Archive of Our Own

In hindsight, Anthony probably should have realised something was up from the minute he arrived.

It wasn’t that his family weren’t ever excited to see him - sometimes, on rare occasions, some of them even smiled when he’d been avoidant for a little too long and reappeared at an unexpected juncture - but they’d never been quite this excited to see him.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Francesca had whispered, pulling him into a tight hug that wasn’t strange but weirdly emotional just for a long birthday weekend for their mother.

“Good for you, mate,” Colin had said with a clap to the back, which was even stranger, but before he could ask what the fuck he meant, their mother had shouldered her way to the front of the group and wrapped him up in a teary embrace.

“I love you,” she had said into his shoulder. “We’re so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Anthony had replied with an awkward pat to her back, and a look to Simon over her shoulder. They’re not normally like this, he wanted to say. I don’t know what’s happening.

But like most things that were weird and hard to explain about his family, things moved on quickly enough that he was able to put it out of his mind for a time. There were bags to be taken in, drinks to be offered, vague catching up to be done. And then -

“We’re just so glad to meet you properly,” Daphne said directly to Simon as they all stood around the kitchen. “I mean obviously Anthony has talked about you for years but we didn’t know - “

“ - Leave off it,” Anthony interrupted with a dark look, but Daphne was not deterred. She’d already glowered at him the second he pulled the peanut butter jar out of its cupboard, and no matter how apparently happy she was to see him, she still couldn’t hide how disgusted she was when he ate the peanut butter straight from the jar.

“We’re not upset,” she insisted, even as she narrowed her eyes at Anthony dipping his finger in the jar again. He refused to break the challenging eye contact and licked his generous scoop. “I mean, we get it.”

“We’re just happy you’re finally here,” Violet said, her eyes still inexplicably misty. Anthony was trying to tell himself it meant nothing still as she kept talking, “Anthony’s never brought anyone home, you see, so we were all a little bit surprised - and when he said it was you - “ She placed a happy hand on Simon’s arm. “ - everything sort of made a little more sense.”

Anthony stilled with his finger in his mouth.

“Thanks for having me,” Simon said smoothly. “I’m happy to finally be here too.”

“Are you going to tell us how you two got together?” Hyacinth piped up from where she’d been near attached to Anthony’s side ever since he arrived. “We were all talking about it before you got here and no-one can decide when they think it happened.”

“Hyacinth - “

“Shut up - “

“We weren’t gossiping, I promise - “

But none of the protestations really registered, because Anthony, with his finger still in his mouth, had finally realised his mistake. And if Simon’s expression across the room, somewhere between shock and desperately trying not to laugh, meant anything, he had also figured it out too.

Oh my fucking God.

Anthony wasn’t really sure he’d done anything wrong. When his mum had texted to ask ‘I feel silly for asking this now but any chance you are bringing anyone as your plus one?’ he had been extremely hungover, hanging off the end of Simon’s sofa, and not able to parse through the subtext that was apparently obvious to every other member of the family but him, who all had been posed the same question and replied with a very firm ‘No’.

A few hours later, when he and Simon sat in his childhood bedroom (because, naturally, why would his ‘boyfriend’ be sleeping anywhere else?), he was scrolling back to this conversation on his phone and wondering where exactly his life had gone so wrong.

“What the fuck did you say?” Simon managed to get out through his laughter once they were in some privacy. The absolute knobhead that he was, he had done nothing to convince the family they had the wrong end of the stick once the mishap had become known to them, and seemed only increasingly delighted by the varying shades of red Anthony was turning over the course of the morning as he tried to grapple with his family thinking he was gay and dating fucking Simon.

“I don’t know,” Anthony snapped. “This is a fucking nightmare.”

Yeah I will I think.

Oh? Has this someone got a name? xxx

It’s Simon.

“Alright.” Anthony held up his phone. “Does that read as me fucking coming out to you?”

Simon squinted.

“No,” he conceded, but scrolled a little further down. “But that does.”

Oh my darling. I just want you to know I’m so happy for you. xxx

Thanks? Not really a big deal though is it?

No, not at all!!! I just am so pleased. Are you okay with me telling your siblings you’re bringing him? I think all of them are too scared to do it themselves because I’m too pushy. Xxx

Go ahead.

I will. Thank you for telling me. I love you. xxx

“How was I meant to know she thought you were my boyfriend?” Anthony hissed as Simon still stood there and laughed.

“Is this a usual thing?” Simon asked. “Like would she have thought you understood what she was saying?”

Yes, Anthony thought miserably. Yes, it was all she asked any of them about. If any of his siblings ever found out he’d misread this text from her, he’d never hear the end of it.

“Just tell them she’s got the wrong idea,” Simon continued with a shrug, calming his laughter down after looking at Anthony’s expression for more than a second. If he looked half as murderous as he felt, it must have been a sobering sight. “It doesn’t have to be a problem.”

“Well I can’t fucking do that now.” He threw his phone down on the bed and sunk his head into his hands. “We’ve left it too long.” And because he had nowhere else to direct his anger, he threw it across the room to his now lover. “Why didn’t you fucking say anything!”

Simon, not at all phased, barely even blinked. “I was awkward and it was funny to watch you slowly and silently lose your mind.”

“I hate you,” Anthony told him.

“You love me,” Simon corrected him, smug grin and all. Anthony blanched.

“Shut up.”

“You fancy me! Slut.”

“I will put this pillow over your face and enjoy it when you stop breathing.”

“Is that before or after we make love?”

“I’m not responding to this anymore.”

“Please make it after. I want to go out on a high.”

Sharing a bed wasn’t really an issue. They shared a room in their first year of university, and then a flat in the following years - they’d housed enough strays after nights out that meant Anthony could roll into Simon’s bed or vice versa without any thought. Once there’d been enough people that Anthony had needed to be draped across Simon and act as a blanket, sleeping on top of him when they’d tried to fit five people into his double bed at once. They crawled into Anthony’s bed that night without as much of a second thought.

Neither of them fell to sleep very quickly though.

“Why were they so nice about it?” Anthony asked into the dark, staring up at the ceiling.

“Hm?”

“I was going to try and tell them they’d got it all wrong,” Anthony confessed into the quiet. “But then they were all so genuinely happy for me.”

Dinner that night had been both awkward and confusing in equal measure. For one, they all insisted that Anthony and Simon sit together, which threw off all the usual seat plans of their family dinner table, but Benedict had insisted on moving down and that had been it.

“I don’t mind,” he’d said with a smile so gentle that it shook Anthony up all over again and he’d not been able to protest before he’d moved away.

Then Simon had said, “I promise I won’t play footsie with you in front of your family, if that’s what you’re worried about,” and he’d promptly forgotten the weird feeling at the pit of his stomach and pivoted back to anger again.

But none of the rest of them had seemed to have been put off by Anthony’s scowl directed in Simon’s direction. In fact, they’d laughed, as if all of this made sense to them - that him and Simon made sense. Anthony didn’t know how to feel about it - teasing had been minimal, and almost entirely from Simon himself, and he realised about half way through his meal that every time his siblings caught his eye across the table, they were smiling at him.

As he laid in bed that night, Simon next to him and very much not falling asleep, all he could think about was the softness of those smiles, and how he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d seen them so sincerely in his direction.

“It’s because I’m a catch,” Simon joked softly. “They don’t want to push you into losing such a tall drink of water.”

Anthony was silent.

“Would it be so bad for them to think it for a little while?” Simon asked then, a touch more serious. “If you don’t want to upset them now by telling them the truth?”

“I’m not even gay,” Anthony complained, and he felt Simon shrug next to him.

“You could be bi for all they know. You don’t have to say it,” he fixed quickly. “Break up with me in a month. Bring back a woman next time.” Anthony sighed heavily and Simon kicked him under the covers. “You’re overthinking this.”

“I’ve somehow managed to fuck this so completely that I’ll feel guilty either way.”

“Stop thinking.”

“Can’t.”

Simon went to kick him again, but Anthony was ready and ducked out of the way. He curled up onto his side, effectively ending the conversation, and behind him Anthony heard Simon sighing to himself and settling back into his own pillow. Then, one final comment before they slept:

“Just let me know if you want me to big spoon.”

“Fuck you.”

Things did not get better the next day.

It started when Anthony woke up to his face in Simon’s armpit and Simon’s leg slung over him. Not such an unusual occurrence given how frequently Anthony migrated in sleep, but after the day previous it did somewhat feel like a sick joke. Simon then greeted him with a “Morning,” so clearly trying to mask his laughter again that Anthony could only respond with a swift tap to his balls, and dipped out of the bed as Simon hunched over in pain.

Anthony felt fairly good about this choice, until Simon arrived in the kitchen five minutes later. The rest of the family were helping themself to breakfast, and he had a dangerous glint in his eyes that Anthony knew all too well. He had, it seemed, started something with that ball tap, and Anthony was not sure that it signified anything good.

A few moments later, when Simon put a hand on the small of his back as he took the carafe of orange juice off him, and said a polite, “Thanks, babe,” Anthony knew it didn’t signify anything good.

Simon’s smirk could only be seen by him, but behind him all of the gathered Bridgertons took this as the sappy term of endearment Simon had intended it to be.

“Aw,” Daphne laughed, buttering her crumpet. “Babe.”

“Never took you for a babe, Ant,” Benedict chimed in, lounging back in his chair. “Thought you were more of a ‘hey, you there’ or an angry grunting noise.”

Simon spun around to face them, all charm. “He’s those too. Especially on a morning.”

“Ah,” Colin interjected, eyes bright. “So you have met Anthony.”

This is terrible, Anthony thought as he watched on in horror. This was awful and he just had to stand there and witness it without being able to stop it.

“Don’t tease,” Violet scolded, but looked far too happy to really mean it. Et tu, Mother. “Leave them be.”

“It’s alright,” Simon said, and Anthony could have wrung his neck because it almost certainly was not. “It’s nice to be a part of the banter Anthony has warned me so much about. I’d like to think I was ready for it.”

“Welcome to the family,” Francesca piped up, and the two of them saluted each other with the glasses across the room.

Now, if there was anything that Anthony could not stand for, it was losing - and seeing all of his family laughing along with Simon at his expense, and the man himself smiling like the cat who’d got the cream when he took his own seat - it felt very much like losing.

This is what he told himself as he picked up his coffee and took a place standing by Simon’s chair. He told himself he did not lose, and Simon had started a game that he could not allow himself to lose.

“You’ll regret it, Si,” he said, with as much warmth as he could muster. Then he placed his hand at the back of Simon’s neck, gripping it with affection he hoped everyone could see. Under his hand, he felt his friend’s whole body seize up in tension.

Perfect.

“That’s all I’ll say,” Anthony continued sweetly. “You’ll regret it.”

For that brief moment, Anthony could sort of understand why Simon had laughed so much about this whole thing yesterday - if this was how he’d felt when Anthony had been cornered by his family and he’d got to watch from afar, he could almost forgive him for being a useless dickhead of a friend who didn’t intervene and explain the truth whilst Anthony had been gripped in dread.

He felt less good about encouraging this whole charade, when only an hour later on their family walk down to the local village, Benedict pulled him aside for a chat.

“So when did this happen?” his brother asked, nodding ahead to where Simon was entertaining Hyacinth and Gregory at the front of their group. “I can’t say I’m not a little surprised by it.”

“Uhhh,” Anthony stalled unconvincingly, but this useless noise was apparently enough for Benedict to drop it.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said, waving a hand and avoiding Anthony’s eye. “I just sort of wish I’d known.”

Guilt swooped again in Anthony’s stomach. It did not feel good to lie to Ben like this. “Listen, Ben - “

“I’m serious,” Benedict continued. “Don’t be sorry. I’m really happy for you, Ant. And you’re so brave for just, fucking - “ He faltered, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I couldn’t do that.”

“I’m really not brave,” Anthony said. He needed to tell him, he couldn’t let him keep going on like this. “Ben, you should know…”

But Benedict had his own thing he wanted to say.

“I’m bi, you know?” he said in a rush, still not looking at Anthony. “Known since I was a teenager and never said anything about it, and now look at you. You’ve brought a boyfriend home like it’s no big deal. It’s so - “ Benedict shook his head, and when he looked at him, Anthony almost felt ill at how happy he looked. “It’s really cool.”

“Right,” Anthony whispered. “Cool.”

Any confession had died on his lips in that moment - how could he, when Benedict had so earnestly come out to him? That his own apparent gay-ness had been what prompted it?

Anthony had never considered it before, but as they returned back to the house, all he could think about was how - despite how completely mad it sounded - he’d somehow have to find a way to come out as straight to his brother.

If you had told Anthony a few days prior that this long weekend at home would be entirely defined by a game of gay chicken with Simon, he would not have believed you.

As it was, he was currently losing and was inordinately frustrated by it.

As with most things that were too difficult to deal with in the moment and that could not be immediately fixed, Anthony’s conversation with Benedict was put in a box in the back of his mind; emotions neatly packed away into a corner to be dealt with at a more appropriate time. More pressing was the fact that from their grazing, taunting touches at breakfast, the stakes had been silently raised in this dangerous, stupid game he and Simon were playing, and it did not look like either man would be conceding any time soon.

Anthony had known Simon entirely too long to be surprised that he wouldn’t back down from the challenge he had laid down that morning by grabbing his neck. He’d once watched the man jump headfirst into a river, completely comfortable in the knowledge that he was about to lose his phone and expensive watch to water damage and potentially get arrested, all because someone in their friendship group had dared him to. He’d seen him without a second thought and zero hesitation, walk into someone else’s wedding and start a toast to a bride and groom he’d never met, pretending like he’d been a lifelong friend of the family, all because he wanted to make a point about how easy weddings were to crash.

The fact that he now was insisting on out-gaying him in front of his family, attempting to goad him into a corner of awkwardness that he’d give in and admit the truth shouldn’t have been a surprise.

And yet.

Every time Anthony thought he’d caught him in enough of a bind to back off, Simon upped the ante. Anthony would match him with a ‘babe’ and Simon would throw back a new nickname, and with every conversation allowed them to get more ridiculous than the last. Babe, Baby, Sweetheart, Pumpkin, Boo - each would set Anthony’s teeth on edge, and all Simon would do was send him a charming smile like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Anthony caught him out by transitioning the hand on his back to a firm, affectionate shoulder rub, but before he’d even had a chance to enjoy the way the muscles of Simon’s shoulders had tightened under his touch, Simon had turned into his arm to step as close to him as possible. He was practically plastered to his side, clearly determined to gain the upper hand again by intimidating Anthony with their insane closeness while Colin and Francesca stood by. Doing his best to ignore thinking about Simon’s body pressed up close to his side, Anthony had stood firm whilst his sister talked about her A Levels, and could only be thankful Simon’s body spray didn’t smell heinously disgusting; it was all he could smell. It was genuinely almost overpowering - he might have to tell him to lay off it if it was always that present and strong.

He’d even - Jesus, Anthony found it hard to think back on without feeling hot all over with embarrassment - allowed his hand to drift down into the back pocket of Anthony’s jeans in retaliation for Anthony putting his hand on his thigh at lunch.

His mother had been in the room, for fuck’s sake. His hand had stayed in his back pocket for half an hour. He’d bloody squeezed when he’d felt Anthony trying to squirm away.

But Anthony bore it all, caught between the rock and the hard place of admitting the truth and admitting defeat. He had been the one to break the contact barrier that morning at breakfast in this war of theirs, and he had to be able to live with the consequences of his actions.

What Anthony couldn’t abide, however, was the development that came near the end of that second day; one that left Anthony flushing a beetroot red, and the siblings who witnessed it stifling their laughter.

“Don’t slap my arse when I leave a room,” he hissed, when he caught Simon in one of their few, brief moments alone.

“Just being a convincing boyfriend,” Simon argued. “Which is what I need to be, if you’re still not going to tell them the truth.”

“That’s not what boyfriends do,” Anthony spat back.

“How would you know?” Simon pointed out. “But you know there’s a way to stop me. If you wanted to.”

They both knew he wouldn’t; pride and humiliation were warring within him, and unfortunately Anthony and Simon both knew which one would always ultimately win.

“It’s humiliating,” Anthony stood his ground. “And inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?”

Simon’s tone made it clear that him and propriety were concepts that he never associated together. Which was fair enough, considering that Anthony had more than once shagged a girl in the same room as Simon, with not even a drop of shame polluting the experience. And Simon had done the same, with Anthony just rolling over to face the wall, not a care in the world, and with only a thought about turning away for the sake of being polite.

Hell, he’d once even shagged someone whilst they all shared the same bed, and beyond Simon eyeing the pair of them groping one another next to him and whispering, “If needs must,” nothing more was ever said on the subject. Being worried about being inappropriate had never really factored into their friendship.

“For Hyacinth and Gregory,” he insisted. “It’s inappropriate for Hyacinth and Gregory. To see you do that. To me.”

“Anthony,” Simon asked slowly. “Are you homophobic?”

“No!” Anthony sputtered in horror. His mind flicked to Benedict, and his gut lurched again. “No, I just - “ He swallowed. “No, it’s just that - like - it’s not if it was you, or like - “

Simon watched him scramble with a comfortable smile. Anthony could have punched him.

“I look forward to seeing your face when I finally try to kiss you,” Simon said after they fell into silence. “It’s bound to be extremely entertaining.”

Falling to sleep that night was no easier than the first. All Anthony could think as he forced his eyes shut and tried to ignore Simon’s heavy, even breathing next to him, was that at least he’d given him warning - at least he wouldn’t be embarrassed into doing something stupid, like ducking or cringing away - at least he wouldn’t have to lose because he was unprepared.

The other possibility was that Simon wasn’t going to kiss him at all, and was just trying to psyche him out. He was not the sort of man to be above psychological warfare, after all.

Either way, Simon was going to try and kiss him at some point this weekend.

Or he wasn’t.

Or maybe he was?

Anthony huffed.

Fuck.

Over the course of the next day or so, it became abundantly clear that Benedict was not the only sibling that wanted to have a heart to heart with him.

Not so many hours after Benedict, Eloise came to him, all pursed lips and crossed arms in a way that would have made her seem angry, had he not known her as well as he did. They’d shared a long look with each other, and all it had taken was Anthony sensing the hesitation lingering at the edges of her body language before he’d demanded that she should let it out if there was something on her mind.

“I’m a lesbian,” she said, no bells and no whistles. “Just so you know. You’re not the only one. If that’s what you thought.”

This came as significantly less of a surprise than Benedict had. Anthony could not claim to be a fountain of knowledge about gay women, but some combination of Eloise’s years long commitment to women’s rights, her ever continuing rotation of colourful hair colours and styles, and her lifelong disinterest in men meant that he could not claim to be exactly rocked to his core when presented with this news.

Still, he’d never heard her say it. And he’d never have thought it would be said to him alone.

“Good to know,” he’d replied softly, ready to store her right next to Benedict in his Straight Guilt Box at the back of his brain. “Thanks for trusting me with that, Eloise.”

She’d shrugged, but looked relieved, and that had been that.

All in all, he thought it had gone better than Benedict’s had, even if the outcome had been just the same. Still, he had been pretty comforted in the knowledge that this was about as far as this guilt would stretch.

When Colin and Daphne had followed suit, Anthony could no longer claim to be cool about it.

“It’s a fucking relief honestly,” Colin confessed to him in an aside, when they were a few beers down at the local pub for lunch. Simon, for all his teasing touches at the house, had instinctively known better than to try and push it any further in public, and had sat at the opposite end of the table between Gregory and his mother. Anthony, meanwhile, had been left in the corner of the booth between Colin and Daphne, two of the most notorious gossips of the entire family, and who also only wanted to discuss the revelation of Anthony’s sexuality over their drinks.

“Like I used to censor myself a lot, you know,” Colin continued, lowering his voice a little. “Like around you and Ben when we were trading stories - I’d stop myself before I gendered the person, in case it freaked you both out.” He rolled his eyes cheerfully into his glass, whilst Anthony felt like his heart was in his throat. “It’s stupid to me now I know about you and Simon - I mean, like you would care if I gagged on a few dicks while I was in Greece.”

“Colin,” Daphne chastised, and she leaned across Anthony to swat his thigh. Their brother just snorted into his glass.

But then it got even worse, because with two pink gins in her, Daphne had tilted her head conspiratorially towards two of her brothers and whispered, “There’s a girl at work.”

“Tell me more,” Colin said, and the two were practically in Anthony’s lap as they leant in to whisper about it.

She was tall, they learned. She had a tattoo on her foot, and a dog that she loved. Her name was Kate and Daphne had been a little bit obsessed with her from the moment they’d first been introduced.

“Anthony will tell you,” Colin laughed quietly. “Those obsessions are not very platonic most of the time.”

Anthony couldn’t tell her that, because Anthony couldn’t breathe.

“Maybe not,” she replied. “Maybe I should just go for it.”

“Fuck it,” Colin agreed. “Why not? Life’s too short.”

“Look at us,” she’d cackled then, lifting her empty glass up for a cheers, melting ice clinking as it swilled around the balloon. Colin had met her enthusiastically. Anthony’s grip around his pint felt both too tight and entirely limp, all at once.

Look at us, indeed. Five apparently not straight Bridgertons, and one fraud as their uncomfortable leader, silently feeling like one of the worst people in the world.

On their walk back up to the house, Anthony had slipped his hand into Simon’s and pulled him to the back of the group. Nobody had stopped them, just like he now knew they wouldn’t (because he now knew they all suddenly wanted to give him space and privacy because Simon was his bloody boyfriend) and Anthony had revealed all of this in one long, desperate rush.

“I can’t be the only straight one,” Anthony complained, eyes wide. “It’s just not statistically possible!”

“Perhaps,” Simon said vaguely. Very annoyingly, he did not seem as perturbed by this turn of events as Anthony would have liked him to be. “There’s still the younger ones.”

“I feel like shit,” Anthony said plainly.

“Is it statistically impossible?” Simon asked, ignoring him. “Or would it be more statistically probable that at least one of you is straight? What if you were all gay? I think that’s more likely to be statistically impossible.”

It occurred to Anthony in this moment, he had somehow gained a partner with all of the setbacks of having a partner (namely, torturing you for fun in front of your family) with none of the perks (emotionally supporting you in times of crisis).

(And blowjobs).

“You’re a shit boyfriend,” he told him. “Just so you know that. If this was real, I’d be fucking furious with you.”

This made Simon pause for long enough that Anthony almost stopped to consider whether he’d accidentally said something weird, in amongst the stupid, half-baked joke of an insult he was throwing at him. But almost as quickly as Anthony had started forming the thought, he blinked and Simon was grinning again.

“Good job I’m just in it for the sex,” he said with a wink, and then left him in the dust with only a resounding slap to his arse as a farewell.

“Bridgerton, please go the fuck to sleep.”

“Why is it funny though?”

“It just is, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Is my arse weird or something? Or do you just like seeing me uncomfortable?”

“Are you trying to accuse me of objectifying you? For slapping your arse.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Bridgerton.”

“Don’t you get offended. You tosser, I have the moral high ground here.”

“Says the man who invited me to his house to pretend to be his boyfriend without warning me first.”

“I fucking didn’t - “

“ - I was lured here under false pretences - “

“ - You know I didn’t - ow, fuck - you compete bellend - “

“ - Keep your feet on your side, you cretin - “

“ - That was the tip of my dick - “

“ - They’re like blocks of fucking ice - “

“ - If you’d caught my bollocks I’d have killed you in your sleep.”

“You’ve been making these threats as long as I’ve known you, and you’re yet to make good on any of them.”

“Hmph. I suggest you keep sleeping with one eye open just in case.”

“...Maybe I’m just testing your reflexes. Or maybe I’m just seeing how many times I can get away with it before you fully lose your shit in front of everyone.”

“You’ll be fucking sorry when I do.”

“Or maybe it’s funny because you have the most white boy arse ever. It’s just so - flat.”

“Big talk from a man who won’t fucking leave it alone. You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

“Go to sleep, mate.”

“Don’t fucking trust you now, do I? Who knows what the fucking pervert in my bed will be doing with my arse just up for grabs.”

“Kicking it out of the bed, probably.”

“Unlikely.”

“Tell this to me again when you’re on my side of the bed in the morning.”

“First of all - “

“Anthony, shut up.”

Anthony woke up staring at Simon’s bare back, his face so close that his nose was bent as it pressed uncomfortably into his skin; he had a hand just curling over Simon’s ribs, a foot tucked neatly between Simon’s legs, and an ache between his own that could only be answered to by a long, cold shower.

Worst of all, this was all on Simon’s side of the bed again.

By their third day, Simon still hadn’t kissed him, and Anthony was on edge about it.

It was a valid thing to be tense about, he reasoned - whether or not your best friend was going to try and make out with you in front of your family? Any normal person would have a healthy amount of trepidation knowing that this was something that might be sprung upon them at any moment.

The waiting was the worst part. He had plenty of opportunity to plant one on him - moments Anthony had seen an unsure expression teasing through Simon’s usual calm confidence that told him he was considering it. The family would be in amongst one of their infamous, lively group discussions that Simon fell into with ease, and then him and Anthony would look to one another, long and silent as the conversation continued on obliviously around them. Simon’s expression would simultaneously harden and soften and Anthony would think that this was it - this was the moment and it was coming and he was ready and he wouldn’t be caught out if he did it now -

Do it, he would make his eyes say, hard and challenging and refusing to back down. Fucking kiss me, you wanker.

But then, as always, nothing. Simon swallowed and looked away and Anthony would have to unclench his stomach as the anticipation drained out of him.

He wondered whether it was because he was making it obvious that he was ready for it. There’d be no fun in it, nothing to tease him about, if he could see Anthony was prepared and wouldn’t make a fool of himself in the surprise.

Either way, it didn’t happen, and Anthony was left never quite sure what to do with himself - and this was only ever made worse by the fact that everything else coupley they did together kept carrying on in the meanwhile. At some point, Anthony considered idly whether he should find it more weird that in the space of a couple of days, he’d slipped into doing things like holding Simon’s hand and putting his arm around his chair and leaning into his side when they stood next to one another - all like it meant nothing at all.

But that would require thinking about it. And Anthony didn’t want to think about it. Not when it made his heart hurt and panic rise in his chest, and his family kept saying things to him that made him feel guiltier than he ever thought possible.

“I like him for you,” his mother whispered to him, a few red wines deep one night. Anthony had hummed, unsure of how to respond to that, but she had clearly wanted to make her point known. “I worry about you sometimes. I worried you didn’t want to know what it feels like to be in love.”

Anthony panicked. “Who said anything about love?”

“You forget who you’re talking to,” Violet chuckled, tipsy enough to not be too concerned by Anthony’s deflection. She patted his chest. “I know every wonderful part of loving and being in love with your very best friend. There’s no better thing in the world.”

“He is my best friend,” Anthony admitted quietly, after a little too long a pause. His mother had smiled.

“I know.”

Anthony wished that he could say the same.

Somewhere in between feeling like he’d lost his mind, questioning and overthinking every conversation he’d had with his family the last few days, and processing how much he now casually and romantically touched his best friend, Francesca found him.

One of her best friends Michelle had confessed her love for her last month, and she hadn’t known what to do or how she felt. She came to him then, not in search of advice, but with the burden of the whole thing ready to be taken off her chest, to be shared with someone she felt like she could trust and who would understand her. Someone who had fallen in love with his best friend - a best friend who they had never in a million years thought he’d never have expected to fall in love with.

Yeah, he thought to himself as he wrapped his little sister up in his arms and just held her. Yeah, I suck.

Later, after eating some food but way before the cake came out, Anthony found himself at the kitchen sink, washing up.

It used to be his and his dad’s job, once upon a time. His dad would have his hands in the washing up bowl, and Anthony on his footstool beside him would be ready with his tea towel to dry, and together they’d power their way through their family’s dishes as a team. They did this until Anthony no longer needed a footstool to see over the counter, and the number of plates they had to clean became unfairly large. They did it until Anthony and Edmund Bridgerton's shoulders met, aligned side by side, and the two were so well practised that they could do the entire chore in complete, synchronised silence - had it not been for the beaten old radio on the windowsill playing Bowie for his dad to sing along to under his breath.

After his dad died, Anthony finally started using the dishwasher.

Still, he found himself drifting back to stand alone in front of the sink, from time to time. Like that day, his mother had told him not to bother and leave loading the dishwasher until after they’d finished serving her birthday cake. But somehow his autopilot had found him moving back towards the kitchen, picking up some dirty pans and setting to work. The radio was not there anymore, long dead, but Anthony propped up his phone by a vase with a Bowie playlist on low.

He didn’t bother trying to sing along, even to himself - if there’s one thing for certain he didn’t share with his father, it was his singing voice. But it was peaceful in a way he never anticipated, to have Starman playing quietly in the background as he mopped up a sudsy pan. His fingers pruned in the water as he worked, and the sun shone through the window at an uncomfortable angle for his eyes, but he kept his happy rhythm.

Eventually, Simon found him.

It was the back door that opened, and it’s why Anthony didn’t bother turning around - he knew it was him. He’d disappeared from the house maybe an hour earlier without a word to anyone, and Gregory had been confused, asking after him - but Anthony had been the one to reassure the family exactly where he’d gone.

“He’ll be back,” he told his brother, barely even thinking about it. “He’s just gone for a run.”

“Did he tell you that?” Gregory asked, scrunching up his face. Anthony had shaken his head.

“He just does this.” Anthony no longer even questioned it. He’d known him too long to need to. “He’ll be back,” he had finished with certainty.

And so he had.

As Anthony felt Simon step closer to him, he realised another family member must be nearby, because before he could think to turn, Simon was standing right behind him, his arms snaking under Anthony’s own to pull him up in an embrace.

He was getting a little too good at this, truth be told. If the whole situation hadn’t been so bonkers, Anthony would have accused him of having done it before - and as far as he knew, Simon had never even had a girlfriend, let alone a family of his own to try and display affection in front of in a convincing way.

It didn’t make sense. He shouldn’t have been able to lean into the whole thing with such ease - and yet, the way his hands slowly grazed past his ribs, unbearably intimate, and tucked around his chest told a completely different story. The way he stepped up behind him and kept him in place would have been enough to have him believe he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You’re a dick,” Anthony breathed, just loud enough for Simon to hear. It didn’t require much volume: Simon’s head was so close to him that his lips were almost brushing Anthony’s ear.

Simon hummed.

“Still funny though,” he replied, just as softly. His breath as he spoke tickled the back of Anthony’s neck; it was hot, and made the hair on Anthony’s arms stand up on end.

It was annoying, really, how he always was so sure of himself, and it was especially so now. Anthony had never felt more lost in his entire life.

He swallowed.

“Remember that time I decked you at White’s,” Anthony said, gripping a plate in the water. His cleaning of the dishes had stopped entirely. “Like I completely bust your lip.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse; his throat almost ached as he spoke. “That. Again. Harder this time.”

“Harder?” Simon hummed and Anthony could feel the rumble of his chest against his back. “Not likely.”

“Just because you’re taller,” Anthony pivoted back to an argument as old as their friendship, “doesn’t mean you’re stronger.”

“You’ve been losing this argument from the first week we met.” Simon was so close he could feel his smile curving up against his skin. ”It’s just embarrassing now.”

“I’ll make you regret that,” Anthony insisted.

“Will you?”

The question was accompanied with a shift - Simon moving forward even impossibly closer to him, no doubt in some effort to appear intimidating. All it succeeded in doing was pushing Anthony even closer into the countertop, trapped between the sink and Simon’s body.

Anthony’s lips parted involuntarily. His eyes fell closed. His response was awkwardly delayed and low. “Yeah.”

He was confused, Anthony allowed himself. It had been a confusing few days of pretending to be into his best friend, and that was why he was currently having to fight the rush of blood heading south. He hadn’t had a good shag in a few weeks and the intimacy of their position had confused him and his body was reacting naturally.

Still, there Simon remained and despite it not making any sense at all, him and his body were all Anthony could think about. And there - even as he tried to breathe in, he couldn’t shy away from it - his smell, masculine and comforting and Simon -

He was everywhere and Anthony could not escape.

“Have they - “ A shallow intake of breath as he tried to steady himself against the sink. “Have they gone? Whoever was there?”

There followed a long pause.

“Yeah. Yeah, think so.”

It was cold where Simon stepped away, exposing Anthony’s back to the world again, and setting him free of his embrace. Even so, Anthony’s insides burned as he listened to Simon’s footsteps out of the room and up the stairs.

He stayed as he was, staring down at the water, as still as he had ever been. He didn’t even make an attempt at moving until all the suds had melted away, and he felt like he could move without feeling too light-headed and the pressure at his groin allowed him to breathe.

Because -

Because?

Who even knew anymore.

Dinner was a quiet affair that night.

Not for his family, obviously - the Bridgertons rarely had a meal that wasn’t punctuated by their laughter, bickering, loud opinions, and some sort of vegetable flying across the table - but Simon was near silent, and so was Anthony.

There was far too much for them both to think about, it seemed.

One poorly timed erection did not feelings make, but Anthony would have been a liar if he said in the hours that followed, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the plates in the soapy water and the feeling of Simon pressed up behind him as he gripped them for dear life. He found his train of thought, mid-conversation with someone else entirely, drifting back to relive that sensation from the heat on his neck to the large hands intimately and softly sliding up the side of his chest, to the press of his - against his -

He’d had to blink himself rapidly away from that spiralling abyss enough times that Hyacinth had asked him if he’d had something stuck in his eye.

No he hadn’t, he wanted to scream. He just kept thinking about how having his best friend’s crotch pressed up against his backside got him hard, and that at the very least warranted the development of an eye twitch. They were lucky he hadn’t been drinking himself into next year to avoid thinking about it over and over and over again.

Instead of voicing this, Anthony had just made an excuse about sorting out some bread for the table.

It was hard to tell if Simon was avoiding his gaze or Anthony was just being a coward about looking at him - every time he finally braved up and flicked his eyes over to him silently eating next to him, he swore Simon was just turning away, but he couldn’t tell whether he’d never been looking at Anthony in the first place and he was just imagining it all.

It felt wrong to have him so far away, after days of being plastered to one another’s sides - and for all Anthony did not know, this feeling stuck in his throat felt true.

Without overthinking it, he tucked a foot around Simon’s ankle under the table.

He knew he didn’t miss it that time - Simon, sharp and instinctive, snapping his head to look over at him, that very same look in his eye. Anthony met him, his chin resting on his hand as he leant an elbow on the table, and together they watched the other in almost the same way they would when on the precipice of a fight; teetering on the edge of a passionate feeling, the threat of the unknown doing its best not to feel enticingly exciting.

But it occurred to Anthony then, as Simon looked at him the way he kept looking at him that weekend, a thing that was unspoken between all the angles of his friend’s stare.

He was never going to kiss him.

This was the final barrier they had come up against, and the one that Anthony had finally found that Simon wouldn’t cross, no matter how much he might pretend otherwise. Such limits did exist for him, and they’d finally encountered one that he was never going to take the first step to breach.

Anthony blinked, and let his eyes drop to his friend’s lips. His breath caught in his throat.

It was never going to be Simon.

Before he could allow himself even a moment to question his instinct, his motivation, his thought process, his hesitation - it was Anthony who titled his head and closed the gap between them.

Simon’s mouth was soft, was Anthony’s first realisation as he kissed him. Lips, as it turned out, were still just lips, even if they were combined with the scratch of a barely there beard at his chin, and those lips were attached to his best friend - and Anthony had always loved to kiss and be kissed. The pleasure of that hardly ever changed, even as it was Simon that sat almost perfectly still under his attentions - his chaste, gentle attentions - that achingly slow first peck, followed by another and another, each quiet smack just as new and soft as the one that came before it.

Still, Simon sat and bore it, and Anthony kissed him.

Kiss me back, Anthony nearly begged, pulling back just enough to tilt his head to the other side. Their noses grazed, and Anthony didn’t dare open his eyes - he didn’t know when he’d allowed them to flutter closed, but there was something overwhelming in the idea of opening them and seeing him there close to. But he sunk in again, this time leaning forward with an enthusiastic fervour, encouraging Simon into a response as he sucked and pressed and lost himself in the sensation of it.

This was happening, a far-off part of him realised, floating in the back of his brain. He was kissing Simon.

And it was fine. They were fine. He was fine.

But then under his pressure, Anthony felt Simon’s lips part slightly - and before either of them could have the good thought to stop it, their tongues met.

It was then that he realised that it was worse than fine: it was good.

One soft sigh into his mouth and Simon was tilting forward to meet him, as urgent as he was gentle in equal measure. It would have been devastatingly tender if it wasn’t him and it wasn’t Simon, kissing for the first time in a room full of his family, but those thoughts only managed to flutter past in inconsequential waves. Nothing could dominate the forefront of his mind more than the feeling on Simon’s tongue licking into his mouth, the way it made his toes curl and his foot slide up Simon’s calf where no-one could see, but Simon could feel - and then, Simon’s hand on Anthony’s knee and Anthony’s mouth falling open and allowing him even further in - the combined wet noise and creeping fingers up his thigh spurring him on, making his hair stand on end, his breathing shallow, his cock -

“Ugh - get a room.”

Anthony and Simon flew apart so sharply one could have been forgiven for thinking they’d been pulled back by some external force. Sniggers erupted and a hand flew to lightly smack Eloise on her shoulder. Conversation bubbled up again. Simon was already eating again before Anthony could think to do anything more.

Dazed and feeling a little high, Anthony licked his glazed lips and turned his attention back to his plate. He had a terrible feeling that the sick feeling in his stomach wasn’t so much to do with the food, than it was the knowledge that everything was going to be a little different after that.

Sex, in hindsight, was inevitable.

Anthony didn’t have much experience with making out with his best mates, but there were very few people he’d kissed like he had Simon at his family dinner table, and there were ever fewer that had not fallen into bed with him in the following hours. As it was, the two of them were already climbing into the same bed, kiss or no - what followed was only a natural progression of where these few days were always going to end up, whether either of them wanted it to or not.

“You’re not going to ask me about it?” Anthony challenged, when they were alone in the dark of his room and the silence that had followed them up from downstairs had become too unbearable.

Simon refused to look at him. “‘Bout what?”

“About me finally having enough of you hanging kissing me over my head?”

He was pointed and provoking in his questioning, but couldn’t find it in himself to be too guilty about it - this feeling swirling around in his gut had to come out somehow, and being angry with Simon was apparently all he had left.

“...Nope.”

“Right.” That hadn’t been the response he’d expected. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine.”

“Cool.”

Simon, still not looking at him, continued to fold his trousers back into his suitcase. Anthony fought the urge to stalk over to the other side of the room and hit him the longer the silence seemed to stretch on, as Simon continued about his evening and Anthony just watched him. But then, just as he was on the verge of giving up and taking himself off to bed, Simon began to speak.

“Don’t think anyone in your family would accuse you of being straight after that.” He flipped down his suitcase lid with a little much too force. “You’d have to be really fucking strange to go that far just to make a point.” Anthony’s stomach flipped. “So congratulations, I guess.”

“You started it.”

Simon’s eyes shot up to meet him, unflinching. “Did I?”

Wherever they had ended up, Anthony wasn’t sure this conversation was to do with just the kiss anymore. Unsteady, he shut up, and he bit down on the instinctive fight rising up in him so hard that his jaw twitched. Across from him, Simon continued to stare.

Eventually, one of them had to move. Stubborn as they were, it took both of them far longer than it reasonably should have done, but once they did, it all became rather methodical. Simon went first - he reached for the corner of his shirt, and pulled it off in one clean movement.

After Anthony’s eyes traced the planes of his chest, he did the same.

Then it was Anthony’s turn to go first - he was the one who reached for his belt buckle, daring Simon to even blink as he pulled at the fastening a little more aggressively than necessary. Neither one of them looked away from the other as his trousers fell to the floor and Anthony stepped out of them. Simon followed suit not long afterwards.

One by one, they slipped under the duvet, each as mechanical as the other as their eye contract finally, purposefully broke. Staring at the ceiling as they kept to their own side of the bed and settled back against the pillow.

Anthony turned his back to him.

Simon shifted behind him.

Anthony couldn’t be sure which way he’d turned - towards him or away from him. Not until he felt the hand he’d been waiting for slipping around his waist and sinking into his underwear.

It all devolved rather quickly after that. It was difficult to decipher who moved first, Simon crowding up behind him and pinning him against him in his strong embrace, his hand working furiously in Anthony’s pants, or Anthony pressing backwards into Simon’s chest and letting out a decades-long held breath he hadn’t realised he was desperate to exhale. They grasped and breathed and kissed and Anthony groaned into the dark until Simon’s spare hand covered his mouth, muffling anything he had to say with a firm, “Don’t,” growled in his ear.

It was all simultaneously too much and not enough - both overwhelming and teasing in equal measure, Anthony caught up in Simon’s arms with his mouth at his neck, his hard cock at his back, his smell all around him - and him, only able to writhe pathetically in the tight prison of his arms, and moan under his hard-working hands covering his mouth and tugging at his dick.

It would have been easier to have allowed Simon to continue this whole thing from behind him. He might have been able to finish the whole endeavour without looking him in the eye at all - maybe it would have saved them both some of their dignity to not have to truly confront the line they were crossing with their hands and mouths on each other in a way that couldn’t be explained away rationally.

But in an unexpected rush of clarity, Anthony found himself turning - spinning around in Simon’s arms and kissing him before he could doubt the instinct that urged him to. He wrapped himself around him and his hands scrambled to push away the last layers between them, until there was nothing left but hot skin and hands and the whole lengths of their long bodies against the other.

At no point, even as they held each other in a way no two people who wanted to call themselves simply friends ought to, could Anthony find it in himself to regret any of it. They rolled their hips, and bit their lips and grunted into each other’s skin and touched and touched and touched their way to pleasure.

And then there was wonderful, easy peace.

When he woke up the next morning and registered the cold, empty bed that only he occupied, Anthony also realised two things.

One: he was not, in fact, the single straight Bridgerton.

And two: he was going to fucking kill Simon.

Finding Simon when he tried to run away from him wasn’t incredibly difficult. Despite whatever accusations other people liked to throw at him for being tall, dark and mysterious, Anthony knew better. Simon didn’t have many places he viewed as places of comfort, and those he did have he treasured well.

It was easiest to stop by Mondrich’s first - his gym, and then his flat - which were both on the way to Simon’s own place. He’d found Simon at neither but Will at the second, after barging past Alice who opened the door to him.

“I hate your fucking friends,” she’d muttered to her husband.

“He’s not my friend,” Anthony heard Will reply, as they both watched him storm about their flat, ducking into rooms like he owned the place.

“He’s not here,” Anthony said when he returned to the living room, the question coming out more like a statement.

“I’m going to guess you mean Simon?” Alice asked, before Will had the chance to. “No. But I could have told you that at the door. Saved you some time?”

“You would have lied,” Anthony dismissed her. Luckily or not, she was used to how he was and rolled her eyes, taking a seat back on the sofa with her back to him - just as well, because Anthony didn’t have time for apologies.

“Have you seen him?”

“No,” Will told him. “What have you done this time?”

Anthony pulled a face and jerked his head.

“Who says I had to do something?”

Still not looking at him, Alice snorted loudly. Will, as ever, was a little more patient.

“If you’re looking for him and he’s not looking for you,” he explained with a shrug, “I tend to be able to put together who has pissed off who each time.”

“Right.” Anthony wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information. So he just asked: “Have we always acted like such a married couple?”

And even though he’d been the one to pose the question, the way Will and Alice answered with a simultaneous and instantaneous “Yes,” he couldn’t help but be a little offended. He was actually starting to be a little bit fucked off that he was apparently the last person to know about all this, despite being one of the two people actively involved in…whatever they were. Them.

“Will said I wasn’t allowed to suggest you get couple’s therapy,” Alice said over Anthony’s mounting frustration. “But I’m tired of being your marriage counsellor for free. I want reparations.”

“Alice,” Will warned in a low voice, but Anthony was done there either way.

“If I sort this by tomorrow, I’ll buy you dinner,” Anthony said, his mind already halfway across London.

“An expensive one!” Alice shouted after him running back out of the door.

“Fine!”

With Will and Alice both crossed off the list, Anthony had to assume Simon had decided to retreat into his own company; and it was why, even when no-one answered when Anthony first rang the bell to be let into his apartment, he did not give up.

He had left him five voicemails before Simon gave up and buzzed him in.

“You’re an annoying little prick,” was Simon’s greeting when he opened the door to him. Anthony did not wait to be invited in and did not acknowledge this insult, because he had his own thing that he had been raring to shout at him since he woke up that morning in his own unique rage.

Stood in the middle of Simon’s kitchen, his hands on his hips, Anthony finally let loose.

“Did you know?” Anthony demanded. “This entire fucking time, did you know that’s what this was?”

He didn’t have to explain the this. He didn’t even have to gesture to the air between them, to the way from their very first meeting the energy between them had been teetering on the edge of something. Hatred, had been Anthony’s first and only guess - the volatile crackle of heat that accompanied half of their interaction had been as fun as it had been terrifying, and Anthony had always assumed it was their fine line between friendship and enmity.

It had always struck him that the firmest friendship of his life had been the strangest, but he had figured that was what had also made it the strongest. The unstable line that they still insisted on upholding a testament to the regard that they held for one another - a respect for the individual holding up the other side of the relationship they carried with one another, regardless of the passionate, unwieldy, stormy personalities that could threaten to ruin it.

But that hadn’t been it at all. Perhaps once, but not now - and not for some time. And as Simon continued to just stare at him in a painful silence, Anthony had all the answers he needed. He’d been the only one to not know what was being written between the lines.

“You complete git,” he spat. Simon didn’t even flinch, and Anthony began to pace.

“I guess you think it’s funny to have me in the dark?” he asked, all bitterness. “I suppose you had a laugh at how stupid I am.”

Simon had still not blinked away from him. “Not at all.”

“And this weekend?”

“Hurt.” Simon said, simple and short. “It hurt.”

Anthony paused in his nervous prowl. He had wanted Simon to bite back like he usually did, to meet him in his anger so they could fight it out of their systems. This Simon, subdued and hurt, sapped out all the anger in Anthony in an instant.

He swallowed heavily. “I don’t like being made to look like a fool.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t - “ Anthony stuttered, coming to a complete standstill. “And you didn’t want to - “

“Didn’t want to lose the first family I ever had?” Simon shook his head. “No.”

Something Anthony had never known was there had a grip around his heart; as it twisted, his chest ached.

“But then,” he said, his voice gravelly. “We…”

Simon gave him a sad smile. “We,” he repeated.

They fell into silence, staring intently at each other.

“We can pretend it didn’t happen if you want,” Simon said eventually, still not breaking away. “Probably better.”

And all of a sudden, Anthony’s anger was back as swiftly as if it had never left him.

“What the fuck?” he asked, horrified. “Why would we do that?”

“Because - “ Simon blinked, just as angrily confused. “Anthony, you just forced your way into my flat to fight with me about it!”

“Because you ran off like you always do, you tosser!” he shouted. “And I told you, I don’t like being made an idiot!”

“I wasn’t making fun of you!” Simon shouted back.

“Yes, I bloody know that now, don’t I!”

The way Simon was breathing at him - laboured and angry, looking at him like his presence just inherently pissed him off - he looked like he had last night, Anthony realised. It was the same look when he was above him and pinning his hands above his head, and before he’d taken his cock in his hand.

“But you let me feel guilty about it,” Anthony said, his voice tight. “Even knowing this is how it was.”

Simon scoffed. “Yes, that was something I had power over - you deciding you wanted to feel bad about yourself. I was trying to fucking help you - I didn’t mean to - ”

When he trailed off, he looked very much like words had got stuck in his throat, and Anthony had to actively fight against the instinct to reach out and help coax them out.

He wasn’t mad at Simon, really - he could only be mad at himself. How had he missed this - the rush of affection and frustration all in one that amounted to a more his mind would never let him put a name to.

“I’m just really annoyed,” Anthony began slowly, his jaw aching with this rush of barely contained lust. Simon opened his mouth to retort, but Anthony couldn’t let him, not now. “I’m annoyed only now knowing that all those times I wanted to punch you in your stupid face I also wanted to kiss you.”

Whatever Simon had been expecting him to say, it clearly hadn’t been that.

“You,” he didn’t finish his sentence, his mouth hanging open a little.

Anthony didn’t reply. He just surged across the room, took his friend’s face in his hands and did as he always should have done.

To say it had only been a few hours since they’d been rolling around in Anthony’s bed - and a few hours before that they’d even had their first kiss altogether - there was some new quality to this kiss that made it feel like it was their very first. It held all the thrill of something novel and exciting right alongside to warmth of nostalgic comfort - as if all at once Anthony was making new discoveries at Simon’s lips, yet also intrinsically knowing how it ought to feel to have Simon’s tongue swirling against his own, to have Simon’s teeth bite at his lower lip, to have his hands roaming across his back.

“I did sometimes also want to punch you,” Anthony gave himself a moment to say, eventually pulling away far enough to speak.

Simon laughed around catching his breath. “It’s mutual,” he whispered, capturing Anthony’s lips into more desperate kisses. “It’s mutual.”

“Always was mutual,” Anthony sighed into him, and when Simon’s fingers tugged at his hair, his mind went blissfully blank.

He wanted to be in bed with him again - now he’d opened the door for himself, Anthony couldn’t stop the flood of intense feeling that came with it. He wanted to feel Simon’s mouth swallow him down again and he wanted to know what it was like to do the same. He wanted to taste every inch of him, and be pinned down and fight back, and bite and lick and challenge him to be put back in his place.

“I was lying about your arse,” Simon groaned, when Anthony had grabbed both his hands and moved them down, until they were grabbing at his bum in a way he could now admit made his legs weak and his dick ache. “I just couldn’t stop touching it. It’s annoyingly perfect, actually.”

Anthony let out a whine he’d never admit to if asked about it later. “Then don’t stop.”

For one of the first times in Anthony’s memory, Simon actually did as he told him to.

Later - much later - after Anthony had enthusiastically returned the favour and was getting used to the unfamiliar ache of his jaw, he turned to find Simon watching him. His stare was careful still, in his own very Simon way. Anthony was not sure how much more plain he could make it, laying naked as the day he was born, hair askew, lips swollen and shiny, and with what he was sure was drying come that he missed somewhere on his chest - but what he did know was that he was done with living life in a grey area.

“Simon?”

“Yes?” he replied quickly. He was nervous, Anthony realised - there was an almost tremor to the single word response.

“In the interest of avoiding misunderstanding from here on out,” Anthony said, emphatic. “I was wrong. I really am not the token straight Bridgerton.”

And thank God, Simon laughed.

“Yeah,” he said, his smile so bright it reflected up into his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

Next year at his mother’s birthday weekend, Simon found himself a Bridgerton guest once again.

He still called Anthony Pumpkin in an effort to annoy him, and it still made him incandescently angry whenever he did. They still slipped their feet around each other’s ankles sat next to one another at the dinner table, and every touch to the thigh or shoulder was accompanied with a heated look of a challenge being thrown down.

Simon even still slapped his arse every time Anthony left a room, and sometimes even when he wasn’t, and Anthony still flushed a deep, satisfying red nearly every time he did.

But it was different, too.

He wasn’t the only guest, for one. Francesca’s Michelle, and Eloise’s Philippa made an appearance, though all the girls seemed too shy and reticent to admit to being more than friends when the weekend began, despite it being obvious that they were anything but simply friends. Less concerned with hiding their feelings in front of the family were Daphne and her Kate, who had barely let go of one another’s hands from the minute they stepped out of the car on arrival and were disgustingly affectionate, to Anthony’s brotherly horror.

“Gross,” Anthony had whispered to his sister one sunny afternoon, unable to help himself when he’d seen them kissing and refusing to come up for air.

“Bite me,” she had retorted, with a winning smile. And then, just for good measure, “Hypocrite.”

He supposed that was mostly what had changed since last year. He watched with some affection as across the lawn, as Simon held court with Benedict and Sophie: Sophie, who was attending her first event after coming out herself, and whose fingers had been nervously fiddling at the edges of her new dress until Benedict had leaned across and linked their pinkies together. Simon, determined to be helpful and keep her at ease, had made a point to tell her, “They’re only intimidating because there’s a lot of them. But I promise it’s easier to be yourself with the Bridgertons than you think.”

That change - the lack of pretence - that was what made this year different.

That and the fact that even as embarrassed as he still was by it, Anthony had also given up on telling Simon off for being so obviously enamoured with his arse in public.

He conceded that it was, after all, what boyfriends do.