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Jacob toes his shoes off as he steps into Assad’s flat, hands shoved into his pockets as he pads around the space, eyes darting around curiously. Assad lingers behind him awkwardly like he’s the guest. This isn’t the first time he’s had Jacob over, which is why he’d offered to head here after dinner, but it’s the first time he’s been here since Assad redecorated.
Would Jacob even notice? It’d been months, and it’s not like it had been anything drastic. Just Assad rearranging the same furniture compulsively over and over again, moving things in different configurations as a substitute for buying anything new and actually having to change his space. Assad holds up a mental picture of Jacob’s home in his head, warm-toned with signs of life, the life he shares with his wife and kid. He’s trying to stop doing that, comparing himself compulsively to everyone around him. Hard to break, though, especially with someone like Jacob. He presses the nicotine gum against the inside of his cheek, waits for it to start tingling.
“You have a balcony?” Jacob asks, surprised. He shifts towards the sliding door. “How’d I not notice before?”
Assad shrugs as he follows him out, trying not to smile at the months-old memory of the thud of Jacob’s back against the wall the second they’d entered, shoving him out of his clothes as they made a mad scramble to his bedroom, not even bothering to flick on the lights. Jacob sprawled on the bed, hand carding through his hair to guide him down to where his hardness strained against his slacks. His head ducks down alongside the memory.
“You’ve got a nice view here.”
Assad peers down at the parking lot and busy road visible from where they’re standing. “Not really.”
“That’s an interesting car,” Jacob points out, gesturing at the little seafoam green sedan parked under them, covered in stickers. There’s a row of rubber ducks sitting on the dashboard. “Who’s it belong to?”
“Dunno.” Assad wishes he did, that he had some sort of quaint, endearing story he could offer Jacob that would break this lull in conversation and make him laugh. It shouldn’t be this hard to speak to someone he’s spent ages talking to.
He unsticks his gum from the inside of his cheek and starts chewing it again nervously. Jacob's eyes crinkle at the edges when Assad smacks his gum particularly loudly.
"Nicotine gum," Assad says, in answer to the question Jacob didn't ask and probably wasn't planning on asking.
"You're trying to quit smoking?" Jacob asks, with the amusement of someone who’s seen firsthand how often Assad hits his vape, before and after takes.
"Not quit entirely," Assad defends. "Just uh... slow down. Don’t want to get, like, popcorn lung."
"Mm," Jacob hums agreeably. "Chemicals and shit."
"And shit," Assad echoes.
Jacob digs a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, elbows propped on the balcony railing. Assad laughs, a little shocked at his gall. Jacob shares a private grin with him. The brief flicker of flame illuminates his face in gold and reminds Assad of how cold it is outside right now.
"Secondhand smoke is a real problem, you know," Assad says as he leads them back inside to the warmth.
"Ah, it won't kill you."
"It literally might.” Deadpan.
"Alright," Jacob says, ever agreeable. He looks for somewhere to stub out his cigarette, realizes Assad removed his ashtray, and puts it out on a newspaper lying on the counter.
"That's a fire hazard," Assad points out. He doesn't know why he's acting so neurotic when he doesn't even really mean it. He just wants to push against Jacob a bit, feel him push back. See how far he can go. It feels like a long time since he's seen him even though he's gone longer without seeing closer friends. Something about it is like rediscovering fire. Jacob is here, and solid, and he has hands which are currently flipping absently through the newspaper that’s now sporting a circular burn mark through several of the papers. Assad has hands too, which reach out to stop him. "That's from a month ago. Old news, I'm afraid."
"I can't believe you still read the papers," Jacob's grin glints. "You're, like, so old deep down. Where it counts. That's why you and baby Eric get along so well. You're too old and he's too young for your bodies."
"It's not the only reason," Assad says, shy.
Jacob's gaze shutters for a strange second. Assad must've missed something. He was trying to offer an olive branch, considering - well. Considering Sam. There’s a beat of silence as they regard each other.
Jacob makes a show of checking his watch. "I've gotta be getting home. Aisling will be wondering where I'm at, and I've got to help make dinner."
"So you're just going to burn my things and fuck off, then?" Assad asks, light. "Not very polite of you."
Jacob laughs. "You hide the ashtrays and then blame me for it? He steps closer, a dangerous light flicking in his eyes. It brings him so near their noses are a few paltry inches from brushing. “You do love playing the victim." Assad's gaze drops to his mouth, and darts back up like he got burnt. Jacob sees it anyway, and triangular smile lines crease along his cheeks.
He raises his hand to Assad's face and Assad is so focused on trying not to flinch back or lilt forward that he's entirely caught off guard when the pads of Jacob's fingers press at his lips. His mouth, which had unconsciously dropped open, becomes an easy entrance for three of Jacob's fingers as he probes casually past Assad’s teeth to rest heavy on his tongue. His skin burns ash and sweat against his tastebuds. The fingers keep moving, grazing against his molars and the roof of his mouth, pausing at the lump of gum sealed there.
Jacob's hand withdraws from Assad's mouth with that ball of gum, and, easy as anything, he pops it into his mouth. He watches, his neck and face aflame, as Jacob smiles brightly at him, chewing like nothing even happened. Stares at the bob of his throat.
Assad finally remembers his own hands, hanging limply at his side, and how they wanted to hold Jacob's. he grabs Jacob's hand, the one still wet from the inside of his mouth, and links their fingers tightly together while the other wraps tightly around the back of Jacob's neck. His fingers skim the little curls at Jacob’s nape as he breaches those inches between them and leans down to kiss him.
They've done this before, on camera and off of it, casually, but it’d always taken place during those unreal, somewhat flimsy months during filming, where you were spending more hours wearing someone else's skin than existing in your own. Assad is just barely finding out who he is again, in the months after shooting ends where he’s scrambling around like a newborn farm animal with too-long legs. Turns out part of who he is someone who likes to kiss Jacob, quite a lot.
Jacob’s lips open easily and softly under his, and as Assad bites his plush mouth his tongue bumps against where the gum sits in his mouth. He can feel Jacob’s glowing smile against his face, like the sun.
When Jacob does finally leave, breaking away from the kiss and apologetically saying he really should be getting back, his fingers linger on Assad's shoulder as he hugs goodbye. Assad goes back inside his flat instead of standing at the front door watching Jacob depart like some sort of–
The abandoned cigarette lies limp on the newspaper, filling the air with the smell of tobacco. Assad picks it up between two fingers and presses it to his lips. Inhales.