Jason
It feels late, and he's blind drunk. All he wants to do is eat and go to bed, but the delivery guy is taking forever, and he's desperate for something that isn't finger sandwiches or pastry. He needs meat and rice and MSG. He needs Tim, Hong Kong Kitchen's lackadaisical delivery driver, to get here with his roast pork fried rice and crispy beef in Peking sauce and mini pancake rolls before he dies of starvation.
When he finally knocks the door, Jason mutters 'thank fuck,' and hauls himself out of the green velvet wing-back in the nook between the kitchen and the library. He's got the door open before he realises he doesn't have his wallet.
"Hold up, Tim, forgot my cash," he says and weaves back to the kitchen.
"No, I'm not-" someone at the door says, confused. He snags his wallet off the kitchen counter and returns to the man at the door.
It's not Tim. It's that svelte, beautiful young guy with black hair and piercing eyes from the cafe. The one who looks like he's seen way too much hurt for twenty-five. He hasn't seen him for a few weeks. He stands there with a carrier bag of food.
"What the hell?" Jason asks, exasperated. "Wouldn't he wait?"
The guy looks more confused. Adrian? Edmund? Shit.
"Wouldn't who wait?"
Jason is sure there's something not quite right here, but there are so many G&Ts and rosé's in him he can't even begin to pick it apart.
"Tim! The delivery guy!" he says as though Aaron is an idiot.
"There was no delivery guy when I came up," Aaron looks back down the steps. "Abi and Josh said they haven't seen you in a few weeks, so they asked me to bring a few cakes and some grub up, and to see if you needed anything." He holds up the plastic bag full of cardboard containers.
That's sweet of them, Jason thinks and is so wildly fucking angry that he has to walk away. It's all it's been, all day, people asking if he's managing, does he need help, does he need food, does he need someone to come look after the cleaning and the laundry for a bit. He knows they mean well, but he just can't take the sudden infantilisation... or what feels like infantilisation, anyway. He lost his husband, he didn't become a child.
It is sweet of them, he tries to remind himself. They just want to help. That's people being people. He's still angry.
Aaron follows... Not Aaron. It was... Andrew? Andy? Aiden. It was Aiden.
Aiden follows him into the kitchen. He takes in the mounds of plates and dirty glasses and empty bottles and doesn't say a word.
"What've you brought?" Jason asks, skipping right over 'thank you' and 'you shouldn't have.' Aiden plonks it down and starts to unload on the last clear bit of the kitchen island.
"There's a couple of slices of raspberry and white chocolate sponge, a few brownies, and a few portions of veg tagine and the last of the minestrone."
"Mmm, leftovers," he says, sarcastically before he can help himself. Jesus, he was bitchy on the gin.
"It's not-. It was made today! You're kind of an asshole, huh?" Aiden can't seem to help himself, either. It seems.
"Sorry," he growls. "Long, long day."
"Something going on?" Aiden asks cautiously, looking around again. He's seen the black suit, the white shirt, the black tie, but he doesn't want to assume, Jason thinks.
"Funeral," Jason says shortly. He wants the younger man to go away. Part of him does, anyway. Another part of him wants to devour him. Another, more secret part of him that's floated free in the booze, wants Aiden to pat him on the head and hold him while he cries, or throws up. Possibly both. He goes through all three parts in the space of a couple of breaths, so in the ensuing emotional whiplash he just scrunches his eyes together, hoping it all goes away. He winces at the pain in his head the light gives him when he opens them again.
"Have a drink," Jason says, trying for 'thank you' and missing completely. He's got a tumbler almost over flowing with vodka before Aiden can say a word.
"No, thanks."
"Come on, I'll have one too," he says and sloshes up another tumbler.
"No, really. I don't drink," Aiden says. "And I don't want to overstep, but maybe you should have something else. Some water? Or I could make some tea?"
"Nah, I'm fine. Go'on, have one, I don't mind, there's plenty." He waves his arm at the empty bottles dotting the kitchen, and Aiden laughs, but he's not sure why.
"I don't drink, I'm afraid," he repeats.
"You don't drink at all?"
"No."
"You're like what... mid-twenties?" Aiden nods. Jason peers at him through the haze. He dimly registers that the young man looks uncomfortable. "You religious?"
"No."
"So what's the deal?" He's aware that he should stop, let it go, but his brakes don't seem to be working. He knows he's being insistent in that way that only the inebriated can, but that doesn't mean he can stop himself. "Alcoholic?"
Aiden looks like he wants to slug him. He can't blame him, it feels like it's justified, but Jason's not sure why, amidst the gin drowning his brain.
"No."
The pause goes on, becoming uncomfortable. Jason's about to say something-
"My mother is, and it sort of put me off," Aiden says.
"I'm... I'm kind of an asshole, huh?" Jason says with a sigh and empties the vodkas into the sink. He's had enough; the sheer volume of the guilt is telling him that. "I'm so sorry," he slurs. More like shorrys. "Shouldn'ta pressed. Bad in pulse control. Impulse control."
"And you're pissed," Aiden says, swaying, with a charitable grin. He can't return it. He tries, but his face won't go.
"I'm not pissed," he says, and Aiden makes a skeptical face. "I'm completely fucking rat-arsed. This is going to suck tomorrow." He staggers back over to the chair in the nook and sort of pours himself into it. "Have you ever drunk? Been drunk, I mean."
"No," Aiden says, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame of the double pocket doors that separate the kitchen and the nook. It's exactly the same sort of too cool for this shit that Rob used to do without thinking about it. His whole chest feels like somebody's stabbed him.
"Probably for the best," he says, trying not to grimace. "Ever been in love and then out of it again?"
Aiden hesitates.
"Something like that, yeah."
"It. Sucks." he says vehemently. "It feels like I'm bleeding to death." He's being more candid than he's been all day and he's not totally sure why.
He glances up and Aiden is regarding him with a slight, sympathetic smile.
"It'll scab," he says, "eventually. And then you'll just be left with the memories."
"And the scars," Jason points out. Then he laughs. "You're going to have to put some wrinkles on that beautiful, youthful face if you want people to take you seriously when you come out with stuff like that."
The smile is gone in an instant, and the coldness that he had when he was mad about the fire is back. Jason is instantly sorry and a little confused. He didn't think it was insulting. Maybe he didn't like the compliment from an older guy. Or any guy.
"I'll be off then," Aiden says, crisply. Jason staggers to his feet and goes to the door with him.
"I'm sorry again about being such an asshole," Jason says. "Don't be a stranger. You never know, maybe we can have an interaction where I don't insult you or stick my foot in my mouth. Odder things have happened."
"Yeah, maybe," he says, and Jason feels even worse than before he arrived.
Aiden passes Tim from Hong Kong Kitchen on the way down the front steps and leaves Jason stood there mournfully watching him go, fumbling to find his wallet.