#jalim

A consistent pattern had formed: burying himself under the covers, clutching his rumbling gut, before hanging his head over the toilet for another re-enactment of The Exorcist. Honestly, he couldn't even feel sorry for himself. He wasn't twenty anymore, knowing exactly what would happen as soon as he'd downed that final ill-advised drink.

It was only once he could keep fluids down that he braved an attempt at food. Room service was called, on the request that they provide the greasiest shit on the menu. What he was served in return was genuinely heinous. Like the chef knew all of his sins and was actively trying to punish him:

A meat pie with pale, bubbling filling leaking through a thin wall of crust. This, paired with fries so slippery he could barely keep hold of them.

He ate it all anyway. Went as far as to lick the plate clean. He needed something to fill the pit that had punched cleanly into his stomach. The regret, the longing. All the other unsaid bullshit. Because there'd been one source of comfort that he had found in his lavender-scented prison, and damn if that hadn't made things significantly worse. 

There'd been no going back to sleep last night; waking up with a whole-ass tent pitched between his legs. The only option had been a shower. Cold. Bracing. He'd been faintly hopeful that it might sober him up a bit. Or, at the very least, shock his system enough to knock him out. 

Instead, something had slipped through the cracks of loosened inhibitions. Crept up faster than he could stop it. Soon, his forehead was pressed to the slippery wall tiles, and he was thrusting into a tightened fist. His memory was hazy, but he liked to think he tried to clear his mind. Think about anything, anyone, other than who he settled on.

But the dream had been too fresh in his memory, and the need for release too agonising. It stayed there, planted firmly, as his movements grew more desperate. It wasn't long until he had finished, spilling over with a broken cry. And through the break in his voice, something else managed to escape. Clear as a church bell. Or the blast of a trumpet. 

"Salim…" 

He'd been drifting off, arm draped over his forehead, when he heard ringing. 

Initially, he thought it was the hotel reception. Or, worse, CENTCOM, calling for their post-travel debrief. He could hear the smug assholes now: scrutinising every second he'd spent in London, exploiting his fragile state as much as possible. Wringing him dry for inconsistencies, any drop of irregularity, so they would have enough of an excuse to throw him back in the box. 

He didn't care—could be interrogated a thousand times over. He wouldn't give up what they wanted. 

Then, Jason realised that it wasn't the landline. Lurching up from the mattress, massaging the sides of his aching temple, the sound of the chime was too clear. Melodic. There was also a buzz, originating from near the drawn window. 

His stomach dropped. Immediately, this was much more intimidating than a disgruntled cleaner or government agent on a power trip. There was only one person he'd given his cell number—only one person who could be calling. 

After a brief delay, he responded, moving across the faded carpet like it was covered in landmines. Part of him hoped for a Get Out Of Jail Free card. The call ringing off before he could answer, or Salim giving up, setting down his handset in frustration. 

Neither of those things happened. And so, he lifted the device, pointedly refusing to look at the screen:

"...Hel—" 

He was interrupted by a clattering sound, alongside distant conversations. His tense grip on the plastic loosened as he listened on in confusion. Eventually, he pulled the receiver away, the I.D. displayed being one that he didn't recognise. 

Probably some sales rep with a faulty connection. Or just a wrong number. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, he was about to hang up. Then, static burst through the line, and someone called out:

"Jason? Are you there? Can you hear me?" 

He dove straight back into nervous delirium. Forgetting how to breathe, his jaw snapped shut, pressure pulsing through every inch of his neck. 

"...Yeah," he eventually said, voice emerging cracked and hoarse. No doubt a result of all the puking. "I can hear ya." 

"I am sorry for calling so late; I hope I didn't wake you." 

Truthfully, he had no idea what time it was. His room had been blacked out all day, the bleak weather having done him a solid in that sense. Sealed out by nothing more than flimsy floral drapes. 

"Nah, it's all good." The forced casualness flipped his stomach. The audacity to act like he hadn't been waiting days for Salim to reach out. That the voice he was hearing wasn't the one he had vividly imagined while jacking off. "Any reason you're calling me from a cell?"

"Ah, I bought one for Zain not long ago. Some peace of mind. It felt hypocritical to not lead by example..." There was a lull in the conversation, and a shuffling noise, before Salim continued. "Truthfully, it has not helped at all. He keeps sending me these strange, coded messages."

This was enough to chip away at some of his anxiety. Jason snorted, unable to ignore how endearingly clueless this sounded. "What do you mean by 'coded'?"

"TTYL: Do you have any idea what that could mean?" 

"Talk to you later." 

"Oh. Right." The man lost momentum, clearly deflated. "Of course, it is very late, after all." 

"No, Salim, that's—" He grappled for an explanation that didn't sound patronising. It's not like he would be any more clued in, were it not for magazines and daytime TV. "I can talk, what's up?" 

"I've spoken with one of my colleagues, and I've been able to swap some shifts. I can leave earlier tonight, and see you tomorrow. All day." 

Jason winced. Oh. Fuck. 

He half-wished he'd gone along with the misunderstanding. Let Salim believe he was being rude as shit. Maybe then, he wouldn't have landed himself in his current position. 

After what happened in the kitchen, the prospect of meeting up again had been dangerous. Now, it was straight up lethal. 

"I told you not to do that…asked you to stop bendin' your schedule around me."

"It was bold of you to assume I would listen."

Jason grunted in exasperation, collapsing into the nearby chair. It wasn't directed at the man on the phone. Not really. Because of course he wanted to see him again; the problem was how much. 

This wasn't just lust. Some passing crush he could brush off in a few weeks. It was knowing that boarding his flight without proper closure would feel like his life was over. He'd allowed something truly precious to slip through his fingers—too much of a coward to hold on. 

On the other hand, he had lost faith in his ability to keep quiet. Was terrified of slipping up, revealing too much, and having to see the look on Salim's face when he did. 

He couldn't take that back to the States, alongside destroying what could have been a lifelong friendship. 

"And your boss is cool with that? The shift swap, I mean."

"I have made sure it is all covered. What he does not know won't hurt him." 

Jason slumped forward, face sinking into his palm. "You're gonna get yourself fired."

"We don't have to see each other if you don't want to." The warmth in Salim's voice wavered, replaced by a much less hopeful reserve. "But I would like to say…if something has happened, or if I did something to upset you, then please do not suffer in silence. I am happy to listen." 

The irony of this was both crushing and hilarious. Because if only the man knew what had gotten him so twisted up. 

"Was it my cooking? Surely it couldn't have been that bad."

"Your food was delicious, shut the fuck up." 

Salim laughed at the comeback, but it wasn't hard to detect the hurt threaded throughout. As though he was already preparing himself for rejection while Jason danced noncommittally around the subject.

It wasn't fair. He knew it wasn't. 

The guy had been nothing short of a saint the entire visit, never once allowing him to feel unwelcome or unwanted. He couldn't shove him away after all that kindness. After all, it wasn't his fault that Jason was feeling this way.

Surely, he could keep himself in check for one more day. Salvage as much as possible from the mess he'd created. 

With luck, this would mean striking a balance between making amends for his rudeness and never having to address what triggered it. That could be saved for later, working through all the painful revelations and inconvenient realities, when he was safely removed from the situation. Thousands of miles away. 

"...Well, seeing as you're fixing to play hooky anyway, what did you have in mind?"

Jason had been staring into the exhibit for too long. An unnatural amount of time dedicated to watching monkeys swing around trees, or scratch their asses on polythene nets. The beauty of Mother Nature, or whatever, but after coming face-to-face with intergalactic bat monsters, anything earthbound seemed a little underwhelming—

"A friend of yours?" 

—Well, almost anything. 

Because nothing could've prepared him for just how difficult it would be to act around Salim. Constantly questioning whether or not he was behaving normally. 

It was the most conscious of himself he'd been in years. An alien crammed into a human flesh suit. At this point, he probably would've been more at home with the bats. 

"One of my brothers." Jason gestured to the flexiglass, just in time for a monkey to pick its nose and flick the fallout in their direction. "He got the looks, I got the charisma." 

"I see…" The older man nodded, arms folded in mock thoughtfulness. "I would've considered a wolf a more fitting animal for you." 

"Oh yeah, and why's that?" 

The worst part was that—to the untrained eye—nothing would seem out of the ordinary. Just two friends shooting the shit about zoo animals. 

But it was all a performance, Jason stuck firmly in his own head. Ensuring he wouldn't laugh too hard at any jokes, or lock eyes with Salim long enough to risk pondering on what he might be feeling, or thinking. 

"Excessive aggression and poor volume control." Salim paused, allowing the other man to believe that the jabs would continue on like this. It would have been preferred, honestly, much more than what followed. "...But also, there is pride. Resilience. Smarter than people give them credit for, and fiercely loyal."  

Oh, you asshole. 

Jason could've strangled him. Or, in avoiding an assault charge, thrown himself to an actual wolf pack. Ripped limb from limb, tossed in pieces into the sweet embrace of death. 

Because Salim knew damn well what he was doing. He wasn't some casual spectator, oblivious to the newest quirks in the American's behaviour. He saw every nervous twitch, hesitant glance, and waited on every fumbled word. It was hard not to while sitting centre stage. 

"Huh." Jason reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled guest map. "I reckon you'd be a…panda…because they're, you know, tough. But gentle." 

Salim hummed, eyes crinkling fondly, but otherwise failed to respond. 

"What, you don't like pandas?" He scanned the page, stabbing his finger against another enclosure. "What about penguins, they more your speed?"

"I'm sensing a pattern emerging." They were both spared from further floundering—or an ill-conceived joke about black and white animals—as Salim smoothly changed the subject. "I'm quite hungry; would you like to get some lunch?"

The atmosphere remained strange after that. Weighted. A presence they both knew was there, but neither of them wanted to bring up first. 

Instead, conversation circled around well-trodden topics. They didn't get into anything new—both conscious of the limited time they'd have to explore it.

"You've not touched your food," Salim commented. His tone attempted indifference, but was etched with obvious concern.

"Ah, yeah." Jason didn't look up, just stabbed a tomato with his fork, watching the juices flow out. "I went out on Monday, still kind of delicate. Surprised I didn't need my stomach pumping."

It was meant as a joke, playful self-admonishment, but Salim didn't laugh. Didn't even pretend to find it funny. Despite having been the one to suggest eating, his own sandwich was abandoned after a single, cursory bite. 

They carried on, limping weakly down the path of least resistance. Jason had done it, found his middle ground, and it had satisfied no one. 

It didn't take lingering stares to clock that Salim was miserable—a dense fog dampening his usual vibrance. He stared ahead pensively, lips pressed together in a thin line. Too reluctant to say anything, in case what he said ended up being the wrong thing. 

He was still being punished, and Jason couldn't be so selfish as to let it carry on. At the next enclosure, he allowed them some liberties. Made a point of focusing on the placard, head tilted in curiosity, aware his companion would not be able to resist. 

As predicted, the glasses emerged, and Salim did his thing. Sidling in closer and scanning the text, chiming in with his own bonus trivia. 

Jason finally looked at him, properly, as he listened attentively. As soon as he did, time seemed to pass tauntingly fast. Lost in the crinkles of Salim's brow and the thoughtful spark in his eyes. 

His own chest ached. Because no matter how hard he tried to focus, there was nothing he could do to preserve them fully. Salim would return to what he'd been before—a memory, slipping away across the sand. Soon, there would be nothing but footprints. Then nothing at all, the more time that passed from this moment. 

God. He wished he'd gotten a photo. Fought for it harder when he still had the chance.

Their time at the zoo ended, and they made their way through the neighbouring park, back towards the train station. 

In a rare change of pace for the city, the weather was perfect. Crisp, but not cold, with clear, blue skies. Light bled through the leaves above, bathing everything around them in an amber glow. 

And still, Jason was far more invested in the scuffed tips of his boots. 

"One moment…" Already laboured steps stalled—first Salim's and then Jason's. "There is a pond a bit further down from here; I stop at it quite often."

He rifled through his bag, and after some searching, a plastic ziplock was revealed, filled to the brim with seed mix. It cast shadows against his face as he lifted it up, but did nothing to eclipse how the sun illuminated his skin. 

"Would you like to feed the ducks with me?" 

Asshole. You absolute fucking asshole. 

The question had been so endearingly sweet. A final, agonising invitation into the little idiosyncrasies of his life. How in the nine circles of hell was Jason supposed to say no?

And so, hell was where he ended up. The devil tested his every limit with a shoulder pressed snugly against his own. He wondered if the bench they were sitting on was comically tiny, or if it was his fried brain playing tricks. 

Salim cut through the spiral, leaning closer as he offered Jason the bag. "Do not let me hoard the seed." 

The movement brought their bodies closer, making it all the harder to breathe through his tightening throat. Then it occurred to him just how stupid this reaction was. 

This wasn't a battlefield; there was no danger. They were feeding ducks, for fuck's sake. It wasn't like Salim was about to lunge forward, grabbing him by the collar and demanding to know why he looked so flushed. 

If anything, sitting wide-eyed and bold-upright like a haunted porcelain doll was far more likely to make shit uncomfortable.

"Got it." With a handful of food clenched tightly in his fist, Jason inspected the pond. He noticed one of the birds was being significantly more forceful than the others. Honking loudly, it barged a path through the flock, snapping up a disproportionate share of seed. 

"Hmmm, I don't like this one's attitude. Seems a bit big for his boots."

Salim nodded in agreement. "He's had more than his fill. What about that family over there?" 

Jason wasn't sure what he meant at first. Then he saw them: a mother duck and her babies, emerging from the reeds and swimming their way across the pond. The mission was accepted as he prepared his next throw with a new target in mind. "Yes, sir. Ready to feed the troops." 

One of the ducklings lagged behind the others, and despite their combined efforts, it missed the first couple of throws. With the rest of the flock closing in fast—including the feathered torpedo identified earlier—Jason knew he had to step up his game. No man left behind. 

"I've got you, little buddy…" Refusing to take his eyes off the prize, he dove in blindly for another scoop. This proved to be a mistake, as Salim mirrored the action, and their hands met. 

The ducks were forgotten. The park was forgotten. Everything slipped from Jason all at once, leaving nothing but the large, calloused fingers blanketing his own. Panic returned, and this time, it felt very proportionate. 

Because there was no chance Salim would miss how his body tensed. How the burn in his cheeks was radiating up to his ears, a trapped breath bobbing in his throat. 

Hours of carefully planned restraint and control, undone by a single touch. No escape, no chance to run away. 

"Jason." 

Shock veered sharply into paralysis. He made no attempt to pull away. At the same time, Salim did not try to, either. "Look at me, please." 

Despite his better instincts, he did. Salim held his gaze with the same tenderness that he used to hold his hand. Fingers locked in, as a thumb traced gentle circles across his palm. 

"Do you feel it too…?" 

"Don't know what you're talkin' about." 

The denial was snapped out faster than he could stop it. It didn't matter that Salim was being so charitable. The outcome remained the same. In his head, he was still standing trial, his defence about to be coldly obliterated. 

"At first, I thought I was imagining things. Or perhaps that I'd misunderstood—" 

There was little more Jason could do than swing defiantly as he was backed into a corner. 

"But then, there was the restaurant. How you put a blanket over me the night I fell asleep. My encyclopedia, and the note you left." He paused, smiling sympathetically, before delivering the words which broke Jason completely. "دِرْع…My American Jarhead."  

He knew. 

Of course he did. He'd known the whole goddamn time.

The incident in the kitchen had been the beginning of the end. Now, it was all over. Because nothing good ever came from a look like that. The kind of commiserative pity which patted your head and said 'Oh, you poor idiot.' 

The next words which left Salim's mouth would be a rejection—telling his friend that he was flattered, but didn't swing that way. And of course, even if he did, Jason would be pretty far down the list:

A loud-mouthed former junkie who'd spent the best part of two years being the worst kind of hateful, flag-waving trash. The kind Salim had every reason to hate, with it being a small miracle that they managed to reach the label of 'friends' in the first place. 

He decided to save him the effort, cutting himself down before the man ever had a chance. "Look, I'm sorry. Really, I am. I don't know what happened here, or how it happened, and I feel really shitty. I swear to God, if I'd realised sooner, I would've stepped back. Hopped on the next flight home and—"

"Stop it." 

The words felt like the countersteer during a spin-out. Jason lost momentum. His mouth clamped shut, too stunned to do anything else.

"We don't have the luxury of time, so let's not waste what we do have." Salim squeezed his hand, tighter than before. "I need you to listen to me. Carefully. Because I think you've missed something quite crucial in what I just asked."

Still gripping onto his seat, staring blindly ahead, Jason took a while to respond. When he did, the words came small and uncertain. "...Okay, I'm listenin'"

Salim sighed before he repeated himself. Slow and deliberate, ensuring no room for doubt or misinterpretation. 

"Do you feel it too?" 

With this, he was sent into another skid, barrelling through the foundations of everything he thought he understood about the situation. 

Obviously, people could swing both ways. He wasn't so clueless that he didn't get that. But Salim had been married for at least half of his adult life. To a woman. He'd had a child with her; been so crushed after she left that he refused to move on.

As he stared into his lap, trying and failing to process the fallout, he could feel the other man staring. Waiting for the dumbfounded look on his face to shift into acceptance. But it didn't—couldn't—his spent psyche still unable to accept it. 

"Maybe it would've been better to discuss this in private…" Salim fidgeted awkwardly in his seat, as a dogwalker strayed a little too closely to their bench. "Did you want to go back to my apartment?" 

Jesus Christ.

This was a lot harder to refute. Because Salim was a bit out of the game, sure, but he wasn't naive. He had to understand the implications of this. That this wasn't an invitation you made unless you were looking to do more than talk.

"...What the fuck…?" 

The words tumbled from his slackened jaw, barely above a whisper. Strange noises followed, unable to decide if they were laughs or sobs, until he also remembered where they were. Sat in the middle of a public park, where anyone could be watching. Or listening. 

"Salim, that's—this—is fucking insane." He was shaking his head, mumbling defences over and over like a demented mantra. "No—I can't—we can't."

A long-frequented reflex. One which had started at fifteen, getting caught red-handed with the neighbour's son in his bedroom. 

"—I'm not—"

Voices were raised. Plasterboard punched into chips. The boy had pissed his pants and escaped out the window before things could get worse.

And they did. His dad stalked closer, with a look that promised this was going to hurt. Much more than it had with the Playgirls. A lesson would be learned this time, and one day, Jason would thank him.  

I swear. I'm not.

"Humans are complicated creatures," Salim continued, unable to disguise how drained he sounded. "We worry too much about labels. A clear definition of what we are or aren't. It is rarely so simple." 

"But it is simple—" His volume peaked, and he panicked retroactively. Did a quick canvas of their surroundings, relieved to see that the only spectators were the still-circling ducks. "This ain't some grey area, something that's open for debate. It's just wrong. You know it is."

"Do I?" The words were brutally sharp, cutting through all the patience and restraint which Salim had been scarcely holding onto. "I have sinned countless times. Done terrible things in service to my country. I have made peace with what I can; trust Allah will forgive the rest. But for this, I cannot be sorry. If he did not wish for me to feel this warmth, if he believed it to be so wrong, then why did he allow it?" 

"...I..." As Salim fired round after round into an already flimsy argument, there was little point trying to patch the holes. "I dunno; can't answer that." 

"I do not claim to have any answers; I can only speak for myself." Calm resumed as he lowered his tone, giving Jason's hand another squeeze. "You are capable of doing the same…but selfishly, I ask you to be honest. To consider what you think, believe, rather than what you've been told. Whatever might come of that, I will accept it." 

Jason laughed humourlessly, at a loss of what to do next. "You know, this would be a whole lot easier if you told me to go fuck myself." 

"I know." A sad, strained smile was given in return. "But I'm not going to." 

Of course you're not.

Jason closed his eyes, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath. He owed it to both of them to at least try. Drill through layers of loathing and disillusionment. A strike to the jaw. Back alley fumbles—too high to register shame. Don't Ask, Don't Tell. 

Beneath it, he found all that he needed to know.

The man sitting beside him made him feel safe. Valued. Something worth praising and preserving, in spite of every mistake he'd made. He had nothing to gain, retreating back to his miserable, empty life in Clarksville. But the thought of losing this, losing Salim, tore him to shreds. 

"I'll ask again…" There was a beat of hesitation, uncertainty splintering through the newly-composed veneer. As though Salim were realising how much power Jason held in this situation. "Do you want to come home with me?" 

Whatever answer was given, he would honour his word. Even if he didn't want to—even if he knew it was a lie. And like hell was Jason going to let that happen. 

The hand, which had meekly allowed itself to be held by Salim, lurched to action. Squeezing back against the grip, binding itself to the man with newfound conviction. A refusal to surrender. To be ruled by fear, to continue bending to its will. 

Because maybe he could accept the consequences of hanging on. Pay for it in damnation, or whatever else came next, if it meant taking a shot at happiness.