Chapter Text
friday night - the point of no return
Two seagulls are fighting over a discarded box of takeout on a park bench, taking turns to swoop at each other in between bouts of angry squawking. Simon is transfixed by the display, to the point that it has completely pulled him out of the low-stakes conversation amongst his co-workers. Why would he listen to Graves’ drunkenly ranting about helicopter parents when there is some prime avian excellence to be witnessed?
It’s that magical time of day when it’s both late at night and early in the morning. The sun has set and is already crawling back over the horizon, throwing an eerie dark-pink light over the outdoor seating.
The buzz of the crowd around them is finally starting to wind down – the pub has been packed since they first arrived, many hours ago.
They are here to celebrate the end of the school year, and to get drunk and vent about all the bullshit that has gone down since last summer. Budget cuts, annoying guardians, annoying students, listing their suspects for who’s stealing labelled food from the break room fridge, that sort of thing.
There are five people left in their party, excluding himself. Maybe. Simon is a bit too drunk to do the math right now. He is more invested in the outcome of the bird fight that is happening across the street than the people currently present.
The heat lamps are on, a quiet hum layered over all the other noise, uncaring of the searingly hot summer that has just begun. A summer that shows no sign of slowing down, much to Simon’s chagrin.
He wipes away the beads of sweat that have been gathering on his forehead with the back of his hand. The tacky feeling that’s left behind on his skin has him visibly cringing.
“Y’know, Riley, you chose the wrong line of work for someone who hates being sweaty as much as you do,” someone quips. Simon is not sure who, incapable of pinpointing which direction their voice is coming from. All he knows is that, right now, he hates them more than he has ever hated anyone in his life. They sling their arm over his shoulder, and he has to fight the urge to slide away from the touch.
“Don’t care ‘bout sweat, jus’ don’t like being warm,” he mumbles. All the noise and the people and the alcohol is starting to get to him, making a sizable dent in his patience for normal human interaction. It’s high time he makes himself scarce, but he is held back by a thought that’s poking at the back of his mind, a feeling of something missing.
Someone.
“I got something that’ll cool you down,” a voice rumbles pleasantly in his ears.
A glass of water is placed in front of him. When it makes impact with the wood, the ice cubes inside clack together. Restless fingers covered in faded paint stains tap against the opaque surface, body heat making the condensation drip, sliding down onto the coaster and warping the cheap cardboard.
Kind blue eyes look down at Simon, and a smile blind him. “Drink up, yeah? I don’t wanna deal with your hungover bitching tomorrow.”
Standing next to him is Johnny. Or John MacTavish, if he’s feeling proper. Which he absolutely isn’t. There is already another John on the staff, and he has been working there for way longer than MacTavish has. That gives him sole ‘John’ privileges based on seniority alone, if you ask Simon.
Besides, Johnny is an art teacher, and thus has already renounced all propriety by virtue of his profession. It’s barely a step above being a gym teacher. In fact, Simon would go so far as to claim that gym teachers are better than art teachers. Though, that might just be his persistent need to one-up Johnny that is talking.
Simon is well aware that he’s not everyone’s favourite. P.E. is a shitty subject for a lot of students for a lot of reasons, which he does his all to accommodate for. But Simon is, for what it’s worth, damn good at what he does.
He has made a name for himself by being a good shoulder to lean on for the runts of the litter. It makes sense, seeing as he used to be one of them when he was their age. He knows how to be sympathetic without coming across and condescending. Not so much you can achieve anything with hard work and a good attitude, and more learn to work within your own limitations and you’ll find that you are more competent than you might think.
The glass is a pleasant balm on his overheated skin as he downs half of it in one go, knowing better than to defy Johnny’s orders. Some of it misses his mouth and ends up dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt.
“I don’t bitch,” Simon protests.
Johnny cards his wet fingers through Simon’s hair, tugging his head to rest against a firm chest and patting his cheek. “Yeah, you do. You’re the biggest fucking baby on the planet when you’re hungover.”
Graves wolf whistles, and the same idiot that had their arm around him before Johnny came and rescued him cracks a tired old joke, telling them to get a room.
Simon is overcome with the urge to remind them all that they already live together, and if he is so inclined, he can and will crawl into Johnny’s bed whenever he feels like it.
Turns out he doesn’t have to do anything, because Johnny balls up a napkin and launches it at the funny guy, hitting them in the head. Smiling widely, Simon turns his face further into the soft swell of Johnny’s chest, trying to block out some of the external stimuli that’s starting to feel like someone is pinching his brain.
The two of them have been rooming together for close to four years. It happened on a whim, when Johnny’s last relationship mysteriously fell apart. The break-up was mutual, Simon knows that much at least.
After his partner moved out, Johnny spent most of his free time outside of class moping about, and when Simon eventually got sick of seeing his pathetic sad face, he offered up his guest room.
It was meant to be a temporary arrangement, until Johnny found a new place that could reasonably be paid for by one person. ‘The guest room’ turned into ‘Johnny’s room’ less than a month in, and he started paying half the rent shortly thereafter.
For as long as they have known each other, they’ve had to weather their fair share of jokes about them dating, fucking, or some arcane combination of both, from everyone around them. It’s all in good jest – no one is pointing a finger at them and calling them disgusting.
But if Simon is honest with himself, the jokes do get under his skin sometimes, for entirely different reasons. It’s an unwelcome reality check, a reminder that he and Johnny aren’t actually together, no matter how much he would like them to be.
You see, Simon may have a bit of a… he doesn’t really want to call it a crush. That seems a bit too childish a term to be using at the ripe old age of 37.
It is absolutely a crush though.
Johnny is an unbearably attractive goofball with a Scottish accent, and Simon is a young-ish man with eyes and a fairly active libido. Of course he has the hots for Johnny.
It only got worse when he started to share a living space with the man, giving Simon a first row seat to all of Johnny’s peculiarities. Like the way he treats their cast-iron pan like it’s his first born, or how he’s seemingly physically incapable of sneezing less than twice in a row.
Let’s not forget how Johnny has the fucking audacity to wander through the apartment freshly out of the shower, with only a small towel slung around his hips. Each time Simon spots the small chub of his stomach, and those hairy pecs dripping with water, his lifespan shortens drastically.
Johnny is always so fucking kind, filled with love for everything around him, and Simons hear threatens to beat out of his chest whenever that love is directed at him. He calls Simon some variety of handsome multiple times a week (the high score is five times in one day. Not that he keeps count), he gives out endless amounts of physical affection, and he is fiercely supportive without being afraid of calling Simon out on his bullshit.
So, taking all of this and more into consideration, how could he not have a crush on Johnny? It’s just not possible.
Simon lets his mind drift off, listening to the conversation that has started back up, not taking any of it in. He is busy, unsubtly staring at Johnny while everyone is distracted.
His shirt is partially unbuttoned, revealing the slight dip at the base of his throat, a tan chest, perspiration giving his skin a glittery sheen. Simon wants to trace his fingers along Johnny’s clavicles, and he has to shove his hands under his thighs to hold himself back.
Being so up close and personal with Johnny’s soft, well-loved shirt, smelling of spicy day-old cologne, sweat, and turpentine does something to Simon that he refuses to acknowledge right now. He is too drunk and too comfy to let himself feel guilty over a friendly snuggle.
Someone must have said something funny, because Johnny’s chest is bouncing a bit. Lips brush up against the side of his head, whispering that it is time to go, and then his pillow disappears.
Ticklish hands slide under his armpits, hosting him out of his seat before leaving him again. The lack of extra support has Simon listing forwards, and Johnny manhandles him a bit, guiding Simon into slinging an arm over his shoulders and leaning up against him. For the first time in his life, he wishes he was shorter, so he could comfortably hide his face in Johnny’s neck again.
They say their goodbyes (and by ‘they’, he means Johnny, because Simon is too busy trying to remain upright to speak), wishing the other staff members a nice summer, and then Johnny is guiding him out of the pub.
The summer night is stuffy – it drapes itself over his body and blocks off his pores, slow-cooking his insides until they become a uniform sludge. Sharing body heat becomes too much for Simon, and he reluctantly pulls away from Johnny, exposing damp patches of fabric and skin where they were pressed together.
He really needs to start looking into moving to antarctica.
The walk to their flat is a long one, but it beats paying for a taxi, and it gives them both a chance to sober up a bit.
Johnny’s shoelaces untie themselves at some point. They make a game out of Simon trying to step on them, their laughs echoing down the empty streets whenever Simon stamps his foot down and sends Johnny stumbling.
“God, you’re fucking relentless,” Johnny chuckles. He’s leaning up against a wall, trying to catch his breath after a failed attempt to dash away from Simon. He didn’t make it very far before he lost his balance and crashed shoulder first into some asshole’s fancy brick fencing.
Simon catches up to him with a few long strides. “You’d run faster if you did some cardio every now and then. Hell, you might even end up outrunning me if you keep at it long enough,” he says, unabashedly staring at the droplets of sweat that are making their way down Johnny’s throat.
“I do cardio!” Johnny yells. He is far too loud for the time of day. Simon is surprised that no one has told them to shut up yet. “That’s not the problem. Stop trying to fuckin’... teacher me.”
“Yeah? What’s the problem then?”
“My fucking shoelaces, dickhead. I could have tripped and cracked my head open.”
“Guess we should do something about that then.”
Later on, Simon will wonder where the sudden bravery came from, as he finds himself kneeling in front of Johnny, his fingers tangling with the off-white laces. Turns out to be kind of difficult to tie a knot when you’re drunk and overheating. He eventually manages to form two bunny ears that he can tie together, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration.
He’s about to say something when he looks up at Johnny, and he immediately forgets what was on his mind. His throat is too dry to speak anyway.
Johnny’s cheeks are flushed, the red trailing down his neck and slipping under the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, all the way down to his heaving chest. His hooded eyes are locked on Simon’s lips, and his hands are pressed flat into the wall behind him. A subtle tremor is running through his body.
Simon is this close to shoving his face into Johnny’s crotch, wanting to lick his cock through the fabric of his pants and saturate his mouth with his taste. But alarms are blaring inside of his head, some part of him that isn't all heat drunk is screaming; you’re both wasted, he’s your co-worker and roommate, it’s not worth the fallout.
His hands have started to slide up Johnny’s shin, wiry hair rasping pleasantly against his palms, and he rips them away before they can reach truly dangerous territory. He looks back down, giving the toe of Johnny’s sneakers a little pat. “There, all better now,” he says in a stilted voice.
Johnny shakes his head, confused. “Why are you talking to my shoe?”
Simon ignores him and gets up.
As he is struggling to get his feet underneath himself, he scrapes one of his knees into the pavement. He can’t stop the hiss of pain.
A few stray pieces of gravel stick to his skin. He brushes them off, the rocks clicking quietly as they trickle back down on the ground. There’s a few spots of blood welling up in the biggest grooves, but aside from that it looks alright.
Johnny still screws up his face in sympathy.
“We should keep going,” Simon mumbles, already on the move again.
“Aye,” Johnny sighs somewhere behind him. He sounds disappointed. Simon would like to think that it’s because he isn’t getting his dick sucked. Or more specifically, because Simon isn’t sucking his dick.
They have known each other for so long, been close for so long, that Johnny would have said something by now if he was interested. He has never held back on anything else, and Simon can’t see why the topic of their relationship would be any different. The only conclusion Simon can come to is that Johnny simply isn’t into him like that.
Which is fine. He really means that.
Johnny is important to him. Having Johnny as a friend is better than not having Johnny at all.
Things are still awkward when Simon gets their door unlocked. Johnny gives him a pat on the back before disappearing into his room, and Simon does the same, falling face first into his bed. He did have plans to take a long and cold shower, but now he’s both drunk and sad, and the only thing he wants to do is sleep.
—
saturday
He is hungover as fuck when he is rudely awoken by Johnny bursting into his room, bringing gifts in the form om water and ibuprofen. It’s too early, and he is annoying chipper about it all. He barely even complains when Simon launches his pillow at him.
“C’mon Si, it’s summer! It’s time to let our hair down and go wild!” Johnny coos in a disgustingly saccharine voice that makes Simon’s skin crawl. He can’t help but imagine Johnny using that tone in a different context.
Groaning, Simon wishes he hadn’t used his pillow as a projectile. He needs to hide. He’s all too exposed, left feeling like Johnny can see his thoughts.
His blanket is on the floor, where it has been since the beginning of June, and the only clothes on his body are his boxers. He could turn over on his stomach, but Johnny loves to amuse himself by slapping Simon’s arse whenever the opportunity arises – some bit about locker rooms that stopped being a bit for Simon the second time it happened – and he has not been awake for long enough to be able to deal with Johnny’s hands on him.
He ends up gesturing for Johnny to hand him the painkillers, before he tells him to piss off. Johnny thankfully listens to him. His door is left cracked open, the smell of bacon wafting through. It makes his stomach turn with hunger.
First he has to deal with the gross and tacky sensation of old sweat, so he drags himself to his bathroom and into the shower. As he is lathering up, he notices that his right knee is throbbing painfully, and all of last night comes crashing down on him in one go. He tilts his head back, takes a deep breath, counts all the small flaps of peeling paint that are hanging from the ceiling – there’s 14 of them – and exhales again.
Deal with the pain first.
His knee is all swollen and tender to the touch, a cluster of small cuts covered with barely solid scabs that seem to be more pus than blood. It looks fucking disgusting.
He thoroughly cleans it with disinfectant, waiting for the alcohol to evaporate before he slaps a band aid over it. The band aid is meant for children, covered in photos of various puppies, because Johnny insists that wounds heal better if the plasters look cute. Simon finds it too endearing to tell him how stupid that is.
Although, Simon might have to give some credence to Johnny’s theory, as the wound has healed back up in a matter of days, and he completely forgets about it.
What he does not forget is getting on his knees for his roommate. In fact, every night he dreams up some new variation of that night.
(Clasping his hands around the back of Simon’s head, Johnny guides his cock down Simon’s throat, until he is nuzzling up against his stomach. The potent smell of him has Simon moaning in content. A fumbling first thrust sets off his gag reflex, forcing out a flood of spit around the intrusion. Johnny ignores Simon’s gagging and starts fucking his throat without mercy.
That might be his favourite.
If you are allowed to have a favourite wet dream about your best friend, that is.)
Simon can’t push those scenarios out of his head once he’s awake, and it takes less than a day to turn into a real fucking problem, when those scenarios are the first thing that pop up in his brain when he gets a hand on his dick. For as long as he’s been aware of his attraction to Johnny, he has had a general policy to never get off to thoughts about the man. Because once he starts, he won’t be able to stop.
It would open the floodgates to the millions of other inappropriate thoughts that he has buried deep in the recesses of his mind, and then he won’t be able to look Johnny in the eyes ever again.
Initially, he tries to ward off the fantasies by watching porn. That only results in Simon mentally replacing the actors with himself and Johnny.
After that meagre attempt, the only solution Simon can think of is to just… not jerk off.
It shouldn’t be that hard. He was never a once-a-day kind of guy anyway.
Sure, he’s not immune to morning wood, and sometimes the easiest way to relieve some stress – Simon is, above all else, a very stressed out man – is to tenderly fuck your own brains out.
Lucky for him then, that masturbation isn’t his only source of stress relief.
He’s got the gym, for example.
He’s been planning to bulk up a bit since the beginning of the year, and now is as good a time as any to get started. It’ll provide him with some much needed distraction. The gym that he goes to has a nice strong air con that will help him keep cool. And, he’ll see Johnny less, which should, maybe, hold the dreams at bay somewhat.
—
wednesday - first week of summer
It’s a few days later, and they’re spread out on the comfortable but ugly leather couch that Johnny insisted would look great in their living room.
The TV is on, neither of them really paying it any attention. Some news reporter is droning on about record high temperatures. Simon tells them to shut the fuck up under his breath.
He knows it’s warm. He thinks he might be actively dying because it’s so fucking warm.
Sleep has been hard to come by, the heat and the constant sheen of sweat that’s covering his body too distracting to relax. On the rare occasions that he does manage to doze off for a while, dreams of Johnny’s hands and mouth slither around his body, choking him out with silken tendrils.
Today he woke up at 5 am, having slept on and off since midnight, with his pillow trapped between his thighs and his cunt throbbing angrily.
He must have been grinding against his pillow for a while. A wet spot had formed where it was pushed against his crotch, and he was so, so close.
The dream came back to him in fragments, bringing phantom hands that wormed their way between his lips and prodded at his slick hole. Nonsense, sweet and poisonous, dripping into his ears; Won’t you please ride your pillow like you want to ride me? I bet you look so good when you cum. Don’t hold back, keep going, just like that.
It took a good while for his body to back down from the edge, but he stayed frozen in his bed, afraid that he would set himself off if he moved even a finger. During that time he resigned himself to an early morning. Once he had calmed down enough to move, he quietly ate some breakfast before he slipped out the door to go work off his frustration at the gym.
Simon is man enough to admit that his self-imposed celibacy isn’t really helping his situation at all. It might in fact be making everything worse.
He had to stop halfway through his second set of squats, when the additional blood flow to his legs made his dick twitch. It’s hard to keep good form when all you want to do is drop the barbell, straddle it, and rub against it until you cum. If he had been alone, he might have gone for it.
He’s still in his gym clothes, a tank top and a ratty old pair of red shorts that are falling apart at the seams. The ever present sweat is soaking through the fabric, leaving stains under his armpits and along his back and making it cling to his body. He’s aimed a fan right at himself, running at full blast, though it’s not doing much to cool him down.
Johnny seems to be faring a bit better. He looks positively thriving, in fact, laying there in nothing but a band shirt and briefs. The sleeves hug tightly around his biceps, and his thighs squish out a bit under his own weight. He looks so fucking soft and squeezable that Simon thinks he might cry.
Simon kind of did that to himself.
When Johnny first moved in, Simon quickly realised that the man had some really shitty eating habits. He repeatedly watched as Johnny lost track of time while he worked on lesson plans or painted, missing almost every meal of the day. Then, when the evening came around, he would shuffle into Simon’s room and complain about a headache.
“When’s the last time you ate something?” he’d ask, and Johnny would let out a breathy ‘oh’ in understanding.
Simon started simple, throwing granola bars at Johnny whenever it seemed like too much time had passed since his last meal. Then he scaled up to insisting that they eat breakfast together. Eventually, Johnny started helping out with dinner, discovering a hidden love for cooking, and the rest took care of itself from there on out.
With his help, Johnny gained a slight softness around his edges, Simon feeling the progress every time they hugged. The additional pounds look good on Johnny. There’s a healthy glow to him that wasn’t there before, and it’s there now because he’s got Simon to help take care of him. It makes his heart soar whenever he thinks about it.
But, in helping his friend take better care of himself, Simon also created a problem for himself. Nothing could have prepared him for how much he likes the way it looks, and Johnny isn’t exactly shy when it comes to his own undressed body, meaning that Simon gets to look very often.
Like right now, when Johnny stretches himself out further, grunting as a few of his joints pop. His shirt slides up and reveals a sliver of his stomach, a red mark under his belly button where his belt must have been digging into the skin. Simon is bombarded with the imagined sensation of the hairs there tickling his nose. Or his dick. Or anywhere, really.
The first stretch clearly wasn’t enough to set everything right, because the little bastard is raising his arms above his head again, fingertips skimming against Simon’s thigh, this time arching his back as he goes. The curve of it should be illegal.
Simon throws an arm over his face to stop himself from looking. He needs to cool down, both figuratively and literally, so he begins the painstaking process of unpeeling himself from the couch, swearing quietly as the leather tugs at his skin.
“I don’t recall you being this bad last summer,” Johnny says. His shirt is still askew, more and more skin being revealed as he wiggles into the newly freed up space.
“Last summer was a fucking ice age compared to this. It’s not gone below 25 for the past two weeks. How are you still solid matter?”
“Don’t ask me. You’re the physics teacher.”
“Phys. ed.”
“Yeah, ‘s what I said,” Johnny grins.
Simon pinches the exposed skin of Johnny’s belly, helpless against the siren call, before he storms off to take his second cold shower in under five hours.
—
Summer is meant to be his sanctuary. Two months of no work and no obligations. It should be great, in theory. In practice though, summer sucks because Simon’s body can’t deal with the heat for more than a few minutes without him turning into an itchy, overheated mess of a man.
He has been like this for as long as he can remember.
Overheating so easily sucks. A lot. Especially when you live in a place with notoriously shitty weather, where everyone and their dog starts frothing at the mouth at the mere mention of a sunny day.
Everyone except for Simon.
He has accepted his lot in life as The Great Summer Spoil Sport that ruins beach day by refusing to participate in any activities, preferring to hide under an umbrella the entire time for the sake of his own well being.
He knows how to make it more bearable at this point in his life. Plenty of water, air conditioning, and a steady stream of showers and popsicles keeps him from repeatedly getting heat strokes. He lets his entire life slow down to a glacial pace, tries to hold off on power walking wherever he’s going. And usually, that will be enough to tide him over.
Something is off this time around, because despite taking all of his usual measures to keep cool, he is still burning up.
So far, this has been the worst summer since the heatwave that struck the year he turned 14, when he still refused to wear anything but hoodies or sweaters. Now he can at least wear shorts and a tank top without wanting to sink into the ground.
In spite of that major improvement, he finds himself slowly evaporating. Everything in his life is feeding into a steady fire that has roared to life within him, turning his insides to ashes and leaving him strangely empty.
It’s making him hunger. He’s just not sure what for.
—
Simon spends the rest of his Wednesday eating his way through their kitchen, trying to figure out what it is that he’s craving, without any luck. Nothing even comes close. All the while Johnny keeps sneaking glances at him, like he thinks Simon is being weird.
Later that night, Johnny makes shepherd’s pie for dinner, maybe in the hopes that some sturdy food will make Simon settle down and stop stealing all his snacks.
It doesn’t help at all, but Simon appreciates the intention nonetheless.
—
sunday – first week of summer
Ever since Johnny moved out of his childhood home, he has made sure to go and visit his family, both during the winter and during the summer.
They’re in Johnny’s bedroom, getting everything organised before his train tomorrow. Simon isn’t doing anything, he’s just there to keep Johnny company so that he actually finishes packing.
While he’s folding his clothes and laying them out on his bed, Johnny chats animatedly about the hike they’re planning, and his nan’s cooking, and his brother’s new dog that he’s finally going to meet, the list goes on. He keeps running out of breath partway through his sentences, like an overly excited kid.
While it all sounds nice, it also sounds exhausting. Not much of a vacation, in Simon’s opinion. But he’s staying home, so he’s not going to complain.
Simon is sitting on the floor, tracing his fingers along the patterns in the wood grain, occasionally making a questioning noise or an agreeing hum to make the conversation seem a bit less one-sided. Not that he actually minds. He doesn’t really want to interrupt Johnny at all, could listen to him talk for days.
As Johnny starts wrapping up, it’s time for another important part of his traditional home visit: trying to convince Simon to come with him.
“When was the last time you went on a vacation? You could do with some sun, you’re pale as a ghost.”
“Ah yes, the sun. That thing that I famously love.” Simon rolls his eyes. “I can soak up some sun here, in the comfort of my own home.”
“A change in scenery might be nice though.” Johnny probably has a point there. It all looks very picturesque whenever he shows Simon photos, but…
“I’d also be trapped with a bunch of strangers for an entire week.”
“I’ll still be there. I wouldn’t just throw you to the wolves like that. And you’ve already met Renée. You two got along like a house on fire.”
“Of course we did. She’s a much nicer, housetrained version of you. What’s not to love?”
“Aye. Now imagine an entire family like that. Sounds great if you ask me.”
I’m not asking, Simon thinks bitterly. He knows he’s being unfair, and that Johnny is trying to show that he cares, but he wishes Johnny would just… stop.
Simon has imagined meeting Johnny’s family many, many times, albeit under different, more hand-holdy circumstances.
He sighs. “I appreciate the offer. You know I do. But I’m just not up for travelling and being around people right now. I need to decompress.” It’s not a complete lie. Simon is an introvert to the nth degree, and he does need his alone time during breaks.
Being around Johnny doesn’t really tire him out at all, not in the way that being around anyone else does. Not having Johnny around tends to tire him out more. There’s always this low-level hum of anxiety ringing in his ears when Johnny isn’t with him.
And while it would be nice to not have to deal with that, Simon doesn’t think he could handle visiting Johnny’s family.
He recalls the day that Renée, Johnny’s older sister showed up at their doorstep. She was attending a conference for work and happened to be in the area, and wanted to see how her brother was holding up. Simon likes her a lot – she was genuinely nice, although it's a bit uncanny how similar she and Johnny are.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t stick around for long. They had just enough time to say hello and show her around the flat.
As they were walking from Johnny’s room to Simon’s, Renée mentioned that she was under the impression that the two of them shared a bed. Johnny told her to fuck off, not unkindly, and then the conversation became too Scottish for Simon to be able to keep up.
He imagines several days filled with small remarks like that, not from friends or co-workers, but from Johnny’s flesh and blood family, who loves and cares about him.
Simon wouldn’t survive a day.
A shadow falls over him, and he looks up to see Johnny standing in front of him. There’s a frown on his face, the one he makes when he is genuinely upset about something. Simon frowns back at him.
“I know you don’t like being alone,” Johnny says after a long silence. It throws Simon off, because this is not a part of the usual script.
He wants to argue that that isn’t really true. Simon doesn’t mind being alone, as long as he knows that Johnny, and only Johnny, isn’t too far away. And it’s not like Johnny is unaware that he is permanently exempt from Simon’s shit list whenever he gets into his withdrawn moods.
There is an implication being made here. One that Simon does not appreciate at all. Maybe it’s Johnny being too much of a coward to say it outright. Or maybe Simon is just reading into things out of pure habit.
“I’ve survived the last two years without you. I think I can manage a third one as well. Hell, I lived on my own for 18 years before you showed up.” It ends out sounding way more aggressive than he wanted it to. It’ll hopefully get the point across, though.
Simon is not going, end of discussion.
Johnny sighs like an old dog. “I’m not saying you’re incapable of taking care of yourself. You’re a grown man, you do whatever you feel is best for you. I just– I worry about you, sometimes. Especially now, with the heat and all. You’ve been a bit… off these past few days.”
“You’re off,” he childishly throws Johnny’s words back in his face.
He knows that he’s been weird, is being weird. He’s living it 24 fucking.
It’s a concoction of several things he knows well; he’s warm, he can’t sleep, he’s feeling restless, he’s hungry all the fucking time. Addressing these issues separately has done fuck all, and he doesn’t know what the putrid thing that they have merged into is supposed to be, or what he is supposed to do about it.
Everything is overwhelming. The only thing he can focus on is how annoyed he is, at everything and everyone. He needs to put an end to this and get out of here, before it all bubbles into anger. It wouldn’t be fair to blow up at Johnny when he is only trying to be nice.
But it appears that he already has, because Johnny slumps a bit, shrugging in defeat. “I’m– whatever. Sorry I asked.”
Simon pinches the bridge of his nose. He takes a deep breath, trying to force some combination of words out of his mouth that might fix this, before he shuts down completely.
“Look, I’m sorry. I really am. Right now, I just want to stay home and melt in peace. I can come with you next year, okay?” Simon speaks, voice too loud, every syllable tearing at his throat. Johnny isn’t responding, so Simon gets up to leave.
Here, when they’re face to face, Simon can’t help but notice how good Johnny smells, even more so than usual. There is a twinge in his lower stomach, one that he promptly ignores.
“I’m gonna make dinner. I was thinking fried rice and chicken. You good with that?”
“Sounds fine,” Johnny’s tone is all flat. He won’t even look at Simon. Simon has to resist the urge to pull him into a hug, he’s sure it wouldn’t be appreciated right now, even if Johnny looks like he could use one.
Instead, Simon trudges past him, planning on getting lost in the monotony of meal prep.