Chapter Text
The first thing he noticed was the warmth, the intoxicating warmth making it feel all too easy to drift back in the peaceful darkness. He teetered on the edge, not quite succumbing.
Secondly, there was the scent. Crisp yet masculine, something wonderfully woody with soft tones of spice that had him feeling heady. Alex does a deep breath, relishing in the fresh and familiar scent that was somehow vaguely reminiscent of home?
He shuffled, stretching out achy limbs which felt like they hadn’t moved in a millennium. Is this what it felt like to be rested?
He kept his eyes closed; not entirely certain he could even open them anyway. He had yet to decide if he was awake.
He took in a deep breath and again, the air around him was an aroma of pure bliss and warm spice. If he wasn’t awake, then he sure as hell didn’t want to wake up. He shuffled impossibly closer, following his nose and pressing his forehead against…skin? A neck?
Confused, but ultimately cosy, he feels sleep start to steal him away again. Surrendering to the peaceful quietness as if on a pillow of soft clouds.
A hand presses lightly against the back of his hot neck. Even more confusing. While his dreams sometimes featured people in them it was never like this. Never so…
There’s a hum, the person satisfied with whatever they were checking. Temperature, most likely. He still felt hot, but the feeling of illness had subsided a great deal. He was all loose limbed and relaxed. No time for feeling poorly or even alarmed at whether he was awake or not. He curls up closer, wanting more of this comfort, feeling dreamlike and hazy.
The hand lingers on his neck ever so slightly too long, hesitating, before it gently edges towards Alex’s hair at the nape of his neck. Alex does a sleepy sigh, feeling his body tingle with anticipation at that hand running through his hair, gently tugging on the knots, the fingers nails scraping at his scalp in an addicting yet oh so comforting –
The hand vanishes without so much as touching a curl.
If Alex were more awake was he even awake? then he’d feel like pouting. A whine almost escapes his throat. Instead, he presses closer to the warmth, the safety, and softly drifts away once more.
It’s much deeper into the night when Alex eventually starts to wake up. The room is dark broken only by the soft glow of a dark amber lamp in the corner. Once again, the atmosphere is peaceful and Alex is struggling to stay on the cusp of awareness.
There’s also the warmth that he can’t help but focus on.
It’s the type that permeates to the very bone, the type that instils a feeling of protection. A once foreign feeling that was now sneakily becoming a familiar comfort in recent days. He takes in a long deep breath, half tempted to drift back off to sleep again, when he hears the page of a book turn.
He shuffles closer into that warmth, only briefly pausing when he feels a hand gently splay on his back, the thumb moving slowly side to side in a soothing rhythmic motion.
Alex’s heart suddenly feels very full and heavy. Was he being…lulled?
Then he smells the scent of fresh sheets, citrus and the subtle hint of cologne that was so heady and tantalising and…wait… Where the hell was he? And why was he not scared?
He scrunches his eyebrows together as muddled thoughts slowly came to him as though stuck in a thick, heavy syrup.
He then realises he’s against something warm and firm…a chest? In a flurry of thoughts, it all comes back to Alex. He’s against Yassen’s chest. And not just a bit, he’s really really close. He looks down and see’s the duvet is bunched up in his arms and one of his hands is scrunched up in the soft fabric of Yassen’s jumper, from where he’d clearly been holding a handful of it in his sleep.
He stares at it, mesmerised, for several long seconds as if his hand was disconnected from his body. He watches as he slowly uncurls each finger like a blooming flower, releasing its grip on the fabric until his hand was empty and unexpectedly forlorn.
Curious, he pushes himself up with a small groan, trying to ignore the way his arms tremble with the exertion. He stretches his muscles, feeling them come to life as he fully wakes up. His eyes blink blearily as he adjusts to the dim light.
The world softly comes back into focus and the reality starts to set in, albeit a little more muted than usual. He looks up, meeting the blue eyes that were already fixed on him. He stares into them, noticing that they no longer held the cold, icy glint they held in the past. They were now a warm, light blue that reminded him of a Greek sun kissed sky, despite the late hour.
“Hi,” Alex says softly, barely above a whisper, as if anything more would shatter this moment.
“Hi,” Yassen responds in that same quiet tone. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
Alex is still half convinced this wasn’t real. They didn’t whisper to each other. Not in the middle of the night. Not pressed up against each other like this.
With a puzzled look, Alex decides it’s definitely time for him to retreat to bed for what was remaining of the night. He awkwardly pushes himself to his feet when a sudden wave of dizziness washes over him. He falls. Or, at least, he would have fallen if Yassen hadn’t leant forward and steadied him with a firm arm around his waist in a sudden swooping movement.
Instead of flinching away, instead of pushing Yassen off, Alex gives him surprised blink and a soft smile.
“Thanks,” Alex croaks, clearing his throat and righting himself, holding onto the arm of the sofa for balance. It takes another short while before he begins the long arduous journey to his bed.
While Alex may be struggling getting up and just with generally putting one foot in front of the other Yassen is struggling with something else entirely.
All evening they had been so close. To have that warmth gone? It felt cold. It felt devastating in a way he didn’t want to analyse. Not today, not ever.
Worst of all, he wasn’t ready to let go yet. He focuses on his hand that has somehow found its way onto the small of Alex’s back, steadying him or so he tells himself. He focuses on the way the soft material under his fingers feels; warm from sleep and unusually comforting.
Eventually Alex reaches the landing and murmurs out a goodnight. It takes Yassen an extra second to let go.
He is rooted to the spot, watching Alex go into his bedroom and close the door. Yassen stands, staring at the white closed door. His eyebrows pull together into a frown, and he feels uncharacteristically lost.
Every spot where Alex had been resting electric hot and yet bereft of warmth all at once.
He’s not about this think himself down this impending path. Especially not on the landing.
With a sigh he goes into his own room. What he would give for this to be a sick bug instead of what this really was.
He refuses to think about it and pulls back the covers on his bed, willing his body to stop tingling with the ghost feel of a warm body resting on him.
He grits his teeth and almost wants to cross his arms in petulant annoyance. He closes his eyes for a brief frustrating moment before he opens them again. They stare fixatedly on the paintings on his wall, trying to distract himself from thoughts that certainly never warranted exploring.
His eyes latch on to the lower painting. The Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, a piece he’d first seen in Hamburg a decade prior.
The painting depicts a hiker standing atop a rocky landscape, gazing out over an impenetrable sea of fog. It serves as a metaphor for life's ominous journey into the unknown, where one is faced with a shadowy future. Despite these challenges, the Wanderer stands tall, demonstrating strength in the face of uncertainty.
Naturally, this powerful message had resonated deeply with him from the first moment he’d set eyes on it, and to this day the painting holds a special place in his heart. He exhales. Friedrich's art settles him once more.
As his gaze drifts upwards, it lands on the other painting on his wall, The Great Wave off Kanagawa. While an undoubtedly popular painting this one is also significant to him. The sight of Mount Fuji in the background, solid and unwavering, often brings him a sense of calm. However, tonight he finds it difficult to divert his attention from the powerful wave, as it captures his attention and holds him in its grip.
At first, the movement is subtle, with small ripples appearing at the bottom of the print. But soon the waves grow larger and more powerful, bursting out the frame and filling with room with a deafening roar. The sound of the crashing waves is overwhelming and drowns out all thoughts.
As the waves continue to grow the room is thrown into chaos. The books on his nightstand get washed away, furniture is swept off balance and crashes into the walls.
Despite the chaos, Yassen is transfixed on the scene before him. He watches the Wanderer, a picture of solitude and confidence, crumbles before his eyes. The figure now appears vulnerable, as if made from the canvas it was painted on and not the steel he had once thought.
The waves continue, he’s spiralling out of control.
Yassen blinks.
The waves were spiralling out of control.
Mount Fuji, once a symbol of solidity and stability, begins to shake violently, as an earthquake rocks the entire island, unsettling everything in its path.
Yassen's whole world feels like it is imploding around him, leaving him feeling completely out of control. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, hoping to find some sense of calm in the chaos.
When he opens his eyes, his room is intact. The silence is deafening. Despite the restoration of order, Yassen glares at the paintings hanging on the wall, almost daring them to shake for real. This unsettling experience only confirms his terrible suspicions.
He does not like this devastating realisation.
Yassen spends the following morning drinking enough coffee as if it was a good substitute for a night’s sleep. As he sips his fourth cup, he can’t bring himself to care at the sheer amount of caffeine he’s consuming, it’s not like this was the source of his heart problems anyway. He wants to scoff at how naïve he’d been back when he thought it’d been the issue.
To take his mind off his troubles, he spends most of the morning slicing and dicing vegetables in preparation for dinner, finding it therapeutic to work out his growing frustrations. As he looks over in Alex's direction on the sofa once more, he notices the blond is back under a duvet. The object of his affection frustration. Still peaky looking but ultimately a lot better than last night, at least one of them managed to get some sleep, he thinks ruefully.
These feelings, these thoughts, they were not normal.
This strange foreign feeling had been going on for weeks now. He should be analysing the best way to distance himself in order to focus on self-preservation.
He shouldn’t be getting all caught up in this little…
He refuses to use the word crush. Even though that is certainly what this is.
At that word, crush, he resumes his furious slicing making sure the blade hits the chopping board with a satisfying thud with each motion. With any luck he’ll cut right through the board any minute.
He’s aware that his jaw is clenched tightly and the grip on the knife is almost painful. It is not often he is angry at himself and certainly never to this degree.
He was in too deep, and the prevailing thought was that he had no desire to want to stop this closeness with Alex. It went against every fundamental part of his training, the life he’d carefully crafted for himself where he kept his distance from everything and everyone.
The doorbell briefly distracts him from his spiralling thoughts.
Yassen strides to the front door, footsteps loud and thunderous, all the while ignoring the way he can now feel Alex’s eyes on him.
He rips the door open, taking in the surprised face of the next-door neighbour.
“What?” Yassen says, in lieu of a hello. He fixes the man with a glowering look which hoped conveyed his thoughts: do not come back.
“Is Alex in?”
The simple question is met with silence and utter contempt.
“Very well,” the man continues, attempting to appear confident but there was glimmer of fear in his eyes. “I have a flyer-“
Said flyer is taken viciously and the door is closed with a solid and deafening thud.
Yassen feels the flicker of something akin to guilt. He brushes it aside. Its fine, it’s not like Alex even liked that neighbour. Alex had even said Ian had argued with the man on several oc –
Alex this, Alex that. And now he was casually thinking of Ian too?
He all but marches to the kitchen and crumples the flyer up, forcefully shoving it into the recycling bin in the corner. He hopes that discarding the flyer will help dispel his nonsensical thoughts as well.
It doesn’t.
[“Is everything ok?” Is asked quietly from across the lounge, it falls on deaf ears.]
A single thought dominates his mind; living here had been a mistake.
The complications were too much no matter what lens you looked at this through.
He’d killed Ian Rider, he was living in his house, mingling with the neighbours, he was roommates with the mans nephew, an MI6 agent whom he was getting frustratingly attached too and not to even mention John.
His thoughts glitch out into nothing but a static mess, leaving him overwhelmed and stressed.
That decided it, he needed to leave.
His eyes glance to the hallway, knowing the front door was at the end. He could leave. He could leave and never look back. He felt suffocated here, the room felt too small for him and his considerable no-good thoughts.
“I’m going out,” he says suddenly, subconsciously grabbing his keys before walking towards the hallway swifty. Once again, he ignores the eyes that are certainly on him as he walks out of the house.
He is not being dramatic. He is not.
It was raining.
Yassen doesn’t turn back to grab his coat or an umbrella, instead he lets the rain soak through his clothes. As he walked down the crowded city streets, people brushed past him in a rush, trying to find shelter from the rain.
The cold droplets hitting his face were a small welcome distraction from his tumultuous thoughts, but it didn't last long. As he made his way through the busy streets, he found himself becoming increasingly agitated with every passing moment. Rollerblading teenagers, dogs barking, kids crying, cars honking; it was all too much.
He’s half tempted to get to Gatwick or Heathrow and jet off to the first location he sees.
Anywhere in this god forsaken world.
This city, with its constant noise and chaos, was suffocating him. He longed for peace, for solitude, for a moment of quiet to sort out his jumbled emotions. But in this city, there was no escape, no refuge.
Except… He slows his pace, coming to the conclusion that Hyde Park may offer him the peace he needs. The place Alex had shown him many months back, the quietness of it, the tranquil surroundings and silence. He changed directions, a fleeing feeling of calmness on the horizon.
However, Hyde park was unbearable. Insufferable.
Despite the rain the park was crowded. Had it been this busy when he’d been with Alex? He hadn’t noticed. Another notch onto his already bad mood. He was so distracted in Alex’s presence.
The park itself was now saturated and the once-lush green grass had turned into a muddy mess.
His trip with Alex had been nice, comforting, peaceful. Had he built that visit up in his head? Or was today truly just the worst day in existence?
Deep down he knows it’s a bit of both.
He finds the hill he had climbed with Alex, a slope of wet sloppy grass that look less than inviting. He barely takes a step onto it before a shout is directed his way telling him to keep off the grass.
Anger coils in his stomach and he storms his way out of the park, furious with this trip.
A man steps into his path and they collide.
“Watch where you’re going,” is shouted in his direction and he seethes. If only he was carrying his gun right now. He’d probably kill the next person who so much as looked in his general direction. Screw the repercussions. He didn’t care if this would fuck up his whole living situation. After all, hadn’t he already? With his ridiculous thoughts.
His utterly ridiculous feelings.
Alex is on his feet when Yassen gets back. Even while down with the flu it’s obvious he can tell somethings not quite right.
“You’re back,” Alex says, voice croaking. “I’m sorry if I -“
“Why are you up?” Yassen asked suddenly, closing the door behind him as his wearily watched the blond swayed on his feet. And why are you apologising?
Alex looks a little lost in that moment from his place down the hallway, taking in Yassen’s wet hair and clothes. His eyes are flicking, clearly trying to figure out what was going on.
“Are you okay?” Alex suddenly asks, biting his lip and taking a small step forward. Yassen doesn’t miss the way Alex unknowingly seems to put small bit of emphasis on the word ‘you’.
And no, Yassen sure as hell does not analyse that.
With a flourish, Yassen strides down the hallway, completely ignoring the blond as he goes by. He drops his keys and a small bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter carelessly.
“Sure,” he says, curtly.
He doesn’t need to look at Alex, he can sense the frown.
Yassen spots the crumpled flyer in the bin, in a slightly different position to what it had been earlier. Alex obviously trying to piece together what was causing him to act off. The claustrophobic feeling creeps back.
“Did you –“ Alex started, before noticing Yassen’s usually pristine boots covered in a light layer of mud. He frowned, cocking his head to the side in a thoughtful manner. He looked up at Yassen, there’s a long moment of silence before he speaks up, “Fukushima garden would have been better given the weather, there’s no grass in-“
“Just…” Yassen said abruptly, clearly exasperated, cutting Alex off mid-sentence. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales a frustrated sigh. “Sit.” His hand is raised and he’s gesturing in the vague direction of the sofa or whatever, brain spinning.
There was a moment of utter silence.
Yassen’s stomach tenses and a shot of pure fucking guilt runs through him. The room is still and silent, the atmosphere suddenly thick and awful.
Yassen should not have come back, not like this.
Never like this.
At long last, he hears Alex slowly, cautiously, retreat to the sofa. Yassen remained in the kitchen, self-loathing increasing by the second. He reassures himself that, no, he has not just kicked a puppy. Despite the fact he feels as though he’s done just that.
As easy as that, they were out of synch. Yassen should feel happy at this latest development, this was good, this put distance between them. One bad mood and this closeness was ruined. One passive aggressive walk out at a time and they’d be back to square one.
This was supposed to be good, some much needed distance.
It wasn’t.
It felt so, so wrong.
The silence stretches on for a long while and Yassen takes a tentative seat at the kitchen counter. The TV was back on again, but the volume was right down low, and Alex hadn’t looked over in his direction since their conversation. Not that it could even be called that.
Alex had been confused. Alex had been concerned. Poorly Alex, who did not need this right now.
“We were out of carrots,” Yassen said eventually, answering a question that certainly hadn’t been asked. Alex turns from his place from the sofa to look over, a little weary. Yassen’s heart lurches a little at the kicked puppy look. Yup, he’d fucked up.
Yassen holds up the bag of carrots that had been sat on the counter next to him, as if needing physical proof of his statement. He’d stopped to buy them on his way back to the house. He was banking on the fact Alex never checked the vegetable drawer in the fridge, as he’d otherwise discover the already full bag of carrots there.
“I can do dinner tonight?” Alex offered quietly, hands fiddling with the corner of the duvet.
Yassen closed his eyes briefly. He really did not deserve Alex.
“No,” he said, hoping it came across softly. “You are ill, you should be relaxing.” Before Alex had a chance to respond, Yassen stood up, “I’m going to dry off.”
When he emerges later that afternoon, he cooks in silence, sets a plate of food in front of Alex in silence before retreating to his room for the remainder of the night, oblivious to the worry in the lounge.
Alex’s phone
Google: How to tell if someone is sick
Google: How to cheer someone up
Google: Fool proof recipe for Pelmeni
Google: Next train to Bristol
A phone is thrown to the other side of the sofa with a sigh.
The TV volume is turned up to normal levels.
The following morning began with the sound of raindrops tapping against the windowpanes. Once again, the sky was dark and ominous with thick clouds covering the sun.
Yassen stays in his room for the morning, conscious it could be construed as hiding. Besides, it may certainly be the truth. When he emerges it’s late morning and he finds Alex on the sofa again. There’s no duvet in sight and no croak in the blonds voice when a ‘good morning’ is said.
At least one of them was feeling better. At least Alex had a cure for what he had been suffering with.
Yassen doesn’t linger for long, choosing to grab his coat and keys once more. Given the terrible weather it’s no surprise that Alex looks at him a little startled. His mouth opens as if to make some sort of comment, but after last night it was clear he didn’t want to pry should it spark another sour reaction.
“I will be back,” Yassen says, pulling his coat on. He’s unsure whether the reassurance is for Alex or for himself.
Alex offers a hesitant nod. Yassen should say something, should say anything. Instead, after a lengthy pause, he gives an awkward nod back and leaves the house.
This time on his walk he strides straight past the entrance to Hyde Park and continues along the busy street of London for a further few minutes.
It doesn’t take him long to walk through Holland Park until he was at the centre of it where the entrance lies to Fukushima garden. Yassen’s pace slows to a stop and he reads the sign at the entrance:
‘THE ROYAL BOROUGH OF KENSINGTON AND CHELSEA
FUKUSHIMA GARDEN
Please respect this area as one set aside for quiet and contemplation.
Please do not allow children to play here.
Please do not bring dogs into the garden.
Please do enjoy the peace and tranquillity.’
He takes a few steps passed the gate and takes a moment to appreciate the sight of the small picturesque Japanese garden. As he continues walking, he is greeted by a peaceful oasis of lush greenery, stone pathways and a tranquil pond filled with koi fish.
The garden is meticulously landscaped with carefully pruned trees, bamboo groves and traditional Japanese plants such as azaleas and rhododendrons.
There are also several traditional Japanese structures including a stone lantern, a Torii gate, and a tea house. He finds himself strolling along the garden's winding paths, taking in the beauty and serenity of this oasis hardly believing this is in the centre of the city.
He comes across a peacock and ends up sitting on the bench close to it, admiring its beauty. The garden was quiet with only one other person there in the distance. The sound of the waterfall across from Yassen makes his shoulders lose their tension and he takes in a deep calming breath.
Alex was right.
This park was more suited for him.
It brought him the same type of peace the Formby day had brought him, sans Alex’s smile. The blood pumping in his veins slowing a fraction. Things had certainly felt simpler back then, even if knew Alex had been suspicious it was all a front for mission.
He smiles at the memory.
Speaking of missions, shouldn’t he be contemplating throwing himself into mission after mission? Trying to distract himself? It had surely worked wonders in the past.
It holds no appeal.
He’d been considering the notion of retiring for a while now.
Formby, Fukushima garden…
He wonders if getting away from the house would be good for him. Not permanently, he’s quick to say to himself. Merely a few months to clear his head and put some physical distance between him and Alex, despite the fact he knows he would still message Alex regularly.
A few months abroad to clear his head would work.
Summer.
He’d go away for summer.
No assignments. He’d go away and enjoy the sights, the food, the culture. He does a small nod, happy with his decision. He could spend the spring deciding on what destinations to visit in the summer months. He could focus on what he’d want to see and suitably not on how he felt about Alex.
A break would do him the world of good to get over this silly crush. They’d get over this. They had certainly got through worse.
That is, if he hadn’t already ruined it last night. He cringes at the memory of his behaviour. Alex had warmed to him and he’d been rude, appallingly so. This morning had been awkward and he’d created that. At the time it felt like the best course of action, the only course of action. But now? In the peace of Fukushima? He was always happy in his solitude but suddenly he felt lonely.
The difference of being alone and being lonely was jarring. He hadn’t felt this sense of loneliness since…
Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling weary and nostalgic all at once.
Above all that, guilt.
He pushed himself to his feet and he absentmindedly murmurs goodbye to the peacock as he walks out the gardens, wanting nothing more than to get back to the house right this instant and fix what he’d caused.
The walk back to the house is made with nervous anticipation.
Should he apologise? It’d be admitting that something had been wrong. He wasn’t quite ready to admit that. And yet…
Alex deserved an apology.
He opens the door and walks in. It’s not until he gets halfway down the hallway and he realises he can smell cooking. Alex was cooking? He hates how his treacherous heart lurches.
He turns the corner and see’s Alex over the stove. Yassen isn’t happy, he knows it’s entirely with himself.
“You are ill. You should not be up.” Internally he winces, he had hoped to start on a softer front. Alex turns to him but appears utterly unphased, those brown eyes calm and watching.
“I’m feeling loads better and I wanted to have it ready for when you’re back. Give me a few to finish up and I’ll be out your hair.”
Yassen steps into the kitchen some more. The cookbook he’d been gifted was open and he could see the page it was open on had a red tab. Guilt bubbles up in him again. He takes in a deep breath.
“Alex -“
“Aren’t you the one who says it’s okay to accept help sometimes?” Alex asked, eyebrow raised as if challenging Yassen to disagree.
Yassen admires the boldness of the question; Alex was certainly feeling better.
Rhetorical question or not, Yassen remains silent. Since the verbal apology was apparently deemed unnecessary, he strides around the kitchen counter. He retrieves a jar of manuka honey from a cupboard, plucks a lemon from the fruit basket, and snags a mug from the draining board. He is determined to do something, no matter how small, for Alex.
If nothing else, he was grateful Alex had learnt something valuable from their time living together; that asking for help was okay. With any luck, the blond would be amenable to some guidance on culinary expertise, as Yassen wearily eyes the smoke emanating from the oven.
“Besides,” Alex continued, looking over his shoulder to look Yassen in the eye, “Ты согреваешь мою душу?” [You warm my soul.]
There’s a soft telling smile that lasts a fraction of a second too long, before Alex tilts his head towards the washing up bowl in the sink.
Despite having no idea how Alex would know, there was no doubt in Yassen’s mind that Alex knew exactly what that phrase meant.
Alex would just have no idea how much that particular phrase meant to Yassen in this moment.
Or, ultimately, how it was only adding fuel to the crush.
After Alex turns back to his cooking, Yassen spends a considerable amount of time gazing at the back of his head, his eyes slowly softening. He takes in the golden locks of hair and the way Alex tilts his head in concentration as he focuses on the pan, using all his concentration on making this meal.
The longer Yassen stared the more his heart slowed, the more he felt content. The tension in Yassen’s shoulders dissipated, his bad mood finally wearing out and a wave of peace washes over him.
He hadn’t fucked this up after all. Everything was okay. The thought was a little dizzying. They were closer than he’d given them credit for.
He wants to ask Alex to stay tonight. He doesn’t want Alex to ‘get out his hair’ as he’d previously mentioned. Yassen wants him to stay down here, with him. It feels far too exposed. Instead, he asks, “What do you want to watch on TV with dinner?”
And the sudden smile that is directed his way is enough to make the remainder of his bad mood vanish entirely.
With his heart light and the ability to take a deep breath, the first in days, he takes a step closer, placing the mug on the kitchen counter and slowly pushing it over to the side Alex was on.
“Before you decide,” he continues, before giving Alex a chance to respond, “I draw a hard line at watching Kitchen Nightmares.”
There’s a slight chuckle, Alex turns around fully, his face now a picture of amused puzzlement as he gives Yassen his full attention.
“C’mon,” Alex says, leaning on the counter, smile brightening Yassens whole world. “It’s not that bad.”
“I’m already going to be eating dubiously cooked food, I don’t need to be watching where you picked up the skillset.”
“Yassen,” There’s an exasperated laugh coupled with a faux outraged look that has Yassen feeling so fond. He watches as Alex’s eyes squint with laughter, the way his lips curl into a smile, and the way his entire body language is so open and trusting. “You’re not supposed to insult the chef, y’know?”
Yassen raises an eyebrow. “Chef?” he asks, as if to challenge that Alex would call himself that.
There’s another little noise of mock outrage. “You’re actually terrible, you know that?” It’s said with far more fondness than Yassen deserves. The voice is devoid of any ill feelings or tension whatsoever. If anything, there’s relief. Yassen finds this peculiar, endearing, he does not deserve this.
[A small part of him wonders if Alex would forgive just anyone this quickly.]
[It’s a dangerous thought. He does not dwell on it should it trigger another crisis.]
Instead, he focuses on how easily they’ve fallen back into sync, as if nothing had happened at all. Yassen doesn't know how things with Alex can be so effortless.
The relief is in the room is palpable and the remainder of the evening is soft voices, quiet laughs and tentative smiles.
Despite the relief there was this underlying realisation buried deep in Yassen’s soul that that this crush could and would develop into something far far more.
Tom (22:03): Hey, heard Alex is ill. He claims he’s fine, but hows he really?
Zara (22:07): Hey, I don’t know, he’s not here.
Tom (22:08): What do you mean he’s not there?
Zara (22:12): he left for Chelsea days ago
Tom (22:12): Wait…What?