Chapter Text
It’s around eight when Simon starts waking up, his face scrunching and nose digging deeper into my skin before letting off. He peers up at me, grinning groggily before kissing my hip. “Morning,” he whispers. It deserves him a gentle pet, to which he chuckles at. “I thought you said you weren’t a morning person.”
“I’m not. I’ve been up since three.”
He lets out a little noise against me, seeming to nuzzle back and forth at my skin for a minute before settling. “Come cuddle me instead?” he whispers. When I peer down, he’s staring up with wide, pleading eyes and a bastardly grin.
“Can’t.” It pains me to say it. “‘M working. I can’t lose the flow I’ve got.”
In the blink of an eye, his grin turns to a pout, then plateaus. “Can… I read it?”
“What?”
“What you’ve got. I want to read it.”
“I… it’s my story. That hero story.”
He wrinkles his nose to me. “Figured that much, ‘m not a complete idiot. Still wanna read it.”
The cursor’s bar blinks in front of me, seaming to tease me as my fingers levitate over the keys. Theoretically, it could be a good idea, letting him help me, could let me into the inner workings of his brain. Then again, it could be an absolutely horrendous idea. It might make him chalk me up to an absolute creep and make him stomp out of here, out of my life.
He’s deciding for me, though, as he peers over my lap and peeks at the screen. “C’mon, it’s on a Google Doc. You can just share it to me, you don’t even need to hand over your laptop.”
I purse my lips, then huff. “Fine, what’s your email?”
“ [email protected] .” His hand slowly turns around my thigh, palm pressing to the inside of it and tugging it towards him. He hugs it, skin pressing to skin as his lips trail against my hip. I type it in and send it over, my hand reluctantly petting his hair again.
“There,” I say gently, “you’re added.”
His mouth breaks from my side, giving me room to finally find my breath as he turns over. After a minute of searching his clothes, he grabs out his phone and taps around, sinking back into the bed beside me. He cuddles up to my side, head settling on my shoulder as his legs wrap around my thigh, arms linking around mine tightly. It’s like he’s an octopus, or just a really clingy dog. Either way, I don’t think I could get rid of him, even if I tried.
We stay silent for a while, the only sounds filling the room are of the bed sheets shifting as he seems to never endingly move (I’m starting to think he’s got a minor attention issue). He squirms slightly every so often, keeping pressed to me as his eyes follow sentence after sentence. After about half an hour, I feel his hand slowly slide down my arm and pry open my working hand, taking it and weaving our fingers together. I turn my head to protest, but he simply keeps his eyes on his screen and smiles an intimate, velvety soft grin. I can’t help but savour the fact that it’s just for me.
My head dips down, lips pressing to the underside of his jaw as he reads. Small, gentle noises escape his throat, his chin eventually brushing my head as his head turns. I hear a quiet “What?” above me.
“Do you work today?” I ask, squeezing the hand that mine’s locked against. He shakes his head against me, his neck moving back from me as his lips press to my scalp.
“No, I don’t. I should probably go back to my flat for a bit, though. I wanna grab some stuff.”
And, because I’m the most pathetic man on earth, I peer up to him and whisper back a “Will you be coming back to me, then?” Because of course, it’s been what, three days of this and I’m begging him to crawl back the moment he thinks of leaving.
Because I want to live in an illusion that this honeymoon period is how it’s always going to be. That I’m somehow loveable, that this is somehow infinite.
That even his pink lips and tousled morning hair are things that I can keep private. Locked away in my tower of greed, which is actually a small flat in the middle of London.
He nods, though. That’s all that’s needed, his nod and his damned smile. “I can come back if you want me back.”
I’m so fucking weak. My hand untangles from his and rests against his stomach, leaning into him as I whisper “I never want you to leave.”
He closes the space between us, kissing me for at least a minute before I find his hand cupped to the back of my head, fingers knotting amongst my unbrushed bedhead and pressing my skull forward. I take it, hand shifting to his hip and stroking his skin.
It all comes to a stop when there’s a rattling at my door. Jingling keys, the sound of someone cursing.
Not just ‘someone’; it’s not some strange fuck trying to get into the wrong flat. No, it’s someone who definitely shouldn’t be up right now.
I pull back quickly, eyes darting around the room and launching myself to grab pants for the both of us. I toss a pair at Simon’s head, pressing a finger to my lips as I throw on sweats and a tee. (I think I might’ve grabbed Simon’s. Brilliant.)
Fiona’s throwing her bag on my couch before throwing herself on with it with a groan. “Jesus fucking Christ, Baz, have you heard of answering a goddamn phone?”
“Sorry,” I halfass, standing in front of the mostly closed doorway to my room, the bed (mostly) out of sight. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong? I’m a fucking mess of a woman, that’s what’s wrong.” Her arm lazily waves in the air as her head lifts, eyes squinting at me. She pauses. “Two things. One, I need the strongest fucking caffeine you’ve got. Two, why’ve you got a hickey on your neck?”
I freeze, pursing my lips before making my way to the kitchen. “I could ask you the same,” I mumble, dragging out a mug before clearly saying “It would’ve been great if you’d knocked, Fi.”
Her snort’s muffled by pillows. “What, you’ve got someone here?”
I’m silent, eyes set on the bedroom door as I click the kettle on. Fiona’s head lifts up again, eyes dragging from the door, to me, then back to the door. “Oh shit, you do.”
I make a point of clearing my throat. “Like I said, would’ve been great.”
“Is he… is he up? He’s in there, isn’t he?”
“Would’ve been great ,” I grit through my teeth, staring daggers at her, “if you’d knocked.”
She smirks a bit at me before laughing, outright laughing. She pushes herself up, sitting in a slouch and covering her face with her long, pointed hands as she laughs. I grimace.
And of course, with that comes Simon stepping out of my room in my trackies with bedhead, an askew shirt, and still looking well snogged.
With that comes Fiona laughing harder, much to my distaste.
Simon takes it well, though, just staring at her in confusion as he makes his way to my side, wrapping an arm around my middle and tugging me close as he whispers a quiet “What’s her problem?” into my ear.
“She’s a loon, that’s what,” I whisper back, lips pressing to the shell of his ear before pulling back, still threading my fingers around his. “This is my aunt Fiona, who’ll be leaving now, won’t she?”
“Like hell I am,” she cracks, hands flying down against the couch as she snorts. “You’ve ought to be the mad thinking I’ll miss this.”
“Then, may I insist, for you to be mad?” I emphasize, cocking a brow to her as I instinctively tug Simon closer. He keeps against me, thankfully, with his head perched on my shoulder.
“You surely cannot.” She’s died down now, trying to suppress the wicked grin she’s got stuck across her face. “Either way, I’ve got right business to discuss, starting with thanking you for being a wingman, for once . I properly fucked up in the past, and somehow you fixed that up.”
Simon’s eyebrows knit in confusion, but I kiss it away. “She and Ebb were… close.”
“Is… she who Ebb’s been going on about?”
“She talks about me?” Fi perks up.
I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Yes, yes, and yes. Fiona, can you leave? I’ll call you later. Go off and visit your sweetheart and let me eat breakfast, at least.”
She sends a look in my direction, turning her nose up at me (suppose that’s where I get it) before she collects her bag and coat. “Fine, but you owe me lunch. Came all the way here, after all.”
A cheeky, insincerely smile pushes across my face. “Oh, but of course, your highness.” Fi just scoffs and heads out, leaving me with a heavy exhale and Simon's eyes resting on me. I catch that gaze, staring back quizzically until I answer.
“You didn't have to send her off, you know,” he says gently, “I don't think she was that big of a bother...”
My lips press to his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth to shut him up. “She would be, after ten minutes or so. Either way, I'm rather peckish and I'd much rather have breakfast with just you and you alone.” His mouth turns up beside me, nose pressing into my skin as he exhales slowly.
We wind up making breakfast together, hip-to-hip for most of the process. Turns out, we flow fairly well, although we squabble on what to put in an egg and how to scramble it. That's solved with our mouths, though (seems to be like that a lot). In fact, there isn't much of a long period of time when we're not touching in some way. My lips pressed to his hand, his quick pecks at my shoulder. I wonder if it’ll last. I wonder if I can keep this moment forever.
It doesn't, though. After breakfast, he squeezes my hand and reminds me that he has to head home. I make him promise with more or less of a plead on my part for him to come back.
The press of his lips to my temple, long and soft, tells me that he’s coming right back.
Once he leaves, I clean up silently, letting my mind drift back into the story, which is where I find myself at when I'm done.
I’m not quite working at a machine pace, but words are coming quite quicker than they usually are, filling pages after pages over my few hours of silence. The details start filling in, and by the time Simon’s back, I’m nearly done. “I've got a plot,” I call out, watching him wander about the flat. He returns back to the room, glass of water in hand and dropping a duffle bag by the door. My heart races at the mere prospect of it.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, sliding onto bed beside me and hooking his arms around my waist. “Tell me.”
I must be weaker than the tides, because I'm giving into his pull. The arm settling around my waist tugs me closer, and I'd give anything to keep him here against me.
So, I start rambling. On and on, twisting through words of vampires and dens, the Victorian Estate, the Mage, and sweet little Ebb. I pause before saying she sacrifices herself, worrying that it's a bit overstepping, but Simon agrees. That's in her character.
“Is it too… on the nose?” I mumble, flicking through the document. It's quite lengthy, and even in so many split sections and chapters, it holds a substantial weight. “I mean, the characters, the events and all… I’m changing their names, for the sake of privacy, but what if it’s not successful?”
His lips press to the back of my neck. “Well,” he starts, “how’d you write Gravel Road?”
I snort. “Sleep deprivation, anger at my childhood, two things of boxed wine, and a few manic bursts.”
“Sounds… somewhat recreatable.”
“I suppose,” I say, sighing and leaning into him. “Or I just quit entirely.”
He frowns at that, pinching my arm. “Stop that,” he protests, “you have potential, this has potential.”
The spot where I left blinks slowly, my eyes baring through the screen. It feels awfully silly, at least to me, to actually read it. Going through it, I realise how much I sounded like I’m grabbing for Snow’s attention, and now that I have it, it feels mute. He’s here around me, cushioning me from my blinded affection and letting me give into more realistic temptations, such as kissing him. This is all I really ever wanted, and now I’m hundreds of pages into a novel that nobody may ever truly understand, purely because they’ll never want Simon Salisbury so deeply as I’ve wanted him.
Even now, as it’s just on a document, it feels like it’s unfair to even exist. All the words I’ve spat onto a page feel so private, so intimate. Up until this point, it’s been relatively for just me and my heart.
Despite that, despite every hesitation, I feel my sight drift back to Simon’s, who’s giving me a pointed “Don’t argue” look, which makes me swallow the backwash of my pride. “Will you read it all over, for me? You don’t have to immediately, it’s just-”
“Of course I will,” he says gently, reaching out and tucking a fallen strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ll do it in my free time on my shift tomorrow.”
With a sweeping hand against my jaw, I feel my breath hitch as he draws me closer. It doesn’t take much to set me off, launching myself forward and colliding into a kiss.
Maybe I’m a bit too weak for him, because any time he even looks at me now, I can barely stop myself from snogging him senseless.
Maybe, just maybe , this is the erotic grope-fest I’d hoped for.
As the day drags on, then the week, and then onto the next, it sort of dies down, though. Not my feelings, never my feelings, but the irresistible urge to latch myself onto Simon at any chance has dwindled into a burning ember in my chest.
It’s odd to fall into a relationship like this, as if we just slot together. While there’s unexpected aspects to this, such as his flatmate/best friend, who lectured me for at least half an hour on how they’re practically family, and if I’m dating him, I’m dating the family. To that I responded with “Well, it’s a good thing I’m gay then”. I’ve learned that she’s not afraid to smack your arm, but then give you a loving pinch that apparently means she approves, at least, according to Simon.
I mean, that, and Ebb above and beyond approves. As in she baked us a cake. An entire, tooth-rottingly sweet yellow cake topped with a “Congratulations” scrawled across the top. Smiley face and all.
By about a month in, though, Simon sits across from me at the kitchen island, shoveling cereal into his mouth as he raises his head to ask “Why haven’t I met your mates yet?”
That is, sadly, a question that I wasn’t quite prepared for.
It isn’t like I’ve been hiding him, exactly. Nor is it that they wouldn’t approve, but there’s something about it that’s crossing further than every other barrier we’ve hit.
“I haven’t really met any of your friends, except Bunce.”
“I just have Penny.” It makes my throat catch, squinting and mouth flying open to throw a defence, but it stops flat. Words elude me, because he might actually be right.
For such a friendly bloke, he’s awfully lonely.
My throat clears quietly, eyes dropping to my tea as my mind grabs around for an answer. “I’ll text them, see if they’re free for dinner tonight.” The lump in my throat doesn’t dissolve. “They’re not arseholes, but they’re… well… a bit like me.”
I can feel his smile before I even see it, the feeling of his fingertips brushing my knuckles as his arm lays outstretched between us. “That’s fine,” he reassures gently, “I quite like you, after all.”
There’s a silence between us for a minute, my eyes tracing the way his thumb circles around the bottom of mine. It's so irresistibly soft, making my insides churn and melt.
While keeping our hands connected, I turn mine over, fingers trailing over the creases of his palm. I trace out the knicks he’s got, the little ridges caused by time. He makes me melt like this; he reminds me that we’re only human.
“So what are they like?” he whispers, leaned across the counter on the pure basis of intimacy. “Your friends?”
A smile threatens my lips. “Idiots,” is the first word out of my upturned mouth before my eyes meet Simon’s and I let out a chuckle. “Sort of. Dev is a bit of a twit, and Niall’s always got a wad up his arse, but they’re both decent company. Niall’s got a fancy accounting job uptown. He drives a nice car and he’s got a ridiculously fit girlfriend, and that’s coming from me . It’s disgusting. I’m glad they’re happy, but I’d never say it to his face. The there’s Dev, who can’t land a date for shit and once told me that he’d snog Niall if they weren’t cousins. That, to which, I had to remind him that we’re cousins, not them.”
Our hands rotate together slowly, a matching grin on full display across Simon’s face as laughs. “Suppose he is a bit dim, huh?”
“Oh, definitely. Don’t talk too fast to him, he can barely catch up with sitcoms on the telly.” That deserves me a chuckle and a peck on the lips before I hear his feet thump against the ground.
Within the half hour, he’s finished breakfast, we’ve showered, and he’s taking his time in the full length mirror to get dressed while simultaneously checking out his angles. I watch from afar, perched on the edge of my bed as my hair drips down my spine and the damp towel rests in a pile on my crotch.
We trade glances in the mirror with little smiles as he adjusts his jumper and pushes his thick fingers into the wet spirals of his curls. It makes my stomach lurch.
“You know,” I say quietly, occupying my hands with the hemmed edge of my towel. “If we’re talking about meeting people, why haven’t I met your mum yet?”
His movements freeze, eyebrows lifting as his mouth holds open. For a few lingering moments, we’re staring at each other through our reflections before he finally turns on his heel. “Did… you want to meet my mum? I-I’m not opposed, what’s not what I’m saying! I’m just…” He shifts. “I didn’t want to move you too quickly. Meeting my mum is like accepting fate, or some shit.”
A single thread unravels and I loop it around my index. “I’m not opposed.” My words come out quiet, sticking around us and hanging in the air. “I want this to be serious.”
Slowly, a smile creeps up on his face. “O-okay, yeah. Brilliant. I’ll phone her and see when she’s free.”
I can’t help but smile back; his grin is contagious. “Lovely.”
He finishes dressing, lacing his shoes before going over to peck my cheek, promising me that he’ll meet us for dinner before grabbing his coat and heading off.
The day drags on relatively uneventfully. Lunch with Fi is mostly just her going on and on tirelessly about Ebb (including details I'd much rather have not listened to, like how she keeps her nails manicured well and really knows what she’s doing with a bra). Afterwards, I stop off into Counting Sheep to drop some food off and for a quick, five minute back room snog. The latter wasn't exactly planned, but the moment I opened the door to Simon’s nose in a classic copy of To Kill A Mockingbird , I couldn't help myself but just attack him. It's so ridiculously sexy when he’s educated.
Of course, Dev and Niall agreed to dinner, but only after giving me grief. 26 texts worth of “You get good dick, and suddenly, you're a changed man” and “Planning the honeymoon, fucker?”
I send off the address to Simon, showing up early for our usual dimly lit castoff booth. When the waiter comes around to ask if I want my usual whiskey, I politely decline in favor of water (I've been cutting down my drinking some).
Red glows around me, bathing my skin in a washed out haze of deeper browns and shining maroon hair. Both Dev and Niall show relatively soon after, and for once they're looking more presentable than some barely grown uni boys stuck in their younger days. Sitting alone deserves me a raised brow from Ni and a snarky laugh from Dev.
“Ditched you?” Dev jokes, sliding against the wall on his side and waving for a beer. Niall settles next to him, eyes scanning the menu silently.
My shoulders wiggle as I shift, nose turning up. “He's closing. That's why we set this later.”
“Mhm,” he hums back, flashing me a familiar, familial smile. “So, what do we need to know that you've been a dick and held off on us about?”
Wow. Thanks. “He plays himself off as strong, but don't tease him too much. He just wants to like you guys.”
Suppose that's the last straw to get Niall to finally add himself into the conversation. “Well look at Mr. Baz Pitch over here, seeking out an adult relationship. Tell me, what real estate have you two been scoping?”
“None… okay, waterfront, but-yes. Okay, yes,” I sigh, palms settling against the table. “He's really important, and I can't cock this up. He's much better than those weird little ideologies I had about him. He's real.”
“Thank fuck he is, mate,” Dev mumbles, and by the jerk of the table and angry glare shot in Niall's direction seconds later, I can tell he'd kicked him. “Oi, I'm just saying--”
“Look, I know I'm shit at romances,” I interject, “but just please, don't judge him yet.”
They both exchange glances before shrugging in agreement.
By the time they've ordered drinks, Simon's stepping in and waving, making his way over to scoot in beside me. I greet him with a peck on the cheek before giving a waved introduction from him to the both of them.
With an order of drinks and food with a brief, barely held conversation (a struggle on Simon’s part), Dev seems to be dragging his eyes towards his phone while Niall just tries to think of conversation. That is, until Simon steals a whisper into my ear. “Can I ask for old stories?”
With a hand curled into his, my head nods slowly. “Go on, dear.”
And with that, he excitedly bursts into questions. “What was Baz like in high school? Most embarrassing moment? Did he always have a spike up his arse, or did that happen with time? Tell me anything--tell me everything.”
They exchange brief glances at each other, Dev’s eyebrow slowly rising before they, in unison, turn to me for an answer. I just nod, my arm draping over Simon’s shoulders. Niall snorts, while Dev cracks his knuckles and starts with a hearty “Shit, where do we even begin here with this fuckin’ trainwreck?”
Drinks flow and plates come and go as they take turns settling out a cascade of embarrassment after embarrassment, reenacting some and simply (perhaps overdramatically) describing others. With each story comes a little nudge of Simon’s shoulder into mine as he settles deeper into my skin. By the end of the night, Niall’s absolutely wasted and giving his rendition of me trying to tell him I’m into blokes by telling him he looks sexy in football shorts (deep regret, it inflates his ego too much).
“Oi, numpty,” Dev mumbles over his beer, staring at Niall’s phone, “your fuckin’ girl is on the line. She’s rung like three times.”
“Fuck her, I’ll just find myself someone like Simon ‘stead,” he slurs, “he’s awful fit, and quite a decent bloke. Good catch, Bazzy.”
“Yeah, well, he’s mine,” I retaliate, head wagging as I thread my fingers into his hair, “so piss off.”
Looking a bit stunned, Simon looks between us before Niall leans in and whispers to him, “We’re just joking, mate. Welcome to the family.”
On the cab ride home, as our sides press together and his index traces patterns on the leg of my trousers, Simon tucks his face into my neck. “They’re nice,” he murmurs, his exhale catching on my skin and making it damp. He slowly moves to a smile, relaxing more into me. “They’re kind of pricks, but nothing too bad.”
At first, nothing comes to mind for an answer. He’s right, they are. He’s usually right, when he isn’t idiotically wrong (which, I suppose, is the epitome of the duality of man). Everything feels like it’s rushing to be somewhere, yet stay still all at once. As if our universe isn’t meant to be stabilized, while we want to stay on course. Granted, our relationship is built on the spontaneity of reactions in correlation with long time emotions.
So, I take the risk and go for it.
“You’re an important part of my life,” I whisper, hand finding his and lacing out fingers together. His palm is moist, and his heartbeat gently thumps against mine. Silently, his head rises up and finds my gaze as he drags his eyes closed. “And they’re basically my family. Niall meant what he said, at the end, even if we’re all a bit smashed.”
“Are you saying we’re serious-serious? Or just like… the serious we mentioned this morning?”
“Haven’t we always been?”
He gives me one of his shrugs. “I mean,” he breathes. “Lifetime, serious?”
In the slowly drowning light of rain-coated windows and muddled street lights, I reach my hand out and stroke his cheek. “Simon Salisbury,” I let out, letting my words take charge of my mind and fill into the space between us. “You’re my lifetime.”
I mean it when I say it.
And he knows that, because he’s leaning up to me and pressing his lips sweetly up to mine. Even as he pulls away, he doesn’t quite pull back. His hand wanders up my chest, resting right over the heart I’d let him break. “I forgot to mention,” he murmurs against my breath, eyes half closed as his voice travels in a hum. “My mum said she’s good for this Saturday, if you’re ready to take that trip up north so soon.”
My smile tugs as I let my eyes fall shut. “Anything for you.”
And I mean it. When we get home, I start booking the train tickets immediately despite Simon’s protests for me to join him in bed.
It feels like the blink of an eye before we’re standing at the platform, Simon’s arm hooked around mine as we glance down the far side of the station. I feel a bit dazed whenever he holds me like this, as if I’m hallucinating the entire scenario. Even as his hand snakes into my pocket, skin meeting skin, I’m hit with the shock of disbelief.
He just squeezes my hand and looks at me, making me look back and actually see his smile instead of imagine it. It’s grounding; he’s my rock (no matter how cheesy that is).
We stand together, my head resting atop his while we watch the other trains pass. The moment’s cut short by the buzzing of his phone, shocking us both upright. His hand digs into his pocket and pulls out his cell, illuminating to show the lock screen picture of me. He took it a few weeks ago on that foreign film movie date I’d dragged him to. He complained half the time, since he barely speaks a lick of French.
“Mum’s gonna meet us there,” he says, shuffling closer and nestling his face up to my skin. His nose buries into my neck, and despite my protests, he grins and stays put. “She still says we don’t have to go home tonight.”
“You’re the one who wanted to take the last one back,” I remind gently, lips pressing to his temple. “You have work in the afternoon.”
“I’ll call in sick,” he mumbles quieter, scrunched face pressing more into my skin. I shiver.
“ No, you will not . Ebb’s working a full shift today, and that’s a dick move of you.”
“She’ll understand.” I feel the his smile, lips curving and cheeks crinkling along with them. Trying to nudge him away proves a challenge, so I cave in and settle my hand upon his lower back as he kisses the underside of my neck once.
I exhale, head settling on his. “We’re coming home tonight and that’s final.”
He pouts playfully. “Fine,” his breath moves up and punctuates his word onto my cheek. He stays put for an extended second, almost definitely deserving us discontent looks from our PDA, but I don’t care anymore. If he wants to kiss me in public, I’ll never be the one to turn him down.
The train pulls in not much later and I’m dragged aboard, settling into a spot beside Simon after he steals the window seat.
We sit close, hands interlocked and heads resting upon each other's as I hold our tickets at the ready. The train gives a good jostle before starting, carrying us far from the city. It doesn’t take long before Simon’s asleep on my shoulder, mouth hanging open and breath coming out in steady puffs. It’s nothing to complain over, since he’s warm, and comfortable, and oh-so Simon. There’s rarely ever a time when he’s so still and relaxed, and I always take the opportunity to soak in every second.
It’s not a long ride, but a nice one. I find myself resting up against him and taking an eyeful of the countryside as it sprawls out in front of us. The thought of a younger Simon running around out there, acting so carefree and unharmed by the world is something I imagine, but let go of quickly. All the possible history is scratched away by the man in my arms; the one with tattered hair and various small-scarring. The one with daddy issues and jagged knuckles and a fear of losing everything he’s got because it’s nearly happened at least five times in his life.
I wish I could’ve met him as so carefree, except I worry that it he wasn't the same Simon.
Current Simon’s mine; he’ll talk about the past, but move on with the future--our future. I think that’s all the Simon I’ll ever really need.
I lose myself in the moment with current Simon, eyes closing and senses focusing on him. He’s warm and smells like the soap I got him last week. His hoodie bunches up on me, and I feel the press of his knee into my leg. It’s enchanting and never fails to draw me in. It’s so unavoidably hypnotizing that when the train screeches to a halt, I startle back into reality.
After I give him a gentle nudge and a kiss to his cheek, Simon wakes with droopy eyes and a wrinkled nose. “We there?”
“Don’t feel the train moving, do you?” I quip, biteless tone to my voice as I sit up fully, stretching, then stand. He blinks at me blearily as I gather my bag and fix my shirt, only moving to grab my hand when I offer it out to him. He hauls himself up, yawning as I tug him out of the cabin.
We stand at the platform for a moment, the crowd of passers by busying the area and not letting us get a good look around us. Once they clear, I hear Simon say “Mum” beside me happily.
And there she is. She looks like him, if his face were squished down to look like Emma Bunton. Except she’s got that full head of curly hair, chopped to a bob and filling out towards the sides while it lies flat at the top. She’s got a classic hip-mum vibe; long dress, woolen cardigan around her shoulders, and a big, bulky necklace.
She seems like just the sort of person who’d raise a boy like Simon.
She smiles, and all I see is his smile on her face as she rushes over and throw her arms around him. She tugs him close, and he responds in like with his arms around her shoulders and head dropped to rest on hers. They whisper back and forth, but the mixture of trains and people is a combination that cancels out any other noise around me. As she pulls back, though, I’m shocked find an unexpectedly similar action thrown onto me--a hug.
Ms. Salisbury wraps her arms around my middle, hugging me tightly as she exclaims, now much louder than she was while talking to Simon, “So you must be the boy my son’s been enthusing about!”
I blink, carefully hugging her back as I look over at him. He just gives me his usual grin, nodding encouragingly as I bob my head just the same. “I--yes. I’m Baz.”
She pulls back at an arm’s-length, hands gripping around my wrists as she smiles fully. “He’s awful proper looking, Si,” she laughs warm heartedly, glancing between him and I as her voice drops. “Quite fit, too.”
I feel Simon blush without even looking, seeing his hand reach out and nudge her. “Mum, we’re in public,” he complains as I glance over and see his pink cheeks and shy smile. His mum just laughs and lets go of me, stepping back as her dress sways around her.
“Oh don’t overreact. I’m being civil.” Her arms fold as she eyes me up fully, head nodding slowly. “Well, come along. I need to start dinner sometime.”
Simon grabs my hand again, tugging me forward as we follow her back to her beat up 90s Pontiac. Our pressed-palms swing together, shoulders nudging and eyes meeting on occasion. As we climb in, she’s starting up the radio and letting it blast the classic hits station. It makes Simon smile without another thought, humming along to It’s Raining Men as I buckle in beside him.
It’s not a long drive, and it’s filled entirely with a constant back and forth between Simon and his mum while we’re winding down the countryside roads. She talks a bit about her garden, and I catch hint that she has a few barn animals (all four chickens are named after the members of ABBA). Simon chats his usual bit, mentioning work and nudging me into mentioning how the book is going. Most of the talking relies on his mother’s behalf.
I can’t complain, though. I’ve never had this whole genuine family experience, and I never thought I’d be able to get it. Hell, even if he and I go downhill one day, at least I’ll have this moment to remember.
She parks outside of a small cottage, threatening to lock us in the car if we don’t get out that moment. Her teasing smile is just like Simon’s, too.
The house smells of baked bread and old books, and it leaves me to wonder whether or not it always like this or if she’s just made it extra home-y for us. By the way Simon relaxes, I’m assuming it’s the former.
“Fuck, it’s good to be home,” he groans, pulling off his hoodie as he steps inside. He’s stopped by his mum, who tuts until he removes his shoes. I follow in suit.
“Sorry to say there isn’t much to tour for you,” Ms. Salisbury says with a shrug and a dismissive wave of her hand. “Don’t got much--kitchen, living room, bathroom, then upstairs is two rooms and another bathroom. Si’s old room is up there though, but he knows the rule.”
Simon scoffs, and I take note that he’s clearly blushing while he’s folding his hoodie and tossing it onto the nearby couch. “I’m not 15 mum, I’m not going to try to fool around in there.” With raise of her eyebrows, he immediately shuts up and casts his gaze down to his mismatched socks. “Fine. I’ll keep the door open.”
I feel a hand brush against mine, and with a look, I see that he’s trying to guide me upstairs. Compliantly, I follow up, looking at the family pictures lining the staircase as we walk. I spot a good deal of baby pictures of Simon, and the obligatory growing up snapshots as well. Sporting games, birthday parties, school participation, you name it. “Did you do acting?” I ask, spotting a cast photo.
He chuckles, hand wrapping tighter around mine. “One play, and I was an understudy. Never really went back, since I’m real shit at talking. Unless they want me to play someone who’s mute, there’s no point in it.”
We hit the landing and, within a few steps, I’m inside Simon’s old school years bedroom. The walls are haphazardly lined with footballers posters and various bandp pictures, taken from venues. I spot some tacked up notes and a few cut out drawings from notebooks, mostly graphic little designs. It’s a teenage boy’s room; nothing more, nothing less.
“Can’t imagine how much action you got in here,” I joke. “First kiss?”
He laughs, letting my hand drop as he strolls over to his bed. “Yeah, and that’s all. You know that.”
“I know,” I shrug, voice soft as I scan over his CD collection. “Wasted years then.”
Fingertips wrap around my belt loops, yanking me onto the bed. I land with a soft “ oof ”, hearing Simon burst out into laughter as I shake my head. “What?” I ask, looking at him. He’s got his eyes on me, nearing in tears as he looks at me all odd--somewhat crooked and funny.
“You can’t tell me your room didn’t look like this either,” he gestures around, “an ass-slaying cave.”
That really makes me laugh, head tossing back and nearly hitting the plaster wall and a poster of an early 2000s David Beckham. “Oh, surely the gargoyles on my bed frame were killer with my exes.”
“Wait, gargoyles? ”
I shrug it off nonchalantly. “My room is some posh-shit, and I could never touch it. Too preserved in history, or whatever. Too bad I don’t even go back now; I’d show you, but I think my dad would want my head on a plate first for bringing back a bloke.”
Simon shifts us, laying half on top of me with one arm looped around my back. We sit in silence, staring at each other as he slowly reaches out his free hand and brushes the hair from my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes traveling between my lips and my face.
“What for?” I whisper back, hands settling onto his chest and feeling the soft fabric of his tee below my palms.
He shrugs, chewing on his lip. “Your dad being shit. It’s nice to have some sort of home to go to comfortably, and it sucks that you don’t have one of your own.”
I hesitate, eyes stuck onto his face as I raise my hand slowly and settle it upon his cheek. I stroke it, feeling the gentle rise of skin over his mole. “I have you; isn’t that home enough?” His head turns, lips pressing to my palm as his eyes drag shut. I feel myself smile helplessly, focusing entirely on the way his exhale hits my fingertips.
“I’m gonna give you a real home one day,” he murmurs against me. “I swear, I will. That’ll be our home, then.”
I smile hopelessly, looking up at him in a daze. “You’re so sappy,” I feel myself saying, nose scrunching as I grin and feel him close in, scattering kisses about my face. Eventually, we break apart. He smooths my hair back, letting me sit up as he threads his fingertips around in the back of my head.
“We should probably go keep my mum company, since we came for her, after all.”
I nod, following his lead back down the stairs and to the kitchen table where we take seats beside each other. Across the small room, Ms. Salisbury lifts her head from the dish she’s making (by the looks of it, she’s boiling potatoes for shepherd's pie). “Heard an awful bit of laughing up there. Something tickling at you both?” She’s grinning, glancing between the two of us.
I can’t help but drop my head, feeling like a caught schoolboy as I cave backwards and glance towards Simon. He, surprisingly, is snorting along.
“Nothing besides that old itchy bed.”
“I told you, it’s just the blanket. You could just change it out, but no .”
In those classics, they say that someone’s eyes sparkle if they’re wise. I didn’t quite think that was possible, except maybe for Ebb, but for Simon’s mum it’s definitely something she’s got up her sleeve. Whenever she smiles at the both of us, I can feel the room light up around her. She’s brilliant.
Simon leans back in his seat for a second before the ground scrapes beneath him, his chair dragging while he stands and goes to help. I sit back, afraid to intrude as I watch both of them dance around a bit.
It isn’t until the pie’s in the oven that they turn their collective attention back towards me, looking over to where I’m sitting.
“Want to show him out back?” She asks, looking up at her son.
Looking up is a relative term, given she’s on the taller side, as far as women come. She’s nearly his height.
He shrugs then nods, grabbing our shoes and handing me mine as he yanks his old converse back onto his feet. I retie my worn in oxfords before following out the back door, letting the screen hit behind me.
The sky’s sinking slowly, washing over the world in a soft orange as we head over to the small barn house and the nearby chicken coup. They cluck loudly as a greeting, sending Simon over to take a glance as we stroll past. Inside the barn, there’s a goat, two sheep, and a cow.
I can’t help but glance at Simon in wonder, brows raising. “You never told me you grew up on a farm farm.”
Of course he shrugs, going to pet the cow happily. “They’re more like pets than livestock. Mum always loved animals and caring for them, and especially now that I’m out of the house.” He turns back towards me, grinning. “You can pet them, it’s fine.”
I hesitate, slowly stepping closer before resting my hand onto the cow’s face. She doesn’t push me away, but rather stares at me and sending Simon laughing.
“She’s not gonna hurt you, Baz,” he whispers, hand resting on my back. “She’s just an animal.”
I pull back, glancing at him. “I’m not afraid, just not good with animals,” I mumble, shifting my weight before leaning into him.
His lips press to my temple as my head bows. “Want to go back in then?” I nod. “Alright, let’s go back, love.” He takes my hand, leading me step by step back towards the house. I avoid mud puddles, thinking over and over about how I should’ve worn more relaxed shoes.
Ms. Salisbury’s settling the table as we’re stepping back inside, kicking off our footwear. She’s humming I Gonna Be under her breath, setting cups up as she asks Simon to fill the water pitcher. After a second of my awkward standing, she looks up at me and grins. “You can sit, dear. I won’t bite.”
I glance between Simon and his mum, blinking as he laughs at me while I’m carefully taking a seat on the side with my back to the wall. “Sorry, I…”
“Don’t apologise,” she says, patting my shoulder. “You just don’t have to stand around looking clueless.” Somehow, this woman is slightly more terrifying than Bunce is in the matter of respect. I feel as though I have to follow what she says or else she’ll take me out back with one of her butcher axes, and I feel like it’d be completely justified.
I nod towards her, hands folding on the table as I sit up bullet-straight and watch the two of them somewhat dance together to finish setting up the food. Within minutes, we’re gathered around, Simon beside me and his mum across from us as we serve ourselves. Simon skips the salad, although I’m not surprised, and I thank her while taking a nice serving. It’s a little shocking that a minute or two into the meal, they actually start talking.
It feels alien. It feels warm . It feels like something I never got a home--a family meal. We’re gathered comfortably while Simon makes jokes about the train ride, followed by laughter and a comfortable pause to chew. Soon enough, she shifts the conversation towards me. “So, Baz, you’re a real writer, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am,” I say, nervously shoving a bite of the pie into my mouth following my words.
She snorts, picking up her water as she speaks. “Don’t call me ma’am, dear. You can call me mum.” She winks, a kind smile spread across her face as she sips, looking between us. I feel Simon’s hand grab mine under the table, and as we meet gazes, he’s beaming. I exhale for what feels like the first time since we arrived.
“Mum,” I say sheepishly, clearing my throat and continuing. “But yes, I write novels, and a bit of poetry. I suppose everything, but I just… write…” Fuck, eager to impress? I can’t recall ever being as nervous as I am now. “I’m an author.”
Her eyes crinkle as she grins, sending looks over at Simon as I barely articulate sentences. Once I’m done, they just laugh at each other, sending me into a full defense. “I’m sorry, I’m never quite like this. I like your son very much and I--”
“It’s fine, darling.” She pats my hand across the table, palm resting on my wrist. Her hands are quite calloused too, yet it seems like from garden work and farming, as opposed to fighting, like her son. “Simon’s told me quite a bit about you, you don’t have to impress me anymore.”
I breathe out slowly, meeting her eyes. “Thank you,” I mumble.
“You’ve beat out his ex by a long shot, anyway--”
“Mum,” Simon cuts, his voice in an exasperated whine. “Agatha wasn’t a nightmare or anything.”
“She picked up and left you at a moment’s notice, and her parents always seemed to pity us, especially at Christmas dinners.” She shifts in her seat, spoon twirling in hand.
“If it makes you feel any better,” I add, “I doubt you’ll be meeting much of my family, so there isn’t much to have pitied from them.”
When she smiles this time, it seems sadder. Her hand slowly rubs over my knuckles. “Well, guess we’ll just have to have you come with Si for the holidays, then,” she says softly.
I nod, taking another bite and swallowing. I’ll be coming back--she wants me back.
A glance at Simon and I know. I know how we’ll be, how this will be. He squeezes my hand like there’s no turning back, but I think we both know that I never want to go anywhere but onwards with him.
As we leave for the night, sitting on the train back to the city, his hand rests against mine in the darkness of the dimmed-light cabin. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, taking a deep breath. He makes me smile whenever he does that; it’s so simply sweet that it makes my cheeks ache.
“I think I love you,” I murmur, watching his head rattle along with the movements of the train car. Slowly, his eyes fall shut, smile sticking as his hand curls tighter around mine.
“I think I love you too,” he whispers back.
His face lingers in the forefronts of my mind, plastered there like the front door to my brain.
Even as months start passing--a blur of writing and editing and publishing and cover designs and page setup choices--of the nightmares that is adult living, my thoughts remain consistent. I love him as my rising sun, and my burning daylight. He’s my motivation, still, as I frantically throw together pages after pages of stories of me and him in a world we’ve never touched. He’s the glue to my manic episodes, telling me to run to the edge of England and dive into the water, swim to somewhere new. He runs his hands into my hair, calls me rosebud, and tells me a story.
He’s not the best at stories. I love them endlessly, nonetheless.
I love them because, even with countless flaws and cliché plots, they’re what come from his mind and his heart.
As the book draws closer to a release, I’m stuck on a dedication.
I can’t quite propose with a book dedication (or can I?) (No, I cannot). I can’t say a quick “to evry1 who helped me, thx, to evry1 else, fuck off m8”. It’s wrong to not dedicate it to him, because that’s who this is for. It was never really for anyone else, in my mind, but rather for myself.
For him. For Counting Sheep. For the chats that Bunce and I exchange over old trade systems and the bizzarities of European conquerors at three in the morning. For Fiona and Ebb. Especially for Ebb, who deserves to see herself as a true hero.
For the dragons Simon’s slayed for such a small audience, and for my own embarrassing past to be seen as natural and oh-so teenage.
It’s a love note. It’s a fucking disastrous love note at that, but if I wrapped it up and tied it in a bow, Simon would tut over it not being turned over to the world.
So, I write it. Three little words that settle at the beginning of the pages, waiting for Simon to unfold them and read them aloud to the world.
When the prints come after countless days roll past, we all gather in the shop. Ebb shuts down early for a day, we rearrange some tables, and rest the single, cardboard packing box in the centre of our attention.
All seven of us gather (Ebb, Fi, Dev, Niall, Bunce, Simon, and I), taking seats and cracking bottles of cheap champagne, spending six hours crowded around a folding table and laughing with each other.
Midnight. That’s when we open it. That’s when online shops release it, and that’s when the world gets to crack open the spines and see the intimacy of everything in me.
Midnight is when Simon gets to see.
We pick at the Chinese take out, my head spinning as, for the third time in the past ten minutes, I check the main clock.
“Hey,” Simon whispers, catching my hand and squeezing it in a quick burst. “You keep checking it.”
“I’m just antsy, that’s all.” This clock is moving painstakingly slowly. Is it always like that? Is it even on time?
“No, it isn’t. Come on, talk to me.”
He knows me too well. Fucking hell, a year together and he’s got me down like a fucking map, and he’s found the buried treasure long ago. “I’m just nervous, that’s all. It’s taken so long, and it’s something I care about, so of course I don’t want to cock this up.”
“Cock what up?” he laughs, eyes going soft as he swiftly raises my hand to his lips, grazing a kiss to my knuckles. “As long as you’re happy with what you wrote, then that’s what matters. Plus, critics loved it. You can’t deny that.”
With a sucked in breath and a dizzying head, I lower my gaze to the mole near his chin. “It’s too personal. Maybe it was a mistake.”
“You don’t make mistakes,” he whispers, “you’re T.B. Pitch, after all.”
“Fuck off,” I breathe lovingly, sticking my nose up to him before stealing a quick peck. Smiling all dizzily, we go back to the discussion of the group as our hands stay locked together.
He gives quite a strong pep talk. Especially since it’s knocked me out of my trance so hard that once midnight actually rolls around, I feel caught off guard.
Fi takes out a pocket knife, slitting the tape and pulling the first copy out. “Shit, Baz,” she laughs. “Self-obsessed much? Got yourself on the cover.”
“Fuck off, they’re character outlines,” I grumble, picking one up. “Their names are all switched around too, except Simon’s.”
“Awh, babe,” he jokes, grinning at me as he grabs out a copy.
There’s a soft murmur that covers the room as we page through the fresh copies, some chatter between us all.
It takes a few moments before I feel Simon’s elbow hitting me. When I turn to him, he’s got tears in his eyes and a finger pointed right at the dedication page. Before I can even choke out an explanation, he’s got me in his arms and he’s snogging me breathless. I hear his copy slowly fall out of his lap and hit the ground below us.
For my Simon.