#jalim

Jason didn't see much of Salim over the next few days. Between the long hours and back-to-back shifts, finding time together became difficult. 

During one of his fly-by visits, it became apparent that the job at the supermarket couldn't be Salim's only one. There had been a barista apron hanging to dry among a row of polo shirts—before it was tugged down and buried in a large pile of clothes. 

He noted the reaction, but said nothing. Even if he had wanted to, there wouldn't have been an opportunity. Not with the increasingly frequent interruptions.

Mrs Goddamn Parker. 

The woman had been sniffing him out like a bloodhound any time he set foot in the neighbourhood. The buzzer would ring, and through the crackling intercom, they'd be gifted with another paper-thin excuse:

Her cat had gone missing. Salim's car alarm was going off, conveniently forgetting that he didn't drive. She needed to borrow a cup of sugar like it was the 1950's. 

One time, Salim actually invited her inside, forcing Jason to endure a live reenactment of The Wire. The woman glared daggers over her teacup, firing off every intrusive question in her arsenal. Except for the one that she was clearly dying to ask. 

Salim handled the situation expertly. Clearly, it wasn't his first rodeo. Nodding, humming, politely entertaining each unhinged tangent, until sending her off on her way with the promise of afternoon tea next week.  

It was remarkable how he'd managed to stay so patient. He must've been tired. Hell, he looked it. All the careful grooming and nice clothes couldn't hide the dark circles, even more prominent than they'd been a few weeks prior.

There had been a particularly telling incident during a stolen movie night—one of the few evenings where Salim wasn't working a graveyard.

They had gotten about halfway through the runtime when Jason heard snores rumbling through the on-screen explosions. As he shifted sideways, Salim did too, his head tipping limply onto Jason's shoulder.

A brief attempt had been made to rouse him before Jason gave up and manoeuvred carefully off the couch. After leaving a note explaining where he had gone, he draped a throw blanket over the sleeping man's body. 

Pacing beneath the streetlights outside, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk, he felt a sense of defeat. 

He knew he could help, but there was little point in offering. Salim wouldn't let him pay for McDonald's. Almost had an aneurysm when he realised how much Jason had paid for dinner. He sure as hell wouldn't accept anything more substantial. 

So, really, the only thing Jason could offer was something that didn't advertise value. As the lunch with Zain fast approached, he was given the perfect excuse. 

Stopping in at an impressively sized department store, his first objective was to find Salim a new wallet. It was hard not to notice the state of his current one, so old and worn it was nearly disintegrating. 

Next came Literature—purely because there wasn't an Art Nerds section. After scanning multiple shelves with underwhelming results, he finally found something promising. 

An Encyclopedia on Ancient Weaponry. Swords. There was a whole section about knights, including legends and customs. And there, among the glossy illustrations, was a painting. The painting. The one Salim had claimed as his favourite. 

To make things fair, he'd also got something for Zain. Found hidden in Gifts, wedged behind a Grow-Your-Own-Bonsai and Queen Elizabeth Commemorative Spoon Set. The scales had been what drew his eye, bright yellow and iridescent, reflecting the fluorescent lights above. 

When the cashier rang up his total, it became clear that the building's fancy exterior wasn't just for show. It would be fine, though—as long as he remembered to get rid of the price tags. 

Back at the hotel, doing just that, Jason decided that one of the presents needed a more… personal touch. It had been vaguely self-motivated; a shameless attempt to jog Salim's memory. At the same time, an opportunity to flex some belated pop culture knowledge, courtesy of reruns on UPN:

Buffy the Vampire Slayer,

I don't know if you remember this, but you once told me that a sword isn't worth much without a shield.

But you also told me that a soldier isn't the same as a knight. So you're not always right. 

Because from where I'm standing, you run circles around some prissy fairy-tale prince in chain-mail underpants.

You ARE a hero. A real one. Never forget that.

Your American Jarhead,

J.K.

The note was scrawled on the inside of the Encyclopedia's dust cover. He amended it afterwards. Added a 'Favorite' above the 'Your' and 'American,' realising it might sound a little much without it. 

Before he could get caught up thinking the whole damn note was too much, Jason left to catch his train.

As soon as he turned the corner toward his destination, he saw a curtain shuffle from the house across the street. He rolled his eyes and kept walking. Unlike Salim, he wasn't going to reward the woman with the attention she so obviously craved. 

He was briskly led into the apartment, Salim forming a protective barrier as he waved placatingly at his neighbour. So eager to get them out of sight that he didn't notice the gift bags hanging from Jason's wrist. 

When he finally saw them, his mood shifted. Floating between surprise, gratitude, and reservation, unable to settle on one."You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know, but I did." Jason took off his hoodie and pressed the presents to Salim's chest before he could refuse. "At least look inside before deciding you hate them."

"Them?" the man echoed, his voice audibly strained. He muttered something under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, before manners overtook humility. Carefully, he opened the bag, pulling out a small cardboard box and inspecting it. His fingers loosened as he focused on the branding, as if afraid to grip too tightly. 

"This is from Harrods." 

Jason winced at the knowing tone. He'd failed to consider that the store name alone might be a tip-off to how much he'd spent. "No idea what you're talkin' about." 

If Salim was hesitant to hold the box, he definitely didn't want to open it. As though doing so would pass a point of no return. Jason, for his part, refused to back down. Keeping a close vigil, arms folded expectantly. 

Ultimately, Salim caved to the pressure, running his thumbnail along the seal until the lid popped off. He paused, admiring the sleek, embossed leather nestled in tissue paper, before reaching in and tracing it with a featherlight sweep.

"...It's lovely," he said, lips pressed together in a tense line. "Thank you very much."

When he reached for the second present, his reaction was different. No disapproving sighs or muttered complaints about overspending. Just…silence. As if his mind had gone blank, unable to process what he was seeing.  

He repeatedly scanned the title, his eyes growing wider each time. With slow, almost painful deliberateness, he opened the cover and leafed through the pages. 

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, but never became a smile. The closest it came to this was when he reached the painting. His gaze filled with stars, the same as it had when they'd seen the canvas in person. 

Skimming to the end, his curiosity was piqued by the half-smudged note on the dust cover. He squinted at the text, trying hard to read it, before giving up and turning toward a nearby coffee table. 

"One moment, I need my glasses." 

Jason could've laughed, joking about just how much this announcement had aged him. Instead, he was struck with an unpleasant wave of introspection and quickly interrupted:

"You, uh, don't need to read that now—might not be able to anyway—my handwriting's pretty bad."

Salim stalled in place, his back still turned, before glancing quizzically over his shoulder. He never had a chance to question the unusual urgency, as the apartment's buzzer went off.

Jason scowled, assuming it was Mrs Parker, back for another round of neighbourhood surveillance. But when the receiver was lifted, an unfamiliar voice echoed through. Distinctly youthful—male.

Salim cursed. One of the few Arabic words Jason could confidently translate. He set the handset down and looked at his watch. 

"This boy… never keeps to a reasonable schedule. Always early or late." Instead of heading to the door, the man pivoted towards his kitchen. Seemingly conscious of the oven and the potent smells leaking from it. "I'm sorry, could you let him in? This won't take me long."

Jason descended the stairs, adjusting his shirt to smooth out the creases. This was before a quick reality check that the person he was greeting was a teenage boy. Not exactly a group known for being hard to impress.

However, this assumption was shattered within seconds of opening the door.  

The first thing Jason noticed about Zain was his impressive height. He was several inches taller than Salim and considerably leaner. There were hints of his parentage, like full lips and a rounded nose, but overall, his features were sharper. 

The biggest difference, though, was his energy. A complete absence of the warmth and softness that defined Salim. Bright eyes were narrow and calculating, already guarded before the American said a word. 

"...Uh, hey," Jason mumbled, realising the younger man had no intention of speaking first. "Zain, right? Your daddy has told me a lot about you. I'm Jason."

He extended a hand, but with the way it was received, he may as well have flipped the bird. Zain did not move. Just continued to stare, silent and scrutinising, as the atmosphere shifted from awkward to hostile. 

Saying Jason was put out would be an understatement. He was totally blindsided, having no idea what he could have done wrong. Then, he saw it—what Zain was focusing on, and what had earned the instant disdain.

Up until now, he had never been ashamed of his tattoos. Albeit, not proud either. They served as a reminder of the performative patriotism he'd chosen to leave underground. Far harder to ditch than a hat, but nonetheless, a tacky misfire made by the man he no longer was. 

But Zain saw them differently. 

Red, White, And Blue. Death Before Dishonor. Through harsh, sceptical eyes, they stood for something much more sinister.

Footsteps echoed overhead, and soon, another figure had joined them in the entrance hall.  

"أهلاً يا بابا." Zain coolly sidestepped around Jason, pulling Salim into a hug. The shift in attitude was so sudden and effortless that it was a little disorienting. "She's at it again." 

Salim withered at the statement. There was no question as to who 'she' was. Everyone already knew. 

Sure enough, across the street, Mrs Parker was slinking around her driveway. 'Trimming' a rosebush with shears that barely made contact, all the while, openly gawping at the three men on the doorstep.

"يا إلهي... هذه المرأة. She'll be the death of me." With a hand still clasped on Zain's shoulder, Salim returned his focus to Jason, smiling calmly. "I take it you've introduced yourselves?"

By this point, Jason had lowered his arm—accepted it would hang there indefinitely if he didn't. But for the sake of keeping the peace, he re-attempted his greeting. This time, with added formality. 

"Yeah, it's…" He cleared his throat, trying his best to sound sincere. "A real pleasure to make your acquaintance, Zain."

"You talk like a cowboy," came a blunt reply, the kind of thoughtless, disjointed comment you'd expect from a toddler, not a college student. "Has anyone ever told you that?" 

Salim was visibly taken aback. His grip faltered along with his smile, and words were exchanged. Hushed and sharp, with very little English featured. Jason managed to get the gist. 

Not long after entering the apartment, Zain loudly announced that he needed to use the bathroom. He then disappeared behind the door with a decisive slam. Salim didn't react—not so much as a flinch. Either he was genuinely oblivious to the steam hissing from his son's ears, or he had gotten very good at ignoring it. 

"...Not sure if you've noticed," Jason whispered, mindful of the thin walls in the tiny apartment, "but he already hates me."

"He's eighteen," Salim said plainly. "I'm sure he'll warm up once he sees his gift." 

"Aww, I can't believe you peeked—you better not give the game away."

"Please don't take offence to this, but I just had to make sure you weren't giving him anything inappropriate."

An audible cackle escaped his lips before Jason could catch it. "Sorry to break it to you, man, but your kid's in college. He doesn't need me buying him weed and condoms. He's got that shit on lock." 

The other man groaned, burying his face in his hand. "I would much prefer it if we didn't talk about my son's sex life."

There was a flush, accompanied by a brief rush of water, before the bathroom door swung open. Zain reappeared, giving them an accusatory look. The kind reserved for someone who knew they'd just been the topic of conversation. 

Things didn't get much better when they sat down. Despite Salim's well-meaning reassurance that the hostility wasn't personal, Jason had doubts. 

He'd definitely imposed. Zain wouldn't stop glaring at him, nose flared, and jaw clenched, as if he were trying to will him out of existence.

He reckoned the kid would've preferred if he had been a stray dog, picked up by Salim at a bus shelter. Rubbing against the table legs with its flea-bitten hide, begging for scraps. At least then he wouldn't have to see the tattoos, listen to the accent, or whatever offence he had decided was pissing him off most. 

When Jason reached for the water jug, avoiding eye contact, he made a new, inexcusable mistake. Moved his arm too close to one of the bowls.

Zain yanked it back with urgency, hissing under his breath, "Don't touch my Dolma."  

"Jason brought you a present," Salim cut in, followed by a stern demand loosely disguised as a question. "Would you like to open it now, Zain?"

The bag was handed over and held at arm's length, as if handling a live grenade. But when the young man looked inside, something changed. The honed edge of his gaze blunted, and the ugly tension eased from his face. 

"Oh wow, this is…pretty cool, actually." He sounded shocked, maybe a little annoyed at his own approval. In any case, he buried these feelings beneath a show of indifference. "Nice colour." 

It wasn't much of a compliment. The functional equivalent of, "Hey, this isn't the worst thing I've ever received." But to Jason, Zain may as well have given him a standing ovation. 

Still, he wasn't about to make a big deal out of it, just happy to have made a small dent in his armour. 

"A little birdie told me you're studying Mythology. I went through a phase in high school. Wyverns are my favourite. Pisses me off when people call them Dragons. They're different, they—" 

"Have two legs, not four," Zain finished, tracing the wings of the statue thoughtfully.

The moment didn't mark a major turning point; it passed as quickly as it came. However, the Wyvern stayed on the table, watching over them as a silent peace gesture. Jason was grateful—all the more when he saw how this affected Salim. 

The man had mostly kept his head down, only giving passing acknowledgement to the exchange. But there had been a small smile, a glimmer of hopefulness.

"So, who was the first to make the distinction?" he pressed, encouraging his son to keep talking. "Decided that two-legged dragons should have their own name?"

"Well, winged snakes have been around in folklore forever, but nobody knows who came up with them first. The whole 'two legs versus four legs' thing comes from British heraldry, mostly, but the name is—"

As the passion spilt out, unfiltered by coldness or restraint, Jason finally saw it. The Salim in Zain. Their conversation eventually wandered from mythical beasts over to living arrangements and vague allusions to 'extracurriculars.' 

Really, this was just a creative way of saying 'nightclubs' and 'house parties.' Jason had to tilt his hat to hide his snickering, with Salim equally unconvinced. He exchanged multiple glances with the American, rolling his eyes each time.

The tall tales stalled as Zain became too preoccupied shovelling food into his mouth. As soon as Jason took his first bite, he understood why. 

Salim was a hell of a cook. The sort of good that didn't just happen without significant effort. A lot of the dishes were familiar, the same food they'd eaten at the restaurant. But this was better. Richer and more flavourful.

However, the more he thought about this, the more his enjoyment soured. Because, yeah, Salim probably had gotten a fuckton of practice—but not because he'd wanted to. Rather, because his circumstances had given him no other choice. 

Jason set down his fork, his attention drifting to the father and son. Zain was eating so fast that he was practically inhaling the food. All the while, Salim reminded him that it wasn't going to run away. 

When the teenager actually stopped to chew, his jaw looked even sharper. His bright eyes seemed brighter as they glinted with satisfaction.

He really didn't look like Salim. And Jason, with a bitter pang of understanding, concluded where those features had come from. 

He was probably the spitting image of his Mom.

After dessert and coffee—which Jason suspected might've been laced with actual unicorn tears—they said goodbye to Zain.

"It was nice meeting ya," Jason said, extending a hand which was accepted this time. "Good luck with your studies, and stay outta trouble."

Zain froze mid-shake, levelling a withering look at his dad. As if demanding to know how many secrets he'd been gleefully sharing. 

Salim shrugged, feigning innocence, and sent him on his way with some affectionate fussing. He was brushed off with a snapped remark. One that Jason suspected translated to, "Stop it, you're embarrassing me." Zain then vanished down the stairwell, the door clicking shut behind him. 

Once they were alone, the two men drifted back toward the kitchen. 

"Nice kid."

"He has his moments," Salim replied, with a bluntness born of deep familiarity. However, the 'chiding dad' routine didn't last long. "He is a passionate, intelligent young man, and I'm very proud of him."

"Yeah, I can tell," Jason chuckled. "It's…sweet. How supportive you are."

"I wouldn't say that is anything special—I imagine it's the same for most parents." 

It had been an innocent, offhand comment. Because for Salim, it wasn't remarkable, just a basic fact of fatherhood. For Jason, it hit like a punch to the gut. He tried not to say anything, not wanting to taint the moment with something ugly.

It didn't matter. The silence spoke for him. 

Salim abandoned the plates he'd been stacking in favour of studying his guest. He saw all he needed to. The falsehood of his smile, accompanied by the strained bobbing of his throat. 

"...Forgive me for saying this," he began slowly, "but I suspect your relationship with your father wasn't so warm." 

Jason snorted. Not because it was funny, but because he wasn't sure how else to respond. "Did you seriously just say I give off 'daddy issues'?" 

Salim lurched back, immediately remorseful, as his mouth popped open to apologise. He was stopped with a light nudge to the shoulder. 

"It's okay, don't worry. You're not wrong. My family ain't exactly the affectionate sort—let's put it that way."

"Is it a large family…?" The question was testing, reluctant to pry, but not willing to let the loaded words slide by unaddressed. 

"I guess so. I have three older brothers who I barely talk to; pretty sure my folks wish they'd left it at that."

"I am sure that's not true."

"It is." The reply had been blunt. A long-internalised statement of fact. One that he tried to elaborate on the best he could. "Mom always wanted a girl—took one last shot at it before she got old. Didn't get one. Next thing you know, they're springing for a station wagon they can't afford, and it's my fault."

"How is that your fault?" Salim laughed, but it was strained. Like he hoped this had been a joke, but already knew it wasn't.

Jason fiddled with the brim of his hat. Normally, the conversation would've ended there. Probably wouldn't have gotten this far. But Salim had opened the door so damn gently, the smallest crack for him to step through. 

That threshold had never felt safe, but at that moment, he reckoned it could be. Enough to see if there might be catharsis in saying it all aloud: 

"She was hands-off as could be. Never cruel or anything, just not…there. Dad weren't any better. Already had his boys, so I was kinda like a spare tyre. Only really got noticed when he needed me for something, or when he was drunk."

It felt good. Freeing. Like ripping away an old band-aid. Now that he'd started, he couldn't stop. It all just kept pouring out, with Jason unable to consider how Salim might receive it. 

"I liked it better when he left me alone. Because when he did pay attention, it was to remind me what a screw-up I was. Soft in the brain, prissy and temperamental, built like a string bean. Someone who wouldn't amount to anything."

Up until now, the other man had listened without judgment, careful to understand before he spoke. But something in his expression had cracked. He looked genuinely appalled.

"What an awful thing to say to a child."  

"Yeah. Well." His senses returned to him, and his guard inched up a notch. Because as much as Jason appreciated the concern, he wanted to make it clear that he didn't want pity. "I left home as soon as I could—only went back when I got hooked on pills and didn't have a choice."

Salim took a deep breath, his eyes pinching closed. As though he were fighting the temptation to hop across the Atlantic and start beef with a crusty old redneck. Once calm, he redirected his focus to Jason. 

He didn't smother him in a tight embrace. Didn't bombard him with hollow promises about how everything would be okay. Instead, he placed a hand on his shoulder. 

"You are a wonderful man. Loyal, dutiful, and brave to a fault. You lost your way for a time—but you found it. Not everyone does." 

He squeezed tightly.

"That takes strength, and you should be proud of yourself. I am sorry your family is too blind to see it."

Jason was floored. 

There'd been nothing flowery in what had been said. No grand, sweeping praise. But Salim had meant it. Not a shred of dishonesty or embellishment. 

And this shattered many of the doubts which had hounded him across London. Made him feel kind of stupid for ever questioning if Salim cared.

But knowing that he did—and in no small amount—came with fear. Because as he placed a hand over Salim's, he was forced to fight how it made him feel. The warm, calloused skin under his own, sending prickles through his palm. 

Unable to speak past the lump in his throat, he offered a disengaging tap. A signal that the other man had done his part, said everything Jason could have hoped to hear, but that he couldn't remain in this feeling.

"Here, I'll help you wash up." He leant across the table, reaching for the dishes which had been abandoned.

They were snatched away before he could grab them. A finger outstretched, directing him to the nearby couch. "You will do no such thing. Sit." 

Oh no, we're not doing this. "This ain't Buckingham Palace, Salim, and I'm not the Queen. You don't have to wait on me hand and foot."

"It's a matter of pride." With plates secured, the man breezed past him on route to the sink. "In my culture, we take hosting extremely seriously." 

"Yeah, well, us Southerners are pretty big on that, too." 

Knowing the argument was getting him nowhere, Jason changed tactics. In an act of shameless defiance, he trailed Salim. As the tap was turned and the basin began to fill, he darted forward to switch it off. 

"I ain't gonna mooch around, kick up my feet and crack open a beer just because you told me to. At least let me dry."

Salim stared incredulously. Without a word, he flicked the tap back into place, only for Jason to repeat the same action.

This went on for some time. On. Off. On. Off. Until ultimately, the younger man made his intentions clear:

"This could go on all day." 

"I can see that." The response was edged with playfulness, like Salim wouldn't mind if this were the case. Then, he gave in. A loud, dramatic huff, before he stepped aside and made room at the counter. 

The space was cramped, nearly impossible to navigate without trampling all over each other. Jason had no idea how Salim did it, coping with such a tiny living space. 

Each time he was passed something to dry, their shoulders would knock together. That, combined with the occasional brush of fingers, left him polishing plates long past the point of necessity. 

Having reached the cooking instruments, Salim lifted one of the baking trays a little too fast. The result was a large clump of suds being flung directly into Jason's face. 

It was probably accidental and would've gone unnoticed, had Jason not instinctively interpreted it as a challenge. Bringing a hand to the wet foam running off his cheek, he scoffed in objection. 

"You did that on purpose."

Salim looked confused until he turned to face him. What hadn't been caught was now running to the base of his chin, collecting in a sad, patchy Santa beard.

The energy shifted as the older man pursed his lips, repressing a snort. "I did no such thing." 

They carried on with the rest of the trays, but as they did, Jason was hit a second time. A splash collided with his opposite cheek, and he was confident it had been flung there deliberately. 

Okay. I see how it is.

Having long since lived by the ethos 'Even if you didn't start it, you sure as hell finish it,' Jason was done playing games. In a slow, creeping motion, his hand dipped into the basin. Scooping up a palmful of water, he sent it hurtling towards his host. 

Salim, who had been arched over, diligently scrubbing a patch of baked-on food, gasped at the impact. The lukewarm projectile struck his neck, then slipped past the margin of his collar, running down his back. 

He shot up, eyes bulging in surprise, as Jason worried he might've taken the retaliation too far. But then, Salim's shoulders started to tremble. Subtly at first, until his expression broke, and rumbling laughter spilt from his lips. 

Without a beat of hesitation, he plunged his own hand into the basin and threw a sheet of water back. It caught Jason square in the chest, sending him reeling.

After that, it was war. Pure, reckless abandon. Jason, trusting Salim enough to fully let loose. Salim, in tow, throwing responsibility to the wayside. Tapping into a dormant youthful spark, the desire to rebel. 

The dishes, which had been so painstakingly dried, were left just as drenched as when they'd started. Along with the walls, the counters, the floors—basically every conceivable surface, until the entire kitchen had become a slip hazard.

Both sides of the conflict were taking themselves very seriously, unwilling to concede. This was until Jason lunged forward, ready to pelt Salim with a large plume of bubbles, and his sneaker found one of the many puddles. 

Victory was awarded by default. Impish glee disintegrated into concern as Salim abandoned the fight, arms stretched out. 

"Careful—"

Jason performed a profoundly undignified 'deer on ice' manoeuvre. Floundering on the spot, trying desperately to keep his balance, but failing miserably. He lurched forward and half expected to eat shit on the tile floor when his descent was halted.

He blinked in shock, brain lagging several seconds behind. Once the turbulence had cleared and his mind caught up, Jason realised what had happened.

When he did, it was all over. 

Salim had caught him, supporting his limp weight by the armpits. They were close. Painfully close. Legs intersected, and bodies scarcely an inch from being pressed chest-to-chest. 

The room fell still, and Jason swore he could hear the steady thump of a heartbeat. Feel the rich, inviting heat radiating off the other man's body, alongside the puffs of breath blanketing his face.

Oh shit.

His head was swimming, vision filled with spots, as the kitchen gradually vanished from view. Then, it was gone, leaving nothing but him and Salim.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

All Jason could think about was how easy it would be to move forward, bridging that final sliver of space between them. To run a hand down drenched cotton, darkened to near transparency, revealing the lines of a defined chest and a dusting of coiled hair.

He was scared to look up, panic clamping around his throat. But he knew that continuing to stare would only prove more incriminating. And so, his chin reluctantly lifted.

Salim was already waiting. 

Looking down, he quietly studied each minute movement. Every twitch in his strained expression. All with intense concentration and cautious anticipation.

He was waiting to see what Jason would do, ready to adjust his response accordingly. This left the younger man even more terrified, crippled mentally by the things this could involve. 

Perhaps it had started innocently enough. An objective appreciation for the fact that Salim was a good-looking guy and an all-around decent person. It's not like he'd never thought about a friend in a similar way. 

Nick was handsome, too. Fun to be around. The difference being that Jason wouldn't have noticed if he'd shown up to duty sporting a mohawk. Or hit the showers with a bauble strung on his dick.

What he was doing now had travelled light-years beyond platonic admiration. He was inspecting every detail, imagining the ones he couldn't see. It wasn't how friends looked at friends. 

Guilt crashed into him. Sudden. Crushing. Trapped air was punched cleanly from his burning lungs, emerging as a pained wheeze. 

He'd lied to Salim. Dressed up sleazy intentions as something innocent. Because deep down, Jason must've recognised what he'd been feeling underground was more than just adrenaline. That his motivations for reuniting with the man had always been coloured by ulterior motives:

Once a screw-up, always a screw-up. 

Real men don't dress up pretty. Prance around trying to impress each other. 

Not unless.

Unless—

"—I didn't raise a faggot, Jason."

"I better get going," he spluttered urgently, severing the vicious thoughts before they could unravel further. "You've got to be wrecked after that double shift."

Salim reeled as though he'd been slapped. After ensuring Jason was steady, he let him go, and took a wide step back. "There's no need for you to rush off…I don't have any plans." 

His voice remained open and sympathetic, but strained by a newfound weight. Like he was holding something back, tucked behind a veil of politeness. 

Hesitancy. Or worse, obligation. 

Salim was a good man. He wouldn't want to knowingly hurt Jason. But the thought that he might only be asking him to stay out of kindness hurt just the same. 

"Nah, it's okay—I'm pretty beat, too. Jetlag's a bitch, who'd've thought I'd still be feeling it three weeks in?"

It had been a flimsy excuse, blurted out for lack of anything better. Salim didn't challenge him; he accepted it with measured restraint and instead asked, "When do you fly back?"

"Next Sunday."

He nodded in acknowledgement, brow lowered, and mouth pulled into a small frown, before mumbling a flat "I see." 

Jason had always known London was temporary. That the trip would end. Still, it was hard to believe how quickly the time had gone. How different he'd felt after the same length spent in Clarksville.  

It had ignited something—a renewed lease on life—leaving him happier and more at peace than he had felt in a very long time.

And now, he'd gone and ruined it. 

"I have shifts for the next six days, but we can work around that. I can always request to switch with a co-worker."

"Don't." The denial emerged bluntly, an act of tactical self-sabotage, before he chose to soften it. "It's just…you've been an amazing host as is. So much for 'Southern Hospitality,' there's no way I could've ever stacked up. Don't get in trouble for my sake. There's no need to keep bending your schedule around me."  

"But I want to."

Jason wanted to grab Salim by the shoulders, beg him to please not say this. It was igniting too much. Warmth. Hope. The kind of saccharine, fairytale bullshit that he couldn't afford to get suckered into. 

Because his eyes were already stinging, his jaw hardened with the force it was taking to keep it together. It was humiliating. A former Marine, holding back tears and choking down butterflies over a friend. 

His friend.

He should've felt grateful. Hell, honoured, that a man like Salim would see him as that much. Except his sorry ass couldn't appreciate it, too focused on the growing pain in his chest.

He couldn't stay; he had to go. Now. Before his mind got away with him, and he said—or did—something irreversibly stupid.

"Lunch was great. Thanks for having me." He marched through the living room and hurriedly snatched up his jacket. "Catch you again soon." 

Before Salim could stop him, Jason was out of the building and charging across the street. Not that it would've made a difference. He didn't try to follow.

Hands shoved deeply into his pockets, he stared daggers into the weathered tarmac. He tried to focus on walking, the sting in his eyes worsening by the second.

But despite this resolve, it wasn't long until his pace faltered, along with the rhythm of his breathing. Tight, infrequent inhalations that he was unable to control. Ultimately, he was forced to stop, propped against a wall as he balled the front of his hoodie.

His eyes pinched shut. Any attempt to calm down just led to his chest burning more. Eventually, steps were heard, approaching from the right—and a stupid, stupid part of himself hoped it was Salim. 

It wasn't. The sound was light, shuffling, accompanied by steady creaking.

When his eyes reopened, he saw Mrs Parker. She had abandoned her station at the rose bush in favour of wheeling out the trash. Several yards from her house, conveniently. If he didn't know better, he might've assumed she was taking the can for a spin around the block. 

The woman looked him up and down. Made note of the drenched clothes, the damp patches slowly leaking through his jacket, as her nose scrunched in disapproval. 

"Excuse me…Jackson, was it?"

"Go fuck yourself." Jason spat the words with so much venom that even he was caught off guard. He didn't take it back, though, didn't apologise, tired beyond the point of giving a shit. "Seriously, lady, just leave me alone. I ain't in the mood."

Mrs Parker produced a bizarre sound. Clipped and strangled, caught between a scandalised gasp and fearful yelp. With pearls firmly clutched, she retreated, pivoting on her heel and darting back towards her house. 

Only when her door had closed, and he was free from prying sights, did Jason allow a sob to escape. The tears came next, hot and shameful against his cheeks, before he scrubbed them away with the back of his sleeve.

----

This Fourth of July starts for them just like most others do. No alarm set, no work. Thank God.

While Jason knows he can’t get out of bed too late, as he does actually have to be somewhere with Nick later, it is nice just to have the option of lying still for just a little longer. Head resting on Salim’s chest, listening to his lover breathe. Just existing.

Salim has even less places to be than Jason does. And while Jason lies awake preoccupied with his thoughts, Salim drifts in and out of sleep. When he’s awake, he cards his fingers through Jason’s hair, or runs them soothingly down his back – and Jason lets out a sleepy, content hum.

This continues for long enough that Salim sees the travel of the sun and shadows change across the room, before Jason rustles in the sheets and pushes himself onto his arms.

He grumbles as much from the fact that he’s lost contact with Salim’s skin, and the sound of his heartbeat. Although as his eyes meet Salim’s, Jason smiles.

Salim smiles back, hands moving to cup Jason’s face. “Happy Fourth of July, Habibi.”

Jason laughs, “Aw, Darlin’! Thank you!” He leans forward, letting Salim guide him down to his lips. Jason moves to kiss Salim’s nose and forehead. “Excited for later?”

Salim nods, “Mhm,” Nick and Jason had been organising a barbecue for all their friends over at Nick’s place (mostly because Nick’s house would have a great view of the fireworks in town without actually being there amongst the insane crowds), “it should be fun!” He stretches, grinning, “I can’t wait for the fireworks.”

They were always Salim’s favourite part.

Jason grins right back, “Damn right!” He kisses Salim once more, still not quite ready to leave the bed, even if he speaks to the contrary: “I guess I better start getting ready to go, or I’ll never make it out the house…”

Salim shakes his head, pulling Jason back in, teasing Jason’s mouth with his tongue, “Wouldn’t that be a shame!”

“Mmm,” Jason sighs into the kiss, not resisting the temptation to kiss back, “Nicky’s gonna kill me.”

Salim huffs, resting his hands on Jason hips he pushes up, until they are both sitting. “Well, I can’t have that either.”

Jason laughs, nuzzling his face against Salim’s. “Good thing you wouldn’t intentionally send me to my death.”

Salim gives a little shrug, expression teasing Jason - saying that now he’s thinking about it…, and Jason shoves his arm playfully, that’s enough of that!

“Breakfast, babe?”

The Iraqi shakes his head, “Ah, no, it’s your special day. I’ll make it.”

Jason isn’t sure that should be any excuse for Salim to be the one to make breakfast, but he’s not about to complain when Salim is the one cooking.

As Jason follows Salim downstairs, he starts to regret their decision not to decorate this year. It made sense at the time; no real celebrations would be occurring here. They weren’t even hosting Zain – he was staying at a hotel a couple of cities over, exploring with his girlfriend. He was going to be at Nick’s later though, and they had seen them both over the course of the last few days.

Still, it felt weird not to come downstairs to an explosion of red, white and blue.

He laments this slightly over breakfast, but when Salim suggests they get out some decorations Jason waves him off – again expressing they won’t be home enough.

Salim doesn’t believe the American thinks that for a second, but he lets Jason smile about it and kiss him gently once more as he rushes off for his shower.

By the time Jason is ready, Salim has a cup of Iraqi coffee waiting on the table for him and has already cleared away everything from breakfast.

“Ah, baby, you read my mind!”

Jason knows he’s going to need it to put up with all the last-minute holiday shoppers. Even if he and Nick will count, they do have reasons to be waiting until the day of to buy most of their perishables.

Although, it comes down to as much having the time to do it as anything else.

Salim pulls Jason into his arms as he drinks, pressing his lips to Jason’s neck.

“How long will you be?” He murmurs against Jason’s skin, running his fingertips under Jason’s shirt, and the American shudders.

If Salim really wants him to stay home, he’s going the right way about it.

“Couple of hours? We do have a few places to go, and I assume both traffic and shops will be HELL.”

Salim snorts softy, yeah that checks. “Okay.”

“Why? Miss me that bad?” Jason smirks, making Salim lift his head up.

And Salim returns his smirks, “Always.”

“I’ll try to hurry.”

***

Salim doesn’t really mind if Jason doesn’t hurry. He’s got plans of his own while Jason is out. And as soon as Jason closes the door, he sets the plan in motion.

Even before Jason had lamented it this morning, Salim had planned to take the time to decorate the house properly. Maybe not as over the top as they usually went, but Salim wanted to at least acknowledge the celebration in their own home. (Besides, that always ended up with waaaay too much clearing confetti or glitter off the floor and Salim was positive he was still finding some winking at him in the light from last year).

He finds ribbons and streamers in a box, hanging them strategically around the house. He wants to do something nice for Jason at least! And Salim is happy to do it as a surprise!

Salim is glad that he has time, as he has to get ready too. Even so, he keeps his eyes on the clock, he can’t have Jason coming home too early.

*** Jason is glad that he and Nick are at least organised, running up and down the aisles of the grocery store as if they’re doing military drills. (This would be more effective if there weren’t so many unorganised people clogging up the space).

The traffic has been horrific. And Jason is glad Salim isn’t with him, the amount of cussing people out and flipping them off he’s been doing.

The only issues that Jason and Nick have is trying to find foods specifically that Salim (and Zain) will be able to eat. With Jason spouting “It needs to be Halal!” so often that Nick thinks he might kill him.

As if he didn’t hear Jason the first hundred times.

“Will you calm down I didn’t forget your boyfriend – also I’m surprised he’s up for celebrating this!”

Jason snorts, as if Salim didn’t refer to it as his special day this morning. He also holds up his hand, to flash his wedding ring. Nick rolls his eyes at Jason, but doesn’t correct himself.

Still, thanks to Jason’s persistency even Nick thinks they’ve done a good job at catering for everyone expected at the party.

There’s a couple of things left on the list, and then Nick and Jason will likely load this stuff between their trucks and drop it off at Nick’s, where Jason will go home to collect Salim and meet back for the party later. This stuff is heavy; Nick definitely can’t do it all alone – that’s half the reason Jason is here in the first place. (The other apparently so he can be hypervigilant about what Salim can eat.)

Jason follows Nick down the aisles with the list, looking up and down shelves to find the last couple of things, when his mobile buzzes in his back pocket.

Jason can’t imagine this will be anyone other than Salim – probably wanting a better ETA, or just checking in. Jason checks his watch; he’s still within the couple of hours he told Salim this morning. He will be home soon.

But then he stills; what if he’s asking for something specific for the party? What if he’s asking for something for Zain for the party?

Jason would rather not face Salim’s disappointed expression, and slides his phone out of his back pocket.

“Hold up will ya!?” He calls out to Nick, who halts a few paces ahead.

Jason unlocks his phone, and immediately his whole body jolts. Heat rushing in all directions, his pulse quickens.

What the FUCK Salim!?

Jason wants to check that no one is looking at this over his shoulder but he physically cannot tear his eyes away.

The picture he’s been sent cuts off at Salim’s navel – that’s probably on purpose. He’s shirtless, standing against a background made up of the American flag. There’s a bandana tied around his head – also the stars and stripes.

The light bounces deliciously over his bronze toned muscles. Jason wants to reach through the phone and run his hands all over them, feel the warmth of Salim’s body pressed against his, hear the way he whines under Jason’s fingertips. Those pretty dark brown eyes are nearly black with the sultry intensity that he stares into the camera. And that teeny tiny smirk - oh he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Fuck, holy fuck… This is like something from one of Jason’s wet dreams. What the fuck was going on!? He tries to swallow but his mouth is too dry, he can hear his blood rushing into his ears.

Was this right now!?! Did Salim look like this RIGHT NOW!?!?

‘Happy Fourth of July, Jason❤️🤍💙’

Is the text that comes through afterwards.

Jason’s brain is short circuiting. What was he supposed to do with this; Salim knows he’s out with Nick in the middle of a damn grocery store!!!

Asshole!!

Somewhere far off Nick’s voice echoes, “Dude, you okay?”

Jason tries to respond automatically that he’s fine – but it comes out as nothing more than splutters. He realises his hands are shaking as he moves to text back – and it’s nothing but desire that’s causing it to happen.

‘Right now? You send me that right NOW?!’

To back up Jason’s guess that Salim knows exactly what he’s doing, he receives a short text back:

‘Why don’t you come home and see… 😉’

Jason can almost see that little smug look on Salim’s face, glint in his eyes when he knows exactly what this is doing to Jason – even when he can’t see what it’s doing.

“Jason, what the fuck is going on dude?”

Jason crams his phone back into his pocket: suddenly he only has a one-track mind. And it’s telling him to drive back home.

“I gotta get home, RIGHT NOW!” He blurts.

He understands to Nick he must look absolutely crazed. Still, his buddy has seen Jason in so many situations now that it doesn’t seem to faze him.

“Dude,” Nick jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the shopping cart. “You expect me to do this by myself?!”

Jason is staring at him with wide eyes – brain just screaming ‘HOME! HOME! HOME! HOME!’ – “SALIM!” Is about the best he can manage.

Nick’s eyes widen – “What happened? Is he okay? Is something wrong!?”

Jason opens his wallet, grabbing his card and a wad of cash and thrusting it into Nick’s hands.

“No, uh, yes, uh – look I’ll see you at the barbeque later, okay?”

He barely gives Nick a chance to respond before he’s sprinting for the exit.

“JASON!” Nick yells after him, watching his best friend run across the store. Well, if it’s Salim, nothing is calling him back.

Nick just hoped the Iraqi was okay.

***

As the blue truck pulls into their drive, Jason can honestly say he’s surprised he’s made it home without causing an accident. He guesses he’ll have to see if he picks up any tickets later. His knuckles are almost white, gripping the wheel so tight as he tries to stop his body shakes from getting any worse.

He throws the door open, scrambling out, locking it before rushing to their front door. Jason has to try to jam the key into the lock at least twice.

‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

Eventually he forces it open and slams it behind him.

Jason halts in the doorway. Sense enough to pause and admire the fact that Salim has done up their house while he’s been gone!

The red, white and blue ribbons and banners look so neat, twisted together in elaborate bow and flower shapes, Salim has even curled the tails. He’s hung stars and stripes bunting all the way up the staircase and the ‘Happy Fourth of July!’ banner, from last year’s party they hosted, stretches across the living room.

Jason’s heart soars to a new level of happiness. Salim didn’t have to do any of this – Jason had expressly stated that this morning. But he did. The second he’d heard the slight complaint out of Jason’s mouth Salim had known exactly what to do.

Or perhaps, given the picture, he’d planned this all along. Jason threw his phone and keys on the counter. Usually he’s neat, but his shoes are tossed carelessly at the bottom of the steps as he races up the stairs.

There’s no way Salim isn’t in their bedroom, right? Looking that good?

Jason is moving so fast he clips the top of the banister with his hip, but he barely feels it. He slides into the door glad that it’s been left on the latch, rather than his still shaking hands having to embarrassingly deal with the handle.

He freezes at what he sees in front of him. And Jason thought his reaction in the grocery store was bad… He must be having a full on heart attack this time.

Indeed, on the wall behind their headboard is hung the US flag, and Salim sits in the middle of the bed looking up at him. The Iraqi is biting his lip, regarding Jason with such adoration they look like literal heart eyes.

Everything is already laid out neatly on the bedside table. There is no doubt what and who this is for. Even the bandana has been left there invitingly, and Jason can think of several different things he’d like to do with that before they left this room.

Jason flushes bright red, momentarily looking away,

“…You’re not… wearing anything.”

Holy fuck. Holy FUCK. This is a wet dream.

Please - fuck - don’t let him wake up now.

Salim gasps sarcastically as if he hadn’t realised. “Oh, goodness, I suppose I’m not.”

Salim waits until Jason is looking back at him. Those pretty honey-brown eyes locking back with his. Salim’s face starts to flush to match Jason’s.

He looks mostly in control, but as Jason’s eyes graze lower, the rapid rise and fall of Salim’s chest betrays that his pulse is racing too. Salim is trying to keep his self-restraint in check just like Jason is.

“Is that an issue?”

That’s all Salim needs to say, lip bite turning to full smirk, flirty tease to the tone of his voice.

“Fuck NO.”

Jason is already throwing off his cap and removing his shirt, leaping onto the bed.

Salim waits for Jason to get to him before laying himself back – not that Jason wouldn’t have pushed him down and pinned him there with the force of his kisses.

Each and every one is more heated than the last as Jason’s hands – no longer shaking – trail down Salim’s chest and stomach. All he wants to do is touch.

Salim whines a little into the kiss as Jason’s hand moves between their tangled legs; nails digging into Jason’s back.

The American growls, harsh kisses moving onto Salim’s neck. The Iraqi pants a little, before gaining some semblance of grounding.

“Can’t you at least wait until I get you out of your clothes!?”

Jason forces himself to be patient, pushing himself up onto his hands by virtue of pinning Salim’s own under them.

“You did this to yourself, Darlin’, don’t give me that. You knew what I was gonna do.”

Salim chuckles, “Perhaps.” He bites his lip again, “Happy Fourth of July, Rohi.” Although Salim had said it this morning, the almost whispered quality of it this time holds so much more meaning.

Jason’s head tips, before he smiles like he’s just got the joke.

Is this what Salim had meant by looking forward to the fireworks?

Salim smiles back, like he knows Jason’s figured it out, turning his head to one side so he can graze his lips against Jason’s tattoo. Jason removes his hand from Salim’s, chasing his lips, fingertips caressing his jaw until Salim is looking back at him.

“Best fuckin’ Fourth EVER.”

This time he gets a breathed laugh – he knows what Salim is thinking. They haven’t even got to the good part yet.

But Jason already knows he’s going to enjoy every second of this. He leans down again, claiming Salim’s lips once more in a rough kiss. Their fingers interlock, and the hand he’s not pinning down tangles itself in Jason’s hair.

Jason’s free hand moves back between them, and the moan he elicits from Salim this time is fucking beautiful.