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The Canadian and the blond hunk are fighting, and Nasir thinks this whole thing was probably a bad idea. So far they are just yelling at each other, but the Quebequois looks like he's this close to shoving the blond guy into the wall, and Nasir isn't sure he wants to be around to see that happen.
"Stop it, for fuck's sake!" The young black woman, the same one who had smiled at him earlier, is now scowling at the two men. "You are freaking out the new guy!"
Nasir doesn't think the men will even notice, they are so focused on staring each other down, but to his surprise, they actually fall back. The blond guy looks around wildly, before his eyes finally settle on Nasir. He is shaking badly, hands hanging uselessly by his sides. "Sorry." His mouth twists, sheepishly.
The Canadian does not seem so repentant, and mumbles something about Syria under his breath that Nasir doesn't quite catch, but it can't have been particularly nice, because the black girl punches him in the arm, furious. "I cannot believe the racist bullshit you are sprouting right now," she hisses, and now the Canadian looks embarrassed, too.
The short guy with the long hair next to Nasir chuckles quietly. "He's got the biggest crush on Naevia," he says, leaning in. "He's whipped, and he's not even getting any."
Someone is clearing their throat, and all eyes turn towards Oenomaus, who must possess ninja qualities, because Nasir totally did not see him come in. The therapist calmly takes a seat, apparently not bothered by the chaos he'd walked into. "If you are all done releasing tension," he drawls sarcastically, "maybe we can actually get a conversation going here tonight."
"Sorry," the Canadian grumbles, finding a seat next to Naevia. "Won't happen again."
Nasir breathes a sigh of relief, but a moment later, he wishes the two guys were still fighting, because of course Oenomaus makes him talk.
He should have expected it, since that is why he's here – "It will be good for you to talk to other people about what happened to you," Chadara had said – and it's not awful: everyone is listening seriously when he rattles off the rehearsed sentences he's used so many times by now, with his doctor, the police officer, his roommate, his brother, but there is none of the unbearable pity he's gotten used to seeing in people's faces. It's like he's talking about things they have heard plenty of times before, and when he thinks about it, they probably have – they all have their reasons for coming here, after all.
When he finally falls quiet, no one asks him questions, and instead the short Irish dude with the long hair next to him starts talking about being sober for three months, and how good it feels to go on proper dates instead of drunken hook-ups in seedy bars. He gets friendly applause from the group, and a high-five from Crixus, but Onomaeus looks strangely uncomfortable, even though he keeps quiet.
"Gannicus showed up drunk to the Christmas party last year and hit on Oenomaus' wife," Naevia tells him when they take a break to grab coffee and an oatmeal raisin cookie from the table that's set up in a corner of the room. "They got into a huge fight about it, and Oenomaus tried to convince him to find a different self-help group." She shrugs. "But Gannicus says that if he wants to make up for past mistakes, he can't just avoid him forever. If you ask me, I think he just likes hanging out with the other veterans."
"Veterans?" Nasir asks, even though he shouldn't be surprised. It's a PTSD support group, there's going to be soldiers – and people like him. Go figure.
Naevia nods, steps closer. "Gannicus was working for a PMC, and that's probably all you're gonna find out about it. Spartacus, Donar and Agron are Ex-Army, Mira was Air Force." She uses her cookie to point at people across the room, and the blond angry guy looks up right then, as if he can feel their eyes on him. Naevia gives him a little wave with her cookie, and he bares his teeth in response, as if he is trying really hard to look like he's smiling. From the corner of his eye, Nasir sees the Canadian guy make a grumpy face at the interaction.
"And Crixus?" he asks, trying for nonchalant.
"Canadian Forces," Naevia says quickly. "He's from Montreal." She stuffs the cookie into her mouth as if she's trying to shut herself up.
Nasir smiles a little. "He seems to like you?" he says, casual enough for her to be able to brush it off, but she just shrugs and looks down at her coffee.
"We are not quite there yet," she simply says, and Nasir doesn't have to ask what that means.
More people talk after the break, and Nasir lets everything wash over him, trying to listen, but feeling slightly overwhelmed. When Mira seems like she is done, and no one else immediately speaks up, Oenomaus lets his eyes wander around the circle.
"Agron, you want to share something with the group?"
The blond guy – Agron – looks up from his contemplation of the floor. His arms are slung around the back of his chair, hidden from view. "No, I'm good," he says awkwardly, then looks back down. Donar clears his throat, Naevia looks sad, and Oenomaus sighs, but moves on to Spartacus, who talks about his ex-wife, and his overwhelming feelings of guilt, and everyone is nodding sympathetically, while Mira is staring morosely at her feet.
By the time they are done for the night, Nasir is feeling tense, and desperate for a smoke. Naevia is talking to Crixus, and it's not like he feels comfortable talking to anyone else, so he just nods goodbye at no one in particular and makes a break for the back door.
He's just lit his cigarette, leaning against the wall of the building, wedged in between a laundry service and a shabby café in this semi-gentrified street in downtown Albany, when the door opens, and the blond guy stumbles onto the sidewalk. Nasir watches him take deep breaths, and then watches his posture change when he realizes that he is not alone. He smiles awkwardly, hands jammed in the pockets of his green hoodie as if he's not sure what to do with them.
"Sorry about earlier," he finally says. Nasir shakes his head.
"It's fine," he says, experiments with a smile. "As long as you aren't yelling at me."
Agron pulls up his shoulders. "I don't usually yell that much at all," he says defensively. "Crixus is just such an asshole." He frowns, sighs, looks down at his feet. "Sorry. Bad day."
Nasir blinks. He isn't used anymore to being less socially awkward than the person he's talking to. It's kind of a nice feeling.
"Cigarette?" he asks, lifting his own to demonstrate that he's offering.
The guy looks almost hungry for a moment, but then he shakes his head. "Can't," he says, sounding apologetic.
Nasir tilts his head, curious. "Is that part of your … program?" he asks, hesitantly, and Agron barks a laughter. It doesn't sound very happy, and Nasir thinks he may have overstepped.
"No," Agron says, somewhere between amused and dejected. "I'm allowed. I just – can't." He finally takes his hands out of his pockets, lifting them up between them. In the bleak light of the street lamp, Nasir can see that his fingers are crooked, bent at odd angles, like the gnarled hands of an old man, and covered by scar tissue, a network of red and white. How did he not see that before?
He realizes that he's staring and quickly looks up. Agron huffs, definitely amused this time, and drops his hands. There is an odd twist to his mouth. "My PT guy says I'll be able to actually use them again," he says bitterly. "Eventually."
Without thinking, Nasir steps closer, lifting his cigarette to Agron's lips. He actually has to get on his tiptoes to reach. The other man's mouth closes around the cigarette, almost automatically, and Nasir watches him inhale with intense fascination, then exhale the smoke when Nasir takes back his hand.
"Thank you," Agron says, and he sounds almost normal. "I needed that."
They both flinch when a car honks, nearby, and Agron turns his head to the street. "That's my ride," he says, and Nasir can't quite help the disappointment spreading in his gut when he sees that the driver is a woman, skinny and gorgeous with long, blond hair. It's a really nice car, too.
"Hey Agron, hurry up!" she yells, leaning out the window like she's trying to climb out.
"Your wife?" Nasir asks, aiming for casual, and is not prepared for the force of Agron's unexpectedly bright smile.
"My cousin," he says. "Even if I was into women, I would not date her for a million dollars. She's scary."
"Hey, I heard that!" the woman shouts, but she seems weirdly pleased with his comment, grinning widely.
"Uhm," Nasir makes, suddenly feeling awkward, too transparent, too obvious. "It was good to meet you."
"You too," Agron smiles, and bumps a shoulder against his. "See you Thursday, yeah?"
"Definitely," Nasir nods, and watches Agron's cousin get out of the car to open the passenger door for him. Agron turns his head and gives him another half-smile before he climbs into the car, then they are gone.
Behind Nasir, the door opens, the rest of the group spilling onto the street.
"Goodnight, Nasir!" Spartacus says. Naevia waves at him, Donar raises his hand, and Nasir doesn't trust his voice enough to answer, but he waves back, and smiles.