Jackson fidgets with the napkin in front of him, ornately folded to resemble some type of flower, hiding an equally ornate plate. The restaurant barely has any lighting, darkening his booth that's already in a dark corner of the room even more.
He's ten minutes early to his reservation, but they seated him anyways. They didn't blink an eye at his youth, only glancing at his suit and tie and asking for a name.
It had been hard to figure out a way to see Mr. Sawyer tonight. Jackson knew this was his only shot, and whether he showed up was the only test. If he didn't...Jackson hadn't allowed himself to consider this as a possible outcome. Would he have to pay for a reservation if he didn't eat anything? Will he have to tip the waiter for bringing him a glass of water and asking three times if he wanted to order?
Not yet.
No, sorry, I'm...waiting for someone.
He's late. I'm sorry. No, I'm good for now. I'll wait.
"Jackson."
His head snaps up at the voice he'd recognize anywhere. Resonant but cold, falling flat like a slap to the face. Mr. Sawyer stands in front of his booth, glaring at him with such intensity Jackson almost wilts under the pressure.
He came.
"Mr. Sawyer, it's so good to see you. Please, have a seat." Jackson didn't forget that they were in public, no matter how discreet he made their seating. Mr. Sawyer takes a deep breath then sits down across from him, smiling tightly.
"Well, Mr. Wood, I should have known."
"Please, call me Chase." Jackson can barely contain a smirk.
Mr. Sawyer narrows his eyes slightly. "How...fitting."
The waiter hurries towards them, smiling at the now occupied seat. Mr. Sawyer glares at him and the waiter's smile falters. Jackson hurries to save him before Mr. Sawyer says something irreversible.
"Can we get two waters. And for starters we'll have the cheese platter, please."
The waiter nods, scribbling them on a pad of paper. Jackson wills him to hurry and scurry away. Mr. Sawyer opens his mouth and Jackson holds his breath.
"And a bottle of Burgundy."
Jackson looks at Mr. Sawyer, startled, but he doesn't look back at him, instead handing his menu wordlessly to the waiter, who takes it and walks away as quickly as possible.
"You're staying." Jackson watches, mesmerized, as Mr. Sawyer takes the folded napkin on his plate and places it on his lap. Jackson mirrors the movements slowly, as if any quick movement will scare him away.
"Yes."
"Why?" Jackson asks, then immediately regrets it. He might just ruin this with all his pestering. Mr. Sawyer doesn't owe him anything. You're beautiful. Somehow it feels like he does.
"Why not?"
"You're busy. I set up a dinner meeting under the name of a fake CEO of a fake company and you found out it's not real." Jackson doesn't know why he's saying all of this. He should just let this happen and not ask questions. At least not until he has him in his arms again. Mr. Sawyer studies him, and Jackson resists the urge to squirm, like a child that's about to get scolded.
"Those things are all true." Mr. Sawyer's gaze never leaves his. Jackson feels his cheeks grow hot. "And yet...I'm still here."
"Yes. You are." Jackson averts his gaze. They stay silent until the waiter comes back with the cheese platter and the wine. Jackson feels disappointed. Wasn't this what he wanted?
"What do you want, Jackson?" Mr. Sawyer asks.
"What?" Jackson asks, looking at him in shock. How could he possibly know that was on his mind?
"For dinner. The main course. What do you want?"
Jackson stares, his mind blanking, before he realizes the waiter waits at the table, pen and paper ready to write his order. Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson swears he sees a hint of a smirk at the corner of Mr. Sawyer's mouth.
"Oh. I'll have what he's having." Jackson looks down at the table, avoiding Mr. Sawyer's all knowing gaze. The waiter nods and then goes away, leaving them in a heavy silence. He wonders who will concede and break it first.
He watches Mr. Sawyer bring his wine glass up to his lips, swirling and then sipping just enough to redden his lips. His lips...they start to move, and the sound follows.
"Jackson."
"Yes?"
"Why am I here?"
Jackson takes a sip of his wine to delay responding. His mouth is dry, and he barely registers the taste of the wine, which he knows should be exceptional. Mr. Sawyer wouldn't drink it otherwise.
"I already said―"
"Why am I here, Jackson?"
Jackson looks into Mr. Sawyer's eyes. Blue, like the sea, but also like the eye of a storm, zeroed in on exactly what he wants. And he always gets what he wants.
"Because I wanted you here," Jackson says, softly. Mr. Sawyer takes another sip of his wine, looking at him over the rim like he's carefully considering something.
"This was dangerous."
Jackson nods. He knew that well, and despite himself he looks around the restaurant, but no one looks their way.
"Yesterday," Mr. Sawyer says, "you said I was young for my position. I knew you wanted to ask how I managed it."
"Yes." Jackson barely whispers it.
"I've gotten this far by not doing this."
Jackson's breath hitches. "This?"
"This." Mr. Sawyer rubs at his jaw, suddenly seeming more tired. "I usually...I don't even know their names."
"I usually forget them," Jackson says.
Mr. Sawyer laughs quietly, and it flutters between them like the wings of a bird. I'm not like you. Jackson wonders if that's still true.
"Sometimes..." Mr. Sawyer smiles, a small smile but still definitely there, and shakes his head. He takes a sip of wine. Jackson feels giddy and terrified at the same time.
"What?"
"You surprise me."
Jackson grins.
Jackson stares at the ceiling, the same ceiling as the night before but somehow the creamy white plaster looks different, more intimate and warm, like there's a glow from within. He feels Mr. Sawyer, but doesn't dare look at him. No, looking would make it real. Looking would make the arm loosely draped over his waist real. Looking would bring Mr. Sawyer's face into focus, resting on the pillow next to his, eyes closed, sleeping, or perhaps resting.
If he knew this would happen after dinner earlier, would Jackson still go through with it? His heart patters in his chest like a trapped bird, wings beating nervously against him. Mr. Sawyer had stayed. Against all odds, the Ice Queen had stayed at the table, and had dinner with him, Jackson Cooper, the lowly intern.
After dinner, which consisted of a delicious salmon that melted in his mouth and minimal conversation about anything except what they were doing, talking over dinner, in a restaurant built to make couples fall in love.
Then Mr. Sawyer offered to pay, Jackson protested, blushed, convinced him he could pay, to which Mr. Sawyer said he knew Jackson could pay, but still wanted to pay it himself.
This isn't a romantic gesture, Jackson. Mr. Sawyer had said. This is forgiveness for the stunt you pulled. It would be wise not to refuse.
So Jackson let him pay, trying to hide a smile, because he knew Mr. Sawyer had forgiven him the moment he sat down and asked for a bottle of wine. And after that...well, Mr. Sawyer took him home in that sleek, black car of his, the ride customarily silent and tense, all anticipation and fragile pride held close to both their chests, armor for their hearts, for their very breath.
Mr. Sawyer drove them back to his penthouse, and showed him up to the same bedroom, and when Jackson saw Mr. Sawyer take off his shirt first, facing away from him, facing the bed that clearly hadn't been made since the last time he had been there, the wrinkles in the fabric like a snapshot, no, an imprint, trying to preserve the fleeting moments of something rare, well, Jackson turned him around and dropped right to his knees.
Somehow they made it to the bed, after they drank another bottle of wine together, of course, drowsy and sated, Mr. Sawyer with tousled hair, a lazy yet still eternally pensive look, less like a statue in those hours and more like a painting, when the colors are so vivid and the details blurred just enough to give a sense of motion, of a heartbeat within, each stroke a vein, and all Jackson could think was that he wanted, no, needed to find a way into this painting, into this vibrancy, this richness. He needed this, whatever this was.
"Your cheeks," Jackson had said at some point in the night when he had successfully made Mr. Sawyer laugh, probably describing Hunter or Caleb, or an interaction between them. "They're red. You're blushing."
Mr. Sawyer smiled, then, and drank another sip of wine. God, Jackson could watch him do that forever. "Probably the wine."
"Mr. Sawyer," Jackson said, his tone turning serious before his thoughts did.
"Yes?"
"Why am I here?"
It was the same question Mr. Sawyer had asked him at the restaurant. Jackson doesn't know why he asked. He doesn't really know why he does anything anymore these days. Mr. Sawyer had paused, looking into his glass, as if the blood red tendrils lapping the glass might spell out the answer.
Then he looked up, and Jackson couldn't look away, with the same fascination one has looking a storm straight on, right before it hits.
"You remind me of something." He lifted a hand, running a finger along Jackson's bottom lip, so faintly it felt like air. "Something I lost long ago."
"Youth?" Jackson had joked, instinctually trying to lighten the dark mood that had settled over them. Mr. Sawyer didn't laugh, though.
"No," he said, leaning in and kissing him. Jackson thinks he won't answer him until he leans back just enough that his lips brush Jackson's as he speaks. "La passion."
"La pasión," Jackson had said, and he doesn't remember the last time he spoke in Spanish with someone other than his mother. "Ya tienes mucha pasion."
"Ah, yes, you can speak Spanish." Mr. Sawyer must be thinking of his résumé.
"My mother, she's from Mexico. Spanish is my first language, actually."
"Really?" Mr. Sawyer kissed his jaw, biting softly, carelessly, to which Jackson hissed and kissed him again, feverishly, as if kissing might answer every question, every doubt. Then Mr. Sawyer had pulled away, his eyes lidded and dark, a firmness and sureness in his voice. "I want you to say something. In Spanish."
"Say what?"
"Kiss me."
Jackson kissed him, but Mr. Sawyer pulled away again.
"No. Say it."
Then he realized, and Jackson laughed, but the sound died when he saw Mr. Sawyer, his lips parted, breath held, tense, waiting, wanting, needing.
"Besame."
☆★☆
The night darkens, closing in through the open windows, and without lights the room becomes small, and Jackson can only see shapes, the blur of the bed, an outline of a doorway, the dull glow of blood under skin.
Jackson feels Mr. Sawyer adjust his position, lifting his head, part of his chest settling on Jackson's stomach. He looks younger, softer, in the dark, sprawled over him, shirtless and bare.
"Jackson." His voice is a mere whisper. It's the middle of the night and somehow Jackson feels the sacredness of this moment like a touch, or a kiss. "Wes."
"Wes?"
"That's my name."
"Oh."
Mr. Sawyer stays silent. Jackson stares at him, really studies him, his boss, his hook up, but not quite both, not quite either. He follows the slope of his nose, strong and straight, narrow where it branches into full, dark eyebrows, casting those eyes in that blue, stormy shade, and those lips he's kissed a thousand times now, red like wine, like a blush, a rose in full bloom.
"Wes," Jackson says, slowly. "Is it short for something?"
"Weston. Weston Sawyer."
Jackson smiles, liking how it sounds, liking everything about this man draped over him in the dark of an expensive penthouse. "Weston Sawyer."
Wes kisses his chest, right on the breastbone. "Jackson Cooper. Besame."