Chapter Text
Though the existence of a year-wide WhatsApp group was made known to Simon, and an invitation extended, he wisely chose to be kept out of it on grounds of having zero interest in witnessing whatever drama was wont to unfold inside.
“Smart,” Gaz hummed, a neglected football balanced on his laces. “I’ve seen people throw accusations of cheating around on that thing – some people are allergic to DMs, seriously.”
Soap threw his water bottle at Gaz, causing the ball to drop and roll his way. Deft, he flicked it up into hand with his toe, and tossed it to Simon.
“Remember that time I got kicked off because Stella lied about us dating and Christopher got pissed? ”
“Why are you still in it?” Simon asked, a little curious, a lot confused.
“Oh, we’re nae, but that doesn’t mean you’re unwelcome in it if you think it’ll be helpful for gettin’ t’ken folks.”
Simon really couldn’t think of anything worse, and the sentiment showed on his face by way of a pinched mouth and brows rising to kiss his fringe. Soap couldn’t help but laugh at the blatant distaste, and knew they’d found a sensible one.
Other students – mostly fifth and sixth years – were lounging on the grassy slope which led from the gym hall to the playing field, pinking limbs splayed on uniform blazers laid out like blankets. Unconcerned with revision and studies just yet, the only textbooks out were being used as fans, and water bottles glinted from within the lush carpet of bluegrass like jewels. Alex, Farah, and Roach were migrating from their usual bench to the field, leaving behind a mountain of bags for an optimistic blackbird to poke through in search of crumbs from lunch. Nearby, a gaggle of girls were sitting in a circle with their lunches spread between them. Among them, a particular head of bleach-blonde hair straightened to a ruler caught Soap’s eye, and he lamented any guarantee of a peaceful break.
Simon passed the ball to Gaz with a safe inside-left, who initiated the game of keepieup with an easy flick up caught with his knee then delivered on the next dip using his toe to Soap. Farah slipped in, stealing a pass meant for Gaz and sent it overhead to a waiting Roach. Alex, whom Simon hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting, snuck in at Simon’s left to make introductions.
“Alex Keller, it’s a pleasure.”
The mussed sandy hair sticking up in places like wayward feathers stirred a sense of recognition in Simon, and he squinted as though narrowing his vision might help streamline the focus of his memories.
“Oh shit, I’m so sorry I didn’t recognise you – physics with Dr. Omondi, right?” Simon rambled, embarrassed, and feeling more than a little ashamed that in his haste to escape attention he’d – albeit unintentionally – overlooked a friend of Soap’s the other day. “You were sitting the next bench over, behind the gas mains pipe, same one as Farah. I’m Simon – sorry for not catching you earlier.”
Alex didn’t seem to mind Simon being slow at pinning down the familiarity, rather more surprised at being remembered despite not sharing any words at the point of encounter. His eyes, a clear-cut grey like the school building’s granite, widened subtly at the apology like it wasn’t owed.
“Dude, don’t sweat it – you learn names and faces quick around here.”
There was a faint foreign twinge to Alex’s accent, one that pitched his vowels higher and gave his r s a bolder silhouette. American, if Simon were to guess. Seemed all sorts managed to find themselves at this little village, obscure to all but its residents and those looking for an escape. Americans usually stuck to cities where there was oil, or buying up holiday cottages in remote tourist hotspots for an extra source of income, and the English weren’t much different in that regard.
Every time the ball came his way Simon’s heart did an awkward skip in anticipation of him fucking the volley up, even though the focus and constant movement helped the nerves left over from history to abate.
This exercise reinforced his impression that Soap and the others were widely well-liked – popular, even, despite the outwardly small size of their group. Being brought into the fold was surely temporary, just something to help get his feet under him in this new setting. Then, they’d be back to the security of their norm, without him to compromise the dynamic nor their standing upon inevitably getting found out.
He fumbled an awkward pass once, catching it more with his shoulder than chest, but no one sneered or jostled him or tried to heckle him out of playing for it – the game merely resumed, and no one was perfect nor expected it of each other; he settled into an instinctual rhythm, controlling his touches and passing in easy arcs across the circle, scarcely noticing whenever someone unfamiliar joined the circle. An unfamiliar boy passed long and Simon let the ball fall behind him, catching it with his heel before it could hit the grass and sending it right back up over his shoulder to the guy who’d squeezed in between him and Alex at some stage.
Surrounded as he was with good players, Soap still couldn’t help but watch, transfixed, as Simon worked the ball like it came as easy as breathing. On the rare occasion one touch wasn’t enough, he’d take two more at most to position himself for a direct pass to whomever was lucky enough to be the recipient of such an easy catch. Initially, he’d bite his cheek every time the ball came his way, and Soap could see how the Brit held his breath every time it soared by too close like it would bite. He favoured his left side though it seemed to be his dominant foot, slumped inwards and off-centre like his ribs were giving him trouble and he was curling around his vulnerable core. Something in his right leg was aching, and the joint of his wrist was just a little too sharp, speaking of a break. Soap had to have faith that he’d say if he needed to rest, not wanting to take away Simon’s control over what attention befell him. Alex, likewise, was flagging; that would be requiring an intervention, unless during the summer he’d grown more amenable to taking breaks.
Simon had played on a team once, perhaps, or had just gotten involved in games like this regularly enough to build up immaculate spatial awareness and good ball control. Soap found himself passing to Simon more often, trying to parse out the boundaries of his comfort, but they only seemed to grow broader until Soap could no longer see them.
Someone fumbled the receive of Farah’s tidy but quick pass and the football rolled through a patch of clovers, sending a plume of cotton-winged butterflies exploding upwards in its wake. The copse of pine trees separating the grass football pitch from the dining hall and parking lot swayed with the breeze, needles whispering amongst themselves of the approaching autumn. Underfoot, buttercups and daisies attracted bumblebees which hummed past Soap’s ankles along to the beat of Loch Bhuineadh’s lapping waters nearby.
Alex was looking stiff and a little pale, Simon glancing at the boy’s knee occasionally like he might be able to see whatever it was that hurt.
“Are you okay?” he whispered when the circle dissolved for a water break. “You’ve been limping.”
Alex rubbed the offending leg, and Simon couldn’t help but notice that the fabric draped over his limb in a peculiar way, but didn’t pry.
“Yeah, the humidity just fucks with an old injury of mine. You thirsty, by the way?”
“A little, aye. Why?”
Alex tossed Simon his bottle, and flopped backwards into the grass.
“Take it; I’m sitting the rest out, it’s too damned hot.”
“You sure?”
Alex grinned up at him, making a show of crossing his ankles and getting comfy.
“One-hundred percent.”
Simon took a swig of water and communicated his thanks by way of raised brows, then turned to Soap who had sidled up to his side.
“ Sooo,” the Scot began, still teething at the mouthpiece of his own bottle as he spoke. “You played for the team at your old school?”
Simon planted himself on the ground just shy of Alex’s feet and Soap followed, almost close enough for their knees to touch. He was struck by an inclination to knock them together, just to see how Simon would react, but refrained.
“Naw, only thing I did was running. Didn’t touch the pitch in any proper capacity, beyond P.E..”
“Ugh, wish I knew if you were teasing or not, but you sound too serious,” Soap grumbled, and kicked Alex’s good foot to get the American’s attention.
He peeked up from beneath his arm, which he’d slung over his eyes to keep the sun out.
‘All good?’ Soap tried to communicate with his eyes and a tilt of his head alone, subtle enough that Simon wouldn’t pick up on it (hopefully). Alex shot him a thumbs-up, then went right back to napping. He turned back to Simon then, and froze because this was the closest they’d been yet.
In the sun Simon’s eyes were aglow, less of a flat black and more like tea steeped too long – Soap could feel the heat against the roof of his mouth, taste the bitter florals and earthiness, soothed by a spoonful of honey. He had only a handful of more obvious freckles, darkened by long hours under the sun; one on his chin nestled next to a scar, two on his nose and another at the temple. Scars ranging from pink to silver dotted his skin, the most severe among them the couplet stretching from nose to jaw, and the one which Soap followed from where it started at his cheekbone to a chunk taken out of his ear’s cartilage.
“Did you bleach your hair?” Soap asked, because Simon had brought a hand up to thumb at the damaged shell of his ear and Soap didn’t want someone so effortlessly handsome to feel self-conscious, and it explained away the unintentional staring.
Simon didn’t drop his hand, but he did chuckle and the sound reverberated through the air to Soap’s own chest where it made his heart stutter.
“All natural, mate. Tried dyeing it brown once, though, to match my brows better.”
Soap tried to picture it, but came up short.
“No shade, but I can’t imagine it working.”
“That’s a severe understatement. I might be convinced to show you pictures.”
“Make Soap show you his buzzcut phase in return,” Gaz chipped in as he passed by to start keepieup anew, and Soap launched after his friend to tackle him into the turf. Roach delivered a nasty ball into the tangle of their limbs, breaking the fight up in one fell swoop, and the two boys emerged with askew shirts and green elbows.
Gaz swept a hand through his twists and felt down their length to ensure no beads or cuffs were askew, then bundled everything back into a low ponytail excepting a couple front pieces left loose to frame his sunny face. He swung to face Simon, smile catching the light as he hollered far louder than necessary, “We’re not done with you yet, mate – we’ve still got ten minutes and some miles left on this thing before it deflates again.”
The ball indeed looked like it was nearing the end of its lifespan, and was begging to be put out of its misery. If Simon looked close enough he swore he could make out a teary pair of dull eyes and frown in the cracked, flaking leather. It was probably fantasising about retirement at the back of someone’s shed, or swift death à la rolling into heavy traffic. Where one could acquire traffic of any sort out here was beyond Simon’s knowledge, but he was sure something could be arranged. A blur of brown and maybe-pink flew Roach’s way, and the game began anew, introducing PIG for some motivation.
“I’ll fill that up when we get inside for class,” Simon promised Alex as he jogged back into the fray, and was waved off with an easy smile.
For the first time since Thomas Riley’s workman comp cheques stopped rolling in and the beatings began, Simon’s arms were truly free of bruises. His father had begun strategic about where his hits landed so they wouldn’t show, but if alcohol made him sloppy then the hard drugs made him erratic and downright uncaring. Simon couldn’t recall the last time he’d worn a t-shirt outside, or showed his arms, and rolling his sleeves up past the elbow now felt like a victory. A line of cigarette burns left scars like the moon’s craters in his skin, just below the elbow, and his knuckles looked like they’d seen sandpaper but no one would be noticing them while distracted by the game, so he let himself have the small joy. He popped a few buttons of his collar too, and tugged his tie loose between passes for the simple reason that he could.
The ball flew high, taking his cares with it, disappearing briefly into the sun before plummeting back down to be caught neatly in his foot and sent Roach’s way. With fewer in the circle now as people retired from the oppressive summer heat, they fanned out wider and passes grew tall and long. Soap passed to Gaz, who directed it to Oisean who’d joined in at the tail-end of the first round alongside Ruaridh, and on it went until numbers grew sparse with each player that fumbled and hit G.
One boy to Simon’s right was checking his watch for the encroaching bell when the ball went soaring his way with an awkward spin on it. In his panic, he raised a knee last-minute but didn’t succeed in making any solid contact.
Chasing the shot was instinct for Simon, who pivoted and ran; he’d been harassed for not letting himself be bullied into playing fetch during exercises on his old team, and the coach was determined that poofs were best playing in defence where they’d be less subject to the ‘more masculine conditions of upper field.’ So really, getting the balls people let slip through had become something of a specialty of his before he’d quit football for running.
Simon clocked the group of girls oblivious to the hazard heading straight for them and barked out a quick “Heads!”
Getting a football to the face wasn’t the end of the world, but it also wasn’t pleasant. One girl, with black hair and grey eyes widening at the impending threat, raised her arms to shield her head from the football just as Simon sprung up and over her friend, catching it just before the peak of his jump. He landed in the middle of the congregation on one foot, and his balance would have been immaculate had he not found someone’s water instead of grass. The bottle rolled away underfoot and the world escaped out from beneath him, horizon tilting dangerously until all he could see was the sky. Pain flared all across his back and his neck ached something fierce from the whiplash, one of his shoulders definitely coming out bruised to match his hip. No pains were present in his ankle though, and that was what mattered most.
“Holy shite, are you okay?”
The same grey eyes from earlier crossed into his peripheral and Simon grimaced at how her face was split into two blurry visages, swimming in and out of focus alongside the myriad of other shadowy faces hovering by. The attention was stifling, made his skin crawl something fierce, and for all the heat of the summer he was promptly flushed cold with anxiety from scalp to toes. A few girls were stealing glances at his revealed chest and the trim lines of his legs, a light hand on his shoulder here, another there, maybe out of concern, but maybe not. It made his skin crawl, either way.
He’d had worse knocks though and sat up like the motion alone didn’t make him nauseous, and had rolled himself up onto his haunches by the time Soap was squeezing into the group of girls who’d surrounded him.
“Aye, all good,” he replied, and was barely even fibbing. A quick roll of the head and his neck was mostly fine, and any stiffness in the hip would be walked off before you could say ‘clutz.’ He gripped the ball tight, and glared at its pitiful little frown.
Soap was grinning like a mad fool, tripping over the concerned bodies scattered around Simon, babbling all the while about how “fuckin’ sick was that, mate? You ate up the distance in maybe five strides. Oh, hi, Mhairi, what’re you doing here?”
Grey-eyes— Mhairi smiled a little sceptically at Soap, then answered, “Oh, y’know, Prefect nonsense. And take better care of your new charge, Christ, I thought he was gonna die.”
Simon wanted to say something about not being a charge, but Soap was grabbing him by the hand to pull him up before he could and wasn’t shy about looking for injuries.
“What did happen?” This was directed at Simon, who grew sheepish and not a little embarrassed.
“Landed on someone’s—” he caught sight of the offending object, and could finally put a name to the bastardly thing, “metal bottle, and slipped back.” It was green, so he didn’t beat himself up about somehow missing it, and while the sturdy shell had spared it from getting crushed under his weight it had also sent him into an undignified fall. Two cheers for preventing a dent to someone’s wallet, and another for the critical hit to his already non-existent ego.
Soap’s hand travelled up Simon’s arm and he almost pulled away on instinct until a hot palm landed with deliberate intent just over the cigarette burns, obscuring them from sight.
“Your elbow feels swollen,” Soap lied, but the crease of concern between his brows was real. It smoothed over just as quick though, and then he was smiling again because whatever had put those scars there was none of his business, and Simon didn’t seem the sort to enjoy pity nor be likely to receive it well. “Shoulda let the ball hit her, honestly.”
Mhairi scowled with the faux frustration of someone who was used to Soap’s antics, then dragged away whomever it was she’d been there to see after a quick thanks sent Simon’s way.
“You’re still allergic to being anything other than a fake ass dick, I see,” a girl hummed, and Soap stiffened. Simon caught Gaz freeze from where he was a few metres away yet, halted in his approach, Farah and the others nearby.
Soap turned to one of the blondes and clicked his tongue; it was the first instance of genuine irritation Simon had ever witnessed from him.
“Save it, Carmen. Your resentment is your own.”
Before Carmen could spew any vitriol, Roach swooped in and teased “I think we’ve found our new goal keeper, sorry Soap. Those extra centimetres do a lot for reach, yaknow?”
Soap rolled his eyes at the jibe and led Simon away into the open where he could breathe again, free from the oppressive weight of concentrated scrutiny and assessment.
“You two alright?” Roach asked, looking between them and pointedly ignoring the hand still enveloping Simon’s forearm.
Soap smiled, small, and nodded, then nudged Simon with his shoulder.
“Honestly?” Simon held the ball up in a modest show of victory, “Most fun I’ve had in an age, slip aside.”
*
The traitorous voice at the back of Simon’s mind bullied itself to the forefront of his conscience, spitting its usual spiel about how playing at normalcy was wrong, how he was a plague no matter what name you put to him. He would tear through and corrupt what these good people had built up among themselves, as was irrevocably within his nature. They’d be shunned for harbouring a queer, and maybe they’d be accused of sharing the same proclivities; just like that, easy as a breath topples the tower of cards, one label could ruin any of them and whatever they fashioned with the rubble would never be the same as it had been.
Don’t be selfish, some people simply aren’t meant to have opportunities like this one. Taking this chance will end up hurting someone inevitably.
Simon squinted at his timetable between the cracks on his phone screen, zooming it in and out until the words aligned with an unshattered corner.
“Hell’s bells, I’ve got maths—”
“Which teacher?” Gaz butted in, dragging Soap from Simon’s space by his hair to do so. Simon didn’t know if the eagerness should be taken as a warning.
“Dr Walker; should I be worried?”
“Naw,” Soap said idly, one eye closed as he lined his heel up with the back of Gaz’s knee. “There’s two ad-higher maths teachers – Mr Rorke, who disnae ken how to teach even though he’s been in the game for longer ‘an we’ve been walkin’ this planet.” The kick landed with precision, and Gaz buckled forwards with a slew of curses that Soap drowned out, “And Dr Walker, who’s a Saint-incarnate. Only one student of his has gotten below a high-B and that’s because the wanker turned up halfway through the paper and didnae have time t’ finish it.”
Gaz’s voice was strained, contorted as he was in his attempts to reach back and dust the muddy footprint from his slacks, “Mr Rorke loathes Dr Walker – no one knows if it’s because of the difference in pass-rate, or what. Makes for interesting department drama though.”
“’Saint-incarnate’,” Simon mulled the praise over, curious as to whether it’d taste as genuine on his tongue in a term’s time. There was a temptation to hold tight onto the dread he had started associating with maths class at his old school so any disappointment would hurt less. It took a tangible effort to pry his fingers from that expectation of the worst, and further courage still to instead latch onto the vulnerability of hope. Moving to buttfuck nowhere Scotland was about change, after all; it would only make sense that this aspect change too.
The bell signalling break’s end cut through Simon’s unusual bout of optimism, but left it in tact all the same. Gaz clapped Simon on the shoulder not bearing his bag’s strap, and shot a blinding grin his way.
“Sit with me?”
Helpless against the perpetual barrage of kindness he’d found himself in, Simon could only nod, unconsciously matching his steps to those of his friends as they led him through corridors shifting from plaster to stone and panelled wood.
To Simon’s relief Dr Walker wasn’t yet in the class by the time he and Gaz filed in, contrasting Soap’s disappointment at the loss of an opportunity to say hi to his ‘favourite ex-teacher’ before heading his separate ways. Simon didn’t know if he could have handled the awkward pause of greetings had Dr Walker been there to welcome his returnees, only to face an imposter among their ranks.
Gaz led them to the front row of desks, leaving the window seat empty for Roach who’d split off to refresh himself after football. Cramped as the class was, the arrangement meant Dr Walker’s desk was maybe ten centimetres from Simon’s toes if he stretched his legs out. Always one to prefer remaining far beyond the radar – which usually entailed avoiding proximity to the teacher – Simon’s movements were rigid with hesitance as he began unpacking his things.
Gaz brushed a hand on Simon’s where it trembled, flattened on the cover of his textbook. He’d gotten it second-hand from the paper shop in the village centre, the price tag still on one corner as if to advertise ‘I’m poor and out of my depth.’ He’d forgotten to scrape it off, like he had with the others.
“Hey,” Gaz said, pulling away to pick at the little fluorescent orange sticker, eyes solely for Simon and not the price scrawled in messy handwriting. “These are the seats to have – trust me.”
The sticker gave away beneath Gaz’s nail and he crumpled it between forefinger and thumb, an easy flick sending it hurtling for the rubbish bin kicked beneath Dr Walker’s desk. Simon followed its trajectory, the orange speck falling just short, but still close enough that his eye was drawn to the ovular cushion half obscured in shadow. Simon was seconds from asking Gaz what that was about when Roach scurried in, the Saint himself on his heels.
Dr Walker was a tall bloke in his late twenties to early thirties at most, shorter than Simon by maybe five centimetres by his guess, lean, though the fabric of his shirt struggled to accommodate his shoulders in such a way that suggested toned muscles. His age was surprising; with how Soap and Gaz built him up to be a master of the trade, Simon was expecting the experience to show in crow lines or grey hairs. Though young, Dr Walker was polished, sporting a burgundy button-up tucked into charcoal sailor’s trousers; his hair, a blond two shades deeper than Simon’s, fell in gentle curls against russet skin. His eyes looked cut from amber, hard edges polished away with care.
Everything about the man radiated warmth, and Simon could taste the Lyle’s growing runny with heat on fresh pancakes when Dr Walker’s eyes swept over his class with reverence.
“I’m honoured to have you,” the expression said. “I’m not sure I deserve it,” Simon gleaned, but only because he had seen the exact sentiment in himself after looking in the mirror a little too long.
Lingering unobtrusive at Dr Walker’s knee was a German Shepherd, quiet and with attention only for its person. Despite its size, the easy demeanour made it easy to miss even with the bright yellow tag reading service dog attached to the leash with Velcro. Simon guessed the lead was nothing more than a formality, if Dr Walker’s loose hold was any indication.
“I’m going to do the register, and when your name is called, I want you to tell me how confident you are in your knowledge about the expectations of this course,” Dr Walker announced, making up the distance from door to desk in six easy steps.
Gaz leaned in to whisper, “Real boy-crush, huh?” with a small grin, then settled back in his seat for the ride. Simon didn’t even have the mind to overthink the implications of Gaz’s words.
Dr Walker showed no preference for any student while taking the register, never lingering or prodding further, just absorbing their input with one individually-tailored response before moving on. When he finally reached Simon’s name, he did not falter at the unfamiliarity.
“Simon?”
“Here.”
Simon swallowed as though rearranging his vocal cords to better deliver his comment, and the words stuck momentarily in his throat until Dr Walker’s patience alone coaxed them out.
“I’m new to the Scottish system and curriculum, so I’m—” Simon took a shuddering inhale “—a bit worried, about how what I’ve learned will translate over from A-levels, if it does at all.”
Mulling this over for a moment, Dr Walker came to his conclusion and delivered it with an easy smile, “Thank you for your honesty. I’m writing a thorough curriculum and standards summary for this year’s course for the entire class tailored to the feedback I’m gathering now, but leave it with me for an extra day and I’ll do some research to come up with a side-by-side comparative one for you. It might boost your confidence, knowing exactly which areas will require adjustment, if any.”
Shocked by the generosity, Simon breathed a ‘ thank you’ which Dr Walker received like it was a gift.
When all was said and done, Simon nudged Gaz with an elbow.
“Why does it feel like he’s excited to teach us?”
Gaz cracked open a fresh notebook and penned the date in the top-right corner, topping it off with a smiley face.
“Honestly, he just really likes his job – he’s too good for this school in my opinion.”
“Well fuck me sideways, I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
Roach snorted inelegantly, and tossed Simon a pen having noticed he was using a pencil.
“Aye, there’s not many.” Scottish vernacular in Roach’s London accent would take some getting used to before it stopped being so jarring, but the off-kilter syllables had some endearing charm to them. Like the old Tudor houses bowing with age, Simon’s mind supplied. “Dr Walker has one rule and it’s using pen – he insists that you learn better from mistakes that can’t be erased.”
Simon suspected the advice didn’t originate in the classroom, and was imparted with application elsewhere in mind as well. Uncapping the pen, Simon touched it to paper and hesitated to copy the formula Dr Walker wrote out with ease on the whiteboard; he had a habit of writing lightly to avoid even an imprint of his mistakes being left behind after erasure – few as they were – to avoid shame’s heavy hand. This felt like a forced confrontation, something far beyond his comfort zone, which he had to remind himself was the whole point.
Dr Walker stepped back from his handiwork and turned to face the class with a gentle smile, one hand planted on his hip whist the other circled the formula with a flourish.
“Today we’re dissecting the Maclaurin series and expansion, history and all. If you can tell me where Maclaurin was a professor, you can tell me your favourite part of the summer, too.”
At least ten of the twenty hands shot up, and Simon didn’t know if they were stretching for Dr Walker’s approval or the roof with such blatant eagerness.
Maybe, just maybe, Simon could let himself have this – trust that things would work out, that if he made the most of this opportunity he’d get something back.
*
Simon checked the time shown on the clock against the red oven’s glowing numbers, hoping that maybe it was just running fast; when the results weren’t to his satisfaction, he turned to his phone next.
Mum had managed to snag some steak and ale pies at the butcher the day before, offered to her as a welcome gift when she’d nipped in just to grab a few sausages. She had the grand idea of saving the first one for Wednesday’s dinner, declaring it a family treat for surviving the hump-day of the boys’ first week at a new school.
“I’ll text you thirty minutes before I’m due home, that way it’ll almost be ready and I can make some nice roast veg while it finishes off when I get back,” she’d said, tucking the pies away into their sparse fridge. “It can be a nice family dinner – we’ve got more than a few of those to catch up on.”
It was approaching eight-thirty, and Silje had given Simon the go-ahead to pop the pie into the oven over an hour ago. Tommy grew antsy when she was ten minutes late, let alone thirty, because they’d come to learn that anything more than fifteen and she’d likely not be coming home at all.
It had improved since moving to Altanabhraighe, but that almost made it worse.
Now, the boys would drift around the house while waiting, buoyed by a hope that maybe they’d see her before falling asleep. Hoping, however, left room for disappointment, and they were subject to plummeting alongside their expectations more often than not. Simon almost missed the days when they didn’t dare dream, and Tommy made it clear that he did for certain.
“You look like a widowed housewife,” Tommy grumbled, adjusting the kitchen lamp. “Waiting for someone who’ll never show.”
The lamp kept folding in on itself no matter how tight Tommy twisted the knobs and Simon stood by, watching his brother take out his frustrations on a futile task. It wasn’t strictly necessary, what with the sun still high and fuelling the sky’s pale blue flame, keeping the kitchen plenty light enough, but Tommy was prone to entering slumps if he couldn’t keep occupied.
“Want to play football when I’ve wrapped this up?” Simon suggested, working at the collection of new stains in his shirt. He’d scrounged up a bar of hand soap for the task, because laundry powder was expensive and mum had already made them promise not to go through too much toilet paper until her next pay check came in so he doubted purchasing deturgent refills would be keeping in with the budget. He was already at his fifth pass scrubbing away using an old toothbrush, efforts painfully ineffective.
“With what ball?”
“I thought you packed that one we pilfered from a bush next to the playing fields. Yknow, the orange one that faded to a sorta salmon pink?”
“We had more than one ball?”
“You know that’s not what I meant, stop being obtuse.”
“No, I did not pack the singular ball we ever had the pleasure of owning, why didn’t you?”
Simon could have used the excuse of being high off his ass on pain meds at the time of their fleeing, the coherence that came and went in fits, but truth was he’d seen the thing sitting by their bedroom door and ignored it in favour of stowing the shoes piled next to it into an Aldis bag. Running everything down to the car Silje had apparently bought with her squirrel funds behind Thomas’ back had taken a lot out of him, with the antibiotics making him sluggish, and Tommy was the footballer between them anyways.
“Well,” Simon sighed, “I thought you’d grab it, seeing as you’re the one who likes footie between us. Let’s hunt for a new one tomorrow, I’m sure there’s one in the brambles by the astroturf someone gave up on retrieving.”
Simon looked over, expecting to see Tommy’s spirits raised at the prospect of a new ball; instead, his jaw was clenched and head hung low, knuckles jutting white like cockle shells in sand where he clutched at the counter.
“Can you not do that?”
Simon put down his shirt and approached Tommy, stopping two paces away.
“Do what?”
“ Sigh , all the time. I know I’m exhausting to deal with, but you don’t need to make it obvious.”
“Tommy…” Simon crossed the vinculum existing between them, dividing two separate sides of an equation into territories he could not enter without expelling one of them from the sum ordinarily. “I never meant to make you feel like you’re tiring to be around, and I’m sorry that I did. It’s just—” Simon gestured to the world at large with a soapy hand, “everything, yknow? Adjusting, navigating the changes.”
Simon, because he was nothing if not an older brother, transferred the largest cluster of bubbles on his wrist to Tommy’s cheek.
Tommy scowled, but at least his eyes weren’t looking so glassy.
“Right, the changes. ” A trace of bitterness leaked into Tommy’s voice, and Simon lifted his foot to clear the floor so that Tommy couldn’t hear the scuff of his subtle retreat. “Got all the ones we didn’t need, and none of the ones we wanted.”
Simon almost sighed again, but caught himself. Not in enough time though, because Tommy caught the telltale sharp inflation of his chest. His little brother shoved past to the cupboard with their meagre collection of mismatched cups and turned the water up high enough that it splashed over the glass’s sides as he filled it.
“You know what, eat the bloody pie yourself. I’m going to bed.”
“Tommy, wait. ”
Tommy stomped for the stairs and Simon followed, catching him by the wrist before he could make it far. The maroon carpet runner was worn to the weave where it hugged each jutting step, brass fixings tarnished to black. The risers were uneven, making quick escapes a risk, and Simon used this to his advantage.
“Fifteen more minutes, and she’ll be back, and the pie will taste better for it.”
“You’re a fucking liar, Simon. You’re perfectly content with being uprooted and moved here, you don’t give a shit about ‘adjusting,’ or what we left behind.” Tommy snatched his arm away just so he could jab a finger into Simon’s sternum. “We’re starting from scratch—no, less than scratch, and at least we had something before, shitty as it was. What the fuck are we doing here?”
“We’re here because it’s safer, and so that we can have a fighting chance at not ending up fucked up and balls deep in a gutter somewhere in the back alleys of Manc because LSD tabs made it look like an inviting mouth,” Simon snapped, patience flaking away to expose the bitterness he’d been keeping sealed away for years. “Sure, it’s not perfect, and you couldn’t pack your friends up in the car to bring with us even though we had the room because we never did have anything. Forgive me, if I can appreciate having a roof that’s our own over our heads, and one less violent drunkard to tiptoe around.”
Tommy snagged the collar of Simon’s tee and the fibres crackled under the stress, distended beyond the point of being able to bounce back into their original shape.
“You’re so caught up in the bliss of not being dad’s chew toy that you can ignore how we’ve gained less than we’ve lost. If getting dragged out here isn’t going to right everything, why the fuck bother at all? If this was actually what we needed, was something that could work, then mum would be here right now – would actually see us more than just the occasional breakfast and dinner.”
“The long hours are just until her pay check,” Simon justified, “to prove to her new boss that she’s a good worker. Then she’ll be here, it won’t be like before in Manchester.” The words sounded half-convinced at best despite how much Simon wanted to believe them, for both Tommy’s and his own sakes. His brother wasn’t fool or optimistic enough to let himself be placated, the pressed line of his mouth sharper than a knife’s edge, so Simon let him go.
Simon knocked on his door once the pie was done and left a slice just beyond the threshold of Tommy’s room, washed the empty plate the following morning when Tommy slid it across the counter, and stared at the green Post-It stuck to the window over the sink.
Sorry for getting home so late, technology
problems meant articles etc. couldn’t get sent out on time.
The pie was delicious! Be good at school, boys
The note ended up with the others in the back of the cutlery drawer, adding to a stack which was thicker than their collection of coupons. Some vindictive part of Simon wanted their mum to find it, see the physical proof of her continued absence – see that her notes had a greater presence in their lives than she herself did, that they wanted her voice not words in ballpoint pen. She couldn’t even be bothered finding one which wasn’t running out of ink.
Tommy shuffled into the kitchen, sunken into his hoodie save for a tuft of brown hair escaping its hood. His sleeping sweats, patterned with Batman symbols, no longer reached the narrow taper of his ankles and Simon resolved to find a pair that fit once he got a job.
“Sleep alright?”
Tommy grumbled his reply, indistinguishable from the choppy utterances of the kettle as he put it on to boil.
“Where’d you move the tea?”
“Top cupboard, along with the flour to keep the mice out.”
“The scratching of those bastards in the wall kept me up,” Tommy muttered, pulling down two mugs after fishing some teabags from their dwindling supply. He bent down at the waist and weaved side-to-side, one eye closed to better parse which mug had the greater volume of tea before taking that one for himself. Simon couldn’t help but snort at Tommy’s antics, because for as fucked up as they were, in the end they were still siblings.
Breakfast was two eggs each and apple slices with peanut butter, because even though mum had opened a second bank account secretly and saved up a decent amount over the course of three years, most of the money went to fuel for the drive up and rent on the house. Simon dragged his finger through the dust which had settled on a cupboard shelf after wrapping up with last night’s dishes, then closed the door on emptiness.
Tommy was shoving his eggs around, likely trying to make it look like there was more so that even if his stomach didn’t come away full, his eyes would. The barbs of last night, just as mum, were absent, and what tension existed could have been residual or simply the default state of their existence. Simon might have said something to dispel the unease, but he’d always been one for actions over words and settled on sliding two slices of his apple Tommy’s way then went about getting ready for the day ahead.
As Simon dried his hair fresh out of the shower Tommy mumbled around his toothbrush, “I don’t want your charity.”
When Simon nipped back into the kitchen to pile up dishes before the bus was due to arrive he found that one slice was eaten, the other left to take and with a healthy dollop of peanut butter to boot.
*
The remainder of the week passed, with classes quick to pick up in volume of work, the days bathed in a summer warmth uncharacteristic of the valley and a simplicity which had been foreign to Simon for so long.
He found himself fearing the weekend’s arrival, expecting that if there were a time where his years-old stagnant cycle of run, study, avoid the house were to resurface it’d be then. Whatever spell fuelled by the magic of a first week back at school had bound him to Soap and the others was sure to wear off, and they’d be dusting their hands of him before breakfast even hit the table come Saturday morning.
Simon had spread himself out on the bench encrusted with more lichen than paint out back of their cottage, book angled to shield his eyes from the sun weaving its way between the foliage of a nearby tree when his phone almost vibrated itself out of his pocket.
He fished it out to a series of messages, almost dropping his book in shock.
dish soap
I dag 16:55
Simon
Simon
The Brit to my Scot
River tomorrow at noon?? :)
Simon hid his smile behind the pages of his book, inhaling the mingling scents of aged paper and the sweetness of a countryside summer, air purified to a clarity so refined it rang like crystal in your lungs.
Isn’t that like ¾ of your friends?
And sure, I’m totally down
Semantics
That fraction is now inaccurate with you around, btw
Just fyi
We can work out the maths tomorrow, aye?
It’s a study date ;)))) but I was hoping for more swimming than textbooks tbh
Simon locked his phone before he could say something stupid, and was able to focus that much better on his book now that the weekend didn’t seem quite so intimidating.