given him no other choice.

Jason set down his fork, his attention drifting to the father and son. Zain was eating so fast that he was practically inhaling the food. All the while, Salim reminded him that it wasn't going to run away.

When the teenager actually stopped to chew, his jaw looked even sharper. His bright eyes seemed brighter as they glinted with satisfaction.

He really didn't look like Salim. And Jason, with a bitter pang of understanding, concluded where those features had come from.

He was probably the spitting image of his Mom.

After dessert and coffee—which Jason suspected might've been laced with actual unicorn tears—they said goodbye to Zain.

"It was nice meeting ya," Jason said, extending a hand which was accepted this time. "Good luck with your studies, and stay outta trouble."

Zain froze mid-shake, levelling a withering look at his dad. As if demanding to know how many secrets he'd been gleefully sharing.

Salim shrugged, feigning innocence, and sent him on his way with some affectionate fussing. He was brushed off with a snapped remark. One that Jason suspected translated to, "Stop it, you're embarrassing me." Zain then vanished down the stairwell, the door clicking shut behind him.

Once they were alone, the two men drifted back toward the kitchen.

"Nice kid."

"He has his moments," Salim replied, with a bluntness born of deep familiarity. However, the 'chiding dad' routine didn't last long. "He is a passionate, intelligent young man, and I'm very proud of him."

"Yeah, I can tell," Jason chuckled. "It's…sweet. How supportive you are."

"I wouldn't say that is anything special—I imagine it's the same for most parents."

It had been an innocent, offhand comment. Because for Salim, it wasn't remarkable, just a basic fact of fatherhood. For Jason, it hit like a punch to the gut. He tried not to say anything, not wanting to taint the moment with something ugly.

It didn't matter. The silence spoke for him.

Salim abandoned the plates he'd been stacking in favour of studying his guest. He saw all he needed to. The falsehood of his smile, accompanied by the strained bobbing of his throat.

"...Forgive me for saying this," he began slowly, "but I suspect your relationship with your father wasn't so warm."

Jason snorted. Not because it was funny, but because he wasn't sure how else to respond. "Did you seriously just say I give off 'daddy issues'?"

Salim lurched back, immediately remorseful, as his mouth popped open to apologise. He was stopped with a light nudge to the shoulder.

"It's okay, don't worry. You're not wrong. My family ain't exactly the affectionate sort—let's put it that way."

"Is it a large family…?" The question was testing, reluctant to pry, but not willing to let the loaded words slide by unaddressed.

"I guess so. I have three older brothers who I barely talk to; pretty sure my folks wish they'd left it at that."

"I am sure that's not true."

"It is." The reply had been blunt. A long-internalised statement of fact. One that he tried to elaborate on the best he could. "Mom always wanted a girl—took one last shot at it before she got old. Didn't get one. Next thing you know, they're springing for a station wagon they can't afford, and it's my fault."

"How is that your fault?" Salim laughed, but it was strained. Like he hoped this had been a joke, but already knew it wasn't.

Jason fiddled with the brim of his hat. Normally, the conversation would've ended there. Probably wouldn't have gotten this far. But Salim had opened the door so damn gently, the smallest crack for him to step through.

That threshold had never felt safe, but at that moment, he reckoned it could be. Enough to see if there might be catharsis in saying it all aloud:

"She was hands-off as could be. Never cruel or anything, just not…there. Dad weren't any better. Already had his boys, so I was kinda like a spare tyre. Only really got noticed when he needed me for something, or when he was drunk."

It felt good. Freeing. Like ripping away an old band-aid. Now that he'd started, he couldn't stop. It all just kept pouring out, with Jason unable to consider how Salim might receive it.

"I liked it better when he left me alone. Because when he did pay attention, it was to remind me what a screw-up I was. Soft in the brain, prissy and temperamental, built like a string bean. Someone who wouldn't amount to anything."

Up until now, the other man had listened without judgment, careful to understand before he spoke. But something in his expression had cracked. He looked genuinely appalled.

"What an awful thing to say to a child."

"Yeah. Well." His senses returned to him, and his guard inched up a notch. Because as much as Jason appreciated the concern, he wanted to make it clear that he didn't want pity. "I left home as soon as I could—only went back when I got hooked on pills and didn't have a choice."

Salim took a deep breath, his eyes pinching closed. As though he were fighting the temptation to hop across the Atlantic and start beef with a crusty old redneck. Once calm, he redirected his focus to Jason.

He didn't smother him in a tight embrace. Didn't bombard him with hollow promises about how everything would be okay. Instead, he placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You are a wonderful man. Loyal, dutiful, and brave to a fault. You lost your way for a time—but you found it. Not everyone does."

He squeezed tightly.

"That takes strength, and you should be proud of yourself. I am sorry your family is too blind to see it."

Jason was floored.

There'd been nothing flowery in what had been said. No grand, sweeping praise. But Salim had meant it. Not a shred of dishonesty or embellishment.

And this shattered many of the doubts which had hounded him across London. Made him feel kind of stupid for ever questioning if Salim cared.

But knowing that he did—and in no small amount—came with fear. Because as he placed a hand over Salim's, he was forced to fight how it made him feel. The warm, calloused skin under his own, sending prickles through his palm.

Unable to speak past the lump in his throat, he offered a disengaging tap. A signal that the other man had done his part, said everything Jason could have hoped to hear, but that he couldn't remain in this feeling.

"Here, I'll help you wash up." He leant across the table, reaching for the dishes which had been abandoned.

They were snatched away before he could grab them. A finger outstretched, directing him to the nearby couch. "You will do no such thing. Sit."

Oh no, we're not doing this. "This ain't Buckingham Palace, Salim, and I'm not the Queen. You don't have to wait on me hand and foot."

"It's a matter of pride." With plates secured, the man breezed past him on route to the sink. "In my culture, we take hosting extremely seriously."

"Yeah, well, us Southerners are pretty big on that, too."

Knowing the argument was getting him nowhere, Jason changed tactics. In an act of shameless defiance, he trailed Salim. As the tap was turned and the basin began to fill, he darted forward to switch it off.

"I ain't gonna mooch around, kick up my feet and crack open a beer just because you told me to. At least let me dry."

Salim stared incredulously. Without a word, he flicked the tap back into place, only for Jason to repeat the same action.

This went on for some time. On. Off. On. Off. Until ultimately, the younger man made his intentions clear:

"This could go on all day."

"I can see that." The response was edged with playfulness, like Salim wouldn't mind if this were the case. Then, he gave in. A loud, dramatic huff, before he stepped aside and made room at the counter.

The space was cramped, nearly impossible to navigate without trampling all over each other. Jason had no idea how Salim did it, coping with such a tiny living space.

Each time he was passed something to dry, their shoulders would knock together. That, combined with the occasional brush of fingers, left him polishing plates long past the point of necessity.

Having reached the cooking instruments, Salim lifted one of the baking trays a little too fast. The result was a large clump of suds being flung directly into Jason's face.

It was probably accidental and would've gone unnoticed, had Jason not instinctively interpreted it as a challenge. Bringing a hand to the wet foam running off his cheek, he scoffed in objection.

"You did that on purpose."

Salim looked confused until he turned to face him. What hadn't been caught was now running to the base of his chin, collecting in a sad, patchy Santa beard.

The energy shifted as the older man pursed his lips, repressing a snort. "I did no such thing."

They carried on with the rest of the trays, but as they did, Jason was hit a second time. A splash collided with his opposite cheek, and he was confident it had been flung there deliberately.

Okay. I see how it is.

Having long since lived by the ethos 'Even if you didn't start it, you sure as hell finish it,' Jason was done playing games. In a slow, creeping motion, his hand dipped into the basin. Scooping up a palmful of water, he sent it hurtling towards his host.

Salim, who had been arched over, diligently scrubbing a patch of baked-on food, gasped at the impact. The lukewarm projectile struck his neck, then slipped past the margin of his collar, running down his back.

He shot up, eyes bulging in surprise, as Jason worried he might've taken the retaliation too far. But then, Salim's shoulders started to tremble. Subtly at first, until his expression broke, and rumbling laughter spilt from his lips.

Without a beat of hesitation, he plunged his own hand into the basin and threw a sheet of water back. It caught Jason square in the chest, sending him reeling.

After that, it was war. Pure, reckless abandon. Jason, trusting Salim enough to fully let loose. Salim, in tow, throwing responsibility to the wayside. Tapping into a dormant youthful spark, the desire to rebel.

The dishes, which had been so painstakingly dried, were left just as drenched as when they'd started. Along with the walls, the counters, the floors—basically every conceivable surface, until the entire kitchen had become a slip hazard.

Both sides of the conflict were taking themselves very seriously, unwilling to concede. This was until Jason lunged forward, ready to pelt Salim with a large plume of bubbles, and his sneaker found one of the many puddles.

Victory was awarded by default. Impish glee disintegrated into concern as Salim abandoned the fight, arms stretched out.

"Careful—"

Jason performed a profoundly undignified 'deer on ice' manoeuvre. Floundering on the spot, trying desperately to keep his balance, but failing miserably. He lurched forward and half expected to eat shit on the tile floor when his descent was halted.

He blinked in shock, brain lagging several seconds behind. Once the turbulence had cleared and his mind caught up, Jason realised what had happened.

When he did, it was all over.

Salim had caught him, supporting his limp weight by the armpits. They were close. Painfully close. Legs intersected, and bodies scarcely an inch from being pressed chest-to-chest.

The room fell still, and Jason swore he could hear the steady thump of a heartbeat. Feel the rich, inviting heat radiating off the other man's body, alongside the puffs of breath blanketing his face.

Oh shit.

His head was swimming, vision filled with spots, as the kitchen gradually vanished from view. Then, it was gone, leaving nothing but him and Salim.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

All Jason could think about was how easy it would be to move forward, bridging that final sliver of space between them. To run a hand down drenched cotton, darkened to near transparency, revealing the lines of a defined chest and a dusting of coiled hair.

He was scared to look up, panic clamping around his throat. But he knew that continuing to stare would only prove more incriminating. And so, his chin reluctantly lifted.

Salim was already waiting.

Looking down, he quietly studied each minute movement. Every twitch in his strained expression. All with intense concentration and cautious anticipation.

He was waiting to see what Jason would do, ready to adjust his response accordingly. This left the younger man even more terrified, crippled mentally by the things this could involve.

Perhaps it had started innocently enough. An objective appreciation for the fact that Salim was a good-looking guy and an all-around decent person. It's not like he'd never thought about a friend in a similar way.

Nick was handsome, too. Fun to be around. The difference being that Jason wouldn't have noticed if he'd shown up to duty sporting a mohawk. Or hit the showers with a bauble strung on his dick.

What he was doing now had travelled light-years beyond platonic admiration. He was inspecting every detail, imagining the ones he couldn't see. It wasn't how friends looked at friends.

Guilt crashed into him. Sudden. Crushing. Trapped air was punched cleanly from his burning lungs, emerging as a pained wheeze.

He'd lied to Salim. Dressed up sleazy intentions as something innocent. Because deep down, Jason must've recognised what he'd been feeling underground was more than just adrenaline. That his motivations for reuniting with the man had always been coloured by ulterior motives:

Once a screw-up, always a screw-up.

Real men don't dress up pretty. Prance around trying to impress each other.

Not unless.

Unless—

"—I didn't raise a faggot, Jason."

"I better get going," he spluttered urgently, severing the vicious thoughts before they could unravel further. "You've got to be wrecked after that double shift."

Salim reeled as though he'd been slapped. After ensuring Jason was steady, he let him go, and took a wide step back. "There's no need for you to rush off…I don't have any plans."

His voice remained open and sympathetic, but strained by a newfound weight. Like he was holding something back, tucked behind a veil of politeness.

Hesitancy. Or worse, obligation.

Salim was a good man. He wouldn't want to knowingly hurt Jason. But the thought that he might only be asking him to stay out of kindness hurt just the same.

"Nah, it's okay—I'm pretty beat, too. Jetlag's a bitch, who'd've thought I'd still be feeling it three weeks in?"

It had been a flimsy excuse, blurted out for lack of anything better. Salim didn't challenge him; he accepted it with measured restraint and instead asked, "When do you fly back?"

"Next Sunday."

He nodded in acknowledgement, brow lowered, and mouth pulled into a small frown, before mumbling a flat "I see."

Jason had always known London was temporary. That the trip would end. Still, it was hard to believe how quickly the time had gone. How different he'd felt after the same length spent in Clarksville.

It had ignited something—a renewed lease on life—leaving him happier and more at peace than he had felt in a very long time.

And now, he'd gone and ruined it.

"I have shifts for the next six days, but we can work around that. I can always request to switch with a co-worker."

"Don't." The denial emerged bluntly, an act of tactical self-sabotage, before he chose to soften it. "It's just…you've been an amazing host as is. So much for 'Southern Hospitality,' there's no way I could've ever stacked up. Don't get in trouble for my sake. There's no need to keep bending your schedule around me."

"But I want to."

Jason wanted to grab Salim by the shoulders, beg him to please not say this. It was igniting too much. Warmth. Hope. The kind of saccharine, fairytale bullshit that he couldn't afford to get suckered into.

Because his eyes were already stinging, his jaw hardened with the force it was taking to keep it together. It was humiliating. A former Marine, holding back tears and choking down butterflies over a friend.

His friend.

He should've felt grateful. Hell, honoured, that a man like Salim would see him as that much. Except his sorry ass couldn't appreciate it, too focused on the growing pain in his chest.

He couldn't stay; he had to go. Now. Before his mind got away with him, and he said—or did—something irreversibly stupid.

"Lunch was great. Thanks for having me." He marched through the living room and hurriedly snatched up his jacket. "Catch you again soon."

Before Salim could stop him, Jason was out of the building and charging across the street. Not that it would've made a difference. He didn't try to follow.

Hands shoved deeply into his pockets, he stared daggers into the weathered tarmac. He tried to focus on walking, the sting in his eyes worsening by the second.

But despite this resolve, it wasn't long until his pace faltered, along with the rhythm of his breathing. Tight, infrequent inhalations that he was unable to control. Ultimately, he was forced to stop, propped against a wall as he balled the front of his hoodie.

His eyes pinched shut. Any attempt to calm down just led to his chest burning more. Eventually, steps were heard, approaching from the right—and a stupid, stupid part of himself hoped it was Salim.

It wasn't. The sound was light, shuffling, accompanied by steady creaking.

When his eyes reopened, he saw Mrs Parker. She had abandoned her station at the rose bush in favour of wheeling out the trash. Several yards from her house, conveniently. If he didn't know better, he might've assumed she was taking the can for a spin around the block.

The woman looked him up and down. Made note of the drenched clothes, the damp patches slowly leaking through his jacket, as her nose scrunched in disapproval.

"Excuse me…Jackson, was it?"

"Go fuck yourself." Jason spat the words with so much venom that even he was caught off guard. He didn't take it back, though, didn't apologise, tired beyond the point of giving a shit. "Seriously, lady, just leave me alone. I ain't in the mood."

Mrs Parker produced a bizarre sound. Clipped and strangled, caught between a scandalised gasp and fearful yelp. With pearls firmly clutched, she retreated, pivoting on her heel and darting back towards her house.

Only when her door had closed, and he was free from prying sights, did Jason allow a sob to escape. The tears came next, hot and shameful against his cheeks, before he scrubbed them away with the back of his sleeve.

Resisting the ache in his legs and the gut-wrenching want to turn around, he pulled away from the wall and kept on walking.

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