Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You are so painfully American,” Assad says, laughing, the first time Eric calls him “kiddo”.

“Yeah,” Eric says. He has the decency to look ashamed of himself, but then he grins wickedly. “You like it, though.”

“Sure Eric,” Assad says fondly. “I like you.”

Eric’s smile turns warmer at that, more genuine, and then he's being whisked off to makeup, leaving Assad alone to kill time until Rashid has something to say.

“Kiddo ,” he repeats under his breath, and snorts. Ridiculous.

He's “kiddo” from then on, for all of season one, and he does like it, likes the way it spills warm through his belly, even likes the way it makes him squirm a little. It's harmless, just a secret little fondness that he can enjoy in his heart of hearts, without anyone knowing. 

Likewise, “Mister” is an innocuous way to play along, he thinks. No one could possibly read anything into that. The nerves he feels when he first pulls it out don't stem from a fear of being found out; he just hopes the joke will land. He's not sure the teasing pet name is as common in America as it is back home, and he's just afraid that Eric won't get it.

So, when Eric jokingly moves to shield Assad’s eyes during a sex scene in the movie they're watching with Jacob, Sam, and Bailey one Friday night, Assad hits him with, “I'm old enough, mister!”

Bailey chokes on her twizzler.

“Yeah?” Eric says. “Name one girl you've ever seen naked.”

“Girl? ” Bailey says.

“Oh, shut up, both of you,” Assad says, knocking Eric’s hand away. He glances over to see Eric grinning at him and smiles back, shaking his head.

“I'm just busting your balls, kiddo,” Eric says, patting him on the shoulder before returning his hand to his own knee. “I know what it's like, being a hot young stage actor.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jacob mutters from where he's sprawled on the floor at Sam’s feet.

“What?” Eric says, mock-offended. “You telling me I wasn't hot?”

“You were adorable,” Sam tells him, throwing a bit of popcorn and hitting him square in the forehead. “But you weren’t Assad-hot. Sorry, man.”

Assad busies himself with trying to disappear into the couch cushions, face burning.

“Well, sure,” Eric is saying. “Who the fuck is? Just proves my point, doesn't it?”

“And what point is that, exactly?” Jacob asks.

Eric thinks about it for a second.

“I don't know,” he admits. “I've lost the thread.”

Assad sends up a silent prayer that the thread stays lost.

Still, despite the mortification, Assad counts this as a success, and once he's over the hurdle of the first invocation, “Mister” enters his regular Eric-related lexicon. They make eyes at each other about it during filming, and the fans like it when he pulls it out in interviews. Eric doesn't seem to mind, and anyway, it's fair payback.

Then, of course, those looks they'd given each other on set end up in teaser trailers, and they start doing press for season 2, and then the episodes start to drop, and it all takes on a life of its own.

He wants that cookie so bad

Daddy? Sorry… Daddy? Sorry... Daddy? Sorry…

May I suck your cock please, mister? 🥺

Oh so he like REALLY wants to fuck that old man

When will it be my turn for Eric Bogosian to call me kiddo?

That last one makes Assad’s stomach hurt.

He wonders if he should tell Eric. Warn him.

Hey, Eric, he imagines saying. Maybe we should cool it with the kiddo stuff. People seem to be… people are getting the wrong idea.

He's going to throw up.

He doesn't say anything. Maybe Eric won't even notice. He's on Instagram a lot, but not twitter, and he's too old to be on Tumblr, right? Right?

Assad has to endure three weeks between noticing this alarming trend online and his next encounter with Eric, and he spends it spiraling. He makes burner accounts and stalks the fandom relentlessly. He rehearses playing it cool, just in case Eric mentions it. Yeah, haha, isn't it soooo funny? Guess we should have seen it coming. Yeah, totally, this is just, like, what fandom does.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he drops his face into his hands. He's going to scream. He's going to cry. He's going to climb out the window, run away, and start a new life as a circus performer.

Looking back on this moment later, he will imagine saying to his former self, “You sweet, innocent summer child, you have no fucking idea what's coming.”

As it turns out, he doesn't need to say anything to get Eric to stop calling him kiddo within earshot of fans.

“Hey, babe!”

The voice is loud and gravelly, with that slight upward inflection that Assad secretly and affectionately thinks of as kind of faggy. Wishful thinking.

He looks up as he closes the door of his cab, expecting to see Eric talking to his wife, or maybe some old theater friend, but he's looking straight at Assad with a big, shit eating grin on his face and striding towards him, a group of wide-eyed teenagers fumbling with their phone cameras behind him.

He pulls Assad into a tight hug, which is normal, and gives him a big, wet, smacking kiss on the cheek, which is not.

“Uh, hi,” Assad squeaks belatedly. He suddenly remembers that a hug usually involves the participation of both parties, but before he can lift his arms from where they're stiff at his sides, Eric is pulling away.

Well, mostly pulling away. He still has an arm slung around Assad’s neck.

“It’s good to see you, sweetheart,” he’s saying, in a voice that's definitely carrying to the teenagers and their upheld cell phones. “Jo got us box seats.” 

He leads Assad away from the line at the front of the theater and towards a side door, where a stagehand in all black ushers them inside whilst smoking a cigarette and scrolling twitter on his phone. The sight of the feed sets off Assad’s fight or flight response, so that by the time they're backstage he's practically vibrating with anxiety.

When the door closes, Eric lets him go.

“Aw, kiddo,” he says, taking in Assad’s shell shocked appearance. His tone is apologetic, but he's smirking. “Was that too mean? Did I break you?”

“I, uh. Don't know what you mean,” Assad lies. He clears his throat. “How's, um. I mean, is Jo here? Are we sitting together?”

“Nah,” Eric says, completely and totally back to normal now and giving no indication that he's done anything out of the ordinary to begin with. “I mean, yeah, she's here somewhere, but she'll be running all over the place making sure the actors don't get lost and the sound guy doesn't get too stoned.”

“Mmm,” Assad says, too wrong-footed to laugh at the joke.

Eric gives him a knowing look – knowing of what? What does he know? – and then turns and heads for the stairs, not bothering to look over his shoulder to see if Assad is following him.

It takes Assad a moment to start moving. He has to jog to catch up, shoving his hands into his pockets as he falls into step behind Eric.

Chill, he reminds himself. Be cool. What's cooler than being cool? Ice cold. Alright alright alright alright…

“Are you singing Hey Ya to yourself?” Eric asks, glancing over his shoulder, sounding amused.

“Am I?” Assad asks absently. He looks up and sees that they’ve reached the box, six empty seats between two walls on the side of the balcony. He tries not to think about Lestat fucking Armand on the floor of a theater box and fails.

He glances around. Not a lot of floor space.

Eric, meanwhile, has taken one of the seats at the front. He looks up at Assad and pats the seat next to him expectantly.

Right. Being normal. What does being normal look like?

Assad hops down the steps to the front row and drops into the seat. He immediately starts bouncing his leg as fast as humanly possible.

As the lights begin to dim, Eric reaches out and places a hand on Assad’s bouncing knee. Assad stills immediately, and the hand is gone.

Assad doesn't hear the opening lines of dialogue. He does, however, hear rustling coming from somewhere in the vicinity of Eric’s lap.

He looks over in time to see him pull a brown paper lunch sack out of his jacket pocket and unroll the top.

He holds it out to him. Assad frowns, but Eric just shakes the bag at him, so Assad sticks his hand into it, blind.

It's full of popcorn.

Assad stifles a giggle. Eric waggles his eyebrows at him, grinning.

Things return to normal after that. They share the popcorn, and Assad manages to engross himself in the play, instead of fantasizing about Eric stretching his arm out over the back of his seat. 

Okay, so maybe he's multitasking.

Once, during the third act, their hands brush in the popcorn bag and Assad snatches his back as if it's been burned.

Eric does not lay his arm across the back of Assad’s seat, not once, and that's fine. Preferable, even. It would have made the babe thing even more confusing. As it is, Assad is able to sit here and remind himself that while Eric has never called him babe, he's called plenty of other people babe in an entirely casual, normal way. That's how Hollywood people talk, remember? And a kiss on the cheek is hardly anything to write home about. And sweetheart… well. He's not going to think about that.

By the time the play ends, Assad has convinced himself that he completely overreacted. 

“That was great,” he gushes. “God, I miss being onstage. I mean, not that I don't – I love the show, you know, and acting with you is…”

Mercifully, Jo interrupts him by appearing behind Eric, wrapping her arms around his neck, and dropping a kiss to the top of his head.

“Hi, honey,” Eric says. “Great work, as always.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says dismissively. She squeezes Assad’s shoulder in greeting.

“Thanks for coming, Assad,” she says. “Otherwise he would have been throwing that popcorn at the stage.”

“That's not true,” Eric says, eyes glittering. “I would have been throwing it at the people in the mezzanine.”

“This is his fifth time seeing this one,” Jo says, smiling warmly down at her husband. “I've told him he’s done his duty.”

“Yeah, but Assad wanted to see it,” Eric says. “After tonight, I'll take advantage of the apartment being empty, I promise.”

Assad wonders what that might mean. Quiet reading, he tells himself firmly. Down time.

Jo shoves Eric’s shoulder affectionately and crosses her arms, perched on the arm of a seat behind them.

“What did you think?” she asks.

After an awkward pause, Assad points to himself, eyes wide. “Me?” he says. “Oh, uh, yeah, I loved it. You've done a beautiful job balancing the realism of the acting style with the more surreal elements of the story and technical design. It made me want to be back onstage.”

“I know you're not based in New York,” Jo says. “But I'd love to work with you. And we have a guest room.”

Eric swats at her arm.

“Don't think I don't see what you're doing,” he says, talking through a handful of popcorn in his mouth. “You're not stealing him from me, I've called dibs.”

“Uh,” Assad says.

“Ah, yeah,” Eric says, turning to Assad. “I've got a script for you. I dunno when we’ll have time to put it up, but –”

“Yeah,” Assad says immediately. “Sick. I'm down. Obviously.”

Smooth, kiddo.

Jo laughs.

“Anyway,” she says. “It was good seeing you, Assad. Have a good night, honey, don't wait up for me.”

Eric leans up for a kiss and Assad realizes too late that he's just sat there watching them as their lips press together, familiar and easy.

They've been married longer than he's been alive, he thinks. More than a decade longer than he's been alive. He can't quite wrap his head around that. He doesn't know how it should make him feel.

Bad. It should make him feel bad. But, you know, beyond that.

“Alright,” Eric groans as he pushes himself up out of his seat. He crumples up the popcorn bag and shoves it back in his pocket, then stretches, revealing a thin strip of belly right at Assad’s eye level. “Do you need to get back to your hotel or do you have time for a bite?”

“Hmmm?” Assad says, belatedly flicking his eyes upward. Eric smirks down at him.

“You're in New York, kiddo,” he says, letting his arms fall and, tragically, hiding his belly in the process. “We have diners. You ever been to a diner?”

Assad scoffs.

“Course I've been to a diner,” he says.

“Yeah, but like, a real diner? If it closes at 2pm it doesn't count.”

“I've been to a real diner with you, “ Assad reminds him.

“Oh, yeah,” Eric says. “Forgot about that. Well, whaddya think?”

And listen, Assad is a person who values his alone time, but given the choice between hanging out alone in his hotel room and eating French fries in a booth with Eric Bogosian, Assad will choose the French fries every time.

“I love the way you say French fries,” Eric tells him as they break free from the theater and abscond into the unseasonably cool night air. “It's like you're speaking a foreign language. French fries.”

He imitates Assad’s accent, over enunciating the consonants.

Assad’s got his hands shoved in his pockets again, and he's engaged in a sort of dancing gallop to keep up with Eric’s brisk New Yorker pace.

“I get made fun of back home when I say French fries too,” he says, grinning.

“I'm not making fun of you,” Eric says. “It's cute.”

“You’re cute,” Assad replies automatically, as if it's a comeback, an insult, and then he hears himself and feels his face go hot.

Eric just laughs.

“Come on,” he says. “Hurry up, I'm starving. That popcorn’s the only thing I’ve eaten since lunch.”

The diner, when they reach it, is right out of a movie. It's classic. The exterior is chrome. The interior is mint green, and more chrome. The regulars hunching on their barstools wear worn denim and flannel and chew on toothpicks.

“Wow,” Assad says, bumping into Eric's back in his eagerness to get into the warm. “Authentic.”

Eric snorts.

They're seated by a tiny, hunchbacked old waitress with a pen stuck into her gray bun and a pad tucked into her lacey mint green apron. The booth is narrow with high backs, and there’s a tabletop jukebox blocking the window. The competing sounds of Led Zeppelin and Loretta Lynn travel to them from adjacent tables and mix incomprehensibly around their heads. Assad’s bench cushion has been repaired with duct tape.

Assad orders a grilled cheese on rye with tomato, French fries, and a glass of water. Eric orders a Reuben and a cup of coffee.

“Late for coffee,” Assad comments as their waitress hobbles away.

“Oh, leave me alone,” Eric says congenially. “It's my only remaining vice.”

Assad tilts his head, looking at him, probing.

“Is it?” he asks, and he doesn't mean anything by it, but Eric gives him a look that immediately makes him clock how it might be taken. He falls back against the booth, his eyes dropping to the table. His fingers find a sugar packet and start fiddling with it.

“I just –” he says. “I just meant, well, I mean –”

Eric laughs.

“Relax,” he says. “It hasn't been a touchy subject in about thirty years.”

And that's not what’s got Assad all flustered, but maybe it should be. It hadn't even occurred to him to worry about it.

“Alright, so I have some other vices,” Eric admits. “Nothing I bring up in polite company. Except that once every couple of years I conveniently forget that I quit smoking over a decade ago.”

And, well. Assad will be thinking about that polite company comment for the rest of his life, won't he?

When the food comes, Assad’s eyes go wide. Both sandwiches have come with French fries on the plate, and next to them is dropped an additional platter filled with a heaping mound of the stuff. They look excellent, crispy and golden, but Assad won't be able to move if he eats all of them.

“Anything else?” their waitress drones.

“All set, thank you, sweetheart,” Eric says, and she winks at him before sidling over to check on the next table.

“I didn't know it came with fries,” Assad says. “I wouldn't have ordered more.”

“I could have told you that,” Eric says, “but I wanted to see that face right there.” He points his finger at Assad’s nose, grinning. “Betcha can't eat 'em all.”

“Oh yeah?” Assad says, his eyes slightly crossed as he watches Eric's finger hover, gently tap his nose, and then retreat to assist in the picking up of Eric's sandwich. “What do I win if I do?”

“A stomachache, probably,” Eric says.

Assad considers this.

“I'll take that bet,” he says.

They tuck in enthusiastically, hardly speaking until half of each sandwich and maybe a third of the French fries are gone. Then, they slow down, licking fingers and sipping drinks and smiling at each other a little sheepishly.

“So,” Eric says. “Your big episode airs tomorrow. You excited?”

“Mm,” Assad says, swallowing a French fry. “A little nervous, to be honest.”

“Aw, c'mon,” Eric says. “I've heard Luke talk about that shoot. Don't be modest about it, you changed his fucking life.”

He laughs and steals one of Assad’s fries.

“All the vamp tramps are gonna go crazy. You'll be fighting them off with a broom.”

“Have you had vamp tramps in your back pocket all this time or did you just come up with it on the fly?”

“Well, I'd kind of given up on it, you know. Started from fag hag obviously, not specific enough, though certainly accurate. Trueblood claimed fang banger, vampire… uh, I dunno what rhymes with vampire. Blood bitch clearly doesn’t have the same meaning.”

Assad snorts.

“Blood bitch sounds like something Armand would call Daniel,” he says, swirling a fry in his little puddle of ketchup.

“Yeah,” Eric agrees. “Yeah, I mean, listen, I didn't say it wasn't hot. Just not applicable.”

“Anyway,” Assad says. “I know intellectually… like, I do know that I did a good job. We were locked in that day. But it's still a little nerve-wracking, you know?”

“Do you want to watch it together?” Eric asks. “You're here for a few more days, aren't you?”

Assad makes a face.

“Do you watch them?” he asks.

“Do you not?”

Assad shakes his head.

“I hate watching myself,” he says. 

“Seriously?”

“What?”

Eric opens his mouth to say something, then seems to change his mind and eats a couple of fries instead. He shrugs.

“I love watching myself,” he says as he chews.

Assad has a sudden, radiant vision of Eric, naked in front of a mirror, Assad on his knees in front of him with Eric's fingers tangled in his curls…

He clears his throat.

“Alright,” he says. “Yeah, sure, why not?”

“Good boy,” Eric says.

Assad’s ears burn.

In the end, they finish both sandwiches and all of the fries. When the waitress comes by and says, “Dessert?” they both groan.

Assad rests a hand on his now protruding belly.

“Absolutely not,” he says.

“I have half a mind to see if I can get you to eat some pie,” Eric says, and Assad closes his eyes and frowns.

“That would be, so, so mean,” he says, and Eric cackles.

“Just the check, then?” the waitress prompts, determinedly uncharmed.

“Yeah,” Eric says.

“One check or two?”

“One,” Eric says at the same time that Assad says, “Two.”

“Fuck off,” Eric tells him. He holds up one finger. “One.”

“You comped me a ticket,” Assad protests as the waitress departs. “I'll pay.”

“Jo comped you a ticket,” Eric says. “And I'm old, it’s my god given right to foot the bill.”

Assad’s stomach gurgles.

“Ugh,” he says, pouting. “Too many French fries.”

Eric pays with cash, leaving the bills under the salt shaker, and they're back out into the increasingly chilly night, moving much slower now that they're full of potatoes.

“Fuuuuuck,” Assad says. “My hotel is so far away. I'll have to call an Uber, I'm too tired to deal with the subway.”

“Come to mine,” Eric says, as casual as can be. “We can walk there. You can stay in our guest room.”

Assad just looks at him. Eric shifts on his feet.

“C'mon,” he says. “It's no trouble. I'll make pancakes in the morning, and we’ll watch the show, and then I'll send you on your way with a thermos of coffee and a copy of the script I've been working on, the one I want you to be in. Whaddya say?”

Assad yawns.

“Is that a yes?” Eric asks, grinning.

“Guess so,” Assad says, smiling back. “Thanks, man.”

“Don't mention it, doll face,” Eric says, and Assad barely has time to react to that before two giggling girls are sidling up next to him with a sharpie and a paperback copy of The Queen of the Damned.

“Hi!” one of them says, a blonde girl with velvet ribbons in her pigtails and a purse shaped like a bat. Her girlfriend squeezes her hand tightly as she stares at them, mouth agape.

“Hi!” Eric says cheerfully, when it becomes clear that Assad isn’t going to say anything.

“Sorry to bother you,” the girl who still has use of her voice says. “Is it okay… I mean, would you both sign this? You're our favorites, I mean, wow, I can't wait for –”

Her girlfriend elbows her in the ribs.

“You got it,” Eric says, taking the book and the sharpie and flipping directly to the Devil’s Minion chapter. The quiet girl squeals.

Eric signs by the chapter title, bleed through be damned, then holds the book out to Assad, who looks down at it like he's never seen a book before. Eric shakes the sharpie at him.

“C’mon, babe,” he says, and the girls press their mouths tightly shut, their eyes going even wider. “Sign the book for the nice girls and then let's go home.”

Assad signs mechanically, right under Eric’s signature. He notices that Eric has underlined the words “Armand, I need you” and drawn a little crying face in the margin.

The girls beam when they get the book back.

“Thanks!” the one with the ribbons says. “Have a, uh, good night!”

The girls descend into hysterical giggles as Eric leads Assad away up the street.

“You okay, kiddo?” he asks.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Assad says. “Why wouldn't I be?”

He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a vape, looking at it closely in the dark to make sure it's the nicotine vape and not the THC vape before taking a long pull on it. When he blows out a cloud of vapor, Eric sniffs the air and laughs.

“What flavor is that, cotton candy?”

“Strawberry banana,” Assad says.

“Gross,” Eric says, holding out his hand for it.

“I thought you said you quit.”

“I quit cigarettes,” Eric says. “I've never vaped in my life.”

He snatches the thing out of Assad’s hand and sucks down some fruity vapor.

“Mmm,” he says, the vapor seeping out of his mouth. “That's disgusting.”

“Thief,” Assad says, snatching it back. He glances over his shoulder to see that the girls are still watching them. One of them has a phone pointed in their direction. He hopes they're just texting, hopes there's not about to be a grainy video of Eric stealing his vape on Twitter.

Eric follows his gaze.

“See?” he says. “The sexy torture episode hasn't even aired yet and they're all over you.”

He puts his arm around Assad’s shoulders.

“Don't worry,” he says. “I'll protect you from the horny fangirls.”

The girls coo and squeal behind them, and then they turn a corner, and Eric drops his arm back to his side.

Assad doesn't quite know what to do with himself after that. He puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out again, fiddles with his vape. They walk in silence the rest of the way to Eric’s apartment, and it's not terribly awkward, but it's not entirely comfortable either, at least not for Assad.

Whatever is going on in Eric’s head is a complete mystery to him. It does not occur to him to think that Eric is taking him home with intent. He's gotten too used to dismissing all thoughts in that direction as pure fantasy, and now the dismissal is automatic. He wants to think that, wants it to be true, and so it isn't.

“Here we are,” Eric says, finally, with a strangely shy little grin. He's fiddling with his keys, paused at the bottom of the steps. Assad looks up at the door.

Eric’s place is what Assad thinks of as a rowhouse rather than an apartment. He wonders why Eric calls it an apartment, if he's still a little embarrassed at having money or if it's just an old habit from his leaner years.

“Cute,” he says, nodding at the window boxes, still vibrant, despite the cool weather. “Jo?”

“Nope,” Eric says. “That's me. I mean, she waters them when I'm away, but –”

He shrugs.

“C'mon,” he says. “Let's get inside. It's too cold to linger on the stoop.”

He takes the steps two at a time. Assad follows more slowly, trailing his hand up the stone banister, enjoying the rough texture under his fingertips. It grounds him, makes him feel less like he's about to float away.

Eric holds the door open for him.

“Ta-da!” he says sarcastically. “It's, uh, well. It's what you would expect.”

What he seems to mean by this is that it's cluttered which, yes, Assad expected that. But it's also lovely, with its mismatched floor lamps bathing the dark wood paneling in warm, yellow light. There are precarious stacks of books and papers on every surface, a haphazard pile of shoes by the door, and several green, leafy house plants hanging from the ceiling.

Assad kicks his shoes off and lets his sock feet sink into the plush red runner that spans the front hall. Chinese dragons curl along the borders. He wiggles his toes and grins at Eric, who has just closed the door behind them and is now kicking off his own shoes, and looking at him with that same uncharacteristically shy expression he'd shown him outside.

It's cute. It's so fucking cute, Assad is going to scream. Or possibly faint.

“It's lovely,” he says. “Which I did expect, yes.”

They look at each other for a long moment, and Assad wills his face not to betray him.

“Right,” Eric says, yanking his eyes away from Assad’s. “Follow me, the guest room’s this way.”

The guest room has an entirely different sensibility to the rest of what Assad’s seen of the house. There's nothing wrong with it, per se, but it's a bit dull in comparison. The walls are white, the comforter on the twin size bed dark blue, and the furniture is all matching sand colored wood. There's a gray wall to wall carpet rather than an interesting rug.

“We don't use it much,” Eric explains. “So I haven't bothered doing anything with it. But the bed's serviceable.”

He pats the doorframe a couple of times.

“Thanks,” Assad says, shifting awkwardly in the doorway.

Eric looks at him again, like he's waiting for something, though Assad doesn't know what. They're close now, not touching but definitely in each other's space. Assad fancies he can feel the heat radiating off Eric's body.

Eric clears his throat.

“Bathroom’s down the hall on the left,” he says, and steps back. “I'll see you in the morning, yeah?”

“Sounds good,” Assad says, watching him curiously. “What time do you get up?”

“Stupid early at the moment,” Eric says, shaking his head. “Don't worry about it. Just come find me when you're ready for pancakes.”

“Pancakes and humiliation,” Assad says, grinning ruefully.

Eric huffs.

Assad suddenly realizes that Eric looks exhausted, the lines in his beautiful face deeper and the bags under his eyes darker than he's used to seeing them. It must be late. He has no idea what time it is.

“Go to sleep,” he says. “I'm all wound up but you don't have to – there's no need to stay up for me. I'll take a shower and listen to some music or something until I can fall asleep.”

“Sure,” Eric says. “Yeah, I'm pretty beat, I guess. Uh, help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Don't be freaked out when Jo gets home at 3am. And, uh, let me know if you need anything.”

Assad smiles at him.

“Thanks, Eric,” he says. “Goodnight.”

“Sleep tight,” Eric replies, already on his way to the stairs.

“Don't let the bedbugs bite,” Assad calls after him.

A moment later, he hears a door slam upstairs.

The first thing Assad thinks, once he's alone, is that he doesn't have a toothbrush. The second is that he needs to jerk off immediately or he’s going to explode.

He can't do it in the bed; too weird, too likely to be overheard. He knows himself, knows how impossible he finds it to hold back his soft, breathy little whines when he pictures Eric touching him, when he gets close to coming with Eric's name on his lips.

The shower then. He doesn't even bother entering the guest room properly before padding down the hallway to the bathroom.

He sighs with relief when he opens the door. Unlike the guest bedroom, this room feels like Eric, black tile and a brass claw foot tub and greenery everywhere he turns his eye. He flips a switch that turns on a pair of wall sconces by the mirror and leaves the overhead light off, closing the door behind him and carefully locking it.

He's tempted by the tub, especially when he finds a little bottle of jasmine scented bubble bath and three unlabelled jars full of bath salts (purple, green, and blue, like ingredients for a magic potion), but he needs the sound of running water to disguise his noises. It would be mortifying for Eric to hear him touching himself. The thought makes his face warm, but it also sends blood in the opposite direction. He looks up at the tiled ceiling and wonders if Eric's bedroom is directly above him.

Probably not. It's most likely another bathroom, judging by the brass pipes that disappear into the ceiling. Still, it's a frightening and enticing thought, and it sends sparks up Assad’s spine.

He finds the switch for the vent fan and turns it on. It's quiet, unfortunately.

He runs a hand over the dark green towel hanging on the wall by the tub. It's thick and soft. He bends down and rubs his cheek against it, letting his eyes fall shut.

He wonders if Eric would mind him vaping some THC out his bathroom window. He should have asked, probably.

He takes both of his vapes, his phone, his earbuds, his wallet, and his phone charger out of his coat pockets and lays them out neatly on the windowsill, then pushes the window up. It sticks a little, and it's louder than he'd like when he finally gets it all the way open. He freezes for a moment, listening, but hears nothing from the floor above.

The night air makes him shiver.

It takes a moment for his vape to heat up, and he spends it leaning out the window with his elbows resting on the sill, one long leg stretched out behind him, toes tapping the tiles. He listens to the cars going by, the screeching of a cat, a couple yelling at each other in Italian up the street. The breeze ruffles his curls. He breathes it all in deeply, relaxing into being here, in Eric’s city, in Eric’s home.

He checks the time. It's nearly one in the morning, which is late, sort of, but also plenty of time for him to be in bed before Jo gets home. He's not going to want to run into her in the hallway after this.

With a quick glance at the ceiling, he slips an earbud in and turns on Eric’s episode of Wild Nights on the Prairie, a regular fixture in his nighttime listening since it appeared on Spotify a month ago.

He doesn't even really listen to the words anymore, just lets Eric’s voice wash over him, automatically calming his nervous system. The light on his vape flashes green.

Between the weed and the podcast, he feels all the tension in his body leave him with his first exhale out the window, like his anxiety and confusion, all the painful parts of desire, are floating away over the city, mixing with the dreams of millions. Everything is okay, he decides on the third hit. Everything is great.

He should maybe feel bad about getting high in Eric's bathroom while listening to Eric talk about getting sober. He battles with that a little bit, then gets distracted rubbing his finger over a ruffled flower petal in the window box, and finally decides that if he's spending this much time touching flowers when he could be jerking off he's definitely high enough.

He's careful when he closes the window, overly careful, really, and he succeeds in closing it quietly, thank God. Hopefully Eric is asleep by now. He doesn't want to wake him up being stoned and clumsy.

The voice in his ear is getting to be a bit too much, so he pauses the podcast and returns his earbud to its case, then double and triple checks that his media volume is turned all the way down, just in case it spontaneously decides to start playing out loud. It's happened around his friends before, and he couldn't explain to them why he was so embarrassed to be caught listening to a couple of guys talk about acting.

He stands in front of the mirror as he lets his clothes drop to the floor, studying his own face: the red eyes, the slightly parted lips. People tell him he's pretty. Sometimes he sees it, sometimes he doesn't.

Right now, naked in Eric’s guest bathroom and significantly higher than he'd meant to be, he sees it, sees the huge brown eyes and the grabbable curls and the perfect Cupid's bow. His breath catches, looking at himself, imagining how he and Eric would look together, how strangers would look at them on the street if they saw them holding hands or kissing across a cafe table. It sends a shiver down his spine, that imagined disapproval.

“Eric,” he whispers, watching his mouth form the shapes of the name.

He suddenly remembers that he has a cock, and hands, and when he puts this knowledge to use he discovers that he's hard.

He watches the gasp escape his mouth at the touch, sees his eyes go wide, as if it’s someone else in the mirror. He imagines that Eric is watching him instead. What would he say?

That's it, kiddo, just like that.

“Fuck,” Assad whispers, squeezing his eyes shut.

Then, he remembers what Eric had called him earlier today.

Touch yourself for me, babe, he hears in Eric’s voice. You're doing great, sweetheart.

Assad whimpers, too loudly, and his eyes fly open, his hand stilling on his cock.

Shower, he reminds himself. You forgot about the shower.

He looks at himself in the mirror.

“Slut,” he says under his breath.

Slut, he hears in Eric’s voice.

He bites his lip hard to keep back a whine.

Shower. Water. White noise. Jerking off. Come on, Zaman, focus.

He tears his eyes away from the mirror and focuses instead on the tub, and the fancy brass shower head above it. He turns the water on as hot as he can stand and thanks his lucky stars that the water pressure is strong and loud.

Slipping into the shower, he pulls the curtain around himself before sliding down to sit under the spray, curls and fingers dangling over the lip of the tub as he lounges, savoring the heat and syncopation of the water pelting his belly.

Eyes closed, he brings one hand up to his throat, encircling it without applying pressure, then lets it drift slowly downward, brushing a nipple as it traverses his chest, continuing on over his belly and into the thick, black curls at the base of his cock, teasing himself by stroking his thigh before finally taking his cock back in hand with a contented sigh.

He lets his mind wander. It wanders beautifully these days, lingering over Eric’s big, strong hands, his dreamy jade green eyes, those arms – and the arms send him spinning off happily into a familiar fantasy of Eric holding him down, pinning him easily and forcing his legs apart  while Assad struggles with all his might –

“Oh!” he gasps, his hand speeding up on his cock, but then the daydream shifts.

He's naked on the bed in the guest bedroom, sprawled out on his belly, one leg hitched up, and he's fast asleep, breathing deep and even as he shifts slightly, humming contentedly and hugging the pillow, when the door creaks quietly on its hinges and swings slowly open.

The sleeping Assad on the bed wouldn't see Eric, of course, but Assad imagines him anyway, standing in the doorway, watching him sleep.

Am I really doing this? he imagines Eric thinking, as his eyes rove down Assad's body and land on his ass.

Since this is Assad’s fantasy, the answer is yes.

Dream Eric moves into the room and shuts the door behind him, careful to make as little noise as possible. He wants Assad asleep for this – for the beginning, at least.

Assad pants as he imagines Eric shedding his clothes at the foot of the bed – the white chest hair, the narrow hips, the slight belly. He almost goes off into a whole other fantasy about biting that belly, but he really likes this one he's in, so he pulls himself back.

Eric climbs onto the bed behind him and ducks his face between Assad's cheeks, searching with his tongue, and oh – “Oh!” – it feels so good when he finds what he's looking for. Even as Dream Assad is unaware, his body responds, moaning and squirming and sending blood rushing down to his cock where it's pinned against the mattress. His hips make tiny little humping motions and Eric lets him, his tongue buried deep in Assad’s ass, loosening him up.

Getting him wet.

That's as far as Assad gets. Before he knows what's happening, he's climaxing with a yelp, hot come tearing out of him and splattering the opposite end of the tub.

His brain allows him maybe ten peaceful, panting seconds of post-orgasmic bliss before the paranoia sets in.

He's been far too loud. While coming, yes, but even before that, from the very beginning he's been too loud. Eric must have heard him, right? Oh God, how long has he been in this bathroom? Has he been in here a suspiciously long length of time? Has he been here long enough that Jo might have come home and heard him?

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He's shaking as he turns the water off and struggles to his feet, nearly tearing the curtain down trying to pull himself up by it. He's dropping like a stone from his orgasm high, and he doesn't think to towel off before clambering out of the tub, so he soaks the bath mat and drips all over the floor.

He dries himself quickly, not even taking the time to enjoy the sensation of the towel on his skin before crouching to sop up the water he's dripped all over the floor.

He turns on the overhead light. It blinds him for a moment, and he covers his eyes with his hands as he adjusts.

The room looks… fine. It's fine. He needs to get dressed and grab all his shit off the window sill, and hang the towel back up, but he hasn't ruined anything – at least, not anything in this room.

He hangs the towel and works up the courage to look at his phone.

It's 1:23.

It's… 1:23?

He glances over at the mirror. Only the edges have begun to fog.

He takes a deep breath and relaxes a little, but only a little. That doesn't take care of all of his concerns, but it does knock out a couple of them.

When he's gotten dressed and shoved his belongings back into the pockets of his coat, he grabs the door handle, takes another deep breath, silently prays he’ll see no one in the hallway, and opens the door to Eric standing directly outside the door.

“I brought you a toothbrush,” he says, raising an eyebrow at Assad’s stricken face.

“Uh,” Assad says intelligently.

Eric holds out the toothbrush and a travel size tube of toothpaste. Assad stares at them. Eric shakes them a little.

Belatedly, Assad grabs them, clumsily touching Eric's hand far too much in the process.

“Thanks,” he says, and slams the bathroom door in Eric's face.

He's going to kill himself, he decides as he brushes his teeth, staring into his obviously red eyes in the bathroom mirror. There's got to be a razor in this bathroom somewhere. He’ll just call it a fucking day.

He spits. Rinses.

When he opens the bathroom door again – cautiously, as if there might be a large predator on the other side – he's relieved to find the hallway empty. He scurries to the guest room as fast as he can, dives into bed fully clothed, and hides beneath the covers.

“Shhhhhh,” he whispers to himself. “Shhhhhhh. You're okay, everything's okay, you're just high, everything’s fine.”

He doesn't quite convince himself, but he's tired, and in the end the weed pulls him down into sleep.

He wakes up to the smell of coffee brewing, the soft sound of movement in the kitchen.

For a moment, everything is right with the world. He feels happy, warm, and safe, eager to share a cup of coffee with Eric.

Then he remembers.

“Fuuuuuck,” he groans into the pillow, his stomach curdling.

Eric definitely knows he was high, which is bad enough. But did he hear him too? How long had he been waiting outside the bathroom door? What if he kicks him out? What if he looks at him like he's disappointed in him?

God, what is wrong with him?

He doesn't want to face Eric, not ever, but the longer he lies in bed the worse he spirals, so eventually he forces himself to his feet. He's already dressed in his clothes from yesterday, now very much rumpled, except that he can't find his socks anywhere.

He has no hope of this going well, but he brushes his teeth anyway, avoiding his own eyes in the bathroom mirror. He feels decidedly unsexy this morning, and thinking of his fantasies from the night before makes him shrivel up inside with shame.

He's such a fucking creep. Eric doesn't deserve this shit.

But when he works up the courage to pad barefooted into the kitchen, Eric and Jo both look up and smile at him, Jo from her perch on a stool where she's perusing the Arts & Culture section and Eric from the other side of the island, where he's standing and pouring her another cup of coffee.

Assad stands awkwardly in the arched entryway, feeling horrendously young and caught out.

“Mornin’, kiddo,” Eric says, holding up the coffee pot. “Coffee?”

“Uh, yes please,” Assad says, shifting on his feet.

Jo pats the stool next to her.

“Sit,” she says, so he does, glancing shiftily at her and then at Eric, and then down at the countertop.

“Sleep well?” Eric asks. As he fetches a mug from the top shelf of the cabinet, his T-shirt rides up.

I am not looking, Assad tells himself. I'm not looking, I'm not looking, I'm not –.

Jo is looking. She wolf whistles. Eric gives her a pleased look dressed up as reproach.

Assad looks down at the mug with dawning horror as it's placed in front of him. When he glances up, Eric is giving him an evil smirk.

“Um, why does this mug have a drawing of us kissing on it?” he asks.

“It's not us,” Eric says, not innocently at all. “It's Daniel and Armand.”

“I bought it for him,” Jo says, turning the page of her newspaper. “I was trying to embarrass him, but he's shameless.”

“I break it out anytime we have company,” Eric agrees.

Assad stares at it.

It's a good likeness, though he thinks the artist has somewhat exaggerated his own beauty and downplayed Eric’s.

“What do you want in your pancakes?” Eric asks, opening the fridge and pulling out a bowl of batter and a stick of butter. “I've got chocolate chips, blueberries, uh, bananas?”

“Bananas,” Assad says. “And chocolate chips. Please.”

Eric nods. “Good pick.”

Assad sips his coffee, forgetting that he hasn't put anything in it, and makes a face.

“Do you have milk?” he asks.

“I used the last of it for the pancake batter,” Eric says. “I've got… cinfully nutty coffee creamer orrrr… yeah, that's heavy whipping cream.”

“Cinfully nutty?” Assad asks.

“That's what I call Eric,” Jo says, at the same time Eric says, “That's what Jo calls me.” They exchange an affectionate look.

“Cinnamon and hazelnut, I think,” Eric tells him. “Or cinnamon and the vague notion of some sort of nut. You want that?”

“Yeah,” Assad says, tapping his toes lightly against the island. “Thanks.”

Eric pushes the creamer across the counter at him and winks.

Assad blushes and looks down at his coffee. He only looks up again to watch hungrily as Eric pours batter onto a hot skillet, eyes lingering on his arms as he flips the pancakes or lifts his own mug of coffee to his lips.

They eat banana chocolate chip pancakes with peanut butter at the kitchen island. Assad stays quiet, mostly, while Eric and Jo engage in the easy, playful banter of a long time companionship. He watches them and tries not to be jealous. It is genuinely charming, and awful too.

“Are you going to watch the vampire show with us, dear?” Eric asks when only a few crumbs and a smear of peanut butter are left on his plate.

Assad’s stomach flips. He'd forgotten all about watching the show together.

“No, no,” Jo says, yawning. “You two have your fun. I need to sleep. I'll watch it with you later, promise.”

Eric leans across the counter and kisses her, first on the mouth and then on the nose. Assad tries not to watch too conspicuously.

“Sleep well,” Eric says softly to her, and she leans in and whispers something in his ear that Assad can't hear. Eric laughs. He swats her arm playfully.

“Sleep terribly,” he amends, and she gives him a teasing look before slipping off her stool.

“It was lovely to see you again, Assad,” she says. “We’ll see each other soon, I hope.”

He nods and smiles, his mouth stuffed full of pancake. She ruffles his hair as she passes, and then she's gone. It's a more familiar gesture than their relationship really warrants, but he finds he doesn't mind.

Eric watches her go, then turns his luminous green eyes on Assad and claps his hands together.

“Alright!” he says. “Let's go watch Luke’s great awakening.”

Assad swallows.

“Sorry, what?”

“Showtime, baby! I'm excited, I didn't get to see you go full monster mode during our shoots.”

“Oh, yeah,” Assad says. “Yeah, I worked really hard on it. Um.”

His feet tap against the stool’s legs.

Eric takes pity on him.

He leans forward over the counter, and Assad is painfully aware of how the movement mirrors him leaning towards Jo.

“Assad,” he says, ducking down to catch his eye. “I'm not mad at you for getting high and jerking off in my bathroom. Okay?”

Assad freezes, staring at him with wide eyes, his mouth slightly open.

Eric smirks.

“You can hear everything through those pipes,” he says. “For future reference.”

He pats the counter twice with both hands, then pushes back and heads for the door.

Assad hides his head in his arms on the counter. Eric laughs.

“C'mon,” he says. “Get up, kiddo.”

He does, in the end, not meeting Eric's eye as he grapples with the potent, swirling mixture of horror and relief in his belly.

When they reach the den, Eric sits on one end of the couch and Assad curls up on the opposite end, as far away from Eric as he can get. They're quiet as Eric fiddles with the remote, and then Assad's face is on the screen.

“Look at you,” Eric says, exasperated and fond.

“Mm,” Assad says, a moment after Armand makes the same sound. He's not sure if that’s meant to be a compliment about the way he looks on screen. It would be warranted, he thinks, if it was. He never looks like that in real life.

“He's so different from you,” Eric says. “You've done a beautiful job with him.”

He points at himself on screen. “That's just me, obviously. No acting required. Meanwhile, you're giving a masterclass.”

Assad squirms in his seat. He's pleased that his face on screen shows no hint that he had been fantasizing about stealing Daniel’s sweater.

“Let's see how the San Francisco stuff plays,” he says. “Then you can tell me all about what a great actor I am.”

It's strange, watching himself. Eric’s right; he doesn't really see himself when he looks at Armand.

“You really haven't watched the rest of the show?” Eric asks.

Assad shakes his head.

“Clips, here and there,” he says, “but this will be the first full episode I watch.”

“Well, I'm here for emotional support if you need it, babe,” Eric says, glancing at him with a lopsided grin before returning his eyes to the screen.

Assad swallows.

He feels a little raw when his own face flashes in Daniel’s memory. He looks… 

“Freaky, man,” Eric says happily. “Great stuff.”

“Lot more where that came from,” Assad tells him absently.

When young Daniel eyes up Louis in the apartment, Eric laughs.

Assad glances over at him and catches his eye. He laughs too, then glances shyly away.

“Luke's a lot of fun to work with,” he says. “Wish they'd given you a scene together, you'd’ve had a blast.”

“Something out of Armand’s fantasies?” Eric suggests, and Assad feels his face warm.

“Something like that,” he agrees.

He wonders if he's about to be called out again, if Eric is about to say something like, or something out of Assad’s fantasies? but he doesn't, he just turns back to the screen.

They watch the rest of Luke and Jacob’s scene in silence, and Assad keeps his eyes on the screen, but he feels Eric beside him, even all the way on the other end of the couch. He feels the pull. They keep laughing at Luke at the same time, and it's not like that means they're soulmates or anything, but it feels good.

“Heyyyy,” Eric says when Armand appears to push Daniel and Louis apart. “There he is.”

He sounds like a proud dad watching his son’s school play, and Assad has no fucking idea how to feel about that.

“You're so scary! Look at you, you little monster!”

Assad is looking, and he's thinking maybe he should have watched the show earlier, because actually this isn't excruciating at all. He’s happy with this.

He can't say that, though. It's not in his nature. So instead, he says, “I'm bigger than you.”

“Only physically,” Eric says, and Assad has no idea what the hell that means. “Now shhh, I want to watch this.”

Assad watches Eric out of the corner of his eye. He's rapt, eyes glued to the screen, and he gives a little, appreciative snort when Armand says, “Must be exquisite.”

Assad looks back at the screen, smiling to himself, a bubble of pride swelling in his chest and eclipsing the embarrassment he's been drowning in since last night.

“Some sort of sock or shoe commercial…”

“Give me your feet,” Eric says.

“Sorry?”

“Your feet,” Eric repeats, not looking at him. “Give them to me.”

Slowly, afraid he's misunderstood, Assad shifts on the couch to face Eric and extends his legs, placing his feet in Eric's lap. Eric takes one of them in his hands and starts digging his thumbs into the ball, eyes still glued to the screen. Assad’s breath catches.

Eric massages his feet slowly, methodically and deeply, taking his time, not missing a single spot. It feels alarmingly good.

Neither of them reacts when Luke says, “I could be on my knees in a second.”

Eric hits a sore spot in Assad’s arch and Assad moans quietly, then bites his lip hard, trying to swallow the sound back down.

Eric doesn't acknowledge it. He just nods at the screen, where Armand has is saying, “My first memory, I'm being run down by slavers in Delhi. My second…”

“That's so good, man,” he says. “That look away? What you do with your mouth there? Really compelling work.”

“Are you trying to embarrass me on purpose?” Assad asks, hugging himself tightly.

Eric gives him a sheepish grin.

“Maybe,” he says. “I mean it though.”

Eric reaches his heel and Assad’s breath catches.

Eventually, Eric's hands settle, one holding a foot, the other an ankle, and Assad tries to pretend he's still watching the screen instead of focusing every bit of his attention on Eric's hands on his skin.

When the final close up of Assad’s face appears on the screen, Eric takes a deep breath.

Assad can't tell what it means.

They sit like that through the credits, and for a moment after. Assad feels like he's on fire, heat radiating out from each point of contact.

Then, Eric pats his ankle and lets him go, and he reluctantly pulls his feet back in towards his thighs.

Eric drops his hands to his thighs and turns to him, pulling one knee up onto the couch. “So, what did you think? Was that torture? Have I tortured you?”

Assad will have to contemplate that question later.

“Yeah, no, it was fine, actually,” he says. “I'm happy with it. You were great too, and you know it, so you can cut the false modesty nonsense. No acting required? Give me a break.”

“This from the king of false modesty,” Eric says, grinning.

“It's not false!” Assad protests.

“Yeah, well,” Eric says. “It will be when I'm done with you.”

They stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Assad feels the air crackle between them.

“I should go,” he says finally. “I’m supposed to be meeting some friends at the Met this afternoon and I’d like to go home and change first.”

“Oh,” Eric says, looking faintly surprised. “Uh, right.”

“Thank you for having me,” Assad says, hugging his legs to his chest. “This was fun.”

“Anytime, kiddo,” Eric says. He’s rubbing his hands over his thighs absentmindedly. “It’s always good to see you, you know?”

“Yeah,” Assad says. “You too.”

And then they’re just looking at each other again.

“Hey,” Assad says. “Can I borrow some socks?”

He wiggles his toes.

“I seem to have lost mine.”

Eric tilts his head.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “Sure. Yeah, of course. I’ll – I’ll be right back.”

Assad watches him shuffle out of the room.

His brain is full of static and electricity. Any attempt he makes to think, really think, about anything that has happened in the last sixteen-ish hours just slides right off it, so he opens his phone instead and mindlessly fiddles with the app where he collects little cartoon cats and feeds them little cartoon fish.

He nearly drops his phone when Eric gets back.

“Here you go,” Eric says, holding the thick brown socks in his face. “They’re good ones too, so while I normally wouldn’t expect borrowed socks to be returned, I will be getting these back.”

“Yes, sir,” Assad says, and takes the socks.

They say goodbye at the door, and it’s normal. Eric gives him a quick hug and tells him to send pictures of mummies when he’s at the museum.

Assad is halfway down the steps when Eric says, “Will you stop by on your way home from San Diego? To give me my socks back?”

He sounds oddly hopeful, and when Assad looks up at him he looks more vulnerable than usual, with his hands tucked into his pockets and his shoulders up in the vicinity of his ears.

“Yeah,” Assad tells him. “Wish you could be there but yeah, second best thing.”

They smile at each other, and Eric waves. When Assad turns to look back from half a block away, he’s hoping that Eric will still be standing on the stoop, waving, but he’s gone, and the door is closed.

Assad looks at that closed door for a long time, too long to be standing in the middle of the sidewalk. When a man walking by bumps his shoulder, he shakes himself and continues walking in the direction of the subway.

Six weeks. No, not six. Seven. It’s a painfully long time, but they went far longer between season one and season two, so he decides to be happy about it. He’ll see Eric again in seven weeks.

And Eric is not angry at him for getting high and jerking off in his guest bathroom.

Assad covers his face with his hands, groans, and walks straight into a tree.

Assad isn't sure whether Eric was being serious about the mummies, but he sends the pictures anyway, along with several pictures of things in the museum that are not mummies. Eric emoji reacts to every single one, with a different emoji each time.

After that, their texting patterns change. Before, they had texted only occasionally, and mostly about logistics, sometimes the odd joke or a “wish you were here” accompanied by photos of visiting castmates. Now, suddenly, they're texting nearly every day: interesting things they see as they go about their days, memes, articles. Assad sends artsy Instagram nature shots and Eric sends him snippets of the play he's working on.

Assad doesn't really understand what has changed, but he's not about to complain. It makes the weeks go by faster. Some of his friends start teasing him, asking who the secret lover is who makes him smile at his phone like that. He blushes and tells them that it's not like that. He knows they don't believe him.

Sometimes, Eric sends him twitter posts or gossip sites, insinuations that the two of them are secretly an item. It's clearly meant to be a joke, and Eric seems to revel in it. He is especially gleeful when he finds the camera footage of himself calling Assad sweetheart outside the theater, and a twitter thread from the couple outside the diner describing their encounter.

Assad isn't sure how to feel about that. He hadn't taken it seriously, not really, but he doesn't love knowing for sure that it was all a game.

Still, he's happy as his plane lands in San Diego. He's looking forward to the con, of course, and if a part of him whispers that what he's really looking forward to is what comes after the con, he ignores it.

Landed 🌞, he texts Eric when he turns off airplane mode, along with an artfully framed picture of the tarmac and the sky beyond.

Glad you didn’t crash, Eric texts back, along with a string of emojis: 🛫✈️🛬💥👎

Assad snorts.

Thanks, he says. Not like I have to fly again in five days.

Eric sends back, You're welcome 😘

Assad gazes down at the message and sighs.

So whose fault is it, really, if he's a space case for the entire convention? If he fidgets and daydreams and says things he doesn't realize he's saying until it's too late? Things like, “What would happen if I said we actually did that?” and “I forgot what your question was,” and “it was hot and steamy, but with room to get hotter and steamier.”

When that particular video drops, the day before he's meant to fly to New York, he gets a single emoji from Eric: “😂”

It's significant that Eric reacts to it twenty-four hours before Assad boards his flight and turns his phone to airplane mode, because it almost makes it seem as if he intentionally waited until he knew Assad was in the air to share the clip on his Instagram with the caption, I’m game .

Assad, of course, is tagged in the post, and he's inundated with notifications the moment he lands, mostly from people he's never met making comments he would hesitate to send to his best friends.

Eric, of course, has liked several of them.

How far are you planning to take this game? Assad texts him.

What game? he gets back.

Assad doesn't know how to respond to that, so he just says, See you at baggage claim?

Eric replies with a blurry selfie. He looks like a college professor in his glasses and brown checked sports coat, his white dress shirt tucked into dark wash jeans. He's holding a book, though the photo is too blurry to identify it. A baggage claim sign is lit up in the background.

Assad’s heart flips in his chest.

He's here. He's so close. His fingers itch to reach out and touch Eric, and soon he'll be able to.

His thoroughly boiled brain serves up the insane image of himself running across the baggage claim into Eric's arms and kissing him, right there in the midst of all the other travellers.

Maybe Eric would like that. It would certainly get the internet buzzing.

Assad shakes his head, trying to clear it. You're annoyed with him, he reminds himself, but he doesn't feel it.

The queue to get off the plane is torture, and he's so distracted that he gets lost twice, once trying to find a bathroom and then again trying to find baggage claim.

The reunion doesn't go like he'd imagined it, of course. For one, Eric is seated with his back to Assad, so there are no glances caught across the room. Secondly, there's no kiss when Assad sneaks up behind him and taps him on the shoulder.

Eric jumps a little, turns his head, looks up at him over his glasses, and grins. Assad smiles back at him, and then Eric is up and pulling him into his arms.

“Hello, gorgeous!” he says as he lifts Assad and spins him. Assad shrieks.

Well. There's bound to be eyes on them now.

Eric puts him back on his feet and grips his shoulders as he leans back to look at him.

“My God, you're a sight for sore eyes,” he says, squeezing Assad's shoulders before finally letting him go. “I've been looking at airport for an hour. Awful. You're much prettier than an airport.”

“I didn’t ask you to get here early,” Assad says, feeling a little shell shocked. He's very aware that there's a small knot of people to their left with their eyes on them, probably more in every direction.

“No, but I know myself, and sometimes the choice is between an hour early and three hours late, so.”

He holds out his arms as if to say, Here I am!

Assad doesn't think Eric has ever been late to meet him in all the time they've known each other.

“Are you hoping those women over there are posting about us on twitter?” he asks, nodding to a couple of women on their phones. They're about his age and look mildly goth-adjacent. I've-just-been-on-a-plane-for-six-hours goth.

“Oh, they're definitely posting about us on twitter,” Eric says with a wicked grin.

“You know,” Assad says. “I rightfully could be angry with you about this.”

“Yeah,” Eric agrees. “But you're not.”

Assad is quiet for a moment. He's not sure that's true. He's not as angry as he should be, and it's not the primary thing he's feeling, but still, he thinks he might be a little bit angry.

“That's yours, isn't it?” Eric says, pointing to the nearest luggage belt, and the fact that Eric can identify his travel bag makes this whole feelings situation even more difficult to untangle.

“Yeah,” Assad says, and before he can do anything about it Eric is striding forward and lifting it off the belt.

“You don't need to –”

“Shut up,” Eric says. “Come on, let's get outta here, princess.”

“I'm going to kill you,” Assad says as he follows Eric towards the parking garage.

“Sounds hot and steamy,” Eric says, grinning over his shoulder.

Assad groans.

“I have something to show you, related to that,” Eric says, as he pushes open the door to the warm summer air. The sun is setting, and the sky is streaked with reds and purples. It's cooler than San Diego, but muggy.

“When we get home,” he adds, holding the door for Assad. “Not here.”

As keeps happening, Eric returns to something resembling normal when they're alone together. They bicker agreeably about what music to listen to until Eric just turns on the radio and turns the volume down low. Then, they talk, not really about anything, just dancing around…

Well, Assad’s not sure what they're dancing around, exactly, but he can tell it's there by its absence, by the careful avoidance of something here and something there. It's odd, but not unpleasant, and he's been thoroughly pulled into a false sense of security by the time Eric is pulling into a parking spot on his block and carrying Assad’s bag through the front door.

“Is Jo here?” Assad asks as the door closes behind him.

“Oh, uh. No,” Eric says, not looking at him as he sheds his shoes, his coat. “No, she's away for a few days. Writer’s retreat or something. Silent retreat? Some sort of retreat.”

He's just standing in the hallway, holding Assad’s bag, like he doesn't know where to go from here.

“You were going to show me something?” Assad prompts.

“Mmm,” Eric says. He looks down the hall towards the guest room, then drops Assad’s bag in the hall instead and leads him to the living room.

It's brighter and sunnier than the rest of the house, with yellow walls and large windows and several show posters hung in frames.

“They're all ours,” Eric says, answering Assad’s unspoken question. “We believe in raging narcissism in this household.”

He drops down onto the couch and pats the seat beside him as he fiddles with his phone.

Assad sits next to him, perched on the edge of the couch with his hands folded in his lap, and tries not to think about snuggling into Eric's side, resting his head on his shoulder, kissing the underside of his jaw…

“Come here,” Eric says, grabbing him around the shoulders and dragging him in against his side. “I'm not gonna bite you. Look.”

He's grinning and holding out his phone.

Assad blinks at it, trying to focus through the warmth of Eric at his side.

“Eric,” he says, after a moment, “do you have an Archive of Our Own account?”

“Yeah!” Eric says. “Apparently a lot of people lock RPF so… do you know about RPF?”

“Yes, Eric,” Assad says, feeling lightheaded. “I know about RPF.”

“Have you seen this shit?” Eric asks, shaking the phone at him.

The screen reads “1-8 of 8 Works in Eric Bogosian/Assad Zaman”.

Eric laughs in delight.

“Have you… do you read this stuff?” Assad asks.

“Are you kidding?” Eric says. His arm is still around Assad’s shoulders. “Seriously, what do you think?”

Assad glances at him. He's very close. His eyes are like carved jade. They look like they'd be cool to the touch.

“I think you've read all of it,” he says.

Eric laughs again.

“Of course I have!” he says, “and look –”

He taps on the most recent post and hands the phone to Assad.

“I'm not reading this, Eric,” Assad says, exasperated.

“That's fine, whatever,” Eric says, waving his hand dismissively. “But look at the tags and the description. And the title!”

“Explicit,” the tags tell him. “Daddy kink,” they say.

“Eric…” Assad protests.

“I know, I know, but trust me, kiddo, keep going.”

Assad’s face burns at the pet name, coming so soon after reading the words “Daddy kink”. Is this what the fans think about when they look at them? Did those girls outside the diner whisper about it as they walked away?

Armand, I need you.

Assad's eyes go wide as he keeps reading.

Eric taps the phone screen.

“I've been working so hard to bait them and you've already inspired a whole entire work of fanfiction just with that thirty second interview clip!” he crows.

“I, um…” Assad says.

He's panicking, he realizes. This is a panic attack. It's a quiet one – he's not full on hyperventilating – but his brain has simply stopped.

“Hey,” Eric says, frowning and rubbing his shoulder. “Hey, are you okay, babe? Was that not –”

Assad jumps to his feet, hugging himself tightly, and turns to face him, though he's not meeting his eye.

“Don't,” he says. “Just… don't.”

Eric looks really worried now, and guilty, like he's just figured out that showing your coworker pornography of the two of you might actually constitute sexual harassment.

Except then he says, “Assad, I don't know what to do here,” and Assad has no fucking idea what that means.

Slowly, like Assad is a skittish animal he's trying not to spook, Eric stands and walks to him. He doesn't touch him, just stands close, trying to catch his eye. Assad steadfastly looks at his own feet.

“You have to make the first move here,” Eric says, like it's obvious. “You do understand that, right?”

That makes Assad look up immediately, and the heat he sees in Eric's eyes makes his breath catch in his throat.

“What?” he squeaks.

Eric stares at him, then huffs and looks away.

“Okay, fine,” he says. “Take your fucking time, I guess. I don't know what the hell you're waiting for, but –”

Assad’s head is full of static, but when Eric turns to walk away, he knows that he doesn't want him to, so he grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him back.

Eric raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” Assad gasps, his throat dry, and kisses him.

Eric takes this as permission to immediately go absolutely fucking ape shit.

“Mmph!” Assad says, as he’s lifted and slammed down onto the couch. He lets go of Eric’s shirt in favor of winding his arms around his neck. Eric breaks the kiss to latch onto Assad's neck, biting and sucking in a way that will certainly bruise as he rips open Assad’s fly and tears off his skinny jeans.

Assad is panting, eyes rolling into the back of his head, deliriously trying to make his brain catch up to what is happening.

“Take this off,” Eric pants, pulling on Assad's T-shirt, and he does, so quickly he thinks he hears it tear before he throws it to the floor.

Eric crashes their mouths back together, biting and licking into Assad’s mouth with a desperation as raw as Assad’s own. He's still fully dressed, rutting against Assad’s nearly naked body.

Assad’s fingers shake as he fumbles with the buttons on Eric’s shirt, and it doesn't take long for Eric to growl impatiently into his mouth and tear through the buttons himself, sending them pinging off the hardwood.

They both groan when their bare chests touch, an intimacy they’ve never shared before. Eric is hairier than Assad, and Assad revels in the sensation of those thick, coarse curls against his skin. He lifts his hips, arching up to meet Eric's frantic thrusts.

“Yes,” he realizes he's saying, “yes, Eric, please, oh my god –”, a babbling stream of desperate nonsense, and Eric is grunting and sucking another bruise into his neck, and Assad is going to, he's going to –

“Fuck!” he whines, trying to stop it, trying to pull back, but it's too late; his vision is whiting out, and he's coming, coming, coming right into his boxer briefs, thirty fucking seconds after Eric kissed him for the first time.

He tries to squirm away, mortified, but Eric holds him down.

“Stay still,” he growls. “Just fucking – oh fuck –”

His eyes are squeezed shut and he's rutting against Assad faster now, and Assad can't help but think how deliciously brutal this pace would be with Eric inside of him, and then Eric’s mouth falls open and his face scrunches up, and Assad can feel his cock twitching against his thigh.

When the twitching stops, and Eric's face relaxes, he collapses on top of Assad, panting, his face tucked into his neck.

It's a little hard for Assad to breathe like this, but he doesn't care. He's floating.

“Wow,” he says finally, dreamily, when his ability to speak returns to him.

“Mmm,” Eric says, the sound muffled against Assad’s neck. He kisses him there, right over the last mark he's left, and then sits up.

Assad pouts.

“C'mere,” Eric says, gathering him up in his arms. Assad is as limp as a ragdoll, but Eric lifts him into his lap anyway.

“Hi,” he says, grinning.

Assad blinks.

“Hi,” he says, and his smile is smaller, shyer, but no less genuine.

“Do you think we were a little pent up, maybe?” Eric asks.

Assad bites his lip.

“I –” he says, but he doesn't know where to start, so he trails off into silence instead.

Eric hugs him tightly and kisses him gently on the mouth. Assad melts into it with a little sigh.

“You don't need to be in a hurry to talk about it,” Eric murmurs. “Last I checked, I’ve got you for two days, right?”

“Right,” Assad whispers.

Two days. It suddenly seems horribly insufficient.

Eric grabs his ass with both hands and squeezes, which effectively breaks Assad out of that little moment of melancholy.

“Let's take a shower,” Eric says. “I can feel the come starting to dry on my ball hair.”

Assad snorts.

“Charming,” he says.

“Hey, you're the one who’s obsessed with me,” Eric says. “There's no accounting for taste.”

“I'm not – what – who says I'm –” Assad splutters.

“Mm-hm,” Eric says, and kisses him again.

Assad whines, melting into him.

Eric breaks the kiss with a loud smacking sound and gives him a smug look.

Assad rolls his eyes and slides off his lap. There's a noticeable wet patch on the front of Eric's pants, and he's sure his boxer briefs aren't fairing any better.

“I'm going home,” he calls, as he rounds the corner and disappears from view. A moment later, he peeks his head back around the corner.

“Which bathroom am I going to?” he asks.

Despite the wet patch on the front of his jeans, Eric looks like a lounging jungle cat when he looks up, arms spread across the back of the couch and shirt open. That professorial, grandfatherly air from the airport is nowhere to be found.

Then, he smiles softly at him, and it's back.

“Let's go upstairs,” he says, huffing as he pushes himself off the couch, but Assad doesn't turn towards the stairs. Instead, he crosses the living room and takes Eric's hand with a bashful little smile.

Eric looks at him like he's never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. It makes Assad's stomach flip over.

It doesn't occur to Assad until they're through the door that Eric might be taking him to his and Jo’s bedroom. It's cozy, with bookshelves built into the walls and a king size bed covered in a plush comforter and colorful afghan. It's also messy – clothes strewn across the floor, several old mugs on one of the nightstands.

It makes Assad feel very small. Where is his place in all this? He doesn't think he has one.

Eric tugs on his hand.

This bathroom is similar to the one downstairs, but bigger, with a modern, white Jacuzzi tub instead of the vintage brass.

Suddenly, Assad is aware that they're about to be naked in front of each other for the first time, and all Jo-related reservations slip from his mind.

He's still holding Eric's hand, and yet he feels hopelessly shy, as if there's a chance he's about to be rejected.

Eric squeezes his hand and then lets it go, and Assad feels like he's about to float away.

“You're thinking very loudly,” Eric says as he sheds his clothes. He has his back to Assad as he steps out of his pants, and Assad’s spiraling coexists with a deep and desperate desire to kneel down and bite his hairy ass.

Eric turns around.

He's beautiful, so beautiful Assad can hardly stand to look at him, so beautiful he couldn't possibly look away.

“I didn't – um. I didn't expect this,” Assad says to Eric's chest.

When he finally wrenches his eyes up to his face, Eric's eyebrows are practically in his hairline.

“What the hell do you mean, you didn't expect this?” he says incredulously. “What did you think we were doing?”

Assad shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other and shrugs self consciously.

I thought this was all a joke to you, he thinks, but he's not sure that's the right thing to say, so he doesn't.

“Hey,” Eric says, coming to him and gripping his upper arms. He's trying to ground him, Assad thinks, and he's grateful for it, but he's not sure it’s enough. “Hey, baby, you're freaking out. Why are you freaking out?”

Because you're cheating on Jo. Because I don't know if you'll still want me at the end of these two days. Because this isn't how I thought this visit was going to go. Because I'm getting what I want and I don't know what to do with it because I was certain I would never have it.

“Just, uh. Just a little overwhelmed, I think,” Assad says. “You know, the con was good, but I have a hard time – so many people – and then the airport and the plane and now –”

His breathing is getting quicker, shallower.

“Hey,” Eric says quietly. “Hey. Sh, sh, sh, you're okay. I've got you, kiddo. C'mere.”

He pulls him into a hug and Assad goes, shuddering at the feeling of Eric's naked body against him.

Eric holds him until his breathing settles.

“Let's take a bath,” he says. “I think you need a bath. And maybe a Xanax, but I don't have any of those, so you'll have to settle.”

“A bubble bath?” Assad asks, and Eric laughs.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing Assad’s back. “A bubble bath. Almost as good as a benzo.”

He kisses him gently, and that's all it takes for Assad’s shoulders to sink back to where they belong.

“Mm,” he says into the kiss, and Eric gives him an answering squeeze around the middle.

“I have to let go of you if I'm gonna run the bath,” Eric says. “Think you can handle that?”

“Mean,” Assad says, nipping at Eric’s lip. “Will you ever stop teasing me?”

“Never,” Eric promises.

Assad lets him go.

The upside of this is that he gets to watch Eric bend over the tub, testing the temperature of the water and pouring in a generous amount of the jasmine bubble bath Assad had been eyeing the last time he was here. It smells wonderful, filling the room with a gentle but rich feeling of quiet and comfort.

When the tub is full, Eric lowers himself into it and spreads his legs beneath the foam.

“You're gonna have to take your underwear off at some point,” he tells Assad, by way of invitation.

Before he can get too in his head about it, Assad strips his underwear off and, for the first time, stands naked in front of Eric.

Eric wolfwhistles.

Assad finds that it puts him at ease. This naked man in the bath, he suddenly remembers, has been his primary source of comfort on set for over two years. He gives him a coquettish little grin and a slow spin.

“Jesus,” Eric says. “Fucking Christ. Bring that thing over here.”

The bath is warm and fragrant when Assad slips into it, and Eric is both solid and soft at his back.

The problem, of course, is that his knees jut out comically above the bubbles. He squirms, trying to fit himself comfortably into the tub, but it's just not happening.

Eric laughs.

“Alright, Daddy long legs,” he says, poking Assad’s side. “Sit up, we’re swapping places.”

It's all a bit clumsy, and they splash a great deal of water and bubbles onto the floor and the bath mat, but when Eric settles back against Assad with a happy sigh, Assad thinks this couldn't be any more perfect.

“The button for the jets is to your right,” Eric says, immediately proving him wrong.

“I'm never leaving,” Assad groans when he's found the button and the jets turn on, pummeling his back and sides and making the bubbles grow comically above the lip of the tub. “Fuck two days. I live in your bathtub now.”

He wraps his arms around Eric and squeezes, nuzzling into his curls as Eric laughs.

“I'll get some fish food,” Eric tells him. “And some of those little plastic plants. For enrichment.”

They sit in comfortable silence for as long as Eric is capable of comfortable silence, which isn't very long but is still very nice, Assad stroking Eric's belly and pressing gentle kisses to his neck.

“So,” Eric says, cracking the moment open like an egg, searching for the rich, life giving center of things. “Tell me what exactly you thought was happening for the last, uh, two years or so? But really, especially, the last two months. Because I can't understand how this has come as a surprise to you.”

Assad shrugs, though he knows Eric can't see it.

“You're married,” he says, and immediately wishes he hadn't.

Eric takes it in stride.

“Sure,” he says. “Nonethefuckingless.”

The bubbles are starting to melt, just a little bit. Assad splashes some water at Eric's chest absentmindedly.

“Guess I thought it was all just… wishful thinking?” he says.

“Uh huh,” Eric says skeptically. “Wishful thinking.”

“You flirt with everyone,” Assad accuses.

“Alright,” Eric admits. “That's fair. But I don't flirt with everyone like I flirt with you, kiddo.”

Assad huffs, his small mouth tucked behind Eric's ear, and Eric squirms a little.

“Give it two hours,” Eric says. “And I'll take you to bed and show you how stupid you’ve been.”

Assad shivers and nips at Eric’s earlobe.

“I feel like I'm in a dream,” he says.

Eric chuckles.

“God, you're gay,” he says affectionately. “What a fucking homosexual thing to say.”

Assad flicks him hard on the shoulder.

“What are you, twelve?” he asks.

“Something like that,” Eric says. “Body got old, but the mind…”

He taps himself on the temple.

“Well, that's gotten pretty old too, actually.”

How long do I get to keep this? Assad doesn't ask.

They stay in the tub until the water starts to get cold, and Assad kisses the pruney tips of Eric’s fingers one by one before they get out. They taste like salt and jasmine, and he thinks he will remember that taste for a long time.

“Don't get dressed,” Eric tells him when they're dry. “I want to keep looking at you.”

“Only if you don't get dressed either,” Assad says. “Fair’s fair, Mister.”

For the first time, he notices Eric’s breath catch at the endearment. He wonders how long he's been missing that.

It feels deliciously illicit to pad through the house completely bare, thick carpet or hardwood beneath his feet in turns. He glances at the windows. They're not walking near them, but no curtains are drawn. Anyone could see, if they really looked.

Eric leads him to the kitchen and starts throwing things onto a wooden cutting board; cheeses and olives and crackers and nuts, small purple grapes and larger green ones. Assad stares at him openly, memorizing the shapes and movements of his body, storing them like a camel stores water.

When Eric catches him staring, he looks…

Assad studies his face.

He looks self conscious. Can that be right? It's not a feeling Assad associates with him, not at all. Eric is all bluster and bravado and smirking self-assurance. Certainly he's not self conscious now?

“See something you like?” Eric asks, and it's meant to be a joke, a cocky joke, but Assad thinks it sounds a little bit sincere.

He lets the question hang in the air for a moment, just to feel it, just to see Eric squirm a little.

“Yeah,” he says. “Several things, actually. And believe it or not, Brie is not at the top of the list.”

“Mm,” Eric says. “More of a cheddar guy?”

Assad shakes his head, smiling ruefully.

“I thought we’d put a moratorium on false modesty,” he says.

Eric studies his face. He plucks a grape and rolls it between his fingers.

“What if it's not false?” he asks.

He shakes his head and pops the grape into his mouth.

“I mean, don't get me wrong,” he says, sounding a little more like his usual self. “I know how you feel about me. You've made it abundantly clear, apparently by accident, which I still can't wrap my mind around…”

He trails off, pushing the cutting board towards Assad.

“Eat,” he says. “You'll need the calories.”

Assad watches him, slowly picking up a grape and a piece of cheese and popping them in his mouth. He's learned that dead air reliably causes Eric to talk more. No torture is necessary to make Eric admit things he doesn't want to admit; only silence.

Eric’s staring back at him, hands on his hips, mouth slightly open, and Assad thinks he looks just exactly like he does in all the old movies and video clips he's watched, the ones Eric says he doesn't recognize himself in at all.

“You've been driving me crazy, kid,” Eric says. “I mean, after the last time I almost convinced myself I was wrong. And, like, if I was wrong, then I was fucking certifiable, because I was sure.”

Assad keeps eating – a couple of olives, a cracker and cheese, an almond and a bit of Brie.

“I really – I really almost lost it after you left. I think the only thing that kept me from completely spiraling out was watching you walk into that tree.”

Assad chokes on the almond.

“You saw that?” he asks, when he's done coughing.

“Yeah,” Eric says, grinning. “It was fucking adorable.”

Assad flips him off, and Eric flips him off right back, tongue stuck out between his teeth.

“I was thinking about you,” Assad says. “In the shower, I mean. I was – I thought I was gonna die when I saw you, standing there with the toothbrush.”

Eric's grin turns wicked.

“I did that on purpose,” he says.

“You're kidding,” Assad says sarcastically.

He rolls his eyes, then looks over at Eric and winks at him, enjoying the way it makes Eric blink rapidly.

He feels like he's discovering a superpower. All this time, Eric has been tormenting him, and now Assad is going to be able to torture him right back. He can't wait to get back on set.

“What were you thinking about?” Eric asks, his voice low and rough. “When you were thinking about me?”

Assad’s face warms.

“Um,” he says, and laughs, shifting on the stool.

“C'mon,” Eric says. “I'm a dirty old man. You're not gonna shock me”.

“I was, uh. Well…”

And they've kissed now, and had the kind of sex horny teenagers have at cast parties, and lain naked in the bath together, but for some reason this is really, seriously flustering Assad. His fantasies about Eric have sometimes been simple – kissing him, holding him, riding him slow and sweet – but more often they get into territory that Assad's not sure Eric will be into, even if he is into Assad.

“What?” Eric says. “Rape fetish? Crossdressing? Piss? It's not gonna be anything I haven't done, babe.”

Getting it in one, Assad thinks, is severely unfair.

“I was thinking about you coming into the guest room, after I'd fallen asleep,” he blurts out. His cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “And, ah – having your way with me while I slept.”

Eric leans forward on the counter, like he had all those weeks ago, though in rather different circumstances.

“That,” he murmurs, “is entirely achievable,” and pops a grape in his mouth.

Assad has nothing in his mouth, but he swallows anyway.

They stare at each other for a long, heated moment.

“Yeah,” Eric says hoarsely. “I'm not fucking waiting until you fall asleep to get my cock in you though. We're doing that now.”

“Yes,” Assad breathes. “Yeah. I – Where –?”

“My bed,” Eric says. “Run.”

For a moment, they're both perfectly still. Then, Assad bolts for the stairs.

Eric is on his heels in an instant, but Assad is faster. He takes the stairs three at a time, swings around the corner, and only slows when he reaches the bed.

It's Jo’s bed. Eric and Jo's bed. He shouldn't – Is Eric really going to –?

Eric tackles him onto the bed and Assad shrieks, scrambling to try and get out from under him, hoping that Eric won't let him.

Eric doesn't disappoint.

“I don't think so,” he grunts, pinning Assad under his weight and feeling for something between the mattress and the headboard as Assad bucks helplessly under him.

“There you are,” he mutters under his breath, and pulls out a set of black Velcro restraints.

“Oh,” Assad gasps, forgetting for a moment to struggle.

Eric takes advantage of the lapse, grabbing one of Assad’s dainty wrists and slipping a cuff around it, tightening it and shaking it to make sure it's secure.

Assad makes the second more difficult, throwing his arm around to try to get it out of Eric's reach, but he's caught and tied down eventually.

“Try to get out of those,” Eric says, far too calmly. “Really try, I want to make sure they're tight enough.”

Assad tries until his wrists burn and he's panting, twisting and pulling. He can't get free.

“Good,” Eric says. “Good boy.”

Assad whines.

Eric is hard against his ass now, rubbing against him, but not with any real intent, not yet, his attention captured by the restraints.

“I'm going to do your ankles now,” he says. “Are you going to be good?”

“Probably not,” Assad tells him.

“Are you angling for a spanking?”

A shiver travels up Assad’s spine.

“Maybe,” he says faintly.

All his dreams are coming true. Every last one of them.

Maybe he's dead. That seems like the only reasonable explanation.

Eric slides off of him to retrieve the ankle restraints and Assad immediately starts twisting, kicking, and pulling, trying as hard as he can to break free, without actually using his fingers to undo the Velcro, which he probably could do fairly easily if he felt so inclined.

Eric grabs one of his ankles, hard, and yanks it down and out.

The wrist cuffs are mounted close together at the headboard, but the ankle cuffs, Assad quickly realizes, are meant to keep their occupant’s legs spread.

“We’ll just keep these on ‘til you're open for me,” Eric assures him, as he secures his final limb. “Then I'll give you a fair chance to get away from me. Not that it will do you any good.”

“Oh my god,” Assad says, his voice breaking on the last syllable.

Eric bends down and kisses him on the calf.

“I'll be right back,” he says.

It takes him an agonizingly long time to return. Assad suspects that he's doing it on purpose to torture him, and it's working. He can squirm, a little, but he's stuck on his belly, not even able to get up onto his knees. He can get a little friction against the Afghan, but only enough to make the situation even more maddening.

“Eric!” he cries when he can't fucking take it anymore, and he hears a chuckle from the corner.

“Begging already?” Eric says derisively.

Assad whines.

“That's what I thought,” Eric says, his voice getting closer. “The fight’s all for show, isn't it? You're really a desperate little slut, aren't you?”

“No,” Assad gasps. “No, please, I don't want –”

“Oh, I'm sure,” Eric says, running a hand slowly up Assad's calf, his thigh, the curve of his ass. “You don't want to be touched. You've been making eyes at me for years, everyone who sees us together knows how badly you want it, but now you're going to fight me. Silly little thing.”

“Please,” Assad says, and he's begging for Eric's fingers now – they’re so close to his hole – but if he's vague enough they can pretend that he's begging for it to stop.

He hears the pop of a bottle opening, the slick sound of fingers warming lube.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Eric says. “Or this is going to hurt.”

Assad is pretending to struggle, but when the first two fingers breach him, he does his best to push back onto them.

Eric chuckles.

“Whore,” he says, and Assad moans.

Eric’s fingers are big, thick, and he's not taking his time about it. Assad worries for a moment that he's going too fast, that the pleasant burn is about to flip over into an actual injury that will mean he can't take Eric after all. He opens his mouth to warn him, but then Eric hits his prostate.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps. “Oh, fuck, Eric –”

He can hear Eric panting between his legs. He thinks it's a sound of hunger rather than exertion. 

The bite to his thigh that comes a moment later seems to support this.

“Ow!” Assad cries, startled more than anything.

“Too much?” Eric asks.

“No!” Assad says quickly. “No, no, please don't stop!”

Eric bites him again, harder, right where his thighs meet his ass, twisting his fingers inside him as the bite turns to sucking, pulling the blood to the surface. Assad moans.

“I'm going to mark you all up,” Eric says, forcing another finger in as he moves down Assad's thighs. “So everyone will know you're mine. You won't be able to fuck anyone else for weeks without telling them what that mean old man did to you.”

He latches on again, biting and sucking, and then lapping over the mark.

He keeps going, leaving a trail of bite marks and suck marks all the way down Assad’s long leg, even when it means he needs to pull his fingers out to get his mouth on his lower calf. Assad is delirious, desperate for this never to stop and desperate for Eric’s cock.

“Mmm,” Eric hums as he pulls back. He presses two fingers into a bruise on Assad’s thigh.

Assad gasps.

“Good,” Eric says. “I want you to feel it.”

Assad hears again the slick sound of lube on skin and thinks he might faint.

“I'm untying you now,” Eric says. “Don't try to run. You won't get far.”

Assad struggles only half heartedly when his legs are freed. He wants it too badly, has no desire to delay what comes next in the name of whatever game they're playing.

“Flip over for me, kiddo,” Eric says, and Assad whimpers, the pet name falling like a hot coal into the furnace of his belly.

He flips over.

“There he is,” Eric says, and he's looming over him, looking every bit as hungry as Assad feels.

“Please, Daddy,” Assad says, and Eric makes a wounded, guttural sound that tells Assad in no uncertain terms that this was not a miscalculation.

“Jesus, baby,” Eric whines, and Assad grins wickedly at him, until his mouth is caught in a bruising kiss.

Arms straining in the restraints, Assad forgets the game entirely and wraps a leg around Eric’s waist, pulling him in and gasping into his mouth when their cocks meet. He has leverage now, with his legs free, and he ruts against him like an animal in heat, desperate, starving, empty.

Please please please.

Eric pulls back. The effort involved looks painful, his brow knit with it.

“Inside you,” he says. “Need to –”

“Yes,” Assad pants, nodding vigorously.

He gives in then and tears at the Velcro himself, which makes Eric laugh.

“Shut up,” Assad says. His wrists are raw and red from struggling against the bonds. He barely notices, just launches himself into fighting as hard as he can.

It takes Eric by surprise, and there's a moment where Assad is afraid he's going to get away, but then his arms are being pinned painfully hard and Eric's hips are moving, clumsily trying to line himself up without any hands. Assad kicks and twists, and Eric's cockhead bumps and slides over his hole until finally, shockingly, it's forced inside him.

“Ah!” Assad shouts, as much in pain and shock as in pleasure.

Eric grunts, adjusting his grip on Assad’s forearms before pushing in further.

The stretch is enough to bring tears to Assad’s eyes. Eric is big, and the perfunctory three fingers he's been given aren't enough to stop the burn of it.

Eric watches his face carefully.

“Good?” he asks, and Assad has barely started nodding when he's gasping, because Eric has forced himself in the rest of the way.

They stare at each other for a long moment, panting, and then, all at once, they break into hysterical laughter.

Assad reaches up and takes Eric's face in his hands.

“Oh my god,” he says, between hiccuping peals of laughter. “Oh my god!”

Eric has devolved into what can only be described as giggles. He looks giddy. Assad knows the feeling.

With no warning at all, Eric pulls back and slams in, and Assad isn't laughing anymore.

“Fuuuuuck!” he moans, eyes falling closed, head tilting back to expose his neck.

Eric takes the invitation, closing his mouth on an unbruised spot behind Assad’s ear and sucking as he pounds into him.

It's perfect, and it's too much, and it feels better than anything Assad's ever felt, and it hurts , and he's struggling before he can decide whether he wants to struggle or not. Eric is a heavy weight on his chest, and it doesn't take long for him to realize that he really is trapped; no amount of kicking and slapping and pulling at Eric's hair is going to free him. He can't breathe, all of a sudden, and he thinks maybe he should tell Eric to stop, but he'd rather die, he'd rather die than stop, so he just gasps shallowly, fighting for breath, on the edge of panic and ecstasy all at once.

And then Eric starts talking.

“You think you're gonna tease me like that and then not let me fuck you? I don't fucking think so, sweetheart. Your ass is mine. Two years of waiting, fuck, I'm never waiting for it again, I'm keeping you tied to my bed for the rest of my fucking life. No, not tied to my bed. Keeping you on a fucking leash, never out of my sight. I'll put you on your knees under the table when I go out for coffee, bend you over the table at read throughs. They'll have to write in Daniel collaring Armand cause you're never gonna take yours off, baby.”

“Yes,” Assad gasps, and then, “no, no, Daddy, please, you're hurting me, I –”

“Shhhh,” Eric says, nuzzling his cheek. “You can take it.”

“Kiss me,” Assad breathes, and Eric obeys instantly, as if he's just been waiting for Assad to start giving orders. He kisses him like he's trying to suck his soul out through his mouth, and Assad tangles his fingers in his curls and pulls him down into it, hungry, starving, desperate to climb inside this man through his mouth and make a home there.

When they finally break, they both gasp for air, and Eric murmurs, “Baby, baby, baby…”

Assad pushes gently on his hips with the leg wrapped around his waist.

“Flip,” he says, and Eric does, so that Assad lands on top of him, still split open on his cock.

They're both breathing hard. Assad brushes his thumbs over Eric's nipples. He licks his lips.

Eric is staring up at him like he's some sort of god and Assad feels giddy with it.

He rolls his hips.

“Oh, fuck,” Eric groans, hands flying up to grip Assad’s thighs. His nails dig in – more marks. Assad can't wait to catalogue them, to look at himself in the mirror and see all the places he's been touched.

He takes all the adrenaline from being held down and channels it into writhing on Eric’s cock, hips moving in quick, sensuous circles as he clenches and unclenches rhythmically, determined to pull Eric’s pleasure from him by force.

Eric is speechless now, and Assad would be unbearably smug about it if he weren't so caught up in his own pleasure.

“Touch me,” he demands, and Eric obeys, wrapping a hand around Assad’s cock.

Assad shakes his head.

“Spit on it,” he pants.

Eric can't actually spit on Assad’s cock from this angle, but he spits on his hand.

Assad sighs happily when Eric strokes him again, eyelashes fluttering.

Eric lets out a shocked, choked noise, and a moment later grabs hold of Assad’s waist, frantically holding him still.

“Stop,” he pants. “Stop, stop.”

Assad frowns down at him, concerned and a little bit frustrated.

“Came,” Eric says, head falling back against the pillows, eyes closed. “I came. Too much.”

“Oh,” Assad says, the concern giving way to smug delight. He squeezes around Eric’s softening cock and Eric whimpers pathetically. “Well, what should I –”

“Fuck my mouth,” Eric says, opening his eyes. His pupils are blown, but that beautiful, singular green is still shining around the edges.

Assad doesn't hesitate, pulling off of Eric's cock without fanfare and scrambling up his body. Eric wraps his arms around his thighs and pulls him in, opening his mouth, and Assad has never seen anything more beautiful in his entire fucking life.

He guides his cock into Eric's mouth, intending to take it slow, but Eric pulls him in closer again and sucks, and Assad is gone.

He fucks Eric's face with quick little thrusts of his hips, one hand against the headboard to hold himself up, the other tangled in Eric's curls. Eric is grabbing his ass now, encouraging his movements, taking him to the root every time without a hint of a cough or a gag, like he does this all the fucking time, which makes Assad furious, because if Eric sucks cock all the fucking time then why the fuck hasn't he been sucking Assad’s cock for the last two years.

“Mmph,” Eric says, and Assad realizes his thrusts have gotten more brutal. He tries to slow down, but Eric shakes his head frantically and pushes on Assad’s ass.

“Fuck,” Assad whispers, “fuck, okay,” and he focuses on nothing more or less than the tight, wet heat of Eric's mouth, and then he comes hard down Eric's throat.

Eric swallows around him and he shudders, wrecked and overstimulated, but he doesn't want to move. He leans forward and rests his forehead against the headboard, eyes closed, catching his breath.

Eric holds his softening cock in his mouth and strokes his thighs, soothing.

“Wow,” Assad murmurs, and Eric laughs, the sound muffled. It feels strange and overwhelming, and Assad laughs in response as he finally slips out, collapsing on his back on the bed beside him.

“Holy shit,” Eric says, finding Assad's hand and twining their fingers together.

“Yeah,” Assad agrees, swallowing thickly.

They lie there, breathing in sync, fingers intertwined, until Eric starts snoring.

Assad turns his head to see Eric’s face slack, eyes closed and mouth open.

Assad rolls onto his side and watches him sleep, peaceful and beautiful and time-worn. He would have liked to watch him grow old, he thinks, but he's glad to be here now, anyway.

When he feels his own eyes growing heavy, he forces himself to get up and go to the bathroom to clean up. He doesn't want to wake up in a wet patch, doesn't want to have to change the sheets before round three. 

When he's clean, he yawns widely, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

His neck is a horror show, more skin bruised than unblemished. He presses a finger to the darkest mark and grins, delighted.

Oh, he hopes they'll go out in public like this.

The thought shocks him a little, but in for a penny, right?

He moves down his body, touching the claw marks on his thighs and turning to see the line of suck marks all down the back of his leg.

He grins at his reflection again. He doesn't actually jump up and down, mindful of any noise that might wake Eric, but he bobs in excitement, a goofy, joyful little dance he's glad no one is there to witness.

Soon after climbing carefully back into bed, he falls asleep with his head on Eric’s chest.

Eric doesn't wake Assad up with his tongue up his ass, because Assad wakes up first, but that's okay. They have one more night together. They have plenty of time.

Assad gets up and raids Eric’s dresser, stealing a pair of boxers and a faded T-shirt for a haunted house attraction that he thinks probably hasn't existed since the 80s.

He has coffee brewing and eggs frying when Eric jogs into the kitchen, hastily wrapping himself in a worn flannel robe and looking panicked.

“Oh,” he says, freezing.

“Good morning,” Assad says, smiling warmly at him. “Over easy, right?”

“Uh,” Eric says. “Yeah, that's. Yeah.”

Assad sticks a piece of buttered toast in his own mouth, then puts two more on a plate and adds the eggs, dropping them on the island in front of Eric before grabbing the piece of toast in his mouth and taking a big bite out of it.

“Are you okay?” he asks, watching Eric stare at the eggs.

“I, uh –” Eric shakes his head. “Fork?” he says.

Assad points at one on the counter near Eric’s hand.

“Right.”

Eric slides onto the stool, picks up the fork, and stares at Assad.

“I thought you'd left,” he says.

Assad’s eyes go wide.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, Eric, I'm so sorry, I –”

Eric shakes his head again.

“You made me breakfast,” he says.

“Yeah,” Assad agrees.

They look at each other for a long moment.

“Coffee?” Assad asks.

“Yeah,” Eric says. “And, uh. There's orange juice in the fridge.”

When Assad turns to get the juice out of the refrigerator, he's aware that the bruises up his leg are on full display. He hears Eric's breath catch.

“So,” he says, bending over, even though he really doesn't need to bend over to get at the orange juice, “what's the plan for today?”

Eric doesn't answer right away. Assad closes the refrigerator and stretches to reach a glass in the cabinet, letting Eric's t-shirt ride up his belly.

When he turns around, Eric is frozen with a fork full of egg halfway to his mouth.

“Huh?” Eric says, blinking. “Oh, uh. Plan? What do you mean, plan? I'm gonna fuck you on the couch, and then I'm gonna fuck you on the floor, and then I'm gonna –”

Assad laughs.

“I thought we could go out,” he says breezily.

“Go out,” Eric repeats, dumbfounded.

“Yeah,” Assad says. “Like, to a museum or something. Or, you know, find a park to walk around in. It's a beautiful day outside.”

Eric narrows his eyes at him.

“You look like someone’s tried to kill you,” he says.

Assad’s smile widens.

“Mm,” Eric says. “Mm-hm.”

“I thought you loved baiting the fans, Eric!” Assad says. “Imagine the fanfiction they'll write about this.”

He pulls down the collar of the T-shirt, just to emphasize the marks; they were all perfectly visible already.

“Is the coffee ready?” Eric asks helplessly. “I think I need coffee.”

Assad wordlessly places the Devil’s Minion mug in front of him and fills it. Eric sighs.

“I've created a monster,” he says.

“Mm,” Assad agrees, hiding his smile behind his own mug.

In the end, Assad wins. He has a feeling he's going to be doing that a lot from now on.

He keeps Eric's t-shirt and boxers, throwing on jeans and sneakers to make himself decent, and Eric dresses similarly down. It's a beautiful summer day outside, bright and warm, with a pleasant breeze dancing through the trees, and Assad feels like dancing with it, a little half skip breaking out every couple of steps.

Eric smiles at him, looking absolutely gone.

If any fans spot them, Assad doesn't notice. He's too caught up in Eric’s presence: his gait, his smell, the idle little stories he tells about the neighborhood. 

They don't hold hands, which is fine. He didn't expect them to. Eric is married, he reminds himself with a guilty twinge, and there's a difference between feeding speculation and confirming it.

Still, it would be nice, he thinks, to take Eric’s hand while he walks through the park with him in the sunshine.

Eric stops in front of several large bushes and clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says. “You want to participate in the age-old gay tradition of getting arrested for public indecency?”

Assad raises an eyebrow at him.

“Seriously?” he asks.

Eric shrugs.

Assad looks up and down the path. It's late morning on a weekday, and the park isn't crowded. He can see a biker moving away from them down the path, but no one nearby.

“Yeah,” he says, mouth dry.

Eric grins. He takes Assad’s hand and pulls him into the bushes.

“I haven't sucked someone off in a public park in decades,” he says excitedly as he lowers himself to his knees.

He looks up at Assad, eyes wide and sparkling with mischief.

“You're gonna kill me,” Assad tells him, running a hand through his curls. “Who told you that you were allowed to be this pretty?”

When Eric blushes, his whole face turns red, all the way to his hairline and the collar of his shirt.

“Shut up,” he says, and unzips Assad’s jeans.

Assad lets his head fall back against the shrubbery. It's dense enough to lean on, sort of, though he's sure if he put his whole weight into it he'd fall right in. Eric licks around the head of his cock and he forces his eyes open, because he needs to see that, needs to see Eric on his knees with his tongue sticking out, and the visual doesn't disappoint. He's going to picture it every time he jerks off for the rest of his life.

Eric meets his eye as he sucks him down, and Assad has to bite his own fist to keep from moaning.

Assad hears footsteps and low voices on the other side of the shrub and his eyes go wide and panicked. He hasn't done this before, fucking around in public. It's not something he would do.

And yet here he is, doing it.

Eric pets his thigh reassuringly, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even slow. In fact, he speeds up as the footsteps approach, as if he's trying to pull a sound from Assad when someone will hear it.

Bastard.

Assad squeezes his eyes shut and manages to stay quiet, but it's a near thing.

When the passersby are gone, he tightens his fingers in Eric’s hair and murmurs, “Behave.”

Eric’s eyes light up.

He does the opposite, of course, grabbing Assad’s ass and pulling him as deep down his throat as he’ll go, his nose pressed into Assad’s belly, and slides a finger between Assad’s cheeks to ghost over his hole, and that's enough; Assad is coming down Eric’s throat for the second time in twelve hours, and he's scrunching his face up and biting his lip, fighting not to make a sound.

When he's done, Eric sits back on his ass in the grass, looking supremely self-satisfied.

“Still got it,” he says, grinning.

Assad gives him a reproachful look as he zips up his jeans, but he's smiling. He can't help it.

He falls to his knees beside Eric in the grass and pulls him into a wet, filthy kiss, tasting himself on Eric’s tongue. He chases the taste, shoving his tongue down Eric's throat like a teenager, and Eric laughs into it, delighted and fond.

When Assad reaches for his cock, Eric bats his hand away.

“That was all for you, baby,” he says. “You can pay me back later.”

When they stumble out of the bushes, they nearly bump into two young men in shorts and wife beaters. They're holding hands, and they look knowingly at Eric and Assad before doing a double take.

“Run!” Eric says gleefully, and takes off down the path. Assad takes off after him, laughing and whooping, and generally calling even more attention to them.

Eric loses steam first, panting as he stops with his hands on his knees.

“Fuck,” he says, as Assad slows to a stop a few paces ahead of him. “I need to start doing more cardio.”

They stop in a cafe for lunch, sitting on the sidewalk and people watching while they eat, improvising little stories about passersby and playing footsie under the table. A girl stops to ask for a photo with them, and when her eyes catch on Assad’s neck he feels his face warm.

“No, sorry,” he starts to say, but Eric is already saying, “Of course, sweetheart, come over here and stand between us,” so he goes along with it, smiling shyly at the camera and half-covering his neck with his hand.

“You’re not worried about Jo seeing that?” Assad asks when the girl is gone.

“No,” Eric says. “Why would I be?”

Assad shrugs and changes the subject.

He's still worrying about it, though, when they get back to Eric’s house. That photo is going to be all over the internet, and that's fine. It's fine. Fandom speculation, teasing from their castmates, he can tolerate all of that, but Jo…

He doesn't want to be a homewrecker. And he also doesn't want whatever this is cut short by an irate spouse. He wants as much time with Eric as he can get.

“You're grinding your teeth, kiddo,” Eric says softly. “Did I fuck up?”

“What?” Assad says. “No, no you're fine, I'm just…”

He forces his jaw to relax and shakes his head.

“I'm fine,” he says.

“Mm-hm,” Eric says. “Sure.”

He wraps his arms around Assad, shaking him a little.

“What's the matter, hot stuff?” he says. “Stud? Foxy mama? Sugar? Peaches? Baby doll?”

Reluctantly, Assad laughs, ducking his head.

“Hey,” Eric says, taking Assad’s chin between his forefinger and thumb and tilting it up. “I'm serious. Did I fuck up with the picture thing?”

Assad licks his lips.

“Is this –” he says, and clears his throat. “Is this going to continue after I leave tomorrow?” he asks, “Or do I only have you for two days?”

Eric frowns at him.

“Why the hell would you only have me for two days?” he asks.

“Well,” Assad says, faltering. “Jo, I mean –”

Eric looks a little guilty, and a little relieved.

“Oh, honey,” he says, and that one zings through Assad like an arrow. He's only ever heard Eric call Jo honey. “Jo went away for three days so we could have the house to ourselves.”

Assad blinks at him. It takes several seconds for him to process this information.

When it sinks in, he feels first a profound sense of relief, like ice melting, and then a depth of irritation heretofore unexplored in his life.

“Why the hell didn't you tell me that?” he shouts, pulling out of Eric’s embrace.

Eric lets him go, crossing his arms over his chest and peering at him over his glasses. Assad laughs humorlessly.

“I've been agonizing over it!”

Eric shrugs.

“I thought it was hot?” he says apologetically.

“Oh my god,” Assad says, hiding his face in his hands.

“I haven't stopped gushing to her about you since we met,” Eric says.

“Oh my god .”

“After last time, I mean, she figured maybe it didn't happen because she was here.”

“ Oh my god .”

“Assad, can you, um. Can I get something other than ‘oh my god’?”

Finally, Assad lowers his hands and looks at him.

“I –” he says. “This is – does this – does this mean we can actually… date?”

“Yeah,” Eric says, giving him a look like this is obvious. “Of course. Why, are you asking?”

“No!” Assad says. “I hate you! Yes, of course! Oh, my god.”

“Listen, I think it's good for you to know what you're getting yourself into,” Eric tells him. “I'm not gonna become less of a pain in the ass, so.”

He moves to kiss him, but Assad stops him with a hand on his chest.

“I'm so fucking mad at you,” he says. “I'm so serious.”

“Yeah,” Eric says, grimacing. “I know.”

“Well, as long as you know,” Assad says, and kisses him like the secret to eternal life is hidden somewhere behind his tonsils.

They’re both panting when Assad breaks the kiss, pressing their foreheads together.

“I need a break,” he says.

“Oh,” Eric says. “Um, yeah, okay. I can give you some space, that's –”

Assad shakes his head.

“Can we just…” he says. “Can we just watch a movie or something? Please? I need to not think about anything for like, two hours.”

Eric laughs. Assad pulls back to glare at him, and he sobers.

“Sorry,” he says. “Yeah, yes, of course, anything you want, kiddo.”

Assad smiles at that. He can't help it. He's been fucking pavloved by that pet name.

They end up watching His Girl Friday, and then Arsenic and Old Lace, shifting through every conceivable cuddle position on the couch in the den. Eric gets up halfway through the first movie and comes back with popcorn, which they take turns feeding to each other.

It's easy. It feels easier than anything has felt between them before. They have time, there's no rush, and no secrets to keep. Assad’s anger fades to a low simmer. He's still mad, but… he's happy, so. He lets himself be happy.

Still…

“I can hear your brain whirring,” Eric says as the credits roll, nuzzling his cheek against Assad’s curls. “What are you thinking about?”

“Revenge,” Assad says casually.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything I should be worried about?”

“Definitely,” Assad tells him, snuggling down deeper into his embrace.

“Wanna brainstorm?”

“Mmm,” Assad says. “Well, I'm mostly thinking about things I could post online. Like, I could tell people you're terrible in bed.”

Eric scoffs.

“No one will believe that,” he says.

“I could say you're mean.”

“Everyone already knows that.”

“Hmmm.”

“Hey, do you want to see if we've done any damage to twitter today?”

“You're incorrigible.”

“Yes.”

Assad fishes his phone out of his pocket and, in an act of profound and probably misplaced trust, hands it over to Eric.

“Pin?”

“1973.”

“Cute.”

Assad flips him off.

After a few moments of silence, which Assad finds nerve-wracking, Eric laughs.

“Oh yeah, babe,” he says. “We dropped a bomb. You've got a text from Jacob about it, hope you don't mind I saw.”

When he hands Assad the phone, he's fully opened the message so, yeah, definitely not an accidental glimpse.

You two are gonna be a nightmare on set, huh?

Yes<3 , Assad types back.

Twitter is a whole other story.

“This is, like, your wet dream, huh?” he says, scrolling through post after post of key smashing and all-caps-ing, the same picture appearing over and over and over again. He stops on one to look at it more closely.

“Oh my god,” he says, because while he is looking at the camera, Eric is gazing at him in a way that is far more incriminating than the hickeys on Assad’s neck.

“Hey, you look at me like that in every fucking interview,” Eric says defensively.

Assad glances at the rest of his messages. His family isn't online enough to have seen any of this, but some of his friends have texted. He’ll deal with them later, he decides, and turns off the screen.

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” he says.

“Well, that depends,” Eric tells him, tightening his grip around Assad’s chest and tucking his chin over his shoulder. “Are you pleased with me?”

Assad snorts, shaking his head.

“Let's go to bed,” Eric whispers in his ear.

“It's, like, 8 o’clock,” Assad tells him, “and we haven't eaten dinner.”

“We had popcorn,” Eric says. “Let's go to bed.”

Assad turns to look at him and Eric takes the opportunity to kiss him, soft and sweet this time. When he pulls away, it takes a moment for Assad’s eyes to flutter open.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. Let's go to bed.”

They don't fuck, not right away at least. Eric gently strips Assad of his clothes, and allows Assad to do the same for him. They climb under the covers, and Eric gently pushes on Assad’s shoulder until he rolls away from him onto his side. They lie nestled together, breathing softly, as the last light of day wanes outside the window, and Eric presses soft kisses to Assad’s shoulder until Assad falls asleep.

Assad wakes slowly, and at first he's not sure why. It's still dark outside, and he feels sleepy and warm.

Then, he wonders if he’s still asleep and dreaming, because he's lying on his belly and he can feel something soft and wet lapping at his hole.

“Mmmm,” he hums, pushing back against it, and it laughs quietly.

“Shhhhh,” he hears. “Go back to sleep.”

For a while he does, drifting in and out of consciousness, enjoying the soothing sensation of being slowly tongued open. It feels like it goes on for a long time, though he can't be sure.

He must fall asleep completely, because the next thing he's conscious of is a weight on top of him and a cock already buried deep inside him, moving, slowly, as if trying not to wake him.

He blinks, slowly gaining enough consciousness to whisper, “Daddy?”

“Ohhhh fuck,” Eric groans, stilling momentarily, his forehead coming to rest on Assad’s shoulder. “Yeah, kiddo, it's me. Go back to sleep, Daddy’s just using your hole, everything's fine.”

“Oh,” Assad squeaks. Eric speeds up a little. He feels overwhelmingly huge, and it's easy for Assad to imagine he's smaller than he is, being stretched much too wide on his Daddy’s cock.

“Good boy,” Eric says, kissing the top of his head. “Always ready for your Daddy, any time he wants to use you, even when you're fast asleep. Isn't that right?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Assad pants into the pillow. “Yours, all yours, whenever you like.”

“You'll never say no to me.”

“Never.”

“Even if you don't want it, even if it hurts.”

“Not my place – oh! – to say no to Daddy.”

“Fuck. Fuck. ”

Eric’s hips stutter and still.

“Thank you, Daddy,” Assad says.

“ Fuck .”

Eric breathes heavily, still and buried in Assad’s ass. Assad shifts, happily feeling Eric inside him, and yawns sleepily.

“I can't believe you're that good at dirty talk when you're half asleep,” Eric tells him.

“Lots of improv classes,” Assad says dreamily.

“Never, ever change.”

“Wasn't planning on it.”

“I'm getting up now.”

“Nope.”

Assad clenches around Eric’s cock. Eric hisses, laughs, and smacks him hard on the ass.

“Owwww,” Assad says, pouting.

He's asleep again before Eric returns with a towel.

When Assad wakes up in the morning, Eric has rolled away from him in his sleep, so he curls around him and holds him until he wakes up.

He knows that Eric is awake when Eric takes his hand and brings it to his lips.

“Morning, gorgeous,” Assad says, taking a name out of Eric’s book. Eric laughs.

“Good morning, you little minx,” he says, stretching and rolling onto his back so he can smile up at Assad.

“I like finding you in my bed in the morning,” he says.

“Well, I like being in your bed,” Assad tells him. “So that's convenient.”

“Don't go,” Eric says. “Just stay here with me forever. Fuck your family, fuck your life, fuck your friends and your career. Just stay.”

“I don't know if that was terribly romantic or just terrible,” Assad says, but he's smiling.

Eric pouts.

“You won't choose me over every other thing in your entire life after two days of fucking?”

Assad draws little circles on Eric’s chest with his finger.

“My flight’s booked,” he says. “I have work.”

He looks up into Eric's eyes, trying to make him see his sincerity.

“I really, really wish I could.”

Eric blows a raspberry into the air.

“Alright,” he says. “I guess you're allowed to have a life.”

“Gee, thanks, Mister.”

They're both quiet then, looking at the clock on the nightstand. Last night, it had felt like they had all the time in the world. Now, it's almost up.

“Do you want to get breakfast?” Eric asks, his tone missing light and casual by a mile. “There's a place up the road that's –”

“No,” Assad says, and kisses him.

They stay soft with each other this time. Mouths pressed together, Eric rolls onto his side and slides a leg between Assad’s thighs, pulling him in close. Assad hums happily as they rock together, letting the warmth build slowly between their bodies.

“I'll miss you,” he whispers into Eric’s mouth.

“Me too, kiddo,” Eric says, voice low and morning-rough. The sound of it tickles the back of Assad’s neck and tugs at his heart.

When the heat between them starts to simmer, Eric reaches down and takes them both in hand, finding them wet enough from precome without adding any saliva. Assad moans into his mouth.

“Gorgeous boy,” Eric murmurs. “Don't ever get your head screwed on straight.”

Assad laughs, breathy and fond.

“Never,” he promises.

When they've both spilled into Eric’s hand, and Assad has licked his fingers playfully before fetching him the towel from last night, they dress quietly, exchanging sorrowful glances from across the room.

Assad hasn't bothered unpacking, so there’s not much to pack. They gather his belongings by the front door.

“Last time, I said I'd send you off with a thermos of coffee and a copy of the play I want you to be in,” Eric says. “And then I forgot, because I was so bamboozled by your failure to fuck me. Can I give you those things now?”

“Yes, of course,” Assad says, glancing at his phone. “But we have time for one cup before we go, don't we?”

He feels desperate when he says it, like he needs that one last cup of coffee in Eric’s kitchen or he won't be able to face what comes next.

“Yes,” Eric says. “We have time. Do you want breakfast?”

“No,” Assad says. “I'm not hungry.”

“Me neither,” Eric says. He takes Assad’s hand, stroking his thumb over his finger, and leads him into the kitchen.

Eric chatters away while he makes coffee, but Assad isn't listening. He's staring out the window above the sink and dreading saying goodbye. He feels anxious and tired. He rubs absentmindedly at the bruises on his neck. He's going to have to explain them to his parents – they'll want to see him when he gets home.

“Hey,” Eric says, sliding the Devil’s Minion mug towards him and placing the bottle of coffee creamer beside it. “I'm providing some really riveting material over here.”

“Sorry,” Assad says.

“No, hey,” Eric says. “That's not –”

He sighs.

“Look at me, babe.”

Assad obeys, looking up into Eric’s eyes.

“Send me dirty pictures when you get home, yeah?”

Assad snorts.

“I thought you were about to be reassuring,” he says.

Eric spreads his arms wide.

“That was me being reassuring,” he protests.

Things ease up a bit after that. They drink their coffee, and Assad listens to Eric talk about his play. They drive to the airport, and Assad listens to Eric talk about when he might be able to fly out to see him. Next month seems to be the answer, which isn't bad. It's really not.

Assad is surprised when Eric doesn't follow the sign for departures.

“Why are you parking?” he asks.

“Because I'm walking you in,” Eric says, and leaves it at that.

At security, Eric drops Assad’s roller bag at his feet. He looks around with a mischievous look on his face that can only bode ill.

“Lots of people around, huh,” he says. Assad raises an eyebrow at him and Eric grabs him, dips him, and kisses him, like a sailor who’s just returned from war.

When they finally surface and Eric puts him back on his feet, Assad looks around. They're getting all sorts of strange looks, and there's definitely at least one camera phone pointed in their direction.

He smiles at Eric and shakes his head.

“You're a nightmare,” he says.

“Yeah,” Eric says, grinning. “But you like it.”

“Yeah,” Assad agrees. “I like you, babe.”

Eric blushes from his hairline to his collarbone.

“God, you’re cute,” Assad says. “Kiss me again.”