Fic: The Trail of Wandering Back
When Ayman wakes next to Anderson, he doesn't look at him.
He rolls out of bed and pads through the pre-dawn darkness straight to the shower. He flicks the light on, and it takes minutes for his eyes to adjust to the light reflecting like lasers off the abundance of glossy surfaces.
Everything in this place is so damn polished. He shudders involuntarily.
It's not the impersonality - he's used to living out of hotel rooms - but the sheer opulence of the place. There's a towel heater in this bathroom. The sink is crystal. If he were to call downstairs and ask for an evening gown on the double, he'd get a choice of seven.
Andy thinks this is normal.
Shaking his head, Ayman steps into the shower and lets the scalding water wash away the sweat from last night.
None of this is normal.
-
Wake me up before you leave, Anderson mumbled against his bare shoulder last night.
No, he replied firmly. You need your sleep.
Wanna kiss you goodbye. Ayman smiled despite himself. Even while drifting off, Anderson's first instinct was to charm.
I'll tell you what. I'll kiss you goodbye, and if you don't wake up, I'll let you keep sleeping.
Anderson didn't respond. There wasn't any need. They both knew the promise was a lie: Ayman wouldn't risk waking Anderson up and leave him running on caffeine all day, and Anderson would sleep like a log right through Ayman's wake-up call.
But they both knew that it was the words that mattered, and the intent behind them, not the act itself.
Their entire relationship functions on that premise.
And it works, for the most part. Being reporters, words are their strong suit, after all. But there's a difference between explaining nameless horrors to a faceless audience scattered throughout the world, and explaining your heart to a very well-remembered face through a tenuous Skype connection.
Sometimes the latter is easier to do. It's certainly easier to grow dependent on. And sometimes that makes it very hard not to be able to reach out and touch the person on the other end of that Skype call.
The hardest part of an extreme long-distance relationship, Ayman finds, is not the difficulty of remaining emotionally connected, but the frustration of not being able to act on that connection. Of not having anything tangible through which to channel those feelings.
Each time he and Anderson meet up in the flesh, there's always a moment, just at first, when they're at a loss. They have to chat about inconsequential things for a while, test each other out, make sure the mechanics of them are still in working order.
When they're finally alone, Anderson always has to touch him to believe that he's real. His fingertips wander randomly across Ayman's skin and Ayman always shivers a little, every single time.
But then, once certainty has been reestablished... then, it's the most blissful explosion Ayman has ever seen.
-
It was a cousin's wedding in Detroit that brought him Stateside in the first place - a three-day trip, in and out, with a few precious hours of layover time in NYC. There hadn't been the opportunity for more; Gaza is heating up again and Al Jazeera needs him there. He needs to be there.
Anderson didn't ask why they couldn't have more time to spend together. He understood; if Ayman said he needed to return in three days, then he needed to return in three days. The "why" wasn't important.
(Neither one bothered to suggest Anderson attend the wedding as his date. There are too many reasons why that wouldn't be a good idea.
Didn't stop him from wishing Anderson were there, though.)
Just a few precious hours. Not enough time to go to Anderson's apartment and then get back to the airport in time to catch his plane.
So a hotel, then - swanky and grand, hard by JFK. An expensive suite paid for in full by Anderson, registered under a fake name, serviced by a very discreet staff.
It's not exactly a situation Ayman ever pictured himself in. Hushed romantic assignations in luxury hotels with someone constantly on the lookout for paparazzi aren't usually in the cards for an immigrant kid from Atlanta. Even nowadays, Al Jazeera puts him up in nice hotels, but not fucking executive suits.
But Anderson has a way of taking everything in stride, making even the most surreal experience seem natural, even earthy. Everything always feels a bit more real when he's around.
They might be sleeping on silk sheets, but Anderson's still there kvetching about the prices on the room service menu, frowning behind those dorky glasses that have a crack in the lens because he dropped them the other day and refuses to get them fixed, and seriously he hardly ever wears them anyway, "really, Ayman, it's not that big a deal."
It's easy to forget that this has always been Anderson's life, that deep down Anderson is comfortable with all this luxury in a way that Ayman will never be.
It's only when he takes his leave, as he's in transit out of Anderson's brightly polished world and into the gritty reality he's familiar with, that the contrast shocks him. Now, as he stalks briskly down gilded corridors that carry him toward the exit, toward oily asphalt and a taxi that will smell of cigarettes, he feels every syllable of the phrase "out of one's element."
He stops off to return his key card to the front desk (unnecessary, Ayman knows, but he doesn't like to leave anybody with more work than he has to), crosses the threshold between worlds, and climbs into the taxi. It's a short ride to the airport, but it will be enough time for him to readjust to the shift from elegance to urbanity. Already he feels more at home, with the harsh glare of streetlights in his eyes. By the time he receives his boarding pass, plush carpets and silk duvets will be but a distant memory.
Then he will have the whole flight to recalibrate himself from Western urban squalor to an entirely different world, a place near the opposite end of the spectrum from the opulence he has just left.
He takes one last glance at the hotel, all glossy sheen and welcoming lights and luxury. Thinks about Anderson still sleeping in that big, lonely room.
The taxi driver pulls away and Ayman redirects his gaze, focuses on the alternating white lines of the road ahead.
In a few hours he'll be in Gaza.
-
When dawn breaks, Anderson will wake to a cool pillow beside him and Ayman's scent still clinging to the sheets.
He will imagine Ayman hovering carefully above him, kissing him gingerly, searching his face for signs of wakefulness. He will try to determine the exact spot Ayman's lips touched, and he will almost believe he can still feel a slight tingle on his cheek.
He will know that none of this really happened, but he will love Ayman for giving him these quiet, precious moments to imagine their goodbye exactly the way he wants it, editing out any pain and leaving only tenderness and warmth.
Anderson will lie in that bed far longer than he should. He will successfully refrain from hugging Ayman's pillow to his chest, but it will be a very near thing.
Meanwhile, somewhere over the Atlantic, Ayman will rest his head against the airplane window, closing his eyes against the morning rays glinting off the surface of the ocean. He will mentally go over his calendar for the eighth time, assuring himself that if all goes according to plan, he should be able to see Anderson again within two months.
In reality it will be closer to five.
He rolls out of bed and pads through the pre-dawn darkness straight to the shower. He flicks the light on, and it takes minutes for his eyes to adjust to the light reflecting like lasers off the abundance of glossy surfaces.
Everything in this place is so damn polished. He shudders involuntarily.
It's not the impersonality - he's used to living out of hotel rooms - but the sheer opulence of the place. There's a towel heater in this bathroom. The sink is crystal. If he were to call downstairs and ask for an evening gown on the double, he'd get a choice of seven.
Andy thinks this is normal.
Shaking his head, Ayman steps into the shower and lets the scalding water wash away the sweat from last night.
None of this is normal.
-
Wake me up before you leave, Anderson mumbled against his bare shoulder last night.
No, he replied firmly. You need your sleep.
Wanna kiss you goodbye. Ayman smiled despite himself. Even while drifting off, Anderson's first instinct was to charm.
I'll tell you what. I'll kiss you goodbye, and if you don't wake up, I'll let you keep sleeping.
Anderson didn't respond. There wasn't any need. They both knew the promise was a lie: Ayman wouldn't risk waking Anderson up and leave him running on caffeine all day, and Anderson would sleep like a log right through Ayman's wake-up call.
But they both knew that it was the words that mattered, and the intent behind them, not the act itself.
Their entire relationship functions on that premise.
And it works, for the most part. Being reporters, words are their strong suit, after all. But there's a difference between explaining nameless horrors to a faceless audience scattered throughout the world, and explaining your heart to a very well-remembered face through a tenuous Skype connection.
Sometimes the latter is easier to do. It's certainly easier to grow dependent on. And sometimes that makes it very hard not to be able to reach out and touch the person on the other end of that Skype call.
The hardest part of an extreme long-distance relationship, Ayman finds, is not the difficulty of remaining emotionally connected, but the frustration of not being able to act on that connection. Of not having anything tangible through which to channel those feelings.
Each time he and Anderson meet up in the flesh, there's always a moment, just at first, when they're at a loss. They have to chat about inconsequential things for a while, test each other out, make sure the mechanics of them are still in working order.
When they're finally alone, Anderson always has to touch him to believe that he's real. His fingertips wander randomly across Ayman's skin and Ayman always shivers a little, every single time.
But then, once certainty has been reestablished... then, it's the most blissful explosion Ayman has ever seen.
-
It was a cousin's wedding in Detroit that brought him Stateside in the first place - a three-day trip, in and out, with a few precious hours of layover time in NYC. There hadn't been the opportunity for more; Gaza is heating up again and Al Jazeera needs him there. He needs to be there.
Anderson didn't ask why they couldn't have more time to spend together. He understood; if Ayman said he needed to return in three days, then he needed to return in three days. The "why" wasn't important.
(Neither one bothered to suggest Anderson attend the wedding as his date. There are too many reasons why that wouldn't be a good idea.
Didn't stop him from wishing Anderson were there, though.)
Just a few precious hours. Not enough time to go to Anderson's apartment and then get back to the airport in time to catch his plane.
So a hotel, then - swanky and grand, hard by JFK. An expensive suite paid for in full by Anderson, registered under a fake name, serviced by a very discreet staff.
It's not exactly a situation Ayman ever pictured himself in. Hushed romantic assignations in luxury hotels with someone constantly on the lookout for paparazzi aren't usually in the cards for an immigrant kid from Atlanta. Even nowadays, Al Jazeera puts him up in nice hotels, but not fucking executive suits.
But Anderson has a way of taking everything in stride, making even the most surreal experience seem natural, even earthy. Everything always feels a bit more real when he's around.
They might be sleeping on silk sheets, but Anderson's still there kvetching about the prices on the room service menu, frowning behind those dorky glasses that have a crack in the lens because he dropped them the other day and refuses to get them fixed, and seriously he hardly ever wears them anyway, "really, Ayman, it's not that big a deal."
It's easy to forget that this has always been Anderson's life, that deep down Anderson is comfortable with all this luxury in a way that Ayman will never be.
It's only when he takes his leave, as he's in transit out of Anderson's brightly polished world and into the gritty reality he's familiar with, that the contrast shocks him. Now, as he stalks briskly down gilded corridors that carry him toward the exit, toward oily asphalt and a taxi that will smell of cigarettes, he feels every syllable of the phrase "out of one's element."
He stops off to return his key card to the front desk (unnecessary, Ayman knows, but he doesn't like to leave anybody with more work than he has to), crosses the threshold between worlds, and climbs into the taxi. It's a short ride to the airport, but it will be enough time for him to readjust to the shift from elegance to urbanity. Already he feels more at home, with the harsh glare of streetlights in his eyes. By the time he receives his boarding pass, plush carpets and silk duvets will be but a distant memory.
Then he will have the whole flight to recalibrate himself from Western urban squalor to an entirely different world, a place near the opposite end of the spectrum from the opulence he has just left.
He takes one last glance at the hotel, all glossy sheen and welcoming lights and luxury. Thinks about Anderson still sleeping in that big, lonely room.
The taxi driver pulls away and Ayman redirects his gaze, focuses on the alternating white lines of the road ahead.
In a few hours he'll be in Gaza.
-
When dawn breaks, Anderson will wake to a cool pillow beside him and Ayman's scent still clinging to the sheets.
He will imagine Ayman hovering carefully above him, kissing him gingerly, searching his face for signs of wakefulness. He will try to determine the exact spot Ayman's lips touched, and he will almost believe he can still feel a slight tingle on his cheek.
He will know that none of this really happened, but he will love Ayman for giving him these quiet, precious moments to imagine their goodbye exactly the way he wants it, editing out any pain and leaving only tenderness and warmth.
Anderson will lie in that bed far longer than he should. He will successfully refrain from hugging Ayman's pillow to his chest, but it will be a very near thing.
Meanwhile, somewhere over the Atlantic, Ayman will rest his head against the airplane window, closing his eyes against the morning rays glinting off the surface of the ocean. He will mentally go over his calendar for the eighth time, assuring himself that if all goes according to plan, he should be able to see Anderson again within two months.
In reality it will be closer to five.