It was a 1997 BMW E39—dark forest green, with chrome trim around the windows and those soft beige leather seats that smelled of old ambition and cigarettes long vanished. The kind of car that didn't scream wealth. It whispered taste.
He didn't negotiate. He didn't ask for a test drive. He just nodded at the price, signed the papers, and left the dealership with the keys like he'd been driving that exact car in his dreams for years.
And maybe he had.
Because it wasn't about the car.
It was about the ritual.
The soft click of the door shutting.
The feel of the leather against his palm.
The quiet growl of an engine that was older than some of the students in his class.
He turned on the radio.
It buzzed static.
Perfect.
---
The gym was seven minutes away.
Located next to a Tesco Express and a tape shop.
Nothing fancy. Not a chain.
A locally owned little box with a dull red sign:
"KentFit Strength & Health."
The name sounded like a wrestling club from the 1950s.
Good.
No influencers. No personal trainers named Jaxon with an X.
Just steel, sweat, and mirrors that didn't lie.
He walked in.
The receptionist—a man in his early 40s, built like a rugby forward—looked up from his crossword.
Gave him a nod.
Arslan nodded back.
That was all it took.
A code.
A rite.
You lift, I lift.
We don't talk.
We become better men in silence.
---
He didn't know why it always ended up like this.
But for gay men—even rich ones, even reborn ones—the gym was often the only temple that let them pray without judgment.
It wasn't about biceps.
It was about boundaries.
About taking up space.
About controlling one small piece of the universe.
In his past life, he had begged for food.
In this one, he would curl iron like it was vengeance.
---
He chose a corner. Away from the mirrors.
Started with deadlifts.
Not because he loved them.
But because he hated himself just enough today to want to feel something real.
The bar groaned.
So did his spine.
Good.
---
He had no friends here.
No one cared who he was.
They saw a young man with a face like poetry and hands like someone who had never held a hammer.
They didn't know he built an empire with those hands.
They didn't know he buried a country's rot beneath mosques and marble.
Here, he was just a boy trying not to fall apart.
---
By the end of his first week, the owner nodded a little longer.
The receptionist waved first.
A guy on the bench press asked, "You done with those?"
Small things.
But Arslan had built nations on small things.
So he took them.
He went back every day.
Not for muscle.
Not for image.
But because the sound of weights clinking was the only music that didn't lie to him.
He was wearing a hoodie two sizes too big.
The sleeves were pulled halfway over his fingers, the kind of half-hiding that screamed, Don't talk to me unless you mean it.
Arslan didn't mean it. Not yet.
But he was curious.
The lecture hall smelled of old carpet and tired ambition, and the March sun outside was fighting through the dust on the tall windows. Four months in Kent, and Arslan had learned to wear layers like armor. British weather wasn't cruel—it was indecisive, like a lover who wouldn't admit he was staying.
He looked over.
Soft brown curls.
A pale neck spotted with freckles.
He looked like he spent most of his life in the corners of rooms, biting his tongue and swallowing opinions.
And then—eye contact.
A flicker.
Not long.
Just enough.
The boy looked away.
Perfect.
---
In Pakistan, Arslan could buy governments.
He could lift a pen and get a man a job, a loan, a wife.
In England, he had no such luxury.
Here, he had to rely on charm.
Which he hated.
Charm was for liars who hadn't built empires.
---
But the boy intrigued him.
There was rage in that stillness.
Like a dog who had been kicked one too many times but still hadn't bitten.
Arslan wasn't here to fall in love.
He had studied how that ends in both real life and Japanese light novels.
But something about the way the boy's shoes were clean—yet never new—annoyed him.
Like someone who took care of what little he had.
He had seen men like that.
They either die martyrs or build something out of nothing.
So during the third week of this accidental, ritual seating arrangement—when their bags started ending up on the floor just slightly overlapping—Arslan spoke.
"Do you like Jim Croce?"
The boy didn't look at him.
Just mumbled, "Who?"
Arslan smiled.
"He wrote Time in a Bottle."
"I don't drink."
Arslan laughed.
"I didn't ask you to. It's a song. Sad one."
The boy looked at him then. Eyes narrow. Suspicious. Wounded.
"You some kind of music snob?"
"No," Arslan said, "I'm the kind of guy who notices when someone breathes slower when sad lyrics come on."
Silence.
Then, a sigh.
"Okay. That's a little creepy."
"But accurate."
The boy cracked half a smile.
It wasn't much.
But neither was the land Arslan had bought in 1992.
And now it had mango trees.
---
The boy's name was Micah.
Half Welsh, half Irish.
Grew up in a religious home so tight it squeezed the life out of him.
Came out at sixteen.
Got kicked out at seventeen.
Had been living with an aunt who barely tolerated his shadow.
He was majoring in sociology.
Wrote poetry he never showed anyone.
And was planning to drop out.
---
By May, they were walking home together sometimes.
Sometimes silent.
Sometimes loud.
One time Micah said something funny and Arslan laughed harder than he had in years.
It scared him.
---
In the grand scheme of things, it meant nothing.
One boy in one town.
A blip on the heart monitor of Arslan's new life.
But when you've lived two lives—
Built an empire—
Manipulated millions—
Sometimes the smallest, softest yes feels like the most impossible victory.
Micah didn't know anything about Arslan's past.
Didn't know he was richer than the country they both lived in.
Didn't know he had buried the country he was born in under factories, flowers, and forgiveness.
He only knew that the strange boy with sharp brown eyes liked sad songs.
And sat next to him every Monday and Thursday.
And never asked too much.
Just enough.
---
And for someone like Arslan, who had seen every ending,
that was rare enough to be worth staying for.
Micah stepped inside like someone expecting something to be wrong. His shoulders tense, hoodie sleeves tugged down to his palms, one foot hesitating on the mat. He glanced around, the way someone does in a stranger's house—cautious, polite, braced for something embarrassing. Maybe a damp wall. Or carpet that smelled of yesterday's curry.
He was not prepared for this.
The hallway alone was disorienting. Clean, silent. White-washed walls softened with a tone too intentional to be accidental, not sterile, but expensive. No chipped paint. No shoes messily lined up at the entrance. No sounds of crowded family chaos.
Just… stillness.
"Is this your house?" Micah asked. He wasn't joking. It sounded more like a suspicion than a question.
Arslan nodded from the kitchen entrance. "Come in. You hungry?"
Micah blinked. "Thought you were renting a room."
"I said I lived near college."
"This is not a room."
"It has rooms. That counts."
Micah hovered, eyes trailing over the lounge. The open layout, the floor-to-ceiling curtains drawn back to reveal a small, geometric garden. The furniture didn't scream money—it whispered it. Every surface was matte, clean. The TV was large, the sound system embedded like it belonged to the walls. It was designed to look unnoticed, but everything here was thought out. Built in. Hidden in plain sight.
"Jesus," Micah muttered under his breath, only half ironically.
Arslan ignored it. He walked to the stove like someone who did this daily, barefoot and sure-footed. "I don't cook bacon, but you can, if you want. Everything else is up to you."
Micah stepped in finally, hesitantly. "You're Muslim?"
"Yes."
"You're also loaded."
"Not in England," Arslan said lightly, taking out eggs. "Here, I'm just a student."
Micah stared. "No you're not."
Arslan cracked one egg into a bowl. "Okay. But you're still welcome."
Micah stood in the kitchen doorway, shoulders still high. His hoodie was wet at the sleeves. His trainers were cheap and soaked through. And he was holding himself like someone who knew what it meant to be unwelcome in too many houses.
The silence stretched. Not awkward, not warm either. Just… real.
"I didn't mean to assume," Micah mumbled. "Just… thought you were like… not from here."
"I'm not. But I've been preparing to be," Arslan replied. He put a pan on the stove, turned the flame down low. "You don't have to explain."
Micah looked around again. "You redid all this?"
"Yes. While the old couple still lived here. It was their house. They helped me with the permits and renovations."
"You paid them to stay?"
"They liked the idea of a 'nice lad' taking care of their garden."
Micah let out a short, tired exhale that wasn't quite a laugh. "This is nuts."
"It's eggs and toast," Arslan said. "Don't make it complicated."
Micah finally sat down at the kitchen island, elbows on the counter. Arslan didn't ask questions. No "what's wrong", no "why did you come", no "tell me about your family". Just toast popping from the toaster. Butter unwrapped. Tea kettle on the boil.
A strange thing happened in that kitchen.
Micah didn't relax.
But he didn't leave either.
And that was enough.