For the first time since arriving in England, time flies instead of dragging. Vanya’s mornings start with texts asking how well he slept, his afternoons punctuated by Jason’s lunch-break musings. They’re written snippets of a conversation bridging the hours until Jason calls from his hotel room every evening. Each new text fixes Vanya in place regardless of where he receives it—tripping over kerbstones or getting bumped by annoyed shoppers barely registers each time he fumbles to get his phone out.

By Thursday, he’s conditioned by the sound of incoming texts like Pavlov’s dogs drooling for their dinner. He’s hungry too, the moment he hears his phone’s chime, only for words rather than food, as long as Jason types them. A story unspools between them as the week progresses, Vanya reading each line over and over, working hard as he types to translate Russian thoughts to English.

By the time Jason should be catching his train to come home on Friday, Vanya’s wound tight by excitement that snaps when he gets a final message, slumping like a puppet with severed strings onto a couch when he reads its content.

I’m not coming back.

Not today, anyhow. :(

Anna must spot the way Vanya’s smile suddenly falls from where she washes her hair in their kitchen area, shivering as the cold tap splashes. “What’s wrong?” She only hesitates for a moment before grabbing a towel and coming closer to read over his shoulder. The water dripping from her hair onto his hand is icy. “Is that from your client?”

“Yes.” That sounds wrong the moment he says it. “I mean, no.” If he closes his eyes, he can still picture Jason waving goodbye from his front door all over again, his hair mussed and shirt untucked after a final embrace that almost made Vanya miss his last train.

There’s nothing professional about what they’ve started together.

All of it feels personal.

“He’s not my client anymore.”

“That’s what Kaspar tells me.” She traces the pattern on the couch cushion, her fingers probing a gash in the fabric before she stands. “He also mentioned that you’re going away with him tonight.” She gathers items from her windowsill collection, threading a needle as she kneels to make a repair, her gaze flickering upwards for a moment. “I think Kaspar’s worried about….” Her last words come out in a rush. “About you going anywhere with strangers.” She looks down again, needle a flash of silver as she stabs it into fabric. “I overheard when he called you. He was uptight until you got home. I think he was worried something terrible had happened to you… again.”

It’s almost warm where they sit, the couch pushed close to the window where late-autumn sunlight puddles weakly, but Vanya’s blood chills like the damp swing of her hair as it brushes his knuckles. “He told you what happened to me?”

“Not exactly,” she admits as she sews, her head still bent, each jab of her needle through cloth pricking just as sharply as the thought of Kaspar sharing his deepest secrets. “He was upset when you didn’t check in like you promised. I asked him what the big deal was.” She quickly explains, “He only told me enough for me to know that he has reason to worry.” She keeps her head lowered as she stitches, her movements swift and practiced. “You know I assumed you were related, don’t you?” She shrugs when Vanya doesn’t answer. “The way he stuck so close to you at the hostel was one of the first things I noticed about him.” Her glance up is as swift as her needle’s progress, a quicksilver flash of a smile he might see as sympathetic if he wasn’t close to hyperventilating. “But you’re not related,” she continues, “so I asked why he needed to check up on a grown man.” She shuffles a little closer. “He changed the subject pretty quickly, so I left it, but I want to tell you something.” There’s nothing but compassion in her direct gaze. “I don’t know what happened to you, but I do know what it’s like to be scared.”

They sit in silence for a long moment.

“Something happened to you?”

She nods her head slightly, her fingers brushing against his. “I chose to get out rather than stick around for more of the same, and once I made that decision, London seemed a good option. It has some of the best design schools in Europe, so here I am. If I work on my portfolio, I can apply for a place next year as long as the rules don’t change, like I keep reading, and we all get sent home.”

“That won’t happen.” Months of observation suggest London runs on the sweat of foreign nationals.

“I hope not. Until then, I make alterations to mass-produced wedding dresses instead of making my own, and I wait tables in the evenings. That might be all I ever achieve here. I might never get to college. It’s not exactly how I pictured my future.”

That all resonates so much that the hairs at the nape of his neck rise. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Her voice firms. “It’s not how I pictured because it’s going to be better. I mean, I hated that I didn’t feel safe in my own country, and then I hated feeling the same way in the hostel, but I refuse to put up with it. I’m making progress. We both are, Vanya, and we can both be successful. So yes, it’s boring sewing hems in a backroom, but at least it lets me practice.”

Her nail scrapes along the neat stitches she just made. Even sitting this close, Vanya can see they form a perfect silken spine holding the gaping rip together.

Her own backbone straightens as she says, “I’m lucky I get to work while I wait, and I’ll pay back that good luck when I start my own business.” She pats Vanya’s hand very gently. “You’ll be able to work soon too. Maybe go back to college and build a real future. That’s got to be worth taking a few risks for.”

Vanya shakes his head.

“It’s true,” she insists. “I know you thought earning some cash was a risk, but I took a much bigger risk by trusting Kaspar after… after what happened to me. But that’s how we recover. We take small risks—like small stitches—until we’re sewn back together.”

Vanya nods at a description that sums up his whole year, his throat too tight to say so.

“So Kaspar will just have to accept that you might need to do the same thing. Take some small risks with your not-a-client. Let him spoil you for a weekend. Kaspar will get over it. Besides….” Colour flares in her cheeks, scarlet like the thread twisted around her fingers. “I plan to keep him busy by taking some risks of my own while you’re not here.”

Two texts arrive with a pair of loud pings—a reprieve from hearing about his roommates’ sex lives.

Dom must have a death wish, says the first text.

The second text is just as cryptic. I fucking hate asbestos.

“Do you know what this word means?”

“Asbestos? No, I don’t,” Anna admits. “Let me look it up.” She gets her smartphone, and they sit closer together, the wet ends of her hair dark gold against the red couch. “Who is Dom?”

“A very important client. He has all the money.”

“Ah, asbestos is a fire retardant. It says here that many older buildings have it in their walls and ceilings.” She warily eyes the discoloured ceiling tile above them. “So what does he do for this client, exactly?”

“Jason? I think he preserves the oldest parts of buildings.” He strains to recall what he overheard in Hyde Park. “Something about getting the right permits and special permissions? I’m not exactly certain.”

He fires off a quick reply. You found asbestos?

Jason replies just as swiftly. Yes, it’s a pain in the arse to get rid of and dangerous to work around.

“He’s right,” Anna says after she googles again. “This website says it’s killed lots of people who inhaled tiny particles.” Her nose screws up. “It’s a horrible way to die, according to this page.” Hearing so must do something to Vanya’s face. Anna backtracks quickly. “I’m sure he’s fine. It says here that only trained specialists can remove it.”

Vanya texts back. Is dangerous for you?

His phone rings in his hand. Jason speaks as soon as he answers. “I’ll be fine. It’s just taken some time to track down some specialists and report it to Health and Safety. This is why I always like to be on site at the start of each project. There’s no knowing what will turn up. So that’s why I’m delayed, but I think I’ve got it covered. I could make it back on Saturday if you still want to come to Riversmeet with me?” He pauses as if expecting Vanya to say no.

Vanya does his best to keep up. “If I’m still want to go?”

There something very gratifying at how quickly Jason says exactly what Vanya’s been thinking for days. “I really want to see you. Will you still come even if I’m a day late? I know it’s a long way to go for a short visit, but—”

“Yes.” The fingers of Vanya’s free hand move without permission, finding Anna’s. He holds on tight as he asks, “Which ticket do I buy?” He still has every penny of his personal shopping payments. Spending some on meeting Jason seems somehow redemptive.

“Ticket?” Jason sounds distracted, other voices audible in the background.

“Yes. For which station?”

“Oh, Moreton-in-Marsh.” The change is Jason’s tone is familiar now, warm like Vanya’s surprised him. “But you don’t need to buy a ticket. I’m doing that online for both of us right now.” He interrupts Vanya before he can insist on paying his way. “You don’t need to pay for a thing.” Someone calls his name in the background. “I should be paying you for your time. Your weekends must be busy. You won’t have to cancel any clients, will you?”

Clients?

It’s a reminder of a false pretence that Vanya regrets ever starting.

“No. No other clients.” He comes to an instant decision. “You were very last one.”

“Oh. Did you get a new job? I didn’t know you were—” The background demand for Jason’s attention gets louder. He must cover the receiver with his hand. His next, “I’ll be right there,” is muffled until he returns to their call. “I’ve got to go. Just be there, okay? At Paddington on Saturday? I’ll text you the details.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Jason lowers his voice. He says, “I can’t wait to see you,” and a thread that’s looped between them all week suddenly pulls much tighter.

* * *

Vanya gets to the station much too early, waiting for so long he spots a pattern in the passengers who spill from each train.

The first to disembark wear business-like apparel, intent on the next stage of their journey. They stride past where he lingers, on their way to high-powered weekend meetings.

Next, he tracks the progress of harried mothers herding fractious infants. They too have intense focus, steering their offspring away from the steep drop at the edge of the platform. White-haired seniors who hold tight to walking canes or to each other follow, gaze focused on the floor as if each step might trip them.

The last train to pull in follows the same pattern, until a group of children pour out. They assemble for a head count before they wind snakelike between kiosks, looking everywhere but where they’re going.

Like he did on arrival, the children wonder aloud at this station’s vaulted ceiling, cooing to the pigeons that perch among its rafters. Each child holds the hand of another, all wearing T-shirts advertising something called a stage school. Vanya watches a supervisor, who could be the same age as him. He counts heads again before bending to tie a shoelace, only a few feet from him.

Vanya overhears their conversation, children and adults alike excited about the West-End theatre they’ll visit. This is a big treat, their supervisor reminds, requiring the very best behaviour. Vanya can’t help smiling as the children agree while fizzing with excitement, but his chest tightens at the same time.

These kids aren’t a dissimilar age to the ones he’d be teaching right now if things had been different.

Perhaps he drifts too close. The supervisor turns like he can feel Vanya watching, his shoulders squared for trouble. The way he puts himself between Vanya and the kids spikes a surge of panic that only increases when a man in uniform leaves the ticket barrier to head their way, his eyes narrowed.

The newspapers at home justified his beating by saying his proximity to young kids was asking for trouble. A gay teacher would only taint his pupils by association. His attackers did society a favour.

Do these people somehow see that same danger?

Vanya backs up fast, his heart stopping when someone grasps his shoulder, only to restart when Jason says, “Hey, you made it.”

Maybe Vanya’s hug is a surprise, but Jason only returns it until his death grip lessens. “Hey,” he says again, more in concern this time. But he doesn’t push Vanya away, waiting instead until his grip loosens some more. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Vanya quickly lies. “Was just looking—” He cuts himself off abruptly. Looking at children hardly sounds like a normal way to spend time, especially when explaining will only lead to questions about a teaching vocation he hasn’t mentioned once while playing personal shopper. He uses straightening Jason’s shirt collar as an excuse to stay close. “Was just looking for you.” He touches the fabric of his shirtfront. “This is smart.”

“I went shopping while I was in York.”

“On own?” Vanya’s glad he listened to Anna’s urging and let her loose on his own clothes. The shirt he wears fits so much better for her neat alterations, smarter too now she’s replaced its cheap plastic buttons with crystal ones that sparkle.

“Well, if you’ve really given up personal shopping, I had to pull myself together, so I went to another Marks and Spencer and imagined you were with me.”

Vanya’s voice comes out low-pitched. “Very quick student.”

“I had a very good teacher.” Jason touches one of Vanya’s new buttons. It catches the light, bright against the fabric of his black shirt. “Of course, I’m still not half as on-trend as you.” His hand slips under Vanya’s jacket to pull him closer, nose skimming Vanya’s temple as he says, “I wondered if you’d be here.” His lips drag there a little, soft and so warm. “Really hoped you wouldn’t stand me up.”

Vanya doesn’t try to translate that last sentence.

He’s rooted to the spot, so aware that they’re virtually embracing in public that it steals his vocab. His heart pounds with returned panic.

What the hell is he thinking?

He’s in plain sight here of anyone who might take violent offence at seeing two men together, his gaze flicking left and right, on guard until Jason steps back.

He wears the same mix of worried confusion Vanya last saw in his kitchen. “Are you okay?” There’s nothing but care in the way he searches Vanya’s expression, perhaps noting his change in pallor. “Can I get you something? How about you let me buy you a drink?”

He’s so kind.

So kind.

Always.

Vanya tries hard to stop overthinking.

When he opens his arms, nothing awful happens.

Jason simply hugs him so hard his feet leave the platform.