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Eric's stomach does a funny little flip when he sees Assad's name pop up on his caller ID. Five years in, "a funny little flip" is still the reliable response from his stomach to seeing Assad's name, but it's usually a happier flip.
He takes the call. He's sick of being stuck on 27 down anyway, he tells himself, as if he's ever ignored a call from Assad.
"Hi, baby," he says, without waiting for Assad to say hello. "Can you tell me why the hell a person with maybe twenty years of life ahead of him would voluntarily spend his time doing fucking crossword puzzles?"
There's a slight pause on the other end of the line.
"Somebody told me they're good for your brain," Assad says, giving no indication that he's been phased by Eric's reference to his own mortality, though it's usually a surefire way to upset him. "He showed me, well, uh, he sent me a study from… what was it, MIT?"
"Columbia."
"Columbia, right. Something about age-related shrinkage?"
"Shrinking. Age-related shrinking."
"Can you tell I didn't read it?"
"Well, that's fine, because apparently it was a load of bullshit," Eric says, tossing his newspaper and pencil so aggressively that the pencil hops off the table and rolls under the couch. Fuck. He's never getting that back. "I can feel my brain shrinking by the day."
"Condolences. Everything else the same size?"
"Last I checked. What do you want anyway?"
The pause on the other end of the line is longer this time.
Shame begins to bubble up in Eric's belly. He's on the verge of apologizing when Assad ruins it by sounding irritatingly sympathetic when he says, "Eric, are you okay?"
Fucking. Jesus Christ. Is he okay.
"Peachy," Eric says, and then clamps his mouth shut. Stop talking, he tells himself sternly. Stop talking and listen to what he has to say so you can get off the goddamn phone.
There are two problems with this plan. One, the thought of getting off the phone with Assad and going back to his crossword puzzle makes him feel so achingly lonely he wants to cry, and two, there is no better way of making damn sure he's going to talk than deciding he isn't.
"Don't go."
He hates how pathetic he sounds.
"It's good to hear your voice. I'm just in a fucking mood."
"Eric…"
Eric tenses up all over.
"Stop feeling sorry for me when I'm being an asshole. Have some self respect, for Christ's sake."
"Mm. Hey, listen, on the subject of having or not having self respect— If I just… showed up. On your doorstep, I mean, just out of the blue…"
"Like a lost little kitten? You want me to put out a saucer of milk?"
Eric can practically hear the eye roll.
"I'm serious. I want to see you."
Eric switches the phone over to his other ear. He wants to see Assad very, very badly. He's also a little hesitant to invite his sweet, sensitive lover over when he's apparently so intolerable to be around that his wife, world expert on dealing with his bullshit, has decided to up and go to New Jersey two weeks early just to get away from him.
"I'm bad company at the moment," he hedges.
"I don't care."
"Well, maybe you should."
"Listen, are you gonna let me in or do I need to start looking for a window? This standing on the stoop thing is getting a little weird. I think your neighbors are worried you've got another stalker."
Eric sits up straighter.
"You're here now?"
"Yeah. Didn't I say that?"
Eric looks down at himself, in his worn Slipknot t-shirt and ancient, pilling black checkered pajama pants, and curses.
"You couldn't have called from the taxi? I haven't washed my hair in three days."
"Neither have I."
"Fuck you, your hair looks good when you haven't washed it in three days. I look like Doc Brown."
"I can't believe you'd leave your own kid out in the cold. Right here on your front stoop in the middle of the day."
"Don't you fucking dare."
Assad's voice melts into something soft and lilting, but definitely carrying enough to reach any passersby.
"Please let me in, Daddy. It's cold outside!"
Eric splutters. He leaps up, frantically searching for something to throw on over his pajamas to hide all the holes and stains.
"Jesus. You're such a— it's fucking August."
He hears the heavy slam of the front door through the telephone, but it doesn't sound as if his neighbor has let Assad in, because the warfare continues.
"Please, Daddy, I'll be so good. I won't do anything bad again, not ever. I'll do whatever you say. I'll even suck your—"
"I'm gonna kill you," Eric hisses as he stumbles out into the hall in a patchwork flannel robe and matching slippers. The pair of sunglasses he threw on over his prescription glasses for good measure make the stairwell treacherous to navigate. "Why didn't you just grab the door while it was open?"
"I wanted to make you come down in your pajamas to let me in."
"It's eleven o'clock in the morning. Why do you assume I'm in my pajamas?"
The question is somewhat undermined when he barrels through the stairwell door into the lobby and Assad catches sight of him through the glass.
The kid grins widely at him, showing off his gums and prominent front teeth. His curls are neat and perfectly defined, his figure slim and striking in jeans and a blue sweater. He's wearing sunglasses too, but they're nice ones with antique silver frames. He looks like a movie star.
Eric can see his own reflection in the glass between them. He looks like an insane person.
Assad wolf whistles.
"What are you doing here?" Eric says when he opens the door. "Aren't you supposed to be busy filming British copaganda?"
Assad keeps grinning in Eric's scowling face, but he doesn't so much as brush up against Eric's belly as he squeezes through the door, which Eric takes personally, even if it is his rule that they don't kiss on the stoop.
"Didn't you do three whole seasons of Law and Order?"
Eric grumbles wordlessly as he lets the door fall closed behind them and pulls his robe tighter around himself. Arms crossed and brow knit, he pushes past Assad, leading the way back up the stairs without bothering to look back to make sure he's following.
When his elderly neighbor (Elderly neighbor, he thinks to himself derisively. You're the elderly neighbor!) passes them in the stairwell, Assad's cheery, "Fancy meeting you here!" makes Eric's eye twitch.
He scowls down at the cheerful yellow welcome mat his daughter in law gave them for Christmas, thereby saddling them with the ugly thing for all eternity, then holds the door open just long enough for Assad to catch it before stomping back to the couch and tossing his sunglasses onto the coffee table.
"Would you like some coffee, Assad?" Assad asks cheerfully, closing the door with a gentle click. "Why yes, Eric, I would love some coffee, thank you. I know it's hard to believe given how dashing I look, but I took a red eye here and didn't sleep a wink. No, no, don't get up. I can make it. Would you like a cup?"
Eric turns around and stares at him over the back of the couch.
"Who the hell asked you to take a red eye?"
"Your wife," Assad calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the kitchen. He immediately begins making more noise than Eric would have thought possible in service of a simple pot of coffee.
After a moment, the words catch up with him.
"My wife?"
The clattering stops. Assad's head pokes through the kitchen door. He's pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head and looks unconscionably rakish and sexy. Eric is immediately furious about it.
"Yes, your wife," Assad says. "She said you were feeling down and would I mind coming and cheering you up a bit."
"She did not."
Assad gives him an appraising look.
"Well, no," he admits. "Those weren't the exact words she used. I left out the insults and profanity to try to spare your feelings."
Eric scowls at him.
"I hate it when you do that."
"Do what?"
"Try to spare my feelings."
Assad presses his lips together. Eric isn't sure if he's annoyed or trying not to laugh.
In the end, all he says is, "Cream or no cream?"
"I can't believe you don't know how I take my coffee. Aren't you supposed to be in love with me?"
"Hmph. Okay, mister, I'll make the decision for you. But you could just ask, you know."
"What?"
"When you don't want to make a decision, you always do…"
He waves a hand vaguely in Eric's direction.
"That. But you could just ask me to decide."
Eric feels unmoored by the suggestion.
"That's not how we work."
Assad sighs.
"Jesus Christ, Eric, not everything is about sex."
"Sure it is."
That, it seems, is as much as Assad can take, because he disappears back into the kitchen without another word and doesn't reappear until he has a steaming mug of coffee in each hand.
"Be careful of the rug," Eric grunts, not looking up from his crossword puzzle. He hasn't made any progress; he's just reading the same clue over and over. The words have stopped looking like words.
"I— hmph."
Assad clamps his mouth shut and carefully lowers the mugs onto a couple of worn wooden coasters one of Eric's kids made in an art class in elementary school. Eric peers over his crossword and sees that both coffees are light with cream, which, he realizes once he's laid eyes on them, is what he wanted all along.
"Thanks," he mutters under his breath as he puts down the crossword and picks up the mug.
He takes a sip.
It's good. Not as strong as he would have made it, but good.
Assad fusses around him, a mildly irritating presence rearranging all the pillows. He finally settles with his back to the arm of the couch, mug in hand, and lifts his feet, wiggling them until Eric begrudgingly lifts his mug out of the way.
"Ahhhhhh," Assad sighs, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. "I'm so happy to be here, you have no idea."
Eric looks at him out if the corner of his eye, prepared to quickly turn away if Assad opens his eyes. The kid looks even better than usual and it's pissing Eric off.
"Did you do your hair in the airport bathroom before coming here?"
Assad frowns and brings a hand up to his perfect curls without opening his eyes.
"Why? Does it look that bad?"
Eric doesn't even know what to say to that.
You are the most beautiful man on the face of the planet, he thinks. I'm going to strangle you.
"Don't act like you don't know what you look like."
"Drink your coffee," Assad says, an infuriating little grin on his face. "And then I'll make us some lunch. When was the last time you ate?"
Eric takes a deep breath and starts counting down from ten.
The answer, unfortunately, is, 'I don't know. Lunch time yesterday maybe?' He's not about to admit that to Assad, but it's probably in his best interest to allow himself to be fed.
When the coffee's gone, he puts up only a perfunctory fight before shuffling into the kitchen and dropping himself ungracefully onto a stool. He watches from across the island as Assad toasts four slices of rye bread, throws a couple of eggs in a hot buttered pan, and slices some cheddar cheese that Eric hadn't even realized was in the refrigerator. If he had, he probably would have eaten it last night, standing in front of the open fridge at 2am.
Somehow, Assad has found a tomato too, and a bit of pesto at the bottom of a jar.
"I don't want mine fancy," Eric says. "I'll just take some bacon. Or that awful chicken sausage Jo keeps buying, if we don't have bacon."
"You don't, I checked," Assad says. He's spreading a thin layer of pesto over his own slices of toast, trying to make the dregs cover both slices. "And the chicken sausage is out of date." He glances over his shoulder. "You should eat a vegetable."
Eric narrows his eyes at him.
"Why is my wife calling you up to fly to New York and make me eat vegetables?"
"Well," Assad says conspiratorially, his eyes glittering with self satisfaction. Eric regrets teaching him about self satisfaction. "Apparently, I'm your best friend."
Eric tries to remember if this is something he said. It seems like the sort of stupid thing he'd say, but he doesn't remember saying it.
"Assad," he says, "I have friends I've known since before you were born."
Assad shrugs, still smiling to himself as he turns back to the stove.
"I'm just passing along what Jo said. Apparently, when you spend time with me, you become significantly more tolerable to be around for up to two whole weeks!"
"That's not because of you. That's because of the orgasms. She might as well tell me to go jerk off when she decides I'm too annoying to co-habitate with."
It's really inexpressibly irritating that he can't manage to hurt Assad's feelings today. Damn Jo for wrapping him up in this protective layer of smugness. Despite the insinuation that he is essentially a masturbation aid, rather than a broken off piece of Eric's heart and soul that, for some reason, is allowed to go wandering off for long periods of time, Assad is still smiling when he turns around and drops a plate in front of Eric.
"Well, she doesn't know about the orgasms, does she? Eat. That's an order. No orgasms until you eat, mister."
"Maybe I don't want orgasms."
Assad leans across the island, the smile falling from his face.
"If you don't eat the goddamn sandwich, Eric, I swear to god."
Eric thinks about asking what exactly Assad will do if he doesn't eat the sandwich.
Assad stares at him.
Eric picks up the sandwich. He takes a bite.
It's a good sandwich. Assad has cooked the egg just the way he likes it, with a yolk that bursts and runs down his fingers with the first bite. Eric can feel those big, brown eyes on him as he licks and sucks the rich, warm, yellow yolk from his fingers.
Halfway through the sandwich, he feels his brain come back online.
"There should be some orange juice in the fridge," he says. "Would you please…"
Assad watches him chug a whole glass of orange juice and then pour himself another. He hasn't taken a single bite of his own sandwich, and when Eric pops the last bit of his into his mouth and licks the crumbs from his fingers, he slides his plate across the island too.
"I'll make another one," he says quickly, when Eric looks up at him. "You eat it."
Eric hesitates.
"That was the last tomato, wasn't it?"
"I don't care."
"And the last of the pesto."
"Eric."
Eric suddenly feels like he's going to cry.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
"It's fine," Assad whispers back, pushing the plate a little closer with one long, beautiful finger. "Eat."
Eric swallows.
Assad smiles. It's a gentler, easier smile than Eric has seen on him today, and he suddenly realizes that Assad's been putting it on a bit. Which he would have realized sooner, if he'd been paying attention.
"Hey," Assad says, like they're only now seeing each other for the first time today.
"Hey."
The queasy guilt in Eric's chest tips over into an expansive feeling of warmth and fullness. He smiles sheepishly.
"Back with us?"
"Yeah," Eric says, trying to rub the palms of his hands over his eyes and finding his glasses in the way.
Assad reaches out and gently lifts them off his face. He carefully folds them and places them on the island, out of harm's way.
Eric blinks. Assad is now a very handsome blur.
"Back-ish," Eric says.
"Uh huh."
Eric groans and puts his head down on the counter. Assad pulls his plate out of the way just in time to stop him getting egg yolk in his hair.
Eric is vaguely aware of movement above him, and then lips are pressing to the center of his bald spot.
"Mean old Mister Grumps," Assad says. "You have to feed yourself, sweetheart."
Eric shakes his head. The marble of the island is pleasantly cool against his face.
"Food is not the root of the problem."
A finger twirls one of his curls and then tugs on it gently.
"It's a vicious cycle."
"You think I don't know that?"
"You sometimes act like you don't know it."
Eric groans.
"I know."
"Do I need to start texting you reminders throughout the day? Because I will. Hello darling, time for a little snack. Has daddy eaten breakfast today? It's 6pm, do you know where your hamburgers are?"
Eric looks up at him miserably. He crosses his arms and rests his chin on his hands.
"Jo nixed hamburgers," he says. "Cholesterol."
Rather than express sympathy, Assad narrows his eyes.
"Did Jo nix hamburgers, or did your doctor nix hamburgers and then you didn't listen, so Jo had to put her foot down?"
Eric scowls at him.
"You're supposed to be on my side."
"Mmm. Mister, I'm on the side of you throwing my 50th birthday party."
"Oh god," Eric says, leaning back in his chair with a groan. "What's that? 50 minus 36 is 14 plus 73… 87. Christ. Who wants to live to be 87?"
Assad gives him a reproachful look.
"You do," he says.
"And what will you tell the nurses when you visit me in the old folks home?"
Assad leans forward over the island, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
"I'll tell them I'm your grandson, obviously."
"I bet you'll show up more than any of the other grandkids. So sweet, so devoted. So pretty. They'll eat you right up."
Assad bites his lip.
"I bet they'll gossip about us. I imagine the walls are thin in those places."
"Oh, so you're still fucking me in this scenario?"
Assad puts his hand over his heart in mock solemnity.
"Eric," he says, "I will never stop fucking you for as long as you live."
"Oh? Why stop there? Might as well take one final spin before they put me in the dirt. Or you could take my whole dick with you. Keep it in a jar, like Rasputin's."
Assad's hand drops to his side. He looks exhausted, Eric realizes with a pang of guilt.
"Hey," Eric says. "C'mere."
Assad hesitates.
"C'mere," Eric says more insistently, waving him over. "I'll stop, okay? I'll stop."
Assad shuffles slowly around the island, not meeting Eric's eye. He looks like a little kid, unwilling to accept his parent's apology after being scolded a little too harshly. Eric turns towards him on his stool. When he gets close enough, Eric takes his hand and tugs him in closer.
Eric kisses the back of his hand, then his wrist, then up his arm, making a loud smacking sound each time. He looks up after he gets to the inside of the elbow and catches a reluctant little smile on Assad's face.
"I'm a jackass," he says.
Assad reaches out and brushes Eric's hair back from his face.
"I'm a babe, you're a schmuck?"
"Something like that."
Assad contemplates him for a moment, leaning into him and playing with his hair.
"I like your outfit," he says. "The Slipknot shirt really pulls it all together."
"I fit right in, huh?"
Assad shakes his head and kisses him. The press of their lips is electric, and suddenly Eric is very aware that this is the first kiss he's received all day. Feeling a little indignant about that, he grabs Assad's waist in his hands and squeezes. The press of Assad's lips, soft and unhurried, momentarily quiets the cacophony in his mind. He floats in the embrace. He could live here, he thinks, which is, of course, his indomitable inner monologue reasserting itself.
He pulls back. He finds that he's been brushing his thumbs up and down Assad's belly.
"I need you, baby," he says hoarsely. "I feel like I'm losing it."
Assad's fingers rake through his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp.
"I'm all yours, Daddy," he says, and it's the first time today that the word has no teasing underbelly. Eric looks up at him and feels like a bottomless pit. Assad must be able to see it in his eyes, that endless emptiness and hunger, but he doesn't recoil from it. Instead, he smiles and kisses him again, a brief, sweet kiss that Eric chases with his mouth to no avail. "But I think there are some other things that you need more. Like a shower. And a nap. I know you don't sleep when you're by yourself."
"I sleep."
"Okay, you sleep. But not enough."
Eric shifts on his stool, looking down at his slippered feet and the dangling belt of his bathrobe. The earth seems to be pulling him downward, like somebody got ahold of the gravity controls and turned them all the way up.
"No," he agrees. "Not enough."
"What was that?"
Eric looks up. Assad isn't teasing him; he actually seems not to have heard. Eric must be mumbling again.
"No," he says more clearly, "I don't sleep enough when I'm alone. I just wander through the apartment. This chore, that book, Instagram, YouTube."
He rubs his face with his hands.
"God, how did I become a 73 year old man who needs someone to tell him to go to bed?"
"By being a ten year old, and then a 30 year old, and then a 50 year old who needed someone to tell him to go to bed, I'd guess."
Eric laughs wearily.
"Yeah," he says. "You got me."
"I wish…"
When Eric looks up at him, Assad's mouth is clamped tightly shut.
He doesn't really need to finish the sentence, anyway.
If wishes were fishes, Eric thinks drowsily.
He really is very tired.
"At least my heart talks to me," he mumbles to himself.
"What?"
"Nothing, nothing."
Eric waves for him to back up and then stands too quickly, accidentally making him stumble backwards a step.
"Sorry, sorry."
"It's okay. Stop apologizing."
"Sorry."
"Hardy har. C'mon, mister, it's time somebody washed that hair."
In the shower, as Assad's nimble fingers massage shampoo into Eric's curls, Eric stares at a long hair stuck to the tile wall. It's mostly gray, with a bit of dark blonde dye on one end.
Into the silence, he blurts out, "Sometimes I worry about…"
"You're no worse than you were when we met," Assad says. "Rinse."
He steps backward, and Eric tilts his head back, letting the water wash away the lather.
Assad laughs quietly.
"Do you remember," he says, "how confused you were when Jacob and I kept telling you about the Devil's Minion?"
Eric rolls his eyes, though Assad can't see him.
"Not the same thing," he says. "That was just the two of you being pests."
"No, not the same," Assad agrees. Eric hears the pop of a bottle cap, and then those gorgeous fingers are in his hair again. "This is more like when you made me think you weren't interested 'cause you kept forgetting to answer my texts. Or when you threw your script across the room at a table read and stormed out because you'd skipped breakfast and we ran late for lunch. Need I continue?"
Eric groans.
"Please don't. I swear to God, I'm so much better than I was. You should be grateful you hadn't been born when I was your age."
"I don't want to harp on it too much when you're agreeing with me, but you know we're nearly past the point where you can keep saying that?"
"What did I agree with you about?"
"That you're not getting worse. So stop invoking the specter of the dreaded D word as if we're in a dead wife montage. Rinse."
"Sounds like something some schmuck in a dead wife montage would say," Eric mutters as he tilts his head back again. "Dramatic irony."
"Listen," Assad says after a short pause, as if he's tried and failed to hold his tongue. "I know you don't want to hear it, but—"
"No."
"I just think—."
"I said no, Assad."
When he lifts his head back up, Assad is holding his hands up and biting his lip, not quite meeting his eye. Eric feels a little bad. Not too bad. They've had this conversation too many times for him to feel like it's out of line to shut it down.
"I've told you a million times, I don't do psych drugs."
"But—"
"I get that you think you're being helpful, but you're not. I don't want some doctor who doesn't know the first thing about me fucking with my brain chemistry. And I have to be strict about the sobriety thing, I just do."
"It's not—"
"Assad."
Assad huffs.
"Babe, we've been having this conversation for years. I need for you to fucking drop it."
Assad hugs himself tightly, somehow managing to look small despite how much of the shower he's occupying.
"I'm not mad," Eric lies. "I just need you to drop it."
"I just want you to be okay," Assad says. "That's it. I just…"
"I'm okay," Eric says, holding his arms out to display himself, naked under the shower spray. "Okay?"
He can hear that his voice is still coming out harsher than he wants it to, but he can't seem to push down the irritation rising in his throat.
"Yeah," Assad says, clearing his throat. "Okay. Um. I'm gonna get out now. I'll, uh. I'll be in bed. When you… when you want me."
"Assad…"
Assad doesn't respond, just looks down at the lip of the tub, pulls back the shower curtain, and steps out, absolutely pouring water onto the bath mat.
Eric closes his eyes. Not the moment. Not the moment.
"Babe," he says.
"What?" he hears from the other side of the curtain. He shakes his head.
"Nothing. I'll be out in a minute. You can… Look, if you just want to go to sleep, that's fine. I know you're tired."
See? he thinks to himself. Growth.
His moment of cognitive behavioral triumph is met with silence, followed by the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing a little too loudly.
Assad doesn't throw temper tantrums, not like Eric does. Did. Does. So Eric always finds it charming when a bit of pique slips out of him. It's enough to drop his irritation level from the back of his throat to the middle of his chest, and from there it's a hop, skip, and a jump from irritation to that heavy feeling he always gets when he's upset Assad, or one of his other kids. Assad or one of his kids.
As he hurries to finish washing himself, he tells the heavy feeling that he's in the right, goddamnit! Assad's the one who won't fucking listen. And aren't millenials supposed to be all about respecting boundaries or whatever the fuck?
The feeling doesn't care. It's lodged in his chest now and it's not going anywhere until Assad's not upset with him anymore.
As he's toweling off, he debates what level of clothedness is appropriate to this situation. Normally, he would leave the bathroom naked and either slip right into bed or grab something clean to wear out of his closet, but he's not sure if walking into the bedroom with his dick out is the move right now. It might ease the tension, but then again, it might… not.
He blows a raspberry into the air.
In the end, he can't bring himself to put his own dirty boxers back on, but the thought of wearing Assad's dirty briefs is kind of titillating, so he goes with that. All of Assad's clothes are still here, sprawled haphazardly on the floor. Eric wonders if this is a good sign.
When he opens the bedroom door, Assad is curled away from him, pretending to be asleep. Eric can tell he's pretending by the absence of the soft, steady snoring that always lulls him to sleep far faster than silence. He wonders if Assad actually thinks he might be fooled, or if he's just hoping that Eric will let him get away with it.
Far too late on the uptake, Eric only notices when he's about to climb into bed that Assad's shoulders are shaking.
"Oh, sweetheart," Eric murmurs, as he slides in behind Assad and pulls him into a tight hug. Under the covers, Assad is dressed in some clean pajamas of Eric's that he must have pulled out of the closet— a forest green matching cotton set ordered during one of Eric's "leaning into the Grandpa Era" late night online shopping sprees. Eric feels a little silly in just Assad's tight black boxer briefs, but he has more important things to worry about, because Assad is dripping hot tears onto the arm Eric has managed to wedge under his neck.
"I'm sorry I snapped at you," Eric murmurs. He kisses the back of Assad's head. "I know you're just worried about me. I'm lucky to have you around to worry about me so much."
Assad does a valiant job of minimizing the wobble in his voice when he whispers, "You said you'd stop."
"Wha—?"
Oh. Oh shit.
"You've been t-trying to upset me since the m-moment you picked up the phone."
"C'mon, baby, that's not true…"
Assad kicks his leg a little, like he'd be stomping if he were standing up.
"Yes it is. Don't pretend you didn't mean it just because it worked."
Anger isn't clearing away the tears, but it is making his voice stronger. Eric squeezes him tightly, tucking his face into Assad's shoulder.
He was trying to upset Assad. It's stupid to deny it. The kid knows him— really knows him. All the ugly bits included.
He doesn't know what to say.
"And I'm so tired," Assad wails. "I'm so, so tired…"
"Shhhhh," Eric says, rocking gently back and forth as Assad cries. "It's okay. Everything's okay. And hey, I'm not going anywhere. Both my parents lived into their 90s."
This is the wrong thing to say. Assad curls in on himself even more, his long legs folding up to his chest.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, sniffling. "I'm sorry, I'm being ridiculous, I'm just…"
"You're not being ridiculous," Eric murmurs into his ear, in his deepest and most calming voice. "You've been working like crazy. You took a red eye to get here just to help me out, even though this is probably the first time in months you've had more than one day off in a row, and I've been a total ass the whole time. I haven't even congratulated you on having your first item in the Daily Mail!"
That earns him a wet little chuckle.
"I wish we could live together," Assad whispers. Another tear hits the back of Eric's hand. "I don't want to keep wasting time on long hiatuses and busy schedules and living an ocean away. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to make you breakfast and sit on the couch with you while you do your stupid crossword puzzles for your stupid brain. I want to kiss you goodnight every night before we go to sleep, and hold you still so you won't get up and waste all the time you have to sleep on nonsense. I want…"
Eric's heart hurts too much for him to keep listening to this.
"No you don't," he says softly, rubbing soothing circles into Assad's wrist. "You don't want that. I'm awful. You think this was bad? You have no idea how much worse Jo gets it."
Assad sniffles.
"I like you so much," he says. "Do you know that I like you so much?"
Eric smiles into the curls at the back of Assad's neck.
"You might have mentioned it. Once or twice."
Assad shifts awkwardly in his arms, turning in small, jerking movements until they're nose to nose. He is breathtakingly beautiful, with his eyes wet and red and his cheeks damp with tears. The steam from the shower followed by Jo's cotton pillowcase has brought some frizz out in his curls.
"Cut it out for a minute. I'm really trying to tell you."
Eric reaches up and brushes a tear off Assad's cheek with his thumb.
"That you like me?" he teases.
Assad scrunches his nose up at him and kicks him. Yeah, he definitely deserved that.
"Shut up."
The kid takes a deep breath.
"I'm trying to tell you that I like you when you're grumpy, and an asshole, and exhausted, and trying to hide how muddled you feel. Okay? You just… You know where all my buttons are. And you've been really determined to push them today."
"All your buttons, huh?"
Assad gives him a little shove. Eric lets himself be pushed backward, then rolls forward again, laughing as he pulls Assad in close to his chest.
"Oh, baby," he says. "I like you so much too."
After some heated cuddle negotiations, they end up with Assad's head on Eric's shoulder, one leg thrown across Eric's belly and the blankets kicked onto the floor.
Assad snores lightly. Eric buries his nose in his curls and closes his eyes. He breathes him in. He imagines waking up next to him every day, this beautiful, warm body pressed against his side, snoring and drooling onto Eric's shoulder. Assad drools like no one Eric has ever known. It's disgusting, and because there are so few things about Assad that can genuinely be called disgusting, Eric has become tremendously attached to it.
Pajama top soaked through, Eric would start the day by kissing the top of Assad's head, waking him gently with soothing circles rubbed into his back and sweet nothings murmured into his ear. Maybe Assad would tilt his head up, blinking the sleep from his eyes, sheepishly wiping the drool from his chin, and kiss him softly. Maybe he would shift a little and feel Eric's morning erection pressed against his thigh.
"What's this?" he'd say.
Eric imagines him saying it teasingly, then as if he really doesn't know, then as if he's scolding him. Maybe he would change it up every morning, always a different angle on the… on the…
Eric yawns.
What was he thinking about?
He nuzzles into Assad's curls. He breathes him in deeply. He reaches down and gently rests a hand on his ass. Mmmm. That's nice.
He falls asleep.
When he wakes up, the light has changed.
He thinks at first that it's dawn, and they've slept all afternoon and all night; the alarm clock on Jo's night stand is a blur without his glasses.
Disoriented, he blinks and shifts a little. Assad's head is still on his shoulder, which is soaked in drool. Eric's arm is asleep.
He considers his options. Normally, he would roll Assad over, trying not to wake him, spit in his hand, and start fingering him open. Usually this wakes him up pretty quickly, but a few times he's managed to get his cock in him before the kid has figured out what's happening, which is always crazy hot.
On the other hand, he's not sure they left things in a "getting fucked awake" place last night. Also, he thinks maybe he should let Assad get as much sleep as he possibly can. The kid has clearly run himself into the ground.
Slowly, carefully, he rolls Assad off of him and onto his back, biting his lip to stay silent when Assad's leg brushes against his erection.
As soon as he moves his arm it's all pins and needles, but despite its numbed out clumsiness he manages to extract it from under Assad's neck without more than a little murmur and a huff from the kid.
His glasses aren't on the night stand.
Where are his glasses?
He stumbles, bleary eyed, to the bathroom. His mouth tastes disgusting— another reason not to jump right into morning sex.
His robe lies crumpled on the floor of the bathroom, but when he picks it up it isn't damp, and it doesn't smell, so he throws it on before taking a piss and brushing his teeth.
His glasses are nowhere to be found. Goddamnit. Where the hell could he have left them?
He's searched practically the whole apartment twice over, quiet except for the occasional stubbed toe or knocked over pile of books, when he finally decides to give up. He'll make some fucking coffee and then maybe they'll show up.
He walks into the kitchen and immediately finds the glasses, folded neatly on the kitchen island where Assad had left them, which is perhaps more irritating than never finding them at all.
The small hand on the analog clock above the door is pointing to the number eight, the big hand to twelve.
He frowns. He looks out the window. 8am should be lighter than this.
He looks over at the digital clock on the stove.
The numbers 20:00 glow in the darkness.
8pm. Well, he'll be goddamned. He feels like he's slept for a week. Their sleep schedules are gonna be so screwed.
Okay. Well. Maybe not coffee, then.
As the kettle comes to a boil, Eric hears stirring from the direction of the bedroom, so he pulls down a second mug and tears open another packet of chamomile tea. Assad loves chamomile tea. Eric has never met anyone else who loves chamomile tea. He thinks it's sort of a weird think to feel so strongly about. It's fine. Not anything to write home about.
He has five different boxes of the stuff in his tea cabinet.
He nearly runs right into Assad in the doorway, only barely managing not to spill two scalding mugs of tea on him. The kid is not watching where he's going; he's yawning widely and rubbing his eyes as he shuffles towards the kitchen in Eric's pajamas.
"Hey," Eric says tentatively. He holds up one of the mugs. "I, um. Made you some tea."
Assad looks at him with one eye open, frowning adorably.
"Not coffee?"
Eric smiles.
"Guess what time it is."
Assad's frown deepens. He looks around, glancing out of windows and searching for a clock.
"5am?"
Eric shakes his head.
"Almost bedtime."
"Bedtime?"
Eric doesn't think Assad is awake enough to be following this, so he just holds the mug closer to Assad's nose.
"Mmmmm," Assad says, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. "Chamomile. My favorite."
"Yeah," Eric says, feeling a little breathless. He's still not used to the fact that Assad just looks like that.
Assad blinks and hits Eric with the wide-eyed stare that always makes him feel a little dizzy.
"Thanks," he says in a small voice.
He takes the mug in both hands and blows on the tea.
They're both quiet as Assad trails behind Eric into the living room. Eric settles on the couch and picks up his crossword puzzle. Assad chooses a book at random off Eric's shelf, then knocks a pillow off the couch onto the floor and settles himself at Eric's feet.
They drink their tea in silence for as long as they are capable of being silent. Today, their limit is longer than usual— maybe ten minutes, if Eric had to guess, though he's not very good at that sort of thing.
Then, Assad speaks.
"How's your crossword coming along?"
Eric sighs.
"I've been stuck on the same clue since before you got here. It's driving me nuts."
"What is it? Let me see."
Eric throws the newspaper into his lap.
"27 down," he says. "A bunch of letters."
"A bunch of—? Oh, I see. That's the clue. 'A bunch of letters.'"
"Word would be the obvious answer, but it's eight letters, so that doesn't fit. Neither does briefroman. Correspondence is way too long. I thought I was being really clever when I thought of tenants, but it's only seven letters. Keyboard, ligature, and epistles are all the right number of letters, but then I got that A at the beginning from Sabrina, and there's no way that's the wrong answer to "Fairchild, Spellman, Carpenter." So then I thought, acronym. Anagram. Nope! Both seven letters."
Assad peers down at the newspaper.
"It's alphabet," he says.
"What?"
Assad looks up at him.
"It's alphabet."
"No it— what? No it isn't. I would have thought of that!"
Assad shrugs.
"I don't know what to tell you," he says, "but it's definitely alphabet."
Eric snatches the newspaper back and looks down at it furiously. His eyes find the clue, and then the eight little squares, one of them already filled in with an A.
He looks for a clue to an intersecting word.
47 across reads, "An Oscar-winning pig".
Fuck. It's definitely alphabet.
"Fucking hell," he says. "Goddamn it. Give me my fucking pencil."
When he looks up, Assad is peering at the coffee table. He shrugs.
"I don't see it."