Jason is the only person in the waiting room when the two guys enter. As the door opens, he looks up from the magazine he isn’t reading and almost smiles because the first guy is a kid his own age, early twenties, with a shock of bleached hair that hangs in front of his face. But when he shakes his head, throwing the hair aside, Jason sees the hard green gaze staring him down and his smile dies. The kid steps into the room and stops, the way a prospective buyer steps into a run-down apartment and studies his surroundings -- with an air of vague disgust, as if one can’t possibly believe he might be interested in this place. He takes in the overstuffed furniture in muted pastel hues that hint at color, the leafy potted plants in the corners, the low wooden tables covered in old issues of People and Sports Illustrated, and his expression never changes. The glare in his eyes never fades.

He holds the door for the man behind him. He’s older than the kid is, much older -- the first thought that pops into Jason’s mind is this is Dad, only there’s no family resemblance between the two. The kid is tall and thin, almost gangly, all elbows and long limbs, and while the man is roughly the same height, he’s well-built, stocky in the places where men over thirty-five usually are. An uncle then, a good fifteen, twenty years older than the kid is. His skin is deeply tanned and lined like old leather, his short, dark hair peppered with gray. When he walks, he favors his left leg.

The kid frowns at the leg as the older man passes him. “Does it hurt much?” he wants to know. He speaks loudly, like he wants the whole waiting room to overhear, then glances around to see if anyone’s listening. Quickly, Jason drops his gaze back to the magazine open in his lap.

“It’s okay,” the man replies. Jason hears the door latch shut and dares to look up again. Seeing him, the man nods, a polite gesture that makes the boy with him scowl harder. A thin hand takes the man’s arm possessively, then trails down the sleeve of his bulky winter coat to lace through his thick fingers. An uncle, Jason thinks again, as the kid guides the man to the reception desk.

Before the nurse behind the desk can speak, the kid tells her, “We have an appointment.” No shit, Jason wants to say. He refuses to look up from the magazine again because he knows that’s what the kid wants. He can practically feel those eyes boring into him, begging to be acknowledged. Jason isn’t playing the audience here. “At ten o’clock,” the kid continues in his loud hear me voice. “With Doctor --”

“Sign in, please,” the nurse interrupts.

Jason senses the kid’s irritation. It radiates from him in waves like summer heat. Jason ducks his head and raises the magazine to hide his smirk. Put you in your place, didn’t she? They’re both here for appointments. It’s a freaking doctor’s office, for Christ’s sake. What, does he think Jason’s just sitting here for the hell of it?

“Wesley,” the man warns. His is a deep voice that rumbles through the room, soft and commanding like distant thunder. From his weary tone, Jason suspects he has to reprimand the boy often.

Wesley sighs. “Sign in, she said.”

Without raising his head, Jason watches them over the top of the magazine. The man signs the clipboard -- left-handed, because his other hand is held tight between both of Wesley’s own. The closer the kid leans into him, the more Jason begins to think maybe an attraction stronger than family binds the two together. His groin stirs at the thought, because the boy is nice looking and the old man isn’t that old, but then the pain in his lower belly flares to life and he stifles the thought. “Put my name, too,” Wesley murmurs, watching the man write. Even when he’s trying to keep it down, Jason has no trouble hearing him halfway across the room.

“I’m the patient here,” the man replies. There’s a faint humor in his tone, as if he thinks Wesley’s being cute. Silently, Jason agrees.

“I’m here with you,” Wesley argues. “Put me down, too.”

Behind the desk, the nurse rolls her eyes, annoyed. “Whichever one of you has the appointment,” she tells them.

The man gives Wesley an indulgent smile that lights up his brown eyes and takes years off his weathered face. “Me,” he says. There it is again, something Jason can’t quite place that hints at more than avuncular affection. The eyes, maybe, or the fingers that squeeze Wesley’s own. With the slightest tug, he starts to move away from the desk.

“I’ll need to see your insurance card, please,” the nurse says. She glances at the clipboard and adds, “Mr. Fordham?”

Mr. Fordham stops. “Right.” Awkwardly he digs into his back pocket and extracts a wallet as battered and worn as his lined cheeks. Without letting go of Wesley’s hand, he tries to extract a thin card from the folds of leather. “I’ve got it here --”

Wesley takes the wallet, which Mr. Fordham surrenders. “In the front part, hon,” he says, watching the kid root through plastic and cash for the elusive insurance card. Jason is sure he hears him say hon, though the man speaks softly and he’s half a room away.

Hon, worlds more intimate than son. If Jason’s right and they are lovers ... the thought makes him want to swoon, it’s too precious.