Work Text:
Act I
When Eric looped his arm through Assad’s on the corner of 8th Avenue and 47th Street in the middle of Times Square, Assad wondered if it was a way to keep him safe in the midst of all the chaos surrounding them. How Eric knew the likelihood of his wandering off like an excitable puppy and insisted on keeping him close.
But when he didn’t let go for another block, then another, Assad realized this was simply how Eric wanted to be seen with him. How he wanted the two of them to walk down the street together in the center of the universe.
Assad was content to be led because wherever he pointed or however many times he exclaimed aloud, asking questions knowing Eric had the answers, Eric did not let go. He pointed up at buildings that used to be something else. Assad listened, transfixed, never tired or bored of Eric’s stories.
Eric wasn’t a born and raised New Yorker but he seemed like a son of the City nonetheless.
This was how the afternoon unfurled. They’d spent the morning talking over coffee and bagels on Eric’s compact but cozy balcony about the latest movies Eric had seen, all the classic films Assad was finally catching up on. They debated which show to see on or off Broadway that evening. Each had very strong opinions.
Six? Eric groaned over his cappuccino. A bit of foam in the corner of his mouth.
Assad had nodded, eager, bringing the tops of his knees to his chin in the deck chair. He reached over to flick the foam off the side of Eric’s cheek.
What’s wrong with that? I’ve not seen it yet!
Assad was only in town for 48 hours. The next day would be spent filming one of Eric’s 100 Monologues . They had selected the piece together over text and Facetime with Assad reading aloud his favorites, Eric making suggestions, until they whittled it down to one. That particular monologue was now dog-eared, marked up and filled with notes in the margins of Assad’s copy of the book.
Eric shed his light jacket under the midday sun. It was unseasonably warm for November, but Assad kept his jacket on, unbuttoned.
‘Let’s go in here.” Eric’s thick finger pointed across the street towards an over the top tourist shop. These sort were littered all across the city and were full of cheap trinkets in the shape of yellow cabs and the Statue of Liberty bedazzled in glitter, just waiting to be forgotten in a box in someone's attic in Ohio marked Trips.
Assad made a face behind his sunglasses. He scrunched his nose.
“There? Really?” This wasn’t exactly how Assad planned to spend their one free afternoon together in the city.
“It won’t take long. Come on.”
Eric didn’t wait for approval or permission, but plowed ahead against traffic, not waiting for the walk signal. Assad walked quicker to keep up. When he did, Eric grabbed his hand.
The inside of the shop was exactly as it looked from the outside. Walls lined with I <3 New York shirts, bored workers behind the counter blasting top 40 radio, tourists bustling around on all sides.
Assad followed Eric who still held his hand, to the very back of the store.
“This is where they keep the good shit.” he said and Assad could see he was right.
All along the back wall were the pieces of merchandise that looked slightly less like they came out of a sweatshop. They stood in front of it, scanning the cramped wall until a young man behind the counter smacked his pink bubble gum, popping it in the corner of his mouth and asked, ‘Need anything from up here?’
Eric pointed towards the top. “That one on the left there. The dark gray one, yeah”
The young man grabbed a tool with a hook on the end in one arm.
“What are you doing?” Assad asked.
His gaze followed the cashier as they hooked a dark grey Yankees cap, bringing it down for Eric to examine.
“Don’t you have one just like that already?” Assad realized Eric wasn’t responding as the hat was rung up. When asked if he wanted to purchase a bag for five cents, Eric laughed, shaking his head.
“Nah, gonna pop the tags off right here. Thanks, though.”
Assad watched this all take place from a cognitive distance. The hat floating down to them, Eric’s credit card swiped, the sticker and tags left on the counter.
Eric stopped outside the store on the busy sidewalk to remove Assad’s beloved orange beanie from his head. He shoved it into his back pocket. Balled up sunshine safely ensconced inside dark denim.
“Now you can stop wearing that ridiculous thing. Here.”
Instead of handing it to him, Eric moved until he was directly in front of Assad, taking up as much space as he possibly could. He placed the hat on Assad’s head after gently smoothing down the top of his curls.
He stood back to admire his work.
“There. Much better.”
Assad turned to catch a glimpse of himself in the store window. He made a jagged, liquid shape against the ocean of bodies. Only the hat came into view, slipping into focus against the smeared glass.
~ ~ ~
Act II
Assad adjusted the brim of the cap over his forehead, twisting it left and then right until it fit snugly but looked somewhat well-worn. He’d picked it up just before leaving the states for London, then left London on holiday soon after. It was the first thing he packed along with his toothbrush.
Assad admired himself first in the hotel’s bathroom mirror, then in his phone’s camera, lying down after a day at the beach on his freshly made bed. Few things in life made Assad feel more at peace than all white sheets on a bed cut at crisp corners with spotless pillow cases to match.
He looked at himself on his phone. The hat was no match for the volume and weight of his curls. They pushed the brim to the side, nudging the rest of the cap up higher on his head until his hair broke free on all sides.
He gave up after a bit more fussing with it, muttering, that’s as good as it's gonna get to himself before rolling over onto his stomach and pulling up his text history.
Eric’s name was near the top and Assad smiled at their texts from the night before. They’d started off chatting about their plans for the day and ended with their pants off, hands on their dicks. Eric in his bedroom, Assad whimpering over the sound of running water for a shower he wasn’t in, his friends laughing at a football match in the other room.
Now he was planning to take advantage of having the hotel room to himself while everyone was elsewhere. Had they gone to a nightclub? Probably. Assad would join them later.
Eric answered his Facetime call on the second ring. They were both already grinning.
“You didn’t get enough of me yesterday?”
Before Assad could answer, Eric had pulled the phone closer to his face, staring intently into the lens at Assad.
“Is that a–wait a minute. What the hell? Where on earth did you get that ?”
Assad, on his stomach, quite literally kicked his feet up and down, back and forth on the bed before erupting into free-fall laughter.
“The airport! I got it just before I left New York! You like it?”
Eric was shaking his head but he was laughing.
“You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
Assad propped his chin on one hand, humming. “Perhaps.”
He modeled the hat for Eric, turning from side to side, lowering his head so he could see the logo in full.
“Does it suit me?”
When he looked at Eric again, he was surprised to see a semi-serious expression drawn across his face. No, that wasn’t right. This was supposed to be for fun, a laugh. A shared thing between them, some sort of inside joke.
Assad was quick to try and remedy any awkward moment or situation but Eric wasn’t giving him an opportunity to finish a single thought.
“Eric? Is everything-”
“Yeah, everything’s great. Really great. You just…” Eric pulled the phone away to scratch the back of his head with his other hand. The phone was at an angle so Assad could only see the top half of Eric’s face.
“You really bought that?” He was in full view again.
Assad bit his bottom lip, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Is it…? Is it too much?”
Eric didn’t say anything for a moment. Assad felt a familiar tug of worry in his abdomen, anxiety he’d come to see as a withmate his entire life for a whole host of reasons. Auditions, first dates, a new apartment he worried he wouldn’t be able to afford for long. All part of a long list of moments and events that twisted his insides out until he eventually managed to calm himself down.
“Yeah. It’s too much. It’s sending me up the fucking wall that’s how much it is. Cos you know I have one just like it.”
Assad felt himself lifting back up into a space of ease and joy. He breathed out a sigh of relief that devolved quickly into more laughter until he was covering his mouth.
“You do, yeah, I noticed. But um-”
“But what?” Eric cut him off. Not out of rudeness, but a need to know the full story. Assad knew that Eric wanted to have all the information so he could decide what to keep and what to discard for his own pleasure, his own amusement.
Assad shrugged, innocent. Coy even. “I like it. I like the way it looks on you. So I wanted one for myself. It’s simple, really.”
It was anything but, of course. Assad enjoyed pulling on the invisible string of desire between them for Eric to bat at and play with.
“Yeah, since every young man who majored in theater in England is keeping up with American baseball and the New York Yankees.”
Assad collapsed in a fit of giggles all over again. He really did have so much fun talking to Eric. The jig was up, but the pleasure was just beginning.
Eric peered closer down the lens of the camera as if stretching his neck helped him see more of Assad.
“Are you only wearing that hat?” It was a closed off, singular question where only one answer was acceptable.
Assad nodded, thumb tugging down his bottom lip to show his blinding white, slightly uneven teeth.
Eric cleared his throat.
“So, what are you now…a..um…”
Assad grinned.
He’d managed to do the impossible. Eric was properly flustered. He wanted to jump up and down on the bed in celebration but there were more important matters to attend to.
“A fuck boy? Boy toy?” He offered innocently.
Eric’s laughter was thick and tight in his throat.
“Yeah sure that works. You look like a fuck boy.”
Hearing Eric say the words made Assad’s dick even harder. He reached down and gave it a long pull, his face giving him away.
“Ah, I see what this phone call was for.”
Assad nodded, letting a loose strand of hair fall from beneath the cap into his left eye. He blinked.
“Okay, so here’s what I need.”
Assad sat up straighter. He pushed his body forward, closer to his phone.
“Yes?”
Eric nodded, almost as if talking to himself but Assad didn’t miss a word.
“Can you lie down and somehow, I don’t know, prop the phone up so I can see all of you? Or as much as you can show but…”
“But?” Assad was biting down on a grin so hard his lips nearly bled.
“But, show the fucking hat!”
Assad and Eric both laughed. It was the release of a certain kind of desirous joy split two ways, evenly down the middle.
“Yes, yes! Of course!”
Assad scrambled to rearrange himself, shoving his phone against a spare pillow, spreading himself out across the bed after lying down and sitting back up again to adjust the angle.
“Good practice for you as a director…” He could hear Eric’s voice, muffled for a moment by the pillowcase.
Assad looked at his body’s reflection.
He looked good. More than good. Confidence ran through him at a faster and faster speed, boiling his blood until his neck and chest bloomed pink. He was getting more and more used to the feeling.
“I know art comes first for you…” Eric was still talking.
Assad titled his head, looking down.
“Eric, are you nervous?”
Eric was a talker and when he was nervous or trying his best not to say something, he babbled a mile a minute.
He saw Eric shrug. “Yeah a little. Even though you’re the one on display.”
Assad smiled. “That can be fixed, you know.”
Eric smirked, shaking his head. “Not this time. Only have a few minutes.” A beat. “Next time.”
Assad nodded. He was content to wait his turn.
“Do what you would do if I wasn’t there.” Eric’s instruction was sincere. He was a willing audience member who paid top price for their front row seat to this one-man show.
Assad wrapped one hand around himself, arching his hips in anticipation. He stroked himself up and down with the lube from the hotel nightstand he’d packed right after the hat and his toothbrush. The sound was quiet and obscene. Assad smiled at himself.
He bit down on his lower lip, looking over at Eric again.
Eric dared ask, “Are you thinking of me?”
A silly question.
Assad nodded, not sure he could speak.
“I see.”
Assad could hear rustling, could see Eric adjusting himself into some new, more comfortable position.
“Well, I sure as hell think of you too.”
Assad smiled, crooked and greedy.
“I think of you riding me. It's always so damn good.” Eric grunted, the camera moving again.
“Yeah?” Assad knew he needed so little encouragement sometimes. Just a drop of attention in Eric’s bucket could quench his thirst.
“Yeah. I like looking at you. Watching when it switches from pain to pleasure. I can see it in your eyes, your mouth.”
Assad gasped. All of his blood was in a race to the tip of his dick to see if the rest of his body could survive without it.
“Not much to say now, huh?”
Assad wanted to laugh, wanted to scream. Instead he squeezed, pressed on his dick until his knees shook and knocked together.
“A quiet little fuck boy, I guess,” was all he managed. It made Eric laugh.
“Does wearing that hat make you feel like you belong to me or something?”
Assad knew desire could feel like desperation. This was exactly that.
He didn’t answer Eric. He didn’t need to.
Assad was performing, but he meant every motion and sound sincerely. Tiny whimpers and cries, loud moans and full body shudders.
“When you get off, leave it on your stomach and cover it with the hat, but not before I can see it.”
Eric’s voice circled him from some far flung universe where Assad should be. So he did, letting himself go, watching his own limbs and stomach shake during and after. He angled his body for a moment to show Eric.
One unsteady hand left his side to grab the hat and fling it onto his middle. Somehow he didn’t float away. Assad felt as if he’d had a fever and somehow cured himself.
He rolled over onto his stomach, cruising the hat. He grabbed the phone in one hand.
Eric was silent. Assad could only hear the sounds of his breathing, slow, then rushed.
Bare feet swinging in the air again, Assad pulled the phone close to his face, his center stuck to the bed like a wicked spider’s giddy prey.
“How about those Yankees?” Was the last thing he said before laughing and hanging up.
~~~
Act III
Assad was lounging across the sectional in the living room, flipping idly through the latest copy of The New Yorker he’d found on the coffee table.
At first he tiptoed around Eric’s space, doing his best to not disrupt the routine or flow of the home. Carefully putting his shoes by the front door upon entry. Washing his own cup after coffee or tea.
He still did those things, but now Assad felt he could relax. Be himself. If he knocked over something in the midst of manic excitement or re-arranged the contents on the bookshelf in the guest bedroom, well, that was fine. Welcome, even.
Eric’s apartment was the perfect mix of neat and tidy, but comfortably lived in. Personal things scattered everywhere, alongside expensive art and furniture. It was cozy. Every inch of it, him, them.
It was the sort of afternoon sepia toned in movies; a warm, light gold slanted across the hardwood floors. The image of Assad spread across Eric’s couch was blurred by the hazy sun from the floor to ceiling window behind him.
He hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt or pants post-shower. Late spring in New York was cool and warm enough for Assad to stretch and lay around shirtless in his boxer briefs. Barefoot, padding around in-between naps and that evening’s plans. Usually he was no good at doing nothing, but existing in Eric’s orbit gradually settled Assad back into himself.
So it was with ankles crossed, a slight breeze swirling in from the open window and in the middle of a lazy yawn that Eric found him. He walked in, freshly home from lunch with a friend, flushed and full of midday, not-yet-rundown energy.
“Have you moved from the couch all day?” Eric teased. He tossed his keys on the table by the door. He was standing in the foyer and smiling at Assad who cracked and wiggled his toes, stretching to his full length on the couch like a housecat.
“Only to make a cocktail and summon the pool boy.”
Eric laughed.
He walked over slowly, almost carefully, boots heavy on the aged floors. He was staring at Assad’s body as he moved.
Assad let his free hand fall to the hardwood. He scraped a board with four fingers, watching Eric cross the room to him.
“Oh yeah? What did Fernando serve you this afternoon?”
There was no pool boy, just a thrown together mimosa resting on the window sill. Assad had found orange juice and half a bottle of champagne in the fridge from the night before.
Assad wiggled, shrugging his shoulders shyly. His head propped up against the arm of the couch on a throw pillow.
He looked up at Eric who was standing right beside the couch now, looking his body up and down.
“Just a mimosa. I made it myself. Didn’t want to bother him, you know.”
Assad reached over and up, handing the rest of the drink up to Eric who downed it in one gulp.
“It's no manhattan, but I’ll take it.” He set the glass down on the floor beside Assad’s dangling hand.
Eric leaned over Assad’s outstretched body. He smelled like coffee shops and spring air with the slightest hint of cigarette. The apartment was still, quietly absorbing all of the pulsing noise from outside and burying it in its walls.
“Can I have a kiss?” Eric hovered over Assad’s face, studying him.
Assad studied him in return, only for a moment before leaning up, making a delighted sound as Eric met him halfway, pressing him back into the couch with his lips.
Eric pulled away, leaving Assad with closed eyes and a puckered smile.
“I guess that was a yes.”
Assad ruffled his own hair with one tired hand, grinning. “Always a yes.”
Eric let go of the back of the couch, sinking slowly to his knees on the floor.
Assad watched without a word as Eric took off his glasses carefully, placing them on the warm windowsill. The black New York Yankees cap he wore tossed aside and to the floor without a second thought.
Assad stared at it as Eric lay his head on Assad’s stomach.
“You’re trembling, baby.”
Assad nodded, eyes on the floor, the forgotten hat. A way to block the afternoon sun. It made Eric look younger.
“Here, let me take care of you a bit.”
Assad wouldn’t remember removing his gaze from the floor to the top of Eric’s head as he climbed onto the couch, spreading himself free and wide between Assad’s legs. Tugging down his skin tight underwear and taking him into his mouth all at once. The memory of Eric’s particular skill at sucking his cock would be fuzzy this time, a blurry afternoon halo encircling his lazy grey curls.
Assad’s heels digging into the cushion, his mouth open, eyes doing their best to focus on the high ceilings as Eric’s spare hand climbed up his torso towards his throat. This would be something he could only recall after the fact. The way Eric caught all of Assad’s cum between his cheeks and kept it there for a moment before swallowing it, making a production of it just for his benefit would be something Assad remembered after the fact when he was alone in his own bed.
Eric nuzzling half his face into his hairs, lips dragging down the tender side of his dick until he was almost hard again felt like a given. Necessary, but dream-like.
Assad lay naked for a long time after, listening to Eric in the bathroom down the hall. Familiar sounds. The hat remained discarded like a piece of ripped lingerie in the heat of lust.
The next morning, the time for playing house was done at least for a little while, and with Assad’s flight mere hours away, he was half-heartedly packing in Eric’s bedroom when the black Yankees cap caught his attention. It was sitting in the middle of the bed, far from the corner of his eye, clear in the center of his vision.
He looked towards the bedroom door even though he heard Eric making coffee in the kitchen.
Both with intention and without a second thought Assad plucked the hat from the bed placing it gently on top of his neatly packed carry-on, zipping it closed.
When Eric came into the bedroom carrying two cups of coffee and the New York Times , the carry-on was waiting on the side of the bed and Assad was straightening the top sheet and duvet.
“You don’t have to clean, you know.” Eric offered a cup to him and Assad took it gratefully in both hands to warm up.
He nodded, smiling softly into the smoke of his drink. “I know. I just feel bad or awkward if I don’t. I don’t like making a mess.”
Eric smirked. “Your mess is always welcome.”
Assad shrugged, knowing he never made a mess. He came and went without a trace. No breadcrumbs or wrinkled sheets left in his wake. At least that’s what he told himself.
In the air, Assad slid down into his seat, pushing open the visor to his window seat. He looked down at the city he was leaving behind. The clouds by his side the higher he flew.
Sleep came and went, glasses of champagne and bottles of beer passed around him like a banquet, the black hat on his head a weightless crown of invisible stones, adorning its new prince.