Chapter Text
I think I’ve completely lost my stride.
I feel an itch for inspiration, flipping through every picture book I can get my hands on, any Nat Geo left on a coffee table for slightly too long. I crave it, ingesting every concept and trying to have it sit within me and absorb. To grow.
It’s not there, though. The inspiration. It’s fled from my brain, leaving me with an extended blank set across pages upon pages of discarded, worthless strewn out phrases. Every 3AM drags on a century, leaving me without anything to put down beyond shit concepts.
My manager keeps emailing me, checking how I’m doing. He’s nice enough, but it pisses me off to hear the ding of my inbox to check up on me. Sometimes, he's wondering if I’m even alive. At this point, I should tell him I’m not.
On occasion, he’s called me too, ringing at all the worst times. Those, coincidentally, are the hours that I’m completely free and doing nothing but sitting on the sofa in just my pants, drinking rum at 3:26 in the afternoon. It’s just the ‘worst times’ because I’m usually thinking about doing something, which, granted, is more than I usually do.
“Basilton,” he sighed, a minute into the call. I heard the shift of the cell from one shoulder to the next, his exasperated tone growing heavy with impatiency. “You can’t just sit around and wait for some divine inspiration shit to hit you. You’ve got to work on something; you’ve got actual hungry readers now. It isn’t some uni zine where you’re allowed to throw in sad poems and call it a day, you’ve got to work.”
His stuffy voice droned on, giving me the talk down as if he were my mother as I sat and listened (muted, so I can scoff as much as I feel necessary).
I usually just wait until he’s done, promise I’ll do some dumb shit like a daily journal, then hang up and never do what I said I’d do.
Most afternoons, at this point, are filled with keeping my aunt company. (“You’re the one who shows up unannounced and makes me let you in--you don’t even have a key,” Fiona likes to remind.)
Sometimes, just sometimes, I go on shit dates. I try to occupy myself with various blokes I find on concerningly straight-directed dating apps (Grindr makes me hate myself, at this point). Frankly, I don’t know how people naturally find each other--the concept of “natural” even feels superficial to say. People are superficial. Every man I meet for a drink ends up as some stuck up tit with either a cover band or a work out regimen that includes ‘sex’ as cardio (he’ll always somehow manage to work that in). It feels like an endless rotation of disappointment, trying to find someone to fill that spot in my chest that doesn’t quite scream “love”, but rather “I’m quite bored of not having someone to tell me I look good who isn’t obligated to through familial relation”.
On occasion, I’m talked into doing outings. And by that, I mean I go out and do menial tasks to fill my day so that Fiona doesn’t complain or Dev doesn’t threaten to drag me out to some indie concert or anything else similarly trivial. It's horrendous, really; the false illusion that I'm being social. Therefore, I aim to go to the least crowded spots in the city to camp out in until my socialization quota fills itself for the day.
Which, I suppose, is why I’m finding myself wander into a bookstore early in the afternoon on a Saturday.
I always feel myself gravitate towards books, whether in libraries or shops. Simply, anywhere I can get my hands on a book are an oasis for me. Book stores, especially independent ones like the one I’m in now, have a practically inescapable, urging me desperately inside for a peek at what the owner’s decided to stock their shelves with. Sometimes I find that the displays of these places seem to tell a story. The larger collection of mysteries, or an emphasis on nonfiction, all act as a guide into the owner’s brain. It’s something I find myself picking apart as I first step into the new store, welcomed by the scent of peppermint and vanilla bean candles filling the newly renovated space.
It’s well lit, smoothly separated, and quite larger than the outside gives away. There’s a spiraling staircase going upstairs leading up the unknown, and there's a back area, which you can only slightly look into, is clearly dedicated to the children’s works. I hear a chipper voice and the giggle of children, which impulsively throws a frown onto my face. So much for peace and quiet.
The shop is clearly just starting up. It’s painted an awfully cheerful yellow on the outside, which doesn't help much for the stuffed-aside location of it. What really caught my eye was the swinging street sign, reading Counting Sheep , which included a quaint graphic of a sheep reading. Inside, it's made that clear the owner’s got an affinity for barnyard creatures, as independent floating shelves drilled into the walls are filled with little porcelain figurines. They're mostly painted goats and, of course, sheep.
Per-usual, I make an effort to not look at the cashier immediately, but instead take a look over the prime display table, which is where I see it immediately.
“Gravel Road” by T.B. Pitch.
It doesn’t stand particularly stark compared to the other recommended books. A similar “Bestselling” sticker slapped on the front, the back littered with reviews all stating similar quotes to practically any other popular book one picks up. “Fantastic”, “A literary masterpiece of the century”, “A brilliantly insightful look into the adolescent brain in this bold coming-of-age”, “Pitch is definitely a genius of our time”.
I pick it up, sliding it in my hands and scanning over it out of impulse. As I'm eyeing up the hardcover copy, I hear a voice peep out from behind the register. “That’s a good one.”
Turning my head, eyes of a short-ish woman, maybe in her early 40s, catch mine. She’s got cropped blonde hair and a slightly upturned nose, and a face that looks strikingly similar. Like a ghost of a hauntingly familiar figure.
“What’s that?” I ask, the book still in my hands.
The presumed owner, if not simply an employee, grins a bit overly toothy, but warm nonetheless, smile. “I said,” she begins, “that that’s a good one. I mean, of course it is, since it’s a bestseller, but it’s one of my favourites of this year. Think I’ve read it at least twice.”
The flat expression I’ve got trained to my face doesn’t shift much at all as my head nods. “Interesting.”
She gives me a little smile less of a smile. “No pressure to buy it off the bat, but I’d say give it a shot. We’ve got some armchairs upstairs and a pound Keurig setup.”
I dismiss her by setting it down. “Not necessary, but thank you,” I say, gaze focusing back to the table and on other book strewn about it. Grabbing one that’s new to me, I keep my focus on it even as she speaks up again.
“Suit yourself, but if you change your mind, I’ve got a single signed copy left.”
Part of me can’t help but smile, drumming my fingers against the glossy cover of the novel in my hands. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll have to pass.” I briefly consider wandering around and upstairs, but the racket coming from the children’s area deters me, at least for right now. Another time, though. It’s quaint here; cosy. Suppose I'll make another stop in some other day.
I step over to the register, setting the book on the counter and watching the woman sit up and slide it closer to scan and punch in. It takes a moment for me to grab out my wallet, flipping it open and handing my card over.
She takes a brief glance at it, raising her eyebrows before shoving it into the chip reader. “Huh.”
“Hm?”
“Oh, nothin’. Just the name, that’s all. Same last name as the author of that first book you picked up.” Her eyes look up to meet mine. “Any chance you know him?”
With a slight hesitation, I consider a fake response to avoid the conversation. It's what I usually do, frankly. Some arseholes care about fame, but I don't give a shit if people know it’s me, mostly. I still barely believe the book was worth praise, after all.
I deciding against the lie, letting the moment's hesitation give away. She seems kind enough to not make a fuss, and maybe she’ll let me have a free book next time I come in (not that I need charity, or anything). “I do, actually.”
A shock of blonde hair pops up as her face meets mine, grinning again all brightly. “Oh, well, why didn’t ya say so earlier? Tell me, what’s he like?”
I shrug my shoulders briefly, accompanying it with a dismissive wave of my hand. “I don’t know, you tell me.”
It takes her a second as she squints up at me, then immediately bursts out in “Shit, you’re T.B. Pitch?!” to which she covers her mouth, seeming to remember then that she has children nearby. It makes me genuinely smile.
“Flesh and blood,” I respond, taking a slight pause before cocking my head to the side and glancing around her. “Got a pen on you?”
She nods and scrambles to grab one from underneath her side of the counter before handing it to me without a word. She seems curious as to what I’m doing, but doesn’t ask questions. Maybe a little too trustworthy.
I spin on my heel, picking up the three copies of my book from the table and scribbling my signature down in blue ink onto the inside covers quickly before setting them back and capping the pen. “There,” I hum, overly pleased with myself as I'm handing it back. “Now you’ve got three more.”
She gapes at me, barely having the grip to take her pen back as she hands across my card and the newly purchased book. “I… thank you. Fuck.” Seeming a bit dumbstruck, she extends a hand across the counter once she fully processes it. “Brilliant to meet you.”
I shake it out of courtesy, dipping my head. “Of course. Pleasure’s mine, actually. You’ve got a lovely shop here.”
Beaming at the praise, she nods her head. “We just opened up about a month ago. Thank god for Simon, though,” she says, waving her hand to the back room with a fond smile. With the amount she grins, I wonder if it hurts her cheeks. “He took the job without hesitation, even when I told him it wouldn’t pay much. Heart of gold, that one.”
So that’s who’s back there. Interesting. “Is he the one reading to the kids?”
“It isn’t just reading, exactly.” She practically waves me off. “Go take a look-see for yourself.”
Despite my internal protests towards the crowds of children, I follow her instructions anyway and head to the doorless entrance of the kid’s nook.
Standing at the open doorway and peering inside gives me an eyeful of the scene all at once. There he is, yellow spray-painted foam sword in hand and skin splattered with freckles and moles. He's joyously exclaiming each part of the fairy tale in his hand to the cluster of maybe seven children around him as their parents all stand nearby to watch and listen to the show. He seems at peace, in a rhythm of speaking rather than reading; he doesn’t even really look down at the book but seems to hold it for the effect. It’s more of an act than anything; it’s not bloody Twelfth Night, but it's impressive.
He goes on, even as I stand there, with unbridled enthusiasm for such a simple task. A wide, face-full smile not faltering at any time during his reading.
It isn’t until the very end, when he finishes it off with the classic “the end” that I realise I’d been caught in a trance from him. The way he moves, the way he smiles , the way he holds the sword hits something in me, making me startle. He’s like some protagonist. The shining hero with a handsome face and carrying himself with a kind, pure heart. It’s nearly too much to take.
The show wraps up as he puts the “sword” back in his hip holster and closes the children's book. My attention follow his hands, trailing up his standing figure before I realise that his eyes are trained onto me. We stand watching each other, not moving an inch as we wordlessly examine one another across the room.
Heat rises up on me, making my throat itch and head spin. Fuck. Shit.
I try to think of something to say, some sort of compliment for what he’d done, but it just comes out as a, “Keep it down. It’s a bookstore and some of us want to read.” Words tumble out in a snarl, which in turn contorts his face from curious to confused, then to a bit disgusted. He looks like he’s about to open his mouth and retaliate with something, but he’s cut short by a young child grabbing his pant leg for attention.
My vision warps a little around the edges, watching the man for a split second before I step back, registering what I’ve done before hightailing it out (but not without saying goodbye to the owner, because I might be a dick, but I’m somewhat a decent human being below the surface).
At times like this, I wish I could get a second “first meeting”. Mainly because that was utter shit. It was somehow worse than just spitting at him off the bat. At least spitting has some dignity in it, unlike yelling at him to shut it in the bloody shop he works at while parents and children watch.
At this point, I might be a shit human who was a dick to just some cute employee. I'd just embarrassed myself in front of a full crowd, and there's no greater introduction cock-up than than.
But, at least I got a little something incredibly unexpected and useful out of the horrendously awkward encounter: an idea.
It festers for a few days, camping curiously in the back of my head as I go through day-to-day activities and mill around with other concepts. Hero. Some heroic tale; something… dark? No. Not fully dark. Humorous, yes, but not a comedy book.
Eventually, it settles. It's the next Thursday night as the winding roots of the story's tree are only sprouting to the surface surface.
Sitting in my bed with my laptop settled atop the blankets piled over my half-folded legs, I space out into a world beyond my own. It’s frankly one that I’m hoping isn’t a sleep deprived, Harry Potter knock-off that I’m throwing onto a Word Doc. It's feeling like I’m typing at a million miles a minute, brain unhinged from the cathartically slow train it usually tugs along. It all seems to spill out of me; pages upon pages of words, a world building at my hands. There's “magick” (I’d like to think I’m funny. Aleister Crowley wouldn’t be proud of it but I surely am), and a character that’s possibly more than coincidentally similarly described as looking like the bloke (Simon) from the bookstore.
It takes at least 12k words of incoherent ramblings for me to notice that the sun’s breaking the horizon and filtering Friday’s daylight onto my bedsheets. It makes my eyes sting once it shines over them, giving me an aching headache and an urge to shut down for a few hours.
I slam my laptop shut, head spinning as my fingertips pinch the bridge of my nose.
The moment my head hits the pillow, my brain starts shutting off and drifting into a state of unconsciousness--or as some like to call it, sleep.
When I wake up mid-day, I decide that I need to do something with my my mind. Something to spark something else in me. Further inspiration to give me the motivation to keep this writing binge flowing.
My feet start me off, taking me somewhere my body and memory both know, but my active mind would rather avoid at the time being.
Part of me deeply resents myself for not wearing a warmer jacket as the early winter wind slices into my face and chills my body, forcing me to hug the wooly fabric closer as I trudge along the sidewalk. It’s about three blocks ahead and six blocks to the right. Not an incredibly long walk, but enough of one to regret getting out of bed.
The door to the shop is still the striking yellow of freshly painted wood, barely chipping around the edges. As I step in, the doorbell above me chimes and sends the head of the man working the desk up.
There he is, the shop worker. Simon. The upbeat, friendly smile mostly wipes away the moment he realises it’s me.
My hands cup in front of my mouth as I huff out a breath, eyebrows narrowing back in a bitter response to his reaction. I step more inside, letting the radiator heat of the shop warm me back to life. Simon’s disappointing stare bares into the side of my head as I glance away, making my way to the display table to see the new editions.
After a minute or so of looking, I remember the shop owner’s proposition of the coffee machine upstairs. I wonder if there’s hot chocolate, too…
I pick out a copy of the newest addition to the table, tucking it under my arm as I shoot back a glare at the employee. My nose upturns slightly before I flick my head away and marching up the stairs.
It’s cozier up here than below, definitely showing why the owner picked this location. The bay windows sit just right so that the building across the street doesn’t entirely block the view of the city. They overlook nearby buildings, letting the taller ones close by block parts of the sky while still letting sections of light fill into the room. The soft, late winter day's glow illuminates the old carpeting and plush armchairs, making it all feel timeless. The walls are all bookshelves filled with used books, some looking like antiques. The scent of ancient paper and the burning soy based candle fill the air and set me into a borderline otherworldly space, but the gentle rattling of the glass panes remind me that I’m cosy inside.
Set up in the back, there’s a fold out table with a Keurig machine, a sorter for the pods, a little basket with teas and hot chocolate (thank fuck) as well as coffee fixings. Beside it sits a stack of disposable cups with wooden stirs, a plastic wrap covered glass platter with baked goods on it, and a little plastic container with a slip of paper with scrawled writing on it saying “ Leave a pound to keep this running xoxox Ebb” . Must be the shop owner’s name, then.
I take out two pound coins and drop them in, taking a cup and filling it with water before dissolving the chocolate powder into it. Grabbing one of the baked goods out (a scone), I nibble on the end as I take the seat closest to the window.
Immediately, I melt away into the moment and get through the first two chapters of the book before I lose focus, my eyes only glazing over the words. I eventually get tired of not tricking myself into actually collecting the words and set the book on my lap, sipping my drink and glancing out the window. The passersby whisk around, the world buzzing with foot traffic as people race to one place or another. Rarely do you ever see anyone just walking to find a place; everyone walks with a destination.
That’s the issue with people: They’re not smart enough to branch out.
They mill around mindlessly and don’t give a care about the tiny shop, stuffed to the side yet existing infinitely inside.
The clanking of the metal stairs cuts my thoughts short, shifting my attention over. Out pops Simon, who’s making a beeline to the pastries platter. He grabs not one, but two scones, shoving one into his mouth immediately and turning to face me sitting across the room and staring him down. He sort of guiltily stays still, chewing twice with his mouth open before remembering to close it. He swallows after what seems like ages, licking the crumbs off his lips. Classy. There’s a silence between us as he eyes me up, focusing on my own scone resting on my knee. Eventually, he breaks into a grin. “Do ya like it?”
Unsure of whether he means the book or the baked good, I stare directly at him in a bored gaze. It dawns on me that he definitely sounds less literate while talking in person rather than “reading” a book aloud. I have a sneaking suspicion that he has that story memorized. “The… scone? Or the book?”
He doesn’t break his goofy smile, all teeth and scrunching his cheeks to the side. “The scone. Bake them myself,” he proudly proclaims, swaying forward onto the balls of his feet as he watches me. “I bring in pastries for Fridays.”
He doesn’t seem to like big sentences, either. “It’s a perfectly fine scone,” I say shortly, sipping my drink. The hot chocolate’s a bit disappointing to me, since I make my own at home (properly, with milk), but it’ll do.
I don’t press for further conversation, my head turning back to the windows and watching over the world scatter by.
“These aren’t my best, though,” He continues. The creeks of the floorboards below him get muffled by the ages old carpet, yet I can still hear his slow approach to the banister of the staircase. As he leans against it, he starts downing this next scone down in actual bites. “Blueberry aren’t my favourites.”
“What are, then?” I ask, trying not to seem interested. I absolutely loathe to admit that know I am.
I also hate to admit that my heart patters a little faster as I notice him perk up at the continued conversation. “Sour cherry,” he says happily, a few crumbs falling from his chin. They catch in his stubble, to which he wipes off with the sleeve of his muted green jumper.
Grown stubble would look fucking fantastic on him.
“Why would you make a scone sour? ” I mumble disapprovingly into my cup, sipping slowly before finishing off my own scone in two bites.
“Balances, doesn’t it?” He offers, leaning forward to speak as his arms cross his chest. It’s then that I notice a few things about this appearance, such as the golden cross that dangles from his neck and the nametag he probably wrote for himself because it’s done with Sharpie and it’s got a “:)” at the end. His shoes look old; a pair of ancient converse with worn in sides and holes rubbed into them. His jeans are tattered and stitched at the knees, but his jumper? His jumper looks new. Suits him.
“I prefer just sweet,” I say flatly, trying to end the conversation again. I fear I'll tiptoe into the uncharted territory of a somewhat friendship if I continue this.
He just doesn’t want to finish it. “I think you’d still like them! I put sugar on top and all!” He reminds me of a bouncing puppy dog when he talks. It reminds me that I’m a cat person.
“Don’t know if I’d care to find out.” With that, I stand, tucking the book under my arm again as I brush my hand on my arse to dust off the crumbs. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind checking me out downstairs? You know, doing your job?”
He blinks again as his face drops back, staring obliviously at me before slowly making his way down the stairs. “You don’t have to be a prick,” he mumbles under his breath, stealing a glance up at me as my foot hits the bottom step. I catch it, staring down disapprovingly as he blushes and turns his head the other way. Good. He rings me up in silence, eyes downcasted and eyebrows knit in an angry dissatisfaction.
I elect to not answer, paying with my card and sneering at him as he hands back my book and receipt. I depart without another word, heading to my flat briskly.
Once I sit comfortably, I crack open my laptop at my kitchen table and scroll back up towards the beginning of the book, back to the part where I said the character’s favourite food is roast beef. I rewrite it, saying it’s sour cherry scones.
With a crack to my knuckles and a smile growing on my cheeks, I reread over the rewritten paragraph. Something about it feels right (while also feeling a tad stalker-y, but that might be an issue for when-the-book-is-released Baz, not right-now Baz).
After lowering my laptop shut, I gaze around my empty flat and exhale before hauling myself up to make breakfast. As I’m pouring milk into a bowl, I drag out my phone and tap through notifications. Of course, there’s nothing of use.
In the depressing haze of my stood-upright while eating cereal dinner, it dawns on me that I'll probably have to go to the children's book reading tomorrow for ideas.
Fuck it to the fact that we don’t get along too well (thanks to my idiocy), I need to see him. He’s the one forcing the story forward. I may even need to get to know the bloke to figure out the rest of the plot. Shit in the story’s a bit lonely now. He’s got a best friend/sidekick, unnamed and currently a bloke. No details there. He’s orphaned. Got some hotty-totty girlfriend who doesn’t love him, and he’s got the hots for his incredibly handsome and powerful vampire roommate who happens to look like me.
So no, that’s not weird at all. This is just writing. Just my creative visionary in the process; my story however I’d like to write it.
As I’m rinsing out my bowl, the obnoxiously loud ringtone that Fiona set for herself goes off from my buzzing cell, shifting around on the countertop. I finish up, drying my hands before swiping and swiftly resting my phone between my shoulder and ear. “Yes aunty dearest?” I mock, drying off the soft green porcelain.
“Where the fuck have you been?” she starts off with. Charming woman, really. “Radio silence for nearly the past week. What’ve you been doing, lying dead in a ditch for shits and giggles?”
I scoff a little at her as I set the bowl in the mostly empty cabinet. Year and a half of living here and I’ve barely got more than a couple dishes. “You could’ve texted. I would’ve answered.”
“You know I hate texting,” she grumbles bitterly, “and it’s easier to expect you to show up like you always do. Sets me on edge when you don’t.”
“Well, I’m fine.” I punctuate it with a raised end syllable, trying to get her to shut up. “For your information, I’ve been writing again. I have a new book idea, and it's even better than the last, if this one works.”
I can practically feel her shock through the phone line. “Shit, Baz, have you really? And it isn’t some shit poetry again?”
My jaw clenches as I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I haven’t written poetry since uni.”
“Yeah, well, good thing, too. One open mic at a coffee house and I’d snapped enough for a lifetime. Although, I’ll say, a turtleneck suits you.”
“Do you have anything of importance to say, or can I hang up?”
“Oh you little shit . Are you writing right now?”
I tap my fingers against the countertop, contemplating a lie. “No.” I immediately regret not lying.
“Lovely. You coming over? Nicky’s off doing shit knows and you’re not the worst drinking buddy I can think of.”
I smile to myself as I head towards my bedroom for reasonable trousers. “ Probably shouldn’t be saying that about your nephew, hm?”
She huffs and I can hear the shake of her cigarette box. “You’re more like my kid.”
“Wouldn’t that make it worse?”
“Probably.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “See you in 20?”
“Mhm.” I hang up on her, grabbing my house keys and wallet before shoving on my shoes and slamming the door behind me. I throw on my coat as I head towards the closest tube station, taking long strides and letting the world whisk around me.
There’s still the sharp stabbing in the air, almost feeling frigid enough to let it flurry. I half hope it does.
The incessant buzz of the underground lights fill the empty station, making my headache thump against my skull. I look down the track, tucking my card back into my wallet as the lines remain still for the moment being. I contemplate sitting, but I quickly decide against it.
There’s something about being alone in places where others should be that drives me up the wall. It makes me want something--someone. I crave the presence of another person to hold my hand, to wait here with me.
The flashing mental image of someone beside me, laughing at some quip I’d make runs through my mind as I shiver restlessly in my coat, hands stuffing deep into the pockets.
If someone were here, he'd takes my arm and tucks the loose strand of hair falling onto my cheek back behind my ear, kissing the bare skin where it’d just brushed.
The man in my mind is growingly familiar. A few inches shorter than me, warm skin and unmanaged, loose curls. He smiles like he’s just been given the world and laughs like it’s always been his. I hate myself for him, because in my head, he’s standing right here with me and giving me all his stardust smiles as if they could ever be mine to begin with.
My excruciatingly lonely, gay fantasies whisk away with the burst of air from the rushing tube screeching into the station, a set of doors halting nearby and pushing open. Two people file out before I step on, taking hold of a pole and staring out the dirtied plexiglass windows. I’m not alone in this space; there’s someone sleeping towards the end of the cabin, head fallen on her shoulder as she snores soundly. Somehow, being closeby to a sleeping stranger feels more comforting than being completely alone.
The ride is short, and when I exit, the other passenger is still sound asleep.
It’s not a long walk to Fiona’s, but to get buzzed in is a process. By a process, I mean standing at the intercom for at least 3 minutes, continuously ringing her doorbell until she shouts at me out the window to just walk in before she finally does buzz me in.
I take the stairs, reaching her sixth floor flat a little out of breath (I hate the elevator here, though. Smells like cat piss and it reminds me of the time I puked in the corner of it). I don’t even need to knock; she swings open the door to her in a tattered old shirt that has “Cops R Pigs” scrawled across it and a pair of stain-splotched sweats. Her hair’s pushed up into a bun that’s barely wrapped around and with a spare cigarette pushed into it--got to say, she’s a classy woman. “Oi, did you climb the fucking stairs?” she mocks, letting me in.
“You know that lift fucks me up,” I huff breathlessly, sliding off my coat and hanging it by the door on a nail that she'd fashioned into a makeshift clothing hook. I take off my shoes, nearly falling over in the process, as Fi makes her way back to the kitchen. “Did you order any take out?”
She mumbles some sort of answer, stepping back into sight with a bottle of rum and a half finished 2 litre of coke, which she sets on the coffee table in front of her telly before gracelessly falling back onto the sofa. I watch as she twists off the frizzy’s top before pouring what should be a concerning amount of rum straight into the bottle. She closes it off and rolls it around, seemingly satisfied with herself.
I make my way to the kitchen, which, to my delight, has an open pizza box with about half a pie left in it. After snagging two slices, I join her and whatever shit telly’s on.
After we collectively finish about half the overly concentrated mostly-rum rum & coke, Fiona finally gets a bit talkative beyond bitter commentary about the reality stars on.
“So,” she begins, draping an arm back over the tattered back of the sofa, resting between two cushions. “What’s this book about then?”
I pause, pursing my lips as all the wrong answers dance around my tongue. I can’t just outright say it’ll be Harry Potter, but better. “It’s a fantasy book,” I settle on, taking back the plastic bottle and taking a swig. It burns my mouth. “‘S about a bunch of shit, but it’s properly gay, or at least it will be once I get there.”
Fi nods thoughtfully, squinting over at me. “What got you off your arse?” She half jokes, nudging my side. I can’t help but swallow my guilt (and try to forget my desperate fantasies after meeting this bloke, what, twice?).
“Someone I saw just… made sense.”
She snorts. “Someone?”
I sink a little deeper in my seat, forcing the last bite of the slice into my mouth before throwing the crust down. Yes, someone. “Doesn’t matter,” I cut it, “person’s not important, the story is.” Blatant lie, but cool.
She lets it drop, rolling her eyes. “Gonna finish it, though?” Her foot nudges my calf. “Not gonna abandon this like the last three books?”
“I plan to,” I bite back, taking a few solid gulps of the drink before coughing. My fucking head is pounding. Lovely.
I feel Fiona’s hand drop to my shoulder, though, resting there for a moment as her weight shifts more to a sitting-up position. Shit, she’s about to get all soft on me. “Fi, don’t-”
“No, let me,” she slurs, half glaring at me (despite barely being intimidating with her head woozing to the side). “I want to say that ‘m proud of you. You’re doing shit, and that’s good.”
I stare at her with as much of a blank stare as I can muster, the alcohol that’s warming my chest also warming my face and letting it melt into a little smile. I give her shoulder a nudge, looking down. “Don’t get soft on me. Not very becoming of you.”
She pats my back again (a tad aggressively), before flopping back against the arm and nudging the remote to me with her foot. “Pick somethin’. ‘M bored of this.”
I flip through a few of the Netflix options before glancing at the time. I stop, swallowing down the scratch in my throat. Fuck. “Actually, should be getting back to my flat.” I mumble, standing and trying to not sway.
Fiona frowns, raising her brow at me as she slumps even more. “Since when do you do shit on Saturdays?”
I try to throw a hurt look, dramatically pressing my hands to my chest as I half bend over to speak. “ Excuse me , I’m a very important man with very important things to do, so fuck you.” I flourish it with a cocky smile that I’m entirely sure is the rum before going to struggle with my shoes, fingertips fumbling with the laces.
“Fuck, I guess,” Fi mumbles. “Just don’t go AWOL on me again, Pitch.”
“No promises.” I stand, swinging on my coat and giving her a two finger salute before leaving with as quiet of a door slam as I can manage. Thankfully, I’m just sober enough to get myself home without an incident, but I crash on the couch fully clothed once I get there, half curled up on a decorative pillow.
By the time the light that fills the room hits my face directly, I’m already half awake, but actively regretting it.
Nevertheless, I drag my disgusting self into the shower and make myself somewhat presentable. I dress mindlessly and check myself before I leave, making sure I don’t look like a slob. It’s not my best button down, and definitely not my favourite scarf, but it’ll do.
Outside, the sky’s letting out a gentle flow of a flurry, barely dusting the ground, yet laying atop of cars and litter on the sidewalks.
I take my time, stopping off at a café for breakfast and an adequate drink before making my way to Counting Sheep. The front of the shop is fairly empty, which seems to be a reoccurring trend, but surely enough Saturday’s storytime is carrying on as usual in the back. Dare I call that comforting, though? I mean, although there's a hoard of children, it's still the dreamy bloke going on and on. So, possibly. It’s Simon’s voice, after all, and that seems to start something in me. The children’s voices aren’t quite my favourite, but I’ll elect to overlook that.
The shop owner--Ebb, as I’ve learned--perks up when she sees me, grinning from ear to ear. “T.B. Pitch has decided to grace us with his presence again!” she laughs, waving a hand to me. “Whatcha coming in for today? I heard you were here yesterday.” She’s got a steaming mug on her desk, which she’s playing with the wooden stirrer for as she leans her elbows down on the countertop.
“Do I need a reason to visit?” I hum back, giving her the most cheerful expression I’ll probably give today, which is a half-smile. She returns it in another laugh.
“Suppose not. We didn’t get anything new in overnight, though, but you’re always free to roam. Simon’s back there, though I don’t think you’re much of a children’s book person, anyways.” She’s right, I’m not.
I raise my cup to her for thanks, nodding my head towards the side section. “I’ll just be combing through the fictions.” She gives me an enthusiastic nod back before I slip away, slowly going shelf to shelf and examining the titles for anything that pops.
I don’t read straight books. While I’ve been told this is blunt and unrealistic, frankly, I don’t give a shit. Straight storylines bore me too quickly and give nothing to the characters while also feeling ridiculously forced. The concept of a storyline needing a person to be paired with a character of the opposite gender feels cliche, in my mind; it’s unneeded and unrelatable. People want to see themselves in writing, not what society expects to see. It’s why flat characters rarely ever do so well--they’re society’s expectations, but not the reader’s wants.
And, despite purely writing queer characters because that’s what I’d rather see, I’m suddenly “brave” and “revolutionary” for doing so. I’m a “gay writer” now, rather than a writer who happens to be gay. It’s all quite lovely, isn’t it?
Sometimes, I can't stand going into fiction sections because it’s nearly impossible to find a safely queer book. Scanning piles upon piles of fiction books bores me because I know that once I pick out a book and turn a few pages, it’ll immediately be heterosexual .
My head pops out of the section and I raise a brow, catching the shopkeeper’s attention as I stroll out. “Do you happen to have a queer literature section?” I ask, trying not to sound over enthusiastic about the subject. Granted, it’s not like it’s a secret that I’m gay. My first and only hit so far has been with a queer storyline, but it’s still odd to step aside and have to ask for queer lit.
Ebb, though, seems to be more than happy to answer as she springs from her chair and rushes from behind the counter. “Absolutely I do, luv!” she pipes, leading me back into the room and gesturing to a shelf tucked away in the corner. She leans up on her tiptoes to talk to me now, as if to keep the conversation away from the other room. “Didn’t know if anyone would really ask. See, I’m a lesbian myself and I couldn’t possibly not have a queer lit section, but I’d been afraid to put it on full display. You now, for the straighties.” I snort without control, having to regain posture immediately as I wipe the smile off my face.
“Right yes, of course, understood. Thank you, though.”
And with a pat of my back, she’s gone off back to the other room.
I slowly scan the books, mentally crossing off the ones I’ve already read. It doesn’t last, though, the ruckus of the other room’s events getting louder with Simon’s voice cheerfully rising up and filling the small shop. His voice carries like a speaker, but it’s got the friendly tune to it that makes you feel all warm inside. Like the snow falling outside isn't making everyone freeze; like he’s heating up the building on the personal generator of his spirit.
It allures me to the doorframe once again, this time standing mostly covered by the wall as I peek inside the room subtly. He’s reading a different princess story today; it’s one about a princess who saves herself. He does a high-pitched voice for her, going even higher for the other women and going ridiculously low for any male characters. Something about him tells me that he’s the sort of bloke who volunteers to go read to sick children too, but tells nobody about it.
I can’t tell whether or not that makes me see him as pretentious or more attractive. Probably both.
I stay transfixed on him, not even noticing the chime of the welcome bell as some new comes in. It’s only when I hear speaking that I break my focus and eavesdrop on the conversation behind me.
“Penny, dear, lovely to see you!”
“Of course, Ebb. Just here to grab Simon, since he’d promised that he’d get a late lunch with me today.” There’s a rattle of a bag, then the gentle thump of it being placed on the counter. Something in my stomach twists--it’s his girlfriend, isn’t it? Who else would be dragging him to a Saturday lunch?
“He should be done soon. Is Agatha joining you two?”
“Oh… you didn’t hear, did you?”
“Oh no, they’re not fighting, are they?”
I hear the new one, Penny, laugh. “No, which was the fucked part. Agatha dumped him last night. No argument, no nothing. She just left him. Said she wasn’t happy with him seeing her as this life-long thing, but I think she just really didn’t want the relationship they had in the first place.” Oh . Still, he had a girlfriend .
There’s the soft thump of Ebb’s coffee mug settling down on the counter as she tuts. “Poor thing. How’s he taking it? He seemed fine to me, but you know Simon.”
“I know, I know. That’s the thing--he’s not sad, just disappointed and sort of confused. He says he didn’t see it coming, but between me and you, I never thought it’d last.”
Ebb sighs, voice dropping even quieter. “That's such a shame. He’s such a nice boy.”
I get so wrapped up in the conversation behind me that it takes a good moment to notice that Simon’s finished reading and is just talking to parents now. Within a split second, I’m back to a bookshelf, making myself look occupied as he strolls in a few minutes later.
My back turns to the wall as I scan a book about the Italian involvement in WWII, listening the three seeming to converse for a moment. I take my chance, eyes lifting from the page and taking a glance at the newcomer. She’s short, shorter than the other two. She’s got large rimmed glasses, thick brown hair, and the aesthetic that seems to be some personal blend of a 90s schoolgirl and classic grunge. She clearly makes up for her height with the rest of her frankly concerning amount of confidence, making her seem larger than life. Somehow, I both respect her and am absolutely terrified of her.
None of them seem to notice me, so I subtly shift around and stare back at the page, acting as if I’m scanning the information intentionally until they leave. Once out the door I exhale slowly, setting back the book and going to the desk, giving Ebb a smile. “I’ll just be heading out. Have a nice week, though.”
She tips her head to me and nods. “‘Course, Mr. Pitch. Hope to see you again soon!”
I nod and step outside, noticing Simon and Penny are just down the block, their conversation just loud enough to catch the end of it.
“You know, I really do love the snow,” he sighs happily, arm outstretched in an effort to catch a miniscule flake falling from the sky. “Even if it’s a right pain, it’s fucking cool. Frozen shit from the sky.”
I blink towards him before grinning, biting the inside of my lip and turning the opposite direction, back towards my flat.
Snow. It echoes in my head. Simon’s the snow boy. Simon. Simon Snow. It flows, working well into a fictional name. There he is, Simon Snow. Maybe he only exists in my own universe, where I can make him out to be who I want him to be. Granted, I’m taking plenty of liberties on him and who he is, leaving spots vague in case I learn more about him, so I can edit later. (Dear lord, this is creepier than I intended). There he is, alive at my fingertips and doing what I want rather than what I dream. It’s intoxicating; a character of a man I can’t have anywhere but my own mind.
I add Penny, replacing the previous best friend with her. Is she really his best friend? The real Simon? Who knows, but she’s a bold enough person to become his best friend. She’s powerful and smart too; lively. Someone to balance and compliment Snow, while staying platonic.
I press on for days, only taking the occasional break to text Fiona that I’m alive, to eat at least a biscuit a day, and to sleep for roughly 2 hours on occasion. After about four days, I’m filling my way through the storyline to their first kiss and I stop, fingertips hovering over my laptop as I lift my eyes from the screen. Letting the ghost of the bright screen burn my eyes, I fixate my sleep-heavy gaze around my pitch black room. It’s 1 in the morning; it’s technically Wednesday.
I feel around the bed for my phone, pulling it out of a wad of my comforter and one of my two under-blankets. My thumb clicks hard at the home button and clicks it on, scrolling through checking my emails. Nothing important, nothing pressing. My bank looks fine, my text inbox lays blank as usual.
It’s so odd when my hyper-realisation kicks in, reminding me of how alone I really am. Spending hours creating people to care about, creating worlds of people that I understand so vividly, but yet I’m starkly alone in the real world.
People who read what I write versus who texts me on writing binges are quite a reality check. I have practically no one but Fi, Dev and Niall, and my manager Syd.
The nighttime is eerie. It’s dark and unsettling. It’s petrifyingly lonely when you want to exist beyond your own means and reach out to hold another life because you simply don’t have it in you to get anyone. Maybe I should get a cat. I like cats, and it’ll give me roughly the same treatment that I give other people.
Or maybe I should stop being cold to others; maybe they’ll like me more if I wasn’t such a dick all the time. Sounds exhausting, but it could be beneficial.
For the first time in days, I save and close my laptop, setting it beside me to charge as I lay back, hauling the blankets on top of me. I make sure none of my alarms or notification sounds are on as I relax back. Right now, I’ll sleep. Get some nice rest and stop bothering myself with the world in a word document. Instead, I need to take a trip back to the attic space. I’ll drop a pound for a watery hot chocolate and I’ll just stare out that window.
Will it help my writing? Who knows. I’m barely sure I can make anything I write ‘good’ until others give me the validation of it, but I do it anyway. And, frankly, even more of a reason to go is to see if Simon’s there--Snow. I keep thinking of him as Snow. It matches him: soft, bright, coming through as a storm.
As I sleep, I dream of the tube station again. Simon’s there, holding my hand. We wait for a while, barely talking but keeping close by. Trains pass by, and each time I reach to go, he stops me and says “It’s not our car yet.” Whenever I ask him when it is our time, he tells me that I’ll know it’s our car.
I wake up clueless. I can barely read myself, let alone my dreams. I’m borderline clueless as to what it means, and I never quite believed dreams anyway, so there’s no sign there. It’s just a dream of me and him.
Is it Simon or is it Snow in my mind? They’ve started becoming two different people. Simon’s the one who I can’t have, the chipper one from the bookstore with a full face smile and what I thought was a tattoo on his left arm. He’s the one with his ears pierced and an ex girlfriend who he’ll probably replace with another girlfriend. Then there’s Snow. He’s explosively magickal and has an ex girlfriend that he’ll get over with by kissing his nemesis (a boy ). Snow’s the one I can have, Simon’s the one I’ll probably never get to truly know.
After throwing on an overcoat and changing my joggers into decent slacks, I’m out the door and still thinking over Snow.
If I know more more about Simon, then Snow grows more alive, more real. Less what I want and more of what he is. So, of course I have to do this more. Go and see him, be near him. Taunt him into speaking to me and revealing the secrets he doesn’t even know he’s hiding; the secrets of his existence, of his personality.
I’ll take it all. I’m a selfish bastard, after all.
As I get to the shop and yank the door open, the bell chiming shakes Snow--no wait, Simon--alert, turning his head to glance at me. He doesn’t seem to know whether or not to smile, shifting facial expressions at least 3 times before I give him a curt nod, turning my lip up to sneer at him. “Simon,” I drag, pressing a smile to my face.
He’s taken back, blinking at me and less than cordially saying “Mr. Pitch” back, which makes me snort.
“I don’t actually go by that. And don’t call me T.B. either, or else I’ll have to leave specifically you a bad review on Yelp.”
Simon stares at me, a bit dumbfounded. “Then… what am I supposed to call you?” He could’ve just said nothing. I suppose he’s courteous, the little bastard.
“Basilton.” I turn my back to him, picking a random book off the shelf of biographies; it happens to be about Poe. “I go by Basilton.”
“Then what’s the ‘T’ stand for?”
I turn my head and glare him down. “Isn’t that a bit personal?” I snap.
He just blinks back, as expected, before shifting his weight and frowning at me. Interesting, doesn’t back down to a challenge. “It’s not that awfully personal. It’s just your name, tosser.”
My shoulders square as I stare down at him. If it were anyone else, I’d be remarks on their appalling customer service, but I take enough blame into this and this is quite fun to rile him up. “I doubt you’d want your name talked about every time it’s brought up, would you?”
“Actually, I like my name,” he says proudly, smiling a bit. Oh, fuck him for smiling like that and for turning it happy . “It’s my mum’s, not my trash dad’s. I’m quite happy with being a Salisbury, thank you very much .”
Salisbury. Oh shit, that's cute. Absolutely fucking adorable.
I purse my lips, keeping my eyes on him and rolling them for dramatic effect. “Good for you, then,” I mutter before practically stomping upstairs while still holding the Poe book. I toss a pound into the plastic basket, grabbing a cup and filling it with water and aggressively stirring hot chocolate into it. Ebb needs marshmallows. I’ll bring marshmallows for her.
With a groan from the leather, I plop back in my preferred seat and drag it slightly so I can look out the window comfortably as I fester.
He has no right being that cute. Fuck him and his adorable face, and adorable personality, and adorable fucking self. Terribly amazing little prick, he is.
Slowly, I sip back the warm chocolate water (I’d barely call it “hot chocolate”), watching people pass by as I sink back into calmness. The tranquility of the space really gets to me after a while, reminding me of the public school’s library I’d spent countless hours in. The smell of ancient books, the cracking of the wood around the window’s edges, flaking off onto the small layer of dust at the sill, the texture of weathered leather seats, all of it. Makes me all soft inside; somehow makes me miss being 15, although only slightly.
Hours come and go as I stay, watching people pass by and leaving my book untouched. By the time the day starts setting, the 4pm twilight brushing against the sky, I figure it’s time to stop loitering.
I toss out my cup and march downstairs, sliding my book onto the shelf as Simon stays at the counter, reading something. Upon further inspection, I note that he's got A Picture of Dorian Gray in his hand, which leads me to a further thought of “I’m surprised he can read” . I bite it back and clear my throat. Feeling a tad charitable today, I suppose.
Simon’s head lifts as he stares curiously up at me, his finger resting on the word he must’ve left off at.
“Tyrannus,” I say quietly, hands stuffed into my pockets. I gesture them out, my jacket opening as I wave them to the side. “That’s what the ‘T’ stands for. Tyrannus. It’s an old family name.”
He seems to process it for a minute before his stupid face breaks into that brilliant smile of his, beaming proudly as if he’d uncovered the world. “ Tyrannus ,” he repeats slowly and making my heart race a bit faster. Fuck him.
My eyebrows knit together as I look down onto him, turning my lip up into a bitter sneer. “Don’t you dare repeat that,” I snarl. It doesn’t seem to phase him as much because the bastard giggles .
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” He crosses his heart teasingly before laughing again and waving. “Have a nice night--it’s cold as balls out there.”
My cheeks immediately flare up as my heart pounds faster. This fucking arsehole, I hate him so much, I hate him so fucking much, I-- “Yes, well, you as well.” I turn and try not to run out, but rather take a briskly paced walk out and down the corner where I can finally let out a breath. My chest is going mad, back leaned against the brick wall as I try to relax my racing heart. Hand trailing up and eyes squeezing shut, I press my against palm my breast as my heart beats madly and I struggle catch my breath.
This is pathetic--I’m absolutely pathetic. Why am I acting like a schoolboy? He’s just some bloke I barely know, and I’m being an dick to him, after all. I shouldn’t care about him this much, but fucking hell, here I am, leaned against a wall a block from his job and trying not to freak out because the bastard smiled at me.
I exhale shakily into the winter air, my eyes keeping shut as I steady myself. “Fuck,” I hiss, squeezing both hands shut into fists before releasing them quickly.
I must look like a fucking madman. Shit. Fuck. Bollocks.
I force myself off the wall, heading right back to my flat and throwing myself onto my bed silently, fully dressed and acting a mess. I contemplate getting up to make food, but then remember all I’ve really got is a box of spaghetti and about a quarter cup of olive oil left in its container.
After a minute of shuffling through my pockets blindly, I grab out my mobile and dial up Dev with speaker hit on. He picks up after about 3 rings.
“Oi, you’re not fucking dead,” he laughs as a greeting. “What does the ever-mysteriously disappearing Baz Pitch want now?”
“Oh piss off,” I groan. “I’ve been working and my house is empty as shit, but I don’t feel like take out. Where are you?”
“Home. Why, want to grab a bite?”
“Nothing festive, just real fucking food.”
“I guess I’ll get up. Should I invite Niall?”
I huff. “Isn’t he off with his girlfriend on a ski resort or something else painfully straight?”
Dev laughs at the other end. “He got back on Friday, if you’d care to check in on occasion, you fuckin’ prick. I think we should at least give him a ring.”
“Fine. You do it. I’ll meet you both at that Thai place I like.” I hang up, pushing myself off the bed and going to make my hair look presentable again before going back out. I decide to walk, even though it’s a bit of a difference, because if I take a shortcut, I pass Counting Sheep.
He’s in there when I glance in, stocking a shelf and utterly oblivious as I pass, despite my slower paced walking compared to the rest of the foot traffic. I stare somewhat longingly at him, lingering for a moment longer than needed. It’s fine. He's clueless. It’s nicer to watch him when he doesn’t see me; he seems at peace and comfortable in his surroundings. Makes my heart swell as if I was some Grinch-y bastard.
The shop’s about six blocks from the restaurant, so I pick up the pace after I’ve had my fill of Simon. It’s never quite empty there, but it’s definitely not full. Honestly, it isn’t the best Thai shop, but the dimly lit house and gentle music combined with the fact that it’s nearly never busy makes it one of my favourite places in London.
They’re not there yet when I get in, so I snag a booth for the three of us and order myself some whiskey on the rocks.
As I settle, my mind wanders into eavesdropping on the conversation of the couple about three tables away, discussing their futures. Artsy-type people, probably early 20s, by the looks of them. The man keeps blabbing on, but I can’t help but think he looks like Robin Hood. Off he goes, rambling about the film industry and “how to make it big”, as if that ever truly works for anybody and it isn’t pure luck. Yet, he continues, grabbing the woman’s hands and whispering quite loudly. “We’ll be stars, you hear me? We’ll be bloody stars, you and I. Just wait ‘til it drops.” I’m assuming “it” is a boring experimental film he’s making in his uni class.
Something about it sticks though; we’ll be stars .
I whip out my phone and throw it into a notes file: He told me we’d be stars .
Just as I’m exiting out, Dev and Niall clamber into the seats across from me, shelling off their coats. Niall stares at me all odd, to which I respond with a bored “What is it?”
He laughs. “Good to see you too, mate. Just thought I might be seein’ a ghost, seeing as you haven’t phoned in centuries.”
“Eat a bag of dicks, Ni,” I mumble, glancing over the menu to avoid their disapproving gazes. “I wasn’t kidding over the call--I am writing. I think I’ve got my next big story in the works and I don’t want to lose the steam I’ve got for it.”
“Alright, alright, tell us then.” Dev crosses his arms, leaning back against the booth. It’s funny; he’s from my dad’s side and despite his family being posh pricks like the rest of us, he tries to act a bit chavy. I’ve never fully figured out whether it’s because he thinks it’ll impress women (it definitely does not ), or if he thinks he’s separating himself from the generations of wealth he sits on. I want to hope it’s the latter, but then again, I am the smarter cousin.
“It’s fantasy,” I say, shrugging. “It might my skirting a little close to Harry Potter, but I need to keep dragging it far from that hole. Thankfully, I’ve got inspiration for this one.”
The waiter stops by and drops off my drink, taking orders before heading back off. I toss back a gulp of my drink before either of them can get a question in, preparing for the emotional unload I’ll probably regret giving in a minute or so.
After a moment passes, it’s Niall who chirps up. “So, what’s his name?”
I snort audibly, relaxing back against the booth and swinging my arm over the empty back beside me. “How’d you guess?”
“You’re not that hard to read. That, and the last time you wrote something big, you based it off Daniell, and that shit was four years ago at that point.”
My back straightens as my lips twitch. “And it made me a best seller, didn’t it?”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
I exhale, before taking another sip and setting my glass down as my nose scrunches. “Simon,” I sigh. “His name’s Simon. Before you ask, no I’m not seeing him, yes he’s someone I’ve interacted with, and am I following him around? Not exactly, but sort of.”
Dev laughs at me, which makes my upper lip curl up a bit. “Are you stalking the poor bloke?”
“No!” I say a tad too quickly and maybe too defensively as well. “I’m not stalking him. He’s aware of my existence. I just happen to frequent his place of work and we talk on occasion. Nothing sinister.”
“See, saying it’s like that makes it sound absolutely sinister,” Niall breaks in, smiling tauntingly at me. I scoff, glancing down at my cup as it swirls at my fingertips.
“Look,” I start, but I immediately have no idea where I’m going with it. “No, just. Fuck. Okay. I’m not a creep or anything, I’m just taking inspiration from him, that’s all.”
He responds with a smile as he leans forward, resting his elbows against the table and dropping his chin on folded hands. “Mmhm… And no devious plot to get him to love you?”
“Wow, Ni, I’m hurt by your accusation,” I drawl dramatically, rolling my eyes. “I was 15 when I did that. I think 10 years has done me well enough for me to not have a chalkboard layout of my schoolboy crush.”
“Doubt it,” Dev mumbles aside, to which I knick his shin under the table for. He shoots me a glare before rolling his eyes.
I open my mouth, wanting to retort, but nothing reasonable comes to mind. Either way, the waiter shows up to serve us, to which I thank them and take a bite, starting to noticing how little I’ve been eating over the past few days.
My mind drifts to the scones Simon bakes. Fuck, I’ve got to go back on Friday. I want to go back on Friday.
After a few moments of silence, Niall starts talking about his trip, and I don’t hate listening as much as I usually would. He goes on about the spot and how his girlfriend is, and despite the boring undertones of hetero-romance shit, I still nod in support. She’s not awful, and he seems happy, so good for him, I suppose. Part of me wonders if he’ll get married, but I repress the thoughts of those around me (including myself) doing genuinely adult things before we’re 30.
Then Dev goes on about some menial bullshit, complaining about his job and his boss (I told him not to go into brewing, but apparently there’s appeal in there somewhere).
They glance at me on occasion for a comment, to which I only offer one-worded answers with my hand over my mouth, barely chewing the mouthfuls I’m scarfing down. I take this as a mental reminder to go grocery shopping, something I seem to rarely give thought to doing; a task that’s necessary.
We sort of shift topics slowly, rotating round to Dev’s sad love life rather than mine (I feel like they’ve finished ridiculing that). He’s a good sport, at least. Owns up to the fact that he leaves everyone he’s ever texted on read at almost any chance, but part of me wants to flick his forehead and tell him to grow up. I know he won’t, though. Not for a little while.
In my own pathetic mind, I drift back to Simon. I can practically feel him next to me, hand on my arm and laughing along with us. I feel like he'd fit in quite well, at least visually; relaxed as much as he was in the shop as I'd passed by. Dev would probably fake flirt with him, and Niall would give him a quick tease about the way he dresses like a sixteen year old, but he’d be liked. I'd like him. I'd more than like him. If he'd be sat next to me, I'd keep my hand in his, watching that bloody magnificent smile of his stretch across his face, lighting this dim little shop up. He'd fit in like a puzzle piece; our missing corner.
But I doubt it'll ever happen. It's usually just the boys and I, in the end.
I think I’ll write the two of them into the book. Not so much as to inflate their egos, but they deserve a subtle nod at being here for my bullshit. After all, they always stay. They stay through my poor life choices and, up to this point, shit excuses of ex-boyfriends. They exist so comfortably in whatever I get myself into. It’s nice.
At the end of dinner, I pick up the cheque, giving them the whole “I dragged you out” speech. It’s rightfully done since they usually pick up the tab whenever I get smashed in some dive bar--or even worse for poor committed Niall, a gay bar--without a care in the world (or my wallet, for that matter).
We give each other hugs and respective shoulder bumps as we part ways. I climb into my cab, slumping back and rubbing my face.
So, I suppose I need to do actual responsible things tomorrow. Sounds lovely. Just what I want.
Might visit the shop, though.
Scratch that, I am visiting the shop tomorrow, if only to just stop in and see what’s happening. With luck, Simon will be there to greet me with a new heart attack.
My eyes close as I hum happily, the memory of his flawless laugh burnt into my mind. I relive it, if only for a moment. The way it made me feel, the way it took my breath away. If I weren’t freezing, my cheeks would be red-hot right now, glowing like an ember.
Once we stop, I scramble around my pockets and grab some money, handing it over before heading inside in a flash. The lights are still off; they’ve been left untouched for days, if I’m being honest. I feel like a fucking vampire, living in lightless rooms and practically draping myself in all black to make everyday outings.
In the midst of the silence, I shed my clothes and change into something comfortable before piling the mounds of blankets on top of me, cocooning myself in and trying to sleep (which is a little easier than usual, given three whiskeys and emotional exhaustion).
I wake around 11, and by ‘wake’ I mean I slept until 11, then actually stayed put unmoving for two hours before having to drag myself out of bed and forcing myself to put on shoes and something that’s not joggers, again.
In a slug-like state, I make my way to the nearby shop and grab a trolley, filling it with whatever would be deemed necessary and a few extras. Overall, I grabbed anything that could be carried in as few bags as possible. Check out is tedious and it’s a process to even get out, but once I am, I make a little detour towards the shop. I'll admit, I'm a little more than curious as to if Simon’s working.
He isn’t, though. It’s Ebb sitting at the counter, doodling something on a notepad as someone mills around, picking up a book and putting it back.
I step inside anyway, half popping my head in to glance before fully entering the shop. It always smells so nice in here; like the smell of home.
“You know it isn’t Saturday, right?” Ebb jokes. I turn my head to look at her fully, wearing a cable knit jumper with her hair half pulled back. She grins like she owns the world.
I try not to seem too obvious that I’m glancing around for Simon as I nod back. “Am I bit early? Didn’t notice,” I quip before flashing a smile at her. “I… actually bought something, for upstairs. You were missing little marshmallows and I’ve got a bit of a guilty sweet tooth, so I grabbed some at the shop.”
She narrows her brows, smiling. “Shouldn’t have, Mr. Pitch,” she tuts, shaking her head as I offer it over. She takes it anyway, happily, holding it in her hands and examining it. “I’ll put it upstairs when I go back up.”
I bow my head to her, both hands gripping around the cloth bags handles. “It’s no problem, really. I’ve been coming in enough to notice the lack of them.”
“Well,” she says, grinning up to me, “thank you, dearie. Can’t promise Simon won’t snack away half the bottle during his shift tonight, but we can only hope.”
“Big eater?” I try to add nonchalantly. I’m just a casual man finding out casual information about someone I’m definitely not stalking. Casually.
Ebb laughs it away though, blissfully oblivious to my haunting obsession. “Never stops, that one. He keeps packets of cookies under the counter to snack on, and don’t get me started on when I order in. I’ve seen him devour a whole pie in under 20 minutes.”
I can feel my cheeks flush as I chuckle, eyes going down to my hands. “Sounds like an ordeal,” I cover with, forcing my face as calm as possible as my head levels again. “Well, I best be off. I’ve got shi--things to put away.” I feel a tad guilty cursing by her. Feels like she could be my aunt, if Fi married someone decent.
She nods, hair swishing back and forth with her head. “Of course. Will we be seeing you Saturday?”
Ah yes, it’s become a pattern. My throat clears as I make a hint of a salute. “Saturday it is.” The door slowly falls closed behind me as I head off, taking a brisk walk back to my flat and unpacking everything mechanically once I get home. My mind wanders, drifting back to the buzzing screen of my laptop.
Snow’s a big eater, then. Granted, I’d already set him as a foodie, but he’s more than that, I suppose. He devours shit up, then. I’ll tie it in somewhere. Makes him more real, more alive.
I make myself a cup of tea and grab a sleeve of biscuits before wrapping myself back up into my pile of comforters and blankets. I'll be clacking away at the story until my mind won’t produce anything else and decides to shut itself off until I get a proper rest.
The next day swirls into a muggy blur of treading the line between existing and merely being a cluster of time in which I try to do something. I get a good few thousand words in, take a shower, eat an actual meal I cooked (as in some pasta with meat sauce), then go back to sleep so I can wake to a day where I'm a somewhat reasonable person.
Friday morning. It rings in my chest as I sit up in bed, hair mushed and groggy as all hell. It’s Friday; Simon’s in the shop with whatever pastries he’s baked up today. Whatever sweet surprise lies up in the nostalgic attic gets to be my next little taste into his world, letting me wander into his mind and his--
I’m sounding like a fucking maniac.
It’s just a fucking scone, Baz. Stop losing your shit over this.
Despite the fact that it is just a scone, it doesn’t stop my hands from shaking as I dress myself, sliding each button into its corresponding hole while my mind goes mad. What’s protocol here? Is it thanking him? Seems uncharacteristic. I’ll just tell him it’s not shit, that’ll get the point across. Maybe if I compliment him a bit , but not too much, he’ll like it. Sounds like a flawless plan.
At this point, the walk there feels like a routine march--back to basecamp, get to your locations, soldiers. Round in and try to flirt with the ridiculously attractive clerk who’ll never love you back. Make a fool of yourself before offending him then hightailing it out. Flawless battle plan, really.
As the shop bell chimes, I take notice that Simon’s already staring in my direction. It makes my chest flutter a bit as his smile spreads, a cheerful “Welcome” spurting from his lips as he sets down his book.
I stare at the spine of the book he’s just settled, taking a moment too long to read that it’s Of Mice and Men . After blinking for a second, I meet his gaze and break away before I can make an utter fool of myself and just nod my head in response. He laughs, and it feels like a punch in the jaw.
“Huh, see we have a few regulars, but not ones who visit as much as you,” Simon pipes, crossing his arms and leaning back slightly in his seat. His “seat”, mind you, is a backless stool behind the counter.
I shift my weight as I go to look over the new arrival and store recommendations table. Am I caught in my act, or is he just friendly? The world may never know. “Yes, well,” I mumble stiffly, my eyes scanning over my options. “A writer needs his inspiration somewhere.” While my focus remains intensely on the books and not Simon, it just so happens that he stands up and strolls over beside me, standing so close I can smell him. He smells like value brand soaps and a hint of cinnamon.
His head is right there when I turn, standing so close that if I just bent my head down, I could kiss his wild curls. “I actually read your book, you know. You’re really bloody good.” Is he tempting small talk, or dare I say flattery ? Oh dear lord, I’d beg him to not even try.
“I’ve gotten that before,” I say coldly, reaching for the newest arrival and turning it slowly in my hands, feeling the ridges of the raised title and dips of the author’s name. Simon’s got a way of freezing me in my tracks, despite my best efforts of warding him off. He’s Medusa, if Medusa only had the effect on lonely, mid-twenties, gay wrecks.
His head raises, face turning to me, and for the first time, I think I could count every freckle splattered across his face. I could trace his constellation moles with my mouth, if he’d let me. I’d do anything if he let me.
He squints a little at me, eyes darting around my face and resting on my eyes for a minute before something hits him. I startle as he jumps into a sentence. “Oh! I remembered what I'd said and I'd made those scones I’d mentioned last week!”
I feel myself exhale, realizing I’ve been holding in my breath for fuck knows how long. My eyes dart to the stairs as I nod, keeping my expression at a trained stillness. “I’ll grab one, then,” I say, slipping away from him and rounding the table. Heading up the stairs, I refuse looking back in fear that he’ll be watching me with that overwhelmingly adorable face of his. Frankly, I’m not sure how I’d deal with him looking at me when I can’t see him; it feels too private. Feels like it’s slipping into a soft territory of friends, or a shot in the dark of him wanting a quick shag.
Now there’s a possibility I’d left unconsidered. A quick shag. On the surface he doesn’t quite present as a “Let’s bend you over, then I fuck off after”, but you never know. He could be into blokes for all I know, and I’m not just going mad every time he smiles at me because he knows how to get into people’s pants. He seems like an awful charmer, after all. He could charm the trousers off of me, and I don’t think I’d say no. I’d probably ask him to, honestly. I’m well pathetic.
I take a moment, realizing I’m standing at the top of the stairs blankly before shaking my head. No, he’s not some creep. He’s obviously not.
I drift over to the drinks table, lifting the plastic of the platter and surely enough, there’s plenty of scones sitting there, piled up neatly. I flip in two pounds before I grab two as my water drips down from the machine. Grabbing the packet and stirrers, I start pouring in the marshmallows first. Thank fuck it's always empty up here; my established seat by the window seems untouched and ready for me to sink into.
At first, I hesitate to bite into the scone, eyes shutting as I finally chew. It hits me after a moment--he was right. They balance brilliantly. Well shit, now he’s a brilliant baker. That prat. I could practically moan into this fucking scone, and he’s probably going to ask me what I think about it and how the hell am I going to lie to him? Shit. Shit .
I practically scarf down the two I have, managing to chew before swallowing and savouring the lingering aftertaste. Fucking hell, they were perfect. My sleeve wipes across my face, getting the spare crumbs off of me before I sip my drink and close my eyes. I suppose now’s the time I figure that I am absolutely, truly, positively, without a doubt in my mind, fucked. I can’t drop this boyishly lovesick concept rattling around in my head, so either I’ve got to make him hate me more to get rid of it or make him love me. One is obviously easier than the other.
The other option, though, might be significantly healthier and would have an overall better outcome.
I would weigh my options, then take into consideration my self-destructive nature in the past and how I’d vowed to change, but fuck that. Fuck change.
I finish off my drink, paging through the book and deciding it’s definitely too tedious to actually go through with buying before clambering back down the stairs and resting it within the pile it belongs.
Simon’s humming something as he stocks shelves towards the back of the room. It sounds familiar; a classic tune that rattles through everyone's head. I think it's Elton John. He does turn to look at me as I'm trying to make my quick exit, his voice stopping me in my tracks. “Going so soon?”
“Mm. Busy schedule.” Lie.
“Oh, uh, o-okay. Did you like the scones, though?”
I swallow hard. Lie 2. “Not terrible.” Okay, that came out possibly more manageable than a lie. An extreme understatement works in place of the guilt that a lie would pull from me.
He seems to take that as a compliment, because he’s a beaming beacon from the back. “You can take some for the road, if you want. I don’t mind--I usually eat the rest.”
“I really shouldn’t.” Fuck. Shit. I want to. “I should get going.” I could easily stay a minute longer. Or twenty.
“Alright then. See you, Basilton,” he says, waving me off.
I turn on my heel, flicking my wrist outwards as a sad excuse for a wave goodbye as I leave the shop in a hurry, glancing at the flow of cars on the street before following the traffic away from my flat. I know I don’t have to “throw him off”, and I definitely shouldn’t add another block of walking for that, but I can’t help myself. I want to go off on him, and that either means punch him or kiss him. I can’t quite decide which, or maybe it's both. Punch his stupidly brilliant face, then kiss his mouth as his bloody nose drips down onto us. I want it to be grossly hot.
When I finally clamber back into the flat, it feels restrictedly closed off, so I throw all the windows open and drape myself across the couch, coat still on and sprawled out around me as I breathe heavily. My eyes squeeze shut, the late-afternoon wind running across my face and seeping into my skin. Slowly, my breath levels, tiny puffs spooling out in front of my face as I exhale.
I’m ridiculous. I do this to myself.
I could just talk to him tomorrow. Tell him I think he’s doing a good job, tell him that he’s phenomenal with kids and the ideal human being, then immediately jump out the second story window because there’s absolutely no way to recover from that.
That’s it, I’m absolutely mad. I might be mad for him. An absolute hopeless romantic is leaping out of my skin, trying to drag him back with me in desperation for decent companionship. For the first time in years, it feels like I can't not be single. That emotional reliability of a romantic other is necessary; that I can't put up with being in an empty bed.
I need him. I don't know why it’s got to be him, and maybe it really isn't. Maybe it's the “him” that I'm dreaming up, but fuck it. It'd be damn well nice to have him .
No… no, no, no. I need to talk to someone. I need to steady my brain.
I need someone as equally unstable.
To: Fi
From: T.B.
help
I’m gay and sad
welcome to hte club, kid x
I’m having a serious moral dilemma
I’ve got it hard for that bookstore bloke
nevr would’ve guessed x
thanks
appreciated
what am I supposed to do??? he thinks I hate him
have you considered not being a cold prick? x
for a split second
then I decided against it
you’r hopeless kid x
please just help me figure something out?
fine. whn do you see him next? x
tomorrow, if he notices me there
well that’s not concerning at all x
just compliment the poor guy for once x
i did
today
I told him his scones weren’t awful
fi they were the best things I’ve ever tasted
this man is a god. a baking god.
i’ll pay you to shut up right now x
i’m srious, jus tell him he did something good and it’ll b fine x
if this goes wrong I’m blaming you
oh no, i’m getting blamed fort elling you to compliment others x
I drop my phone on the sofa beside my head as my eyes shut, my pointer and thumb rubbing against my temple as I exhale slowly. It’s as if feelings inherently give me a migraine. The concept of “just breathe and it’ll be fine” is completely null and void when you practically live in a constant wallowing of self pity.
The thought of just falling asleep here, fully clothed and windows all thrown open seems awfully tempting at the moment, but my interest dissipates once my back starts aching. I throw myself to an upright sitting position, adjusting my tucked button-down before going to close up all the windows.
My bed’s never been more appealing.
I practically pass out immediately, sprawling out and letting myself sleep.