35

Knocks on the door.

Winston holds his phone to his chest like a shield and slowly approaches the door. He stands on his toes -- just a little -- to stare through the peephole, inhaling shakily when he spots a distorted image of Jason.

He opens the door. Holds it wide, hand clinging to the handle for just a beat too long. Wide-eyed, he stares at Jason who's laden down with three full bags of groceries, and he opens his mouth. Doesn't say a word, tongue suddenly not wanting to work.

It's Jason who shoots him a nervous grin. "Hey," Jason breathes, shrugging his shoulders and redistributing the weight of the groceries until he can hold out a hand to Winston. Winston grabs it, thinking for a moment that they're going to shake hands for some reason, but Jason holds on for too long.

Oh. That's nice, Winston thinks as he stares at their clasped hands. He doesn't know why this is different from holding hands, something they do fairly often, but it is. It feels... bigger.

"Come in," Winston finally manages to say after what feels like an eternity. Stepping out of the way of Jason's progress, he hovers in a corner of the apartment. There's no need to direct Jason anywhere; every part of the apartment is visible from the front door.

Still, after a few minutes of just watching, Winston asks, "Are you alright?"

Jason glances at him over his shoulder, eyes teary. The man sniffles. "I'll be fine after the onions are done"

Winston did admittedly not expect that. "Are you crying?" He can't help but step closer, raising his hands a little.

Jason obliges him. Bends down and lets Winston brush a hand over Jason's stubbly cheek, the warmth coloring the tips of Winston's fingers red. He examines Jason's face, and allows himself to be examines in return. Does not, for a change duck his head to hide the darkness below his eyes, or the slightly tired tint to his skin.

"I'm sure the onions don't mean it," whispers Winston in the air between them, staring at Jason's eyes. They're so pretty, he notes for probably the millionth times, but the softness, the gentleness, the bare affection, clearly elevates them to something else.

Something otherworldly.

Winston gulps, breaths heavy, chest rising and falling much too slowly. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears, and when he licks his lips, Jason's eyes clearly follow the movement.

Clearing his throat, Jason says, "The onions. They must be lonely by now. Feel abandoned."

"Yeah," says Winston. Smiling, he adds, "You're a cruel man."

"The cruelest," Jason agrees.

Winston steps back first, taking a deep breath as soon as he's out of reach. He turns, halfway, and presses a hand to his melting heart. Closes his eyes and tips his head back and hopes Jason isn't looking at him but also, strangely, wanting him to.

He wants Jason to know the effect he has on him. Wants Jason to understand how he makes him feel.

It's strange.

Jason returns to the cooking, and Winston wanders his way to the couch. Falls on the recently vacuumed cushion (because when he was vacuuming everything else he went, possibly, a little overboard) and pulls his legs up to his chest, hooking his chin on a knee. He watches Jason's movements out of the corner of his eyes, avoiding looking right at him because he doesn't want to be creepy. Still.

"Can I take your photo?" Winston asks, words out before he's even thinking them.

Still. He doesn't want to take them back.

Jason grins at him, spinning on his heel. "Sure," he says, winking, "You can take my picture any day."

Winston laughs. He pulls his phone up and aims it at Jason, snapping the pic at the same time as Jason grins wide with his hand forming a victory sign held up to his cheek. He looks silly. He looks happy.

Winston's breath catches in his throat. He snaps a second pic as Jason quickly spins around to save the food on the stove, those dreaded onions proving their true nature in a horrific attempt at betrayal -- that is to say, they started burning.

While Jason works to save them, which it seems like he can since he doesn't toss them out, Winston snaps a few more pictures. Then he goes through them, deleting those that are too blurry or where there's weird light reflecting from the fan above the stove-top.

He spends a few minutes just looking at the best pictures, going through them over and over, and finally elects to make the pic with Jason's victory sing the home screens background. He peeks a little at Jason as he does this, a strange sensation going through him when Jason doesn't appear to notice -- not his actions and not his gaze -- too busy with cooking.

Jason does look really good cooking, though. His concentrated expression really highlights the sharp lines of his face, the focused look in his eyes reminding Winston of how Jason gets during the basketball games.

It's intense concentration, focus, the ability to narrow the world down to just the thing that matters in that moment.

It's incredibly hot.

Winston burrows his head down to the phone and lays down on the couch, spreading out after a moment. It's strange to have another person in the apartment, but it's equally strange to laze about while Jason is working alone.

He keeps peeking at Jason, seeing if there's anything he can do. But Winston can only do the most basic of cooking, and he doesn't find it much fun besides. The advanced things Jason are doing look like something out of a cooking show to him -- he has no idea what use he'd have here.

"Can I help with something?" Winston finally asks after several minutes, when Jason still hasn't told him off for just sitting around and waiting.

Jason glances over his shoulder. He makes a faux considering expression and then chirps, "Nope."

Winston blinks.

Jason laughs, cooking his hip against the counter and waving a spatula around. "I enjoy cooking, you don't need to feel bad about hanging out while I do. In fact, if you sit tight and watch my gorgeous ass (is this in character?) then you can get a taste test when it's done."

"A taste test of your ass?" Winston says.

Jason snorts. Snickering, he says, "Sure, if you want, but I was referring to the food."

"Right. I knew that." Winston nods. He looks at Jason, then burrows his head back into his phone and pretends that he can't head Jason laughing at him. It's a kind laughter, anyway. Amusement with him instead of at him.

When dinner is done and Winston has set the table -- the coffee table because he doesn't have one for the "kitchen" -- Jason steps up to him. Winston tilts his head back to look ta his pretty face, and he notes the unusual way Jason stands. His hands aren't in his pockets, and he's not quite looking at Winston's face.

But Jason breathes in. And asks, "Can i hug you?"

"Why are you asking?"

"I don't want to be presumptuous." And then he scratches the tip of his nose and says, with a somewhat embarrassed air, "And consent is sexy, so..."

"It is, yeah," smiles Winston, sparks in his stomach. He adds, twiddling his fingers, "I'd love a hug."

"Awesome." Jason crosses the tiny bit of distance and embraces Winston; it starts gentle and barely there and then becomes a veritable bear hug. Winston is pulled to the tip of his toes, surrounded by warmth. He's got Jason's smell in his nose, and he buries his head in Jason's neck, inhaling discreetly. He wants to drown in that scent--wants to drown in Jason.