Chapter Text
The first thing Assad does when he wakes up in his own bed is his Wordle. Surprisingly enough, his streak is still intact and he’s only a little concerned at the enormous surge of relief he feels at that. Because who cares that five minutes ago, he was thirty years ago? As long as his Wordle streak survives, he’s good.
Besides, he muses, making his way into the bathroom and squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush, that was probably just a dream. The hottest, most realistic sex dream he’s ever had. He watches his reflection brush its teeth in the mirror, eyes travelling down to his chest, and…
Oh.
His chest, littered with quickly fading marks, the faint imprint of teeth barely visible above his left nipple. He doesn’t even notice his toothbrush clattering down into the sink. He rinses his mouth out as fast as he can and runs back to his bed, grabbing his phone and opening up his messages with Eric.
Still the same. Nothing is different there, the last message being, brunch tomorrow? from Assad with a thumbs up react from Eric.
The last time he was awake, he had Eric inside him.
“Chill.” He mumbles, running his hand over his heart. He can feel it beating, can feel his vision going blurrier than it already is. He feels around the nightstand for his glasses and sinks to the ground, drawing his knees to his chest. It’s normal, everything is normal, everything is fine. He tries doing his breathing exercises but he gets bored and goes on his phone halfway through.
Curious, he opens Chrome and looks up eric bogosian rashid.
Several stills of Daniel and Armand in season one, interview links, Tumblr pages. He scrolls and scrolls, going all the way to the last page of results, but he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Of course he doesn’t. Why would Eric go around talking about a random one night stand he had in the nineties? Irritated with himself, Assad forces himself to get up and get ready. A pair of jeans, a jumper over a plain tee, and some socks that don’t peek out over his Toms. He throws on a beanie too, too tired to deal with . He stares at himself in the mirror, feeling increasingly detached from his reflection. It’s like he left a part of his brain back in 1991, the part that made him feel like a real human being. He misses Eric with a ferocity that is not nearly justified by the time he spent with him. A few hours, a few words, he’s spent longer with actual one night stands. But it’s Eric, someone he knows and loves, but this Eric wanted him back.
With a sudden jolt akin to a million volts of electricity straight to the heart, he remembers Eric telling him he’s in an open marriage.
Not is, was. Because anything can happen in thirty years. Hell, a marriage that was open yesterday could be closed the very next day. Don’t get your hopes up, Assad tells himself, his hopes so up already he couldn’t spot them with a NASA grade telescope.
And he’s still not sold that it wasn’t just a dream and he… what, tripped and fell on something that left him with bruises shaped suspiciously like love bites? He slips his hand under his layers, running his fingers over the bite mark. It’s there, it’s real. Assad takes a deep breath, shoulders his tote, and leaves his flat.
He’s the first to arrive. He sits at a booth in the corner, the same spot they sat the last time they got brunch when Eric was in London. He hasn’t seen his co-star in nearly a month, the longest they’ve gone without even a video call. Assad’s been busy with his other life, the one that doesn’t involve red carpets and interviews and inappropriate one-sided workplace relationships, and Eric’s been… he doesn’t actually know much of what Eric’s been up to. Just being at home, being a good husband, he supposes. He finishes two glasses of water before Eric shows up, and makes a decent dent in the mimosa pitcher he ordered for them.
When Eric does arrive, it’s unceremonious. Assad was picturing a dramatic reunion, a sudden realisation and a proclamation of love, lust, anything.
What really happens is Assad drops his phone and he reaches under the table to get it. When he emerges, Eric is standing there with a little smile.
“Hey.” He says.
And oh, how Assad missed that face. He missed his Eric, the lines around his eyes that made him who he is, the old man glasses, the soft line of his shoulders. He jumps up and throws his arms around Eric, burying his face in his neck. He doesn’t care that this isn’t something they do, that he’s probably weirding Eric the hell out right now. He needs to feel Eric against him, confirmation that he’s real and Assad is real and that they’re here, right now, together.
“Woah,” Eric starts and Assad pulls away, hoping his face isn’t bright red, “you good?”
“Yup. All good.” He slides back into his side of the booth and motions for Eric to do the same. The older man quirks an eyebrow at him but thankfully doesn’t press the subject. He scoots back in and smiles at Assad, drumming his fingers on the table.
“I’ve missed you.” Assad says. He closes his mouth around his straw, taking a long sip of his mimosa. He’s not even that buzzed yet but he feels light, airy. Being around Eric does that to him.
“I can tell.” Eric says, amused. “I missed you too. I’ve got my peaceful mornings back now that I don’t have you talking my ear off about craft beers or some other such hipster B.S.”
“I’m not a hipster.” Assad says indignantly, pushing his beanie back a little from where it’s slipping onto his forehead. “And you have no room to be talking about talking, mister. I don’t think my neck’s ever been as tired as it was last year from all the nodding I had to do around you.”
Eric throws his straw wrapper at Assad. Assad picks it up and rolls it up into a neat little ball. “I’m just kidding.” He adds. “I love listening to you talk.”
Eric shifts in his seat. He had once told Assad, a lifetime ago in Prague, that he disarmed him. He was too genuine, too intentional with his words. Eric called himself a man of disingenuous nature, someone who after decades of character work and playwriting found it difficult to express non-ironic emotion. Assad thinks of that now, but makes no effort to soften his gaze or reel back his words. He means what he says and is unashamed in saying it.
“Well.” Eric laughs. “You should talk to Jo. It’s a miracle she hasn’t packed up and left yet. I’m surprised her ears are still attached to her head.”
Right. Assad breaks eye contact, glancing down at his lap where his hands are resting, nails picking at his cuticles. A bad habit he thought he had broken, but can evidently never shake.
“How is Jo?” He asks, but before Eric can answer, a waiter comes up to the table.
They order their breakfast and Assad asks for another pitcher. Filming doesn’t start for ages and he’s essentially unemployed at the moment so he has no qualms about getting drunk at half past eleven on a Tuesday.
“I can’t wait for my burger.” Eric says, pouring himself some mimosa. “I have been dreaming, salivating just thinking about this. I swear, work was just an excuse, I literally just came to London for this.”
“I can’t believe you’re eating a burger at eleven in the morning.” Assad says, wrinkling his nose.
Eric takes a sip of his mimosa and wrinkles his nose right back. “And I can’t believe you’re half a pitcher of straight champagne with maybe a sprinkle of orange zest in at eleven in the morning.”
They did make the mimosas strong today, and Assad would be lying if he said he didn’t feel it now. His hands feel heavy in his lap and he wants to reach across the table, run them over Eric’s face, feel his lips under the pads of his fingertips.
“We all have our vices.” He responds lightly. He takes the straw wrapper and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger again, then unrolls it, again and again and again. “Tell me something interesting, Eric. Tell me about the theatre scene. NYC in the nineties.” He leans back, jazz hands-ing.
Tell me you remember me.
Properly subtle, he definitely nailed that.
“We’ve talked about this before.” Eric says, but he keeps going. “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, baby. And literally only in the context of my play. I think I spent most of the early nineties working on that and the movie, I don’t actually know if I’m the best person to ask about the nineties.”
“So no sex, drugs, or rock and roll at all for you?” Assad asks innocently.
Eric smirks at him. “Well, no. I always knew how to have fun. But the nineties… I was really working my ass off. I was wild in the seventies, wild in the eighties, you have no idea, babe. Compared to that, I was basically a hermit in the nineties.”
“A hermit? You?” Assad mock gasps. “I would’ve never thought.”
“I had my fun.” He said. “But different fun. The theatre scene was also pretty different, Brooklyn was gentrification central by that point and the Lower East Side wasn’t that underground anymore. Not that it had been for a while at that point, but you know. I got in at probably the best possible time a good for nothing theatre kid from the suburbs possibly could have, the city was-”
“Eric.” Assad interrupts. “Did you ever hook up with a fan?”
Eric sits back in his seat. His glasses are sliding down his nose a little bit and he peers up at Assad over them.
“I hooked up with my biggest fan.” He says slowly. “She was front and centre at my plays most nights, knew everything about me. I hooked up with her a lot. Still am, matter of fact.” He taps his ring finger against the table, the wedding band making a dull noise against the wood.
Assad pulls a face, his heart beating a little faster. “Yeah, okay. I mean other than Jo.”
“Yeah, okay.” Eric parrots. “Why?”
“Why? I’m curious.” Assad says casually, hoping his voice doesn’t shake. He brings his drink towards him, wildly misjudging how far away his arm is from his body, and promptly spills the entirety of the glass on his nice blue jumper.
“Oh, Christ.” He mumbles, looking down at his chest. He’s dripping onto the floor. He stands up and grabs a napkin, watching it dissolve into mush when he presses it against his sopping chest. “I’m gonna go to the washroom.” He tells Eric, and slides out of the booth before he can respond.
In the bathroom, he takes his jumper off, wringing it into the sink. He watches the orange liquid swirl down the drain and he starts to laugh, delirium hitting him all of a sudden.
He was in another century, and now he’s mimosa drunk at Honey Bunny’s Brunch and Bloom.
The door creaks and Eric steps in. He looks so much smaller now than he did in 1991. Assad’s heart does something funny in his chest.
“You’re soaked.” Eric says, coming up to him.
Assad smiles at him. “Yes.” His jumper lies limp in the sink and he’s so cold, his t-shirt clinging to his skin. He’s tipsy and he thinks there isn’t a lot he wouldn’t do right now to get Eric on him again.
“Take that off.” Eric says, waving at him. “You can wear my sweater.”
“You’ll be cold!” Assad protests. “I’m fine. I’ll just stand under the hand dryer.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He sounds kind of angry. Assad crosses his arms over his chest, looking at him uncertainly.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to…” Eric sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just take your shirt off, Assad. You’ll catch a cold.”
“Okay, Dad.” Assad mumbles. He grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head, shivering even harder when the cool air hits his bare skin.
“Fuck, it’s freezing.” He whines, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. This is so unsexy, he thinks, too cold to be too embarrassed about it but too close to Eric to not be hyper aware of every inch of his own skin. “I’m not cut out for the cold.” He continues. “I was meant to be in the south of France. I should be on a beach right now.”
Eric still doesn’t say anything. Weirded out by the uncharacteristic silence, Assad glances up at him. The older man’s eyebrows are furrowed, his gaze fixed on Assad’s chest. Assad steps back, self-conscious.
“What… oh.” He looks down, a frankly obscene amount of love bites looking back up at him.
“Someone’s been having fun.” Eric says lightly. It’s so put on, nonchalant so obviously forced that it hits Assad like a cricket bat to the head. It’s getting harder, with every passing second, to keep his head on his shoulders about this entire situation.
“Oh!” Assad says. “It’s not… it’s not what it looks like.”
Eric shrugs. He unzips his sweater and passes it to Assad. He’s has a faded graphic tee on, the material stretched tight around his biceps. Assad wets his lips. He doesn’t know what he was thinking when he called this Eric smaller. He could almost cry with desperation, with how badly he wants to sink his teeth into the meat of his bicep, lick his way down the lines of his tendons.
“Hey, I’d never judge.” Eric says. Assad still hasn’t taken the sweater so Eric brings it around his shoulders. Assad slips his arms in, watching as Eric steps closer, attaching the zip and slowly pulling it up his abdomen. “Out of curiosity though,” he says, his breath warm on Assad’s jaw, “because you know I’m a gossip queen at heart,” his hand moves slowly up his chest, the warmth of his skin seeping through the cotton, “, is it serious?” He brings the zipper all the way up to the top, his knuckles brushing Assad’s chin.
“Um, no.”
“No?”
“Just a… thing.” Assad’s gaze shifts,
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Eric pats Assad’s chest once, twice, then steps back. “I’ll ask for a bag for your clothes. Clean up quick, you got avocado toast waiting for you.”
And Eric leaves. He has a flight the next morning and he ducks out of brunch not even an hour later to ‘pack’, which is such bullshit. Assad traveled with Eric enough to know that his pre-flight ritual includes setting an alarm for four hours before departure and throwing everything he needs in a suitcase that refuses to zip.
Eric grimaces as he makes this excuse, the lie ringing so loud Assad’s teeth hurt. He sits there, picking at his nearly full plate, for another hour before he gathers up what’s left of his dignity and walks back home.
It’s like his body is tethered to Eric’s now, like he has some sort of sixth sense that developed when he fucked him in another world. He tenses up the second the doors of the lift open on his floor like there’s a big neon sign flashing at him telling him Eric’s here. He takes a deep breath before he turns the corner and sure enough, there he is, leaning against the door with one leg propped up. It’s jarringly similar to the position they were standing in thirty years ago, Eric against the alley wall, Assad approaching him.
“Hey.” Assad says.
“You need to find a better place to hide your spare key.” Eric tells him in lieu of a greeting. “Under the doormat, really? I could’ve broken in.”
“You could’ve.” Assad shrugs. Eric doesn’t move when he leans in to unlock the door. “You’re welcome in any time.”
“You need to be more careful.” Eric insists. Assad opens the door and squeezes past him to walk into his apartment. He makes a beeline to his kitchen, filling his kettle with water and turning it on. He rummages around in his cupboard for two mugs that are passably un-embarrassing. He doesn’t ned to saddle Eric with his 20% Stud 80% Muffin mug.
He hears Eric close the door behind him and make his way to the kitchen. “I thought you had to pack.” Assad says, turning to face him.
“So… your thing.” Eric says, then pauses. Assad bites his lip, his heart jumping.
“What thing?” Assad asks. Eric raises his eyebrows, unimpressed.
“You didn’t tell me you were seeing anyone.” He says, too casual.
“I’m not.” Assad says. “I thought I conveyed that quite clearly. I thought you got that.”
“Sure.” Eric replies. “But you’re… looking?”
Assad puts the mugs down, running the palm of his hand over his eyes. “Eric, why are you asking me about this?”
He keeps his eyes closed, red dots dancing behind his eyelids as he listens to Eric’s response.
“We’re friends? I’m nosy?”
Assad sighs, opening his eyes. “Okay, Eric.” He drizzles honey into the mugs and takes his time putting the jar away. And then, he’s just tired.
“But see,” he says, his palms sweating, “I don’t think that’s it.”
“Oh yeah?” Eric asks, crossing his arms. It could’ve been a casual movement on him, it usually is, but Assad thinks he just looks defensive. He swallows and continues.
“Can we cut the bullshit for like, two seconds?” The words come out angrier than he intended and he feels as surprised as Eric looks. “I just… we both know what we want, don’t we? I don’t understand why none of us are bloody doing anything about it.”
Eric uncrosses his arms, then crosses them again, then stands up straight, not leaning against the counter anymore.
“You know why.” Eric says. His face is carefully blank.
“No, I really fucking don’t.” Assad snaps. The kettle starts to whistle and Assad immediately begins to fiddle with it, grateful for the distraction. He pours the water into the mugs and stares into them, watching the water settle above the honey. He reaches into his drawer for two teabags and steeps them in the water, stepping away to let them soak.
“I should go.” Eric says. “I need to pack.”
“But I’m making tea.”
“I’m married.”
There it is. It’s exactly what Assad had expected. It’s fine really, so why is there a dangerous lump growing in his throat, a threatening prickle against the backs of his eyes?
“It’s just tea.” He says quietly.
It’s stupid, really, that he had gotten his hopes up like this. Apparently all rational thought fled from him when it came to Eric.
“We… I can’t, Assad, you have to understand.” Eric says desperately. “I think you’re amazing, I think I’m so lucky to be able to call you my friend, I really do, but… that’s not all this is, isn’t it?” He takes a step closer to Assad. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, Assad.”
Assad tilts his head downwards ever so slightly. He’s the same height as Eric but better posture and taller shoes usually give him an inch or two on him. Eric meets his gaze, his piercing green eyes cloudy and unsure.
“You want me.” Assad says plainly. He knows this to be true, 1991 aside. He thinks back to the long nights into early mornings on set, their walks around Prague, the hours and hours and hours of conversations in hotel rooms, lingering gazes and wandering hands, only ever stopping when it became too explicit, when imagined touches were just about to become real. There was always plausible deniability, a hand on a thigh, asleep on a shoulder, a lasting hug.
Eric doesn’t answer. Assad steps closer. His kitchen is not large and the two of them are almost nose to nose now.
“Yes?” He prompts.
“Assad…” Eric starts.
Assad sinks to his knees. He ignores Eric’s gasp and runs his fingers down Eric’s belt, teasing, promising.
“It could be so good.” He whispers, looking up at Eric. He know’s Eric can feel the warmth of his words through the layers of fabric. He lets his fingers drift, still tracing his belt but higher, the pads skimming the soft skin of his abdomen. He revels at the feeling, dizzy with it.
If this is all he could get, would it be enough?
No, he realizes. It wouldn’t ever be enough for him.
“What are you doing?” Eric’s voice is strained and Assad smiles to himself, despite everything.
“Yes or no, Eric?” He asks, letting his dull nails scratch down to his thighs. When he doesn’t answer, Assad leans in and places a small, featherlight peck to the stretch of denim covering Eric’s thigh. Just one small kiss, and Eric jerks forward, a strangled noise escaping his mouth.
“I can’t.” He says, moving back.
Assad flushes. He feels his entire face, down his neck to his chest going red hot. The floor is hard against his knees and he feels supremely idiotic, still at eye-level with Eric’s crotch.
“Okay.” He says. He gets up and stands, uncertain. “Okay.” He repeats. “You should pack, then.”
Eric nods, already making his way to the door. “Yeah. Lots to do, my hotel’s a mess. I’m going to go pack. For my flight. I’ll see you around, kid.” He doesn’t even look at Assad once, grabbing the doorknob and yanking with such ferocity Assad worries for his security deposit. The door slams shut behind him and Assad is left staring at his front door, wondering if it’s too late to quit his job and burrow under his duvet, hidden from the world forever.