Work Text:
"Greenfeld!" Garrett stands at the foot of Bram's bed, visibly quivering with suppressed frustration. "You're stressed."
Bram rolls his eyes at his roommate. "I'm taking eighteen credit hours and playing D2 soccer. So… yeah. Stressed. Good catch, Laughlin."
Garrett growls and flicks a folded piece of paper at Bram, landing it neatly in his lap. "Here. Don't say I never did anything for you." He looks away, decidedly shifty. "Let me know when it's happening. I'll clear out."
Bram raises scandalized eyebrows. "Is it porn?"
Garrett laughs loudly and shoulders his backpack. "I'm staying at Sierra's tonight. See you tomorrow at practice."
"Seriously, Garrett, did you get me a porn gift certificate?"
"Be less stressed!" Garrett calls as he hustles out of the room.
"Unbelievable," Bram mutters. He stares at the paper in his lap for a long minute and then unfolds it gingerly.
It's a standard Word gift certificate template that says,
This certificate entitles Bram Greenfeld to one (1) 60-minute in-room cuddling session from the Campus Cuddle Coalition! Good for six (6) months after date of issue. Learn more and book your session at http://www.ugacuddles.net
Bram stares at the paper, uncomprehending. What the hell is this, and why did Garrett give it to him? Porn would've made more sense.
Against his better judgment, Bram grabs his phone and types the url into the browser. A no-frills website pops up, welcoming him to the home of the University of Georgia Campus Cuddle Coalition. The subheading reads, "Platonic physical contact for the touch-starved college student."
Bram shifts abruptly, his back thumping against the wall. Oh.
Bram and his mom aren't the world's biggest touchers, but they love hugs. His stepmom and her family, and of course his four-year-old brother, are all huggy. But he's two hours from his mom and four from his dad and stepmom, and the friends he's made here aren't particularly tactile. He's stressed for a hell of a lot of reasons, but maybe being touch-starved is making the stress worse.
Bram clicks the "About Us" link and reads:
The CCC is the brainchild of Nick (Music) and Simon (Dramatic Arts and Dance). We've been best friends since pre-K, and one thing we can say for sure is that Simon's parents give the best hugs, and lots of 'em.
We came to the big, bad city for college, and boy did we miss those hugs. And we noticed our friends and classmates missing their "home hugs," too. We started this service to help our fellow Bulldogs get their spoon on—no strings attached.
Bram's grinning by the end. He wonders what dot on the map Nick and Simon are from, if Athens counts as "the big, bad city." He also wonders, idly, if this is Nick Eisner from the soccer team and Cute Simon who was in his Introduction to Collegiate Composition and Mechanics class last year ("Mandatory for all incoming freshmen, Mr. Greenfeld. There is no testing out."), the one with the messy blond hair, the restless hands, and the cheesy "2 GR8 2B STR8!" rainbow pin on his backpack. Unlikely. Nick and Simon are common names.
Bram clicks around the site, reading testimonials and general policies. When he's got the gist, he clicks the "Schedule a Session" link.
And immediately drops his phone. It's that Simon. (And that Nick. Which explains how Garrett knows about this.)
He agonizes for the rest of the day and most of the next day. Then he tells himself to stop being ridiculous. There were at least three other people on that page.
Six people are listed on the CCC page. Simon and Nick, Nick's girlfriend Abby, Abby's roommate Leah, a blond guy named Cal, and a sophomore named Taylor who looks like a suburban mominatrix. Maybe some people are into that.
Bram notices a block of text at the top of the page. He'd missed it last time in his rush away from Simon's face. It reads:
Simon, Nick, and Cal will cuddle any student who requests them. Abby, Leah, and Taylor will cuddle cis guys ONLY if they know the guy and feel comfortable with the request. We don't make the rules; toxic masculinity and rape culture make the rules.
Well, that's fair—and it eliminates Taylor and Leah. He's knows Abby well enough to think she'd say yes, but it's better not to risk it. He's not fundamentally opposed to Nick, but he thinks it would be weird. They don't have that kind of relationship. That leaves Simon and Cal.
God forgive Bram's poor, gay heart. He chooses Simon.
*
Bram's walking toward his dorm after his 1:30 class the next day when he receives a text from an unknown number.
Unknown Number: bram greenfeld?
Me: This is Bram.
Unknown Number: whoa full sentences with proper punctuation and capitalization. ok gotta up my game
Unknown Number: this is simon spier from the ccc. got a minute?
Me: I do.
A second later, Bram's phone rings with a call from the same number. Bram takes a steadying breath and answers, "Simon?"
"Hey, Bram. I'm calling to finalize plans for our first session."
Simon's bold to say "first session," like future sessions are a foregone conclusion, but Bram says, "Sounds good."
"Great, so, I looked at the times you chose. Tomorrow at four is best for me. That still work for you?"
"Yeah, that's fine," Bram says, doing his best to ignore his heart trying to beat out of his chest.
"Okay. It's a sixty-minute session, but we book seventy-minute slots so we have transition time and you get your full hour. If you need to end early, let me know. Do you have scent or fiber allergies?"
"Uh… no."
"Okay, cool. You read the guidelines, right?"
Bram smiles faintly. "Participants clothed at all times. No observers. No sexual or romantic activity. Either party can end the session at any time, for any reason. Chocolate creme Oreos."
Simon gives a surprised laugh. "A thorough reader and a guy with good taste in cookies. All right, Greenfeld, I can work with this. See you tomorrow at four."
"See you tomorrow." Bram ends the call. He calmly puts away his phone, calmly finishes the walk to his room, and then calmly screams into his pillow.
*
The five times Bram suggested for the cuddling session share one important feature: they're times when Garrett will be gone. Bram is aware that, in the unlikely event that this continues beyond today, he may one day have to hang a metaphorical sock on the doorknob and… cuddlecile his roommate. That day, thank goodness, is not today.
That also means Garrett isn't around to see Bram spend fifteen ridiculous minutes deciding what to wear for his cuddle session. The CCC's guideline of wear clothes offers a lot of latitude.
Now he's wearing a pair of super-soft sweatpants he's had since high school, a gray UGA soccer sweatshirt, and thin cotton crew socks. It's less an outfit and more what he happened to be wearing when he realized Simon would be showing up at any moment.
Not twenty seconds later, someone knocks. Bram wipes his unexpectedly sweaty palms on his pants and opens the door. "Hi," he says.
Simon's all smiles and soft looks. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a sky-blue hoodie, and his blond hair is a mess, like he (or someone else) has been running their fingers through it. "Hey, Bram," he says easily. "Good to see you."
"You too." The moment stretches into a silence more grating than nails on a blackboard. Then Bram blurts, "That was a surprisingly specific question, about the allergies."
Bram Greenfeld is not allowed to talk to cute boys.
Bram Greenfeld is not allowed to talk to cute boys.
Bram Greenfeld is not allowed to talk to cute boys.
Simon's eyes narrow, but he nods. "Yeah, uh, Leah has a regular who's got, like, terrible sensitivity to chemical scents. If Leah's clothes have been washed in scented detergent in the past week, it's Migraine City. And then this other time, this guy forgot to tell Nick he's allergic to wool, and Nick had on wool socks, and the guy's feet and ankles were the size of baseballs by the time the session ended." He peers past Bram into the room. "Can I… come in?
Bram ducks his head and moves aside to let Simon in. If the floor felt like opening up and swallowing him, he'd appreciate it.
Simon is one admittedly better than average-looking blond white boy who talks with his hands and has a weakness for sentence fragments. He'd provided a nice distraction when Comp class got boring. But they've exchanged maybe fifty words, total, in a year and a half. Apart from spotting him in the stands with Abby at a couple soccer games, their paths haven't crossed since their shared class ended. This isn't the love of his life here.
But Bram gets flustered around cute guys. Always has. Since before he knew he was gay. Since before he knew what "gay" was. Pretty eyes and a nice smile turn the guy voted "Best-Spoken" by his senior class into a person who uses questions about allergies as a basis for small talk and leaves a guest stranded on the doorstep.
Simon steps into the room and sweeps it with his gaze. He grins as he moves unerringly toward the neater side of the room.
Bram snorts. "Am I that obvious?"
Simon shrugs and sets his backpack on the floor next to Bram's desk. "In Comp, your sentences were perfect and your handwriting looked like it came out of a penmanship book. Also, I've met Garrett. I made a guess."
Bram laughs and trails Simon awkwardly toward the bed. He hopes Simon keeps moving them forward, because Bram has no idea what he's supposed to do.
Simon hops onto Bram's bed. "So, Bram Greenfeld, what's your preference here? You want to be big spoon? Little spoon? Knife and ladle? Drying rack?"
Bram chuckles. "You made the last two up."
"I'll have you know those are industry-standard terms."
"The professional cuddling industry," Bram says dryly. He breathes easier, though, with the reminder that Simon is here to do a job. If Bram keeps things more transactional, maybe he'll be less of a doofus in front of Simon. "Big spoon, please."
"Great. Now, it's your session, and you're in charge, but I can tell you from experience that you'll be really warm in that sweatshirt." Simon is unzipping his hoodie and pulling it off. He's long, lean lines and and effortless tousledness, and Bram can't wait to feel the softness of his skin.
Immediately appalled at himself for thinking that, Bram rushes to pull off his sweatshirt and gets his arms tangled in the sleeves. By the time he pops out, Simon's sitting on the edge of the bed in a t-shirt, watching Bram with a bemused smile.
"Elliott Smith?" Bram asks when he looks at Simon's t-shirt.
Simon's eyes widen. "Oh wow, hardly anyone I meet here knows who he is! You're a fan?"
Bram wishes he could lie and say yes. "By association, I guess? My stepmom's into him, so I've heard his stuff from her."
"Then your stepmom must be cool," Simon says without a hint of irony as he kicks off his tennis shoes.
"She kind of is. For a parent."
Simon snickers. Then he pats the bed. "Come on, cuddle-buddy."
Bram walks toward the bed feeling like a swarm of bees has taken up residence in his gut. He avoids looking at Simon as he climbs onto the bed and slides until his back hits the wall. Simon scoots to the middle of the bed and lies down, fitting his back against Bram's chest. Bram can't stop the sigh that floats out of him as his body relaxes into the presence of another.
"Oh!" Simon says. "One other thing." Bram hums to show he's listening. "We're people, right, with bodies. And bodies can… do things we don't want them to? And we get that. So unless it becomes a real problem, we tend to… ignore it?"
Bram tenses as his mind floods with humiliating ways his body could betray him. But if Simon can ignore it, Bram guesses he can, too.
Bram cautiously rests his hand on Simon's hip. Simon grabs Bram's arm and tugs until it's wrapped around his waist. "Is this okay?" Simon murmurs.
"Yeah," Bram whispers.
They lie in surprisingly companionable silence for a few minutes. Then Simon asks, "Mind if I put on music?"
"Go ahead," Bram says. He isn't surprised when Elliott Smith drifts from Simon's phone a few seconds later.
"You're allowed to talk, you know," Simon teases him a few minutes after that.
"I know," Bram says defensively, although he hadn't been sure. "I'm not very talkative."
Simon chuckles. "I've noticed."
Bram pokes Simon's foot with his toe. "Fine, you talk!"
Bram can't see Simon's face, but he hears Simon's grin when he says, "Nah, I'm good."
When the laughter dies down, a peaceful calm falls. Bram dozes off and on but never fully falls asleep. Besides the occasional request to shift slightly, and check-ins to make sure they're both comfortable, they don't speak until Simon's phone dings at the end of their time. It's the best hour Bram's had all year.
Simon's mellow as he dresses and moves to the door. He twists the strap of his backpack and smiles softly at Bram as he says, "This was good. Let me know when you want to do it again."
"Sure," Bram says. He has no intention of doing it again.
*
Bram isn't pining, exactly. But cuddling with Simon has revived Bram's dormant crush. He's doesn't want to give himself more ammunition to do anything embarrassing. Plus, money's tight this semester; he doesn't have much to blow on cuddling.
Only then his stepmom sends him an email bursting with realty.com links to properties she likes, and Bram feels the familiar tightening at the base of his skull. He's filling in the request screen before he's consciously decided to do it. It's been two and a half weeks since their first session.
Simon texts an hour later.
Simon: hey Bram got your form. Wednesday at 10 ok?
Me: That'll be fine.
Bram puts the appointment in his calendar and then sees he has another message from Simon.
Simon: great! see u then!! :D
Bram immediately panics and switches to his text thread with Garrett.
Me: If I ask you something emotionally vulnerable and potentially embarrassing, do you promise not to laugh?
Garrett: sadly, friend, i am unable to make that promise
Garrett: i can promise to try?
It's the best Bram's going to get.
Me: What does :D mean?
Garrett: srsly? it means laughing
Me: No, what does it MEAN?
Garrett: what
Garrett: wait
Garrett: do u mean
Garrett: what does it SEX mean?
Garrett: is Abraham Greenfeld trying to pick up??????
Me: No, sorry, I changed my mind. I regret everything.
Garrett: TOO LATE MOTHERFUCKER!! my moment has come
Garrett: Garrett Laughlin, sex yoda, at your service
Me: please G-d no
Garrett: now, :D isn't *for-sure* pussy like some emojis
Garrett: but if a chick sent it to u, she was def thinking about ur dick
It would be so easy to reply, *He* was thinking about my dick (oh, crap, was he? Was Simon Spier thinking about Bram's dick?), or the more tempting, Fuck off, Laughlin, I'm gay. But Bram doesn't feel good about casually coming out to Garrett via text.
Bram checks back into the conversation, worried that he's not holding up his end. Garrett seems fine rolling on without him, having moved on to an analysis of which emojis mean "for sure mad pussy rtfn" versus which ones mean "pussy after 3 to 5 proper dates." He doesn't seem to have noticed that Bram's no longer participating.
Me: You're a good friend
Bram doesn't mean that as a response to Garrett's words, which are vaguely misogynistic and hella cis- and heteronormative. He means it in general, because it's true. As randomly assigned roommates go, Bram could've done a lot worse.
*
This time, Bram puts more preparation in. Sweatpants and a threadbare black t-shirt. Otis Redding playing softly from his laptop. A new pillow from the RA's weekly Target run. Water bottles in the mini fridge. He's ready.
Or rather, he is until he checks his phone to make sure he doesn't have a message from Simon and discovers an email notification from his stepmom, with three new listings. Bram swipes away the notification, and his calm vanishes with it.
So he doesn't offer the gracious welcome he'd wanted to when Simon arrives in black sweatpants and a white hoodie. He sounds plaintive as he says, "Can I be little spoon today?"
Simon searches Bram's face and then nods. "Hi, yeah, of course." They don't say anything else as Simon takes off his shoes, pulls off his hoodie, and assumes the big spoon position. Bram lies down in front of him and lets out a sigh when Simon's arm wraps around him.
After a minute, Simon says, "My friends call me 'a surprisingly good listener for someone who's oblivious to eighty percent of everything.' If you want to talk."
Bram lies quietly for a moment longer, trying to decide if he does want to talk. It's easier, here in the dim light, with Simon behind him, almost like a faceless stranger. Like confession. "My dad and stepmom are moving to Chicago."
Simon inhales sharply. "Ouch."
"I'm trying to get okay with it at my pace. But Mindy keeps sending me links to houses they're looking at. I feel like I'm losing them again, and they're not even gone yet."
They share a moment of quiet, just the music from the phone and two sets of breaths. Then Simon asks, "Have you told her how you feel?"
The answer to this is surprisingly complicated. It's no, but it's, no, because my dad is being weirdly unhelpful about this. It's, no, but since I came out to my family, Mindy treats me like I'm all the Queer Eye dudes in one, even though I'm as aesthetically clueless as I've always been. It's no, and I know it's not fair to me, but I think my making nice with Mindy is one of the things keeping her from leaving my dad.
Bram shrugs.
Simon sighs. "Yeah. I get it." Bram snorts, and Simon half-tickles his stomach in retaliation. "No, I do. Parents can be—after I told mine I'm gay, my dad wanted to sign up for Grindr together."
Bram gasps. "No!"
Simon chuckles. "That was a more embarrassing conversation than the coming out one, which—I wouldn't have chosen that experience for myself. Or anyone. So it's saying a lot that this was worse." Simon pauses, and Bram waits. He doesn't sound like he's done. "I'm not here to tell you how to live your life, you know," he says quietly. "I have a complicated relationship with email, myself. Could you, I don't know, filter your stepmom's emails into a different folder? You can look at them once a day or once a week or... or whenever, but only when you want to. You don't have to jump for them as soon as they come in."
Bram considers that. "Not bad, Spier," he admits.
Simon laughs. "I'm more than a pretty face," he says haughtily.
Bram's glad he's not looking at Simon, so he doesn't kiss that pretty face.
They talk more today, odds and ends about their classes and their families. But they're mostly quiet, and Bram isn't sure Simon appreciates how much that means to Bram. Feeling the need to be on around people is a huge pressure for an extreme introvert. He hasn't found many people who are okay with being quiet in each other's presence. The fact that Simon is starting to look like one of those people is a gift that Bram wouldn't have dreamed of.
When Simon's phone chimes the end of their session, Bram rolls to his feet and goes hunting for his wallet. Simon's pulling on his hoodie and doesn't look up until Bram's standing in front of him. "What do I owe you?" Bram asks.
Simon raises his eyebrows. "For... what?"
"For the session. I couldn't find rates on your website. I'm trying to budget."
A long, awkward pause follows. Then Simon bursts out laughing. He laughs so hard he doubles over, clutching his stomach. "Sorry, sorry," he gasps. "No one's ever—it's free, Bram."
"What?"
"The CCC is a gift of the heart from the six of us to the touch-starved unfortunates of UGA. No charge." He grins proudly.
"But... gift certificate?"
Simon rolls his eyes. "We noticed that a lot of people aren't willing to give themselves this. They tell themselves they don't have time, or they're not worth it, or it's not manly enough. But if they get a gift certificate, with an expiration date on it, then they're not doing it for themselves. They're doing it because someone else wanted to be nice to them. It's weird, but it works." He reaches out and curls his hand around the wallet, pushing it toward Bram. Bram staunchly ignores the way his nerve endings sing when Simon's fingers brush his. "So, there you go. Keep your money. Buy yourself something pretty." Bram snorts, and Simon throws him a sloppy salute. "Be seeing you, Bram Greenfeld." Then he's gone, and Bram absolutely does not clutch his wallet to his heart and swoon like a bobby-soxer who got his fella's pin.
*
Now that Bram knows this won't break his budget for the semester, he maybe goes a little overboard. He's not sure too much cuddling is a thing, but he's booking sessions at least every other week. He waits for guilt or shame to set in, but it doesn't. He feels calm, relaxed, and excited to see Simon again.
Simon may know Bram best of everyone at UGA. They've discussed things Bram's never felt comfortable talking about—awkward experiences, childhood foibles, things they think are funny but know they shouldn't.
Bram touches Simon more than he touches anyone else. He's trying to be more tactile with other people in his life, but, given who's in his life, that's mostly worked out to bro-y backslaps for his teammates and fleeting shoulder squeezes for his classmates. It eases a deep ache that Bram had barely noticed since he started here, but it's got nothing on a solid hour of cuddling with Simon.
Almost everyone's remarked on the change. Bram's professors thank him for participating more in class. Coach Lamont says he seems more confident on the field. Garrett, who seems to have forgotten the gift certificate, makes a couple crude remarks about Bram getting laid. Bram keeps his mouth shut and enjoys the glow.
Here's the weird thing: suddenly, Simon is everywhere. After two semesters of hardly seeing the guy, Bram can't go a day without seeing him. He's coming out of the student union with a giant iced coffee in the mornings as Bram's leaving the gym. He's leaning against a railing outside Bram's dorm, chatting with Nick, Abby, or Leah. He's in the dining hall at the same time as Bram, though Bram rarely remembers seeing him here before.
And he's not just in the dining hall: Simon, Abby, and Leah have started sitting with Bram, Nick, and Garrett for most meals. The most sensible explanation is that Abby wants to spend more time with Nick. But Abby's fiercely independent; she and Nick value having their own time and interests. No, though he has no evidence for it, Bram can't shake the idea that they're doing this so Simon can spend more time with him.
It's the wildest idea Bram's ever had, and it sends up swarms of butterflies in his stomach every time he catches Simon's eye across the table.
*
The week before midterms, Bram goes to book his next session with Simon and is greeted by a pop-up that says, The CCC will not book appointments during midterms. We know it sucks, but we want to pass, too. Click here to sign up to be matched with another CCC regular to cuddle each other during these trying times. Good luck, and we'll see you for your post-exam decompression needs.
Bram chuckles and requests a spot for the week after midterms. Going an extra week will be rough, but it's not like he'll never see Simon.
Simon doesn't reply to Bram's request right away, which is unexpected because he's not in class. (Bram didn't mean to memorize Simon's schedule. He remembers the times Simon's been available, and a couple things he's said about his classes, and he's... extrapolated.) Bram shrugs it off and goes back to studying.
Half an hour later, Bram startles upright at a knock on the door. He winces as his neck pops in protest, and in that half-second, Garrett beats him to opening the door, tipping his chair up on two legs and fumbling the knob at an awkward angle. The door swings in and hides him, giving the illusion of the door having opened on its own.
"Uh... hello?"
Bram whirls in his chair. "Simon! Hey, come in."
Simon smiles, but he looks confused as he comes inside. When he sees Garrett, he rolls his eyes. "Hey, Garrett."
Garrett jerks his chin up. "Yo, Spier."
Bram fumbles for his phone. The notification center is empty. "Were we—did we have—" He glances toward Garrett. Garrett doesn't know that Bram's been cuddling with Simon on a regular basis. Heck, Garrett doesn't seem to remember that he'd given Bram the gift certificate.
Simon laughs weakly and rubs his neck. "Uh, no. Abby's in our room, and—"
Garrett whistles. "Eisner's sexiling you this close to midterms? That's cold but bold."
Simon's hand drops from his neck and fiddles with the drawstring of his green hoodie instead. "Ah, no, Not sexiled. Yet. It's, uh... Abby believes in rewarding correct answers with kisses? And Nick's hardly ever wrong, and things... ramp up? So... can I study here for a while?"
"Yeah, sure, of course," Bram says. He starts to stand. "You want the desk?"
"God, no." SImon laughs again, more sincerely, and drops onto the bed. "I do my best thinking here," he says, throwing Bram a wink.
Bram exhales half a laugh and returns to his book. "You know where stuff is if you need it."
Bram feels eyes on the back of his head. He twists around to see Garrett staring at him. Bram squints, and Garrett mouths, He does? Bram's squint turns into a scowl, and he turns his back on Garrett, hoping Garrett doesn't notice the tight set of his shoulders or the quickness of his breath.
From his terrible slouch on the bed, Simon pokes Bram's thigh with his toe. Bram relaxes immediately. Doom may be impending, but he can put off worrying long enough to decline some irregular French verbs.
"HAH!"
"YYAH!"
It's like a scene from a slapstick comedy. Garrett (in his preferred, weird-ass study position: chair popped up on the back legs, feet on the lower rung of the desk, laptop balanced on his legs) shouts triumphantly, slams the laptop shut, and drops the chair to the ground. Simon, half asleep in Bram's bed, gives a startled yelp, jackknifes up, and whacks his head against the bedframe on his way back down.
"Are you okay?" Bram asks, ignoring Garrett's barking laughter.
"...ow," Simon says weakly.
"Listen up, fuckheads," Garrett says. "I finally finished my paper for Iron Dick—" Bram winces at Garrett's nickname for his advisor. Simon raises his eyebrows and looks amused. "—and I require food. Real food, not dining hall slop. I'm going to the Grille, and I'm buying. What do y'all want?"
Bram suppresses a grimace. The Grille's in the basement of the Student Union, and he doesn't think of it as "real food"; it's mostly just all the fried crap from the dining halls. But if Garrett's buying, he won't look that gift horse in the mouth. "Chicken fajita wrap, no dairy," he says.
Garrett winks and says, "And extra bacon, right?" Bram flips him off.
"Oh, uh, really?" Simon asks.
"Chop-chop, Spier." Garrett snaps his fingers in Simon's direction. "Less gaping, more ordering."
Simon laughs. "Okay, uh, grilled cheese and fries, please."
"You got it." Garrett grabs his wallet from his backpack and starts shoving his feet into his shoes.
"Should we... comes with you?" Simon asks, throwing Bram a confused look.
Garrett waves his hand. "Siddown, Spier. You'll slow me down! You'll cramp my style!" He leaves, waving over his shoulder, shouting, "You'll put a hitch in my getalong!" as the door swings shut.
Simon looks at the closed door for a long minute and then laughs. "Well. That happened."
Bram laughs, too. "That's Garrett. He... happens."
Simon grins. "How long 'til he gets back?"
Bram looks at the clock. "Twenty minutes?"
"Cuddle?" Simon asks hopefully.
"Uh..." Bram bites his lip. He'd like nothing better. But he doesn't trust himself to get out of a cuddle in time. And he's not ready for Garrett to see it.
Simon lights up. "We can do drying rack. Takes less time to get into and out of."
It's been a month and a half, but Bram remembers Simon using that term at the start of their first session. Bram had been sure then that Simon was making it up, and he's not entirely sure he believes it now. He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. "Drying rack," he says flatly, like a dare.
Simon grins and sits up. He sits perpendicular to the head of the bed, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. He pats the space next to him, and Bram wastes no time scrambling over and replicating the position so they're right next to each other.
"So we just sit next to each other?" Bram asks, unconvinced.
"Well, we sort of... lean on each other. Like plates in a dish rack?" They try it, shifting slightly apart so they can lean into each other. It's nice, that mutual support, but the position is weird, mostly because it's not actually cuddling.
"People ask for this?" Bram asks. He's trying not to judge; people need what they need. But having held Simon, and been held by him, he can't imagine accepting this instead.
Simon shrugs. "It's popular among the no homo cishet boy set. Especially the athletes."
Bram hums noncommittally. Inside, he's screaming. Why can't he tell Simon he's gay? He's come out to a total of four people (and his brother was all of a month old at the time, so Bram isn't sure he belongs on the list), and it's gone well every time. But none of the people he's told have been gay boys he's interested in. "What do people do with their hands?" he asks, a deflection if ever there was one.
Simon doesn't notice. "Usually, the dishes in the dish rack keep their hands to themselves."
Bram snorts and, in a fit of bravery whose origins he can't name, takes Simon's hand. Simon startles and then relaxes with a small, pleased sound that hits Bram straight in the heart.
They let the silence settle around them for a minute, as comfortable and comforting. Then Simon says cautiously, "So, uh... are you, like, lactose intolerant?"
Bram jerks out of his doze. "Um. No?"
"Oh. Sorry. You said no dairy, and I wondered..." He glances sheepishly at Bram.
Bram laughs. "It's not kosher. The chicken and the cheese together."
"Oh." Simon processes this for a second. "You're Jewish?"
"Sort of?" He sighs. Here we go. "Dad's Jewish; Mom's Episcopalian. I was raised with both and don't know how I feel about either. But we kept kosher at home, even after Dad moved out. Now it feels… weird, not to." Bram raises his eyebrows. "That a problem?"
Simon squints. "Why would it be a problem?"
Bram laughs. Sometimes he can't believe Simon is real. "Antisemitism. It's a thing."
"A thing that sucks," Simon says, sulking, and Bram laughs again, because he's aware, thanks. "My hometown has literally one Jewish person," Simon continues. "And she moved in after I graduated, so I've only met her, like, twice." He drops his gaze. "I may screw up."
Bram squeezes his hand. "As long as you're trying," he says sincerely, "I don't mind."
"Thank you," Simon says quietly. Then he brightens and adds, "My family is Christmas and Easter Catholics. Being serious about religion is novel to me. You'll get sick of my questions."
Bram thinks it would be hard to get sick of Simon or anything related to him, but he manages not to say that. "No silly questions, okay?" he jokes.
"There's no such thing as a silly question," Simon says, nudging Bram with his elbow.
"But there are a lot of inquisitive fools," Bram returns easily. They grin at each other, and this position has perks after all, because he gets to see Simon's face.
Familiar lassitude settles over them. They're content in the space together, and they drift, not talking much. Also, unfortunately, not aware of how much time is passing.
Thank fuck their building's elevator came out of dystopian science fiction and Garrett's walk came out of a herd of bison. Bram swears he feels the floor vibrate a split second before he hears Garrett call, "Stuff it, Palmer. My grandmother's got better moves than you!"
Simon and Bram jump apart. It's ridiculous; they aren't doing anything untoward. But try telling that to Garrett, whose ability to misread a situation is legendary. But maybe they don't move far enough apart, or lean far enough away from each other, or maybe Bram has a tell. Because Garrett bursts through the door, takes in what's supposed to be a "platonic bros studying" pose, and gives Bram a look that promises A Serious Conversation later.
For now he shakes a plastic bag at them and says, "Dinner, beeyotches." Simon and Bram roll their eyes practically in tandem, but they take their food. They talk about pointless shit while they eat, and it feels so comfortable, like they do this all the time, even though, as far as Bram knows, it's the longest conversation Simon and Garrett have ever had.
Simon's just finished his fries by shoving a truly horrifying number of them into his mouth when his phone buzzes. He reads the text and shouts, "Yes! Nick and Abby are going to Abby and Leah's room." He gives that bright smile that makes Bram's stomach do flips. "Thank you for letting me crash here. And for food. I wish I could stay, but I bugged out of my room in a big hurry. I left a bunch of stuff that I really need. So I'm gonna go. Maybe even get more studying done."
"Oh, I see how it is," Garrett grumbles. "You were just in it for the free food."
"Yes," Simon says, deadpan. "The free food I had no idea you were going to offer me."
Garrett laughs and shoos Simon toward the door. "Get outta here, Spier."
Grinning, Simon crams his stuff into his bag and climbs off Bram's bed. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and glances at Bram. "See you next week, right?"
Bram rolls his eyes, ignoring Garrett's curious gaze on them. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Oh." Simon blinks and then smiles sheepishly. "Probably, yeah." He rubs his neck and jerks his thumb toward the door. "I'm, uh, gonna go." He turns and all but runs from the room.
The instant the door shuts behind Simon, Garrett turns to Bram. Bram holds up a finger. The dorm's elevator is very old, slow, and loud. Bram counts the seconds of his reprieve. A minute later they hear the reverberating ding that means Simon's off their floor.
"Garrett," Bram starts, though he has no idea what he wants to say next. The plaintive note in his voice is downright embarrassing.
"Abraham," Garrett says crisply, "would you like to share with the class?"
Garrett can be insensitive, but he's not an asshole. If Bram says he doesn't want to talk about it, Garrett won't push the issue.
But, lord, the closet is exhausting. Trying to remember to react the right amount to hot women and not at all to hot men. Pretending firsthand experience with what a man and a woman do together and ignorance of what two men do. Missing GSA meetings and events because one of his soccer buddies suddenly wants to go to a party, or play a pickup game, or run to the liquor store, and he can't tell them what his other plans were. Maybe, he thinks, I can tell one person here, and my life won't end. Maybe, with one other person here sharing my secret, I'll feel lighter.
Bram looks at Garrett. His posture is open, relaxed. He doesn't look like a guy who's getting ready to queer-bash his roommate.
"I'm gay."
Garrett blinks at Bram. Bram blinks back. Then Garrett says, "And?"
Bram blinks at Garrett. Garrett blinks back. Then Bram says, "And what?"
"And, are you gay with Spier?"
"No." Bram puts his hands over his face. "But I want to be."
"So what's the holdup?"
Bram drops his hands and stares. "Well, for one, he doesn't know I'm gay."
Garrett spreads his hands. "So tell him!"
Ah, straight people.
"For another," Bram says, ignoring that, "I don't know if he feels the same about me."
Bram's not sure he truly understood what a guffaw sounded like until this moment. "Holy shit, the way he looked at you when you weren't looking. Sierra and I don't look half that sappy, and we're actually dating. I thought this was gonna be a talk about how mean it was to lead him on."
Bram's eyes widen. "Lead him on? You think..." He doesn't know how to end that sentence.
Garrett smiles. It's the kindest smile Bram's ever gotten from the guy. "Yeah," Garrett says. "I think." He leans across the tiny space between his desk and Bram's bed and squeezes his shoulder. "Thanks for telling me, man. Anyone else know?"
Bram shakes his head. "My family. No one here."
"Let me know when you do." A terrifying smile stretches across Garrett's face. "We'll throw you a coming out party!"
Garrett is the most ridiculous. Ever. But as Bram throws a pillow at Garrett's face (and misses by a mile), he thinks, Yeah. I feel lighter.
*
Bram opens the door for their next session in boxers and nothing else. Simon's wearing black sweatpants and a red hoodie. Bram wonders how many hoodies Simon owns.
"You can't milk a chicken," Simon announces. His gaze flickers, lingeringly, across Bram's torso, and Bram tries not to preen.
Simon's greeting provides a welcome distraction, and Bram raises his eyebrows. "Not… usually, no."
"'Do not boil a kid in its mother's milk,'" Simon continues doggedly as he shoves past Bram into the room. "But a chicken doesn't have milk. And, a chicken's 'kid' is an egg before it's another chicken, but you can have eggs with chicken, right?" Bram nods, resigned. Simon throws up his hands. "It makes no sense!"
Bram pinches his nose. "Rabbi Sally is gonna love you."
Simon looks pleased, though he clearly has no idea what Bram's talking about.
Bram rolls his eyes and walks toward the bed. "Knife and ladle. How does that work?"
Simon pauses. He has one shoe half-off, and he wobbles as he looks at Bram. "Person A on their back and Person B on their side with their head on Person A's shoulder or chest." He gets himself fully extracted from his shoes and moves to shimmying out of his sweatpants. "Wanna try that?"
Bram nods. "Can I be the knife?"
Smiling softly, Simon herds Bram toward the bed. "You can be any piece of cutlery you want."
Bram chuckles and lies down. He waits for Simon to follow, but Simon seems to have stalled out. Bram looks up—and sees Simon staring at the wall above Bram's desk.
"Ah," Bram says softly.
"That's new, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"That" is an eight by ten poster, sepia-toned like an old newspaper, that says simply:
LOVE WINS
June 26, 2015
Bram got it last summer. After he came out to Garrett, he finally felt brave enough to hang it.
"That was a wild day," Simon says. He leans forward and rests his hands on the desk, staring at the poster like he's looking for a deeper meaning in it. "I was so happy, but I didn't dare say so, because people would ask why, and I wasn't out to anyone."
"Same," Bram says quietly. Simon's head jerks over, his eyes wide. Bram ignores the frantic fluttering in his gut and continues, "I almost came out so many times that day. But then I heard people saying things that…" He swallows, unable to continue.
"Yeah." Simon sighs. "I know."
Simon looks at the poster for another long beat and then shakes himself and comes to the bed. He lies down along Bram's side and curls in against him, resting his head on Bram's shoulder. Bram immediately wraps his arm around Simon, rubbing slow circles on his back.
Bram swallows. He doesn't know if it's the kinship of the memories they've shared or this cuddling position, but it feels more intimate than any other way they've tried this.
For a long, long while, the only sound is Ella Fitzgerald drifting out of the phone. Then Simon whispers, "Bram?" and his breath ghosts warmly through the threadbare fabric of Bram's shirt.
Bram shivers. "Yeah?" he says, just as soft.
"Will you tell me a secret?"
Bram laughs weakly. "I just did."
"Yeah, I know. But…"
Bram squeezes Simon's shoulder. "I know what you mean."
"You don't have to. I can tell you one."
Bram sighs. "It's okay," he says, as much to himself as to Simon. "I graduated third in my class."
Simon snorts. "Not a secret, Abraham."
Bram clenches his jaw. "Please, Simon, let me get through this?" he asks. Simon nuzzles his forehead against Bram's neck in apology. "I was deliberately third in my class." Simon makes a soft noise of inquiry.
"I say I'm from Savannah," Bram says carefully, "because it's easier than saying I'm from this little suburb that even people from Savannah have never heard of. Being valedictorian or salutatorian didn't just mean giving a speech at graduation. I would've been expected to do a circuit of motivational speaking all summer. Knights of Columbus, church groups, other schools. And because I would've been an 'ambassador' for the school and the image it wanted to project, the administration made sure we understood that speeches 'addressing controversial subjects' would not be acceptable." Simon's arm tightens briefly around Bram's waist. "I was 'that one Black Jewish kid.' I was quiet, but when I had opinions, I Had Opinions. That warning was for me. So during junior and senior year, I knew exactly what GPA the top two kids in the class had, and I slid right in behind them.
"I felt like a coward and a disappointment," he admits quietly. "Like I was purposely not living up to my potential to get out of public speaking."
"No. In fact, fuck no." Simon's expression, when Bram tilts his head down to look, is fierce. "Valedictorian and salutatorian, that's supposed to be, like, a reward for years of effort. Not a sentence to three months as a… a circus bear. You looked at these people competing for a prize that wasn't worth having, and you saved yourself the grief. I admire the heck out of that."
Bram considers that a ridiculous view of the situation. But Simon's not likely to change his mind. So Bram huffs a bemused "Thank you" and relaxes into the mattress.
Despite Simon's promise of reciprocation, Bram's not expecting him to share. Holding your inner demons up to the light is hard; he would never demand it of anyone.
But Simon takes a deep breath and shuffles impossibly closer. He throws his calf over Bram's and rests his hand on Bram's stomach. "You know I was outed junior year."
Bram hums. "You've mentioned it. You've never told me details."
"I always say I don't know who did it, or why." Simon's throat clicks as he swallows. "I know exactly who did it, and exactly why.
"I'd known I was gay since I was 13, but junior year I got sick of… carrying it. I got… reckless, I guess. I was sort of dating this guy online. Mostly cybersex. He said he was in college. He, uh, wasn't very nice to me, but I figured I had to take what I could get.
"One day while I was in school, he sent me an email that I knew was gonna be super hot. I had a rehearsal after school, and I couldn't wait until I got home to read it. The cell reception in our building was crap, so I used a computer in the library to read it." He laughs hollowly. "The vice principal snuck up behind me and almost saw what I was reading. I got so flustered I jumped up and ran off without logging out of my email."
Bram inhales sharply. "The vice principal read your email?"
"I wish he had," Simon says with a bitter laugh. "That would've ended with an awkward conversation about internet safety and safe sex, and a detention for using school computers for 'salacious purposes.'" He sighs. "No, what happened was that the next person to use the computer was a conniving dickface who took screenshots of my emails and blackmailed me into getting him a date with Abby in return for not outing me."
"Oh, Simon," Bram breathes.
"It would've been his word against mine. Nothing in those screenshots really identified me. But in a small town in Georgia—you know what it's like. The thought anyone in my school knowing, or thinking—I spent the next two weeks running myself ragged trying to get Martin that date and hating myself every second.
"But Abby wasn't into him. I couldn't make her be into him. She started dating Nick, and Martin decided I hadn't worked hard enough to hold up my end of the bargain. He posted the screenshots on this tumblr that kids in our school used for posting anonymous gossip, and told everyone that the emails were from me."
"Simon," Bram says again. That's so inadequate, but what else can he say?
"The worst part," Simon says, and hot tears soak into Bram's shirt, "is that when I told the guy I'd been emailing, he didn't spend a second asking if I was okay. Just ranted for like two hundred words about how stupid and reckless I'd been, and how he'd better not get outed because of this 'or else.'" Simon snorts. "Nothing in that email could've identified him, either. We used fake names and told each other no identifying facts beyond vague physical descriptions—and we only had each other's word for it that those were real.
"Anyway, he dumped me. His exact words were, 'Fuck it, you're not worth the trouble. I'm out.'
"I couldn't talk to anyone, because—" His breath hitches. "Nick was my only close friend in high school, did you know that? Most of our lives, it was us against the world. But I'd never come out to him because he's... so straight, you know? I wasn't sure how he'd be. He stood up for me against the worst of the bullying, but everything else between us was in an awkward place. Nick had never known about the guy, so I couldn't tell him I'd been dumped. And I couldn't tell my parents—outed to the whole damned school, but I couldn't bring myself to say, 'Hey, Mom, hey, Dad, I'm gay, and this awful thing happened to me because of it.'"
"I'm so sorry you went through that," Bram says shakily. "I'm sorry you went through it alone."
Bram likes and appreciates what he and Simon have. They're friends. They understand each other's silences as well as their words. They've shared confidences and Oreos in roughly equal numbers. And now that they're out to each other, Bram feels like they could share anything and keep their friendship.
But he can't ignore the other feelings at play here. Feelings he didn't intend to develop but also, he admits, has done little to discourage. Feelings he's starting to think Simon returns.
The thing is (and he's on shaky ground here, but he doesn't think he's wrong), this is technically Simon's job. Bram had enjoyed his Sociology of Work class, and the section on unpaid work had really made him think. Bram won't ignore the rules about not hitting on someone who's working just because that work isn't paid.
He wonders how much proximity influences these feelings. Bram was at least a little into Simon before this, so spending an hour every other week cuddling with him was guaranteed to intensify that. But Simon seems to be a natural-born romantic with a big heart. Maybe it happens to him repeatedly, thinking he's fallen for one of his cuddling clients. Bram would rather not try anything with Simon than be with him and then have Simon realize that wasn't what he'd wanted after all.
Simon jams his finger into Bram's ribs, where the asshole knows he's ticklish. Bram comes out of his thoughts abruptly, yelping and and grabbing for Simon.
Simon laughs and yanks his hand out of range before Bram can catch it. "Making sure you were in there," he says.
Bram sighs. "A lot to think about."
"Yeah." Simon nods. "Penny for 'em?"
Bram snorts, and it's only mostly deflection. "If you have an actual penny on you, I'll eat it."
"You don't take cards?" Simon asks, and Bram hears the pout in his tone.
"Five dollar minimum."
"Highway robbery," Simon grumbles, subsiding against Bram's chest.
Simon doesn't press, and Bram's grateful for that, but the silence that falls after is awkward, not like the comfortable ones they've been sharing for the past two months.
Simon's gotten in the habit of saying "See you in two!" when he leaves at the end of each session. It's goofy and pointless, since they'll see each other long before then, but it's become their thing. Today, Simon shoulders his backpack, nervously scratches his nose, and says, "Uh, see you around, I guess?"
Bram has no idea how Simon knows what he's thinking, but he's right. There won't be another appointment.
*
Bram tries. He swears he tries. It shouldn't be a difficult resolution to keep. Garrett got him the gift certificate; Bram used the gift certificate; end of story. Only it turns out that cuddling is as addictive as any drug, and Bram is well and truly hooked.
By two and a half weeks after what he's forcing himself to think of as his last session, he's getting cranky. By three weeks after, he can't concentrate in class. He's a mess on the field. Garrett's basically moved in with Sierra to escape Bram's insomnia.
So he's not surprised when, in week four and a half, Garrett crumples a familiar piece of paper into a ball and bounces it off Bram's forehead. "Sierra's roommate hates me. Get your shit together."
The new certificate confirms Bram's suspicion that Garrett didn't know about his other sessions. But he can't be smug about it, because he's in real trouble if Garrett thinks he's back to this level.
Once Garrett's out of the room again, Bram opens the CCC website and chooses five times for a session. With Cal.
*
Cal and Bram confirm the time for their session, but when Bram opens the door Tuesday evening, Abby and Leah are standing on the other side.
"Uh, hi?" Bram asks.
"Hello, Bram, we're here for cuddles; let us in," Abby says imperiously.
Bram steps back from the door, too confused to do otherwise, and the women sweep into his room like it's their personal domain. They take off their jackets, leaving them in yoga pants and tank tops. "So, Greenfeld, where does the cuddle magic happen?" Abby asks.
"Look, not that I'm not glad to see you, but you're not Cal."
Abby grins and pats his cheek. "Aw, you say the sweetest things." She leaps backward and lands on his bed. "We swapped."
"Why?"
Leah sits next to Abby, surprisingly close. "Because two of our friends are miserable, and we want to know why."
"I'm not... miserable," Bram says weakly.
Leah rolls her eyes. "Garrett and Nick say otherwise. And Simon is certainly miserable. We figured we would come see what's going on. See whose ass we need to kick."
"So, what do you think?" Abby asks Leah as much as Bram. "Spoons? Cutting board?"
"Ooh, I love cutting board!" Leah says. They look at Bram expectantly.
"Do you guys sit around coming up with weird names for fake positions to confuse us?"
Grinning, Abby and Leah wriggle until their backs are to the wall, their legs stretched out in front of them. Abby points at her lap and then Leah's. "Head. feet."
Bram considers. It's weird, but then, this whole situation is weird. "Yeah, sure." He takes off his sweatshirt but leaves his sweatpants on. The three of them haven't built a "shirtless-in-your-underpants" level of trust with each other.
It takes adjusting, but they eventually settle themselves. After Bram says it's okay, Abby starts playing with his hair. Leah rests her hand on his ankle, and the heat and weight of it starts to settle him. He breathes out slowly and gives himself permission to relax.
It's a mistake. The instant he lets his guard down, Abby pounces. "So. What's wrong with you?"
Bram flips onto his side so his back is to them. "Nothing," he says sullenly.
Leah tsks. "Don't try it, Greenfeld."
"It could be Simon," Bram argues. "Did you think about that?"
"Oh, definitely," Abby says with a small laugh. "In fact, we consider it highly likely."
"But Simon is currently moping around his dorm room with Nick and Cal, crying, 'Why? Why does Cute Bram hate me?' Which, by the way, he's been calling you since you had that class together last year. So while we're willing to concede that it may have been his fault, we're betting that you'll be more likely to offer actually useful information."
Bram sighs. He doesn't owe Abby and Leah anything. But these are two of Simon's best friends. "I... like Simon."
Abby and Leah exchange a look over Bram's head. "Lots of people like Simon," Abby says carefully. "We like Simon."
"Simon's a likeable guy," Leah adds.
Bram squeezes his eyes shut. "No, I like Simon."
Leah squeals, and Abby beams at him, shaking his shoulder. "That is great!"
Bram gives them his best Thor face. "Is it, though?"
They pause. "Why wouldn't it be?" Leah asks.
All of Bram's confused thoughts tumble out. Unpaid work and proximity attraction and what it would mean—really mean—to be in a same-gender relationship on this campus—and beyond it. Leah and Abby listen attentively and never once tell him he's being ridiculous (though he thinks Leah may want to, a time or two).
When Bram's done talking, they take a minute to digest what he's said. Then Abby says, too shrewdly for Bram's liking, "If that were taken care of, then would you ask him out?"
"No!" Bram yelps.
"Why the hell not?" Leah demands.
Bram pokes her hand with his foot. "Oh, I don't know. How about anxiety? Fear of rejection?"
Leah and Abby grin at each other. "Okay, I know this isn't how anxiety works; I know I can't, poof, make it go away," Leah says. "But trust me when I tell you that you do not have to worry about rejection. Not from Simon."
And, no, the anxiety doesn't go away, but it does ease a little.
"I'll admit that Simon tends to get crushes the way other people get colds," Abby says.
"Abby!"
"I'm being honest with the man, Leah." She reaches over Bram's head and squeezes Leah's hand. "Many's the time we've listened to him rhapsodize about some guy's abs, or smile, or accent. But those have been shallow physical attractions, and they end fast. This is the first time he's mentioned actual feelings.
"The work thing... man, I don't know." Abby shakes her head. "That's between you and your conscience, you know? But Simon spends non-work time with you, too. Maybe try talking to him during one of those times?"
"Oh!" Leah bounces. "He's in that Drama Department student play showcase next weekend. The plays will be awful, but Simon will be great. Go one night, take him out for coffee after to talk."
That sounds doable. And Simon's mentioned several times that his family came to all his high school plays, even when he was a chorus member with no lines, and how he's missed that support since he came to college. Having Bram in the audience might mean be nice for him.
"Yeah, " Bram says. "I can do that."
Things feel easier between the three of them after that. Bram doesn't know if Abby and Leah were testing him, or if his anxiety is telling him that. Either way, he thinks he passed.
When Abby and Leah have collected their bags and are ready to leave, Abby fiddles with the strap of her bag. "We could come to the plays with you," she finally offers, strangely diffident. "Leah and Nick and me."
Leah stills and looks at her. "Like… date night?" she asks hesitantly.
Abby bites her lip. "If you want." Then they both look at Bram in wide-eyed panic.
"Okay, listen," Leah says. "You can't tell anyone yet. Not even Si. But, um, we're trying to make something work. The three of us."
"Oh?" Then it clicks into place, and his eyes widen. "Oh! Wow, congratulations. And good luck."
"Really?" Abby asks. "You think it's okay?"
Bram shrugs. "I mean, it's not my place to think anything about it. It's your relationship. But, yeah. If you're happy, I'm happy for you."
Suddenly, Bram's got an armful of tearful Abby, who presses her damp face into his shoulder and murmurs, "Thank you, thank you" over and over.
Leah smiles. "You're the only person we've told. Nick's dad found out accidentally, and it… sucked. And we know people will mostly react that way. It helps to have a friend on our side. It's… nice."
Bram laughs. "That's me, all right. I'm just happy y'all are willing to come to the plays with me." He gives them a hopeful look. "The plays won't be that bad, right?"
Leah grins and pats his arm. "Keep reminding yourself you're doing it for Simon."
*
The plays are worse than Bram expected. The student showcase is ten ten-minute plays written, directed by, and starring Dramatic Arts and Dance majors. In the whole set, one doesn't make Bram want to run screaming into the night.
Simon's in two of the pieces. He's really good. Bram wishes he could say that Simon's excellent acting skills are enough to overcome the plays' other flaws, but it's super not true. Bram briefly regrets not seeing Simon act for the first time in something good, but the weakness of the material and direction make Simon's acting skills shine brighter.
Bram is sitting between Nick and Garrett. Abby's on Nick's other side, Leah at the end. Bram pretends not to notice that Nick and Leah hold Abby's hands throughout the first half, or that, during the second half, the casual arm Nick slings over Abby's chair is so he can gently touch his fingertips to the nape of Leah's neck. He pretends not to see that—but it makes him smile.
Garrett's moved from confused to pissed to barely contained laughter as the evening's worn on. On his other side, Sierra looks vaguely horrified, like she can't believe she shares air, let alone a college, with these people. Bram feels bad for dragging them to this without explanation or context. When Simon appeared onstage, Garrett had let out an "Oh!" that wasn't nearly as quiet as he probably thought it was. As the lights had come up on the third piece, two guys in ushankas and pink camo pants, Confederate flags painted on their bare chests, pointing prop bayonets at the audience and soaking their feet in a kiddie pool full of green jello, Sierra had leaned around Garrett and hissed, "Tonight was date night, Greenfeld. You owe us." Bram agrees.
At the end of the night, Bram pulls a shopping bag from under his seat and heads toward the lobby. Sierra tries to follow, but Nick swoops in, distracting her and Garrett with a question about their spring break plans. Bram owes him for that.
The lobby is mostly empty. The house was small to begin with, and Bram figures most people dashed during curtain call to avoid having to figure out how to talk politely about this mess.
Simon's face lights up the instant he sees Bram. Bram feels a flutter in his chest. Simon's loping walk carries him to Bram in a few strides, and he throws his arms around Bram as easily as breathing, saying his name with surprised delight. "Thought I heard your laugh. I can't believe you came to this train wreck."
"You were really good," Bram says, glad that in this, at least, he doesn't have to lie.
Simon snorts. "I was a mess."
Bram shakes his head emphatically. "The plays were a mess. You were great."
Simon looks at him intently for a long beat and then nods. "Thanks, Bram."
Bram covers his embarrassment by looking down and thrusting Simon's gift at him with a brusque, "This is for you." Which may be more embarrassing.
The package crinkles when Simon takes it. Bram doesn't have to look up to know Simon's smiling; he can feel the hundred watts beaming on him like somebody switched on a light.
"You got me Oreos," he says, sounding amused and awed.
In the periphery, Bram is vaguely aware of Sierra's loud, "Oh!" and then scuffling as Abby, Nick, and Leah shuffle her and Garrett away. He doesn't look, but he's grateful for the save—even as he's aware that they'll tease him mercilessly later.
Bram shrugs. "You don't like cut flowers, so." He scowls. "Also, I trust the corner store's cookies way more than I trust their roses."
Simon's unexpected silence in response to this makes Bram look up. Simon is staring at him, mouth slightly open. "I said that once," he says. "Like, two months ago."
Bram looks away again. "I pay attention," he grumbles.
Simon pokes the ribbon rosette on top of the package with his fingertip. "You did give me a flower, though," he teases.
Bram looks down again. His cheeks are burning. Years from now, if he and Simon are still friends, he'll confess to the two-hour Pinterest rabbit hole he fell down while looking at cookie bouquet tutorials, and how he'd decided the bouquet was hokey but the ribbon rosette wasn't so bad.
"Hey." Simon's voice goes gentle, like always when Bram's upset. He steps closer and rests his fingers under Bram's chin, tilting it up so Bram's looking at him. "I love it, Bram. Thank you." He studies Bram's face. Bram's pulse races. "I want to kiss you."
Bram swallows. "So kiss me."
Simon swoops in, kisses the corner of Bram's mouth, and swoops out again, clenching the Oreos and looking desperately unsure of himself.
Bram stares at him. Then he grins and presses another, longer kiss to Simon's lips.
Simon beams and starts to lean in for a kiss that will surely be an escalation. Bram holds him off with a hand on his chest. "Hang on. We need to talk before this goes further."
Simon nods. "Yeah, okay. We can do that."
"Now?" Bram asks hopefully. "Can we do it now?"
Simon laughs brightly. "I would love that."
"Good," Bram says. "Because I have questions about the plays."
Simon laughs harder. "No," he says, lacing his and Bram's fingers together. "Absolutely not."
*
An epilogue of sorts: Fall Semester
❤︎Si❤︎: bram
❤︎Si❤︎: bram i have an emergencyyyyyyy
Me: What's up, babe?
❤︎Si❤︎: ur too far away 2 kiss
Me: You're sweet, Si, but that's not an emergency
❤︎Si❤︎: (ง'̀-'́)ง
Me: Also, I'm working.
❤︎Si❤︎: not REAL working
Me: Do I need to get out the slides again?
❤︎Si❤︎: :whimper: please no not the slides
Me: It's a short session today. Then I'm yours for the rest of the evening. You can kiss me as much as you want then.
❤︎Si❤︎: yay! ＼(^o^)／
❤︎Si❤︎: ilu!
Me: Love you, too. ❤︎❤︎❤︎
Bram puts his phone in his pocket as he exits the stairwell. Ethan lives in his building; no way is he dealing with that rickety elevator for two floors.
Ethan opens the door wearing a navy blue kimono-style silk bathrobe over pink flannel pajamas with a rubber duckie print and maribou-edged hot pink slippers. Bram has no doubt that this is normal for Ethan, but for him to let someone else see him wearing it is a sure sign of impending meltdown. Ethan peers past Bram into the hall before grabbing his arm and hauling him inside. "Abraham. Are you alone?"
Bram raises an eyebrow. "Who else would be with me?"
Ethan flaps his hand. "Your adorable white shadow?"
"Simon and I are separate people with our own lives," Bram huffs, ignoring his phone buzzing in his pocket with more texts from Simon.
Ethan hums skeptically. "Never mind him, I just wanted to make sure no one else was going to witness my calamity."
Bram adds his sneakers to the carefully arranged rows of shoes by Ethan's door and drops his backpack next to the desk. "What calamity is that?"
"Me!" Ethan gestures at himself. "Looking like this and completely freaking out about my presentation." He shakes his head and sags against the bed frame. "I am usually as cool as a cucumber facial mask before presentations. But this is for Professor McCoy."
Bram winces. He's had Professor McCoy. He gets it. He chivvies Ethan toward the bed. "The presentation was almost perfect when I was here last week. I'm sure it's even better now."
"Hmmm." Ethan lets himself be herded, but then he looks over his shoulder at Bram and says, "You have cuddling positions that'll let me get in one more run-through?"
Bram considers. Ethan doesn't need one more run-through. But he understands that feeling that it has to be really really perfect. If running it one more time will help Ethan feel more confident and prepared, Bram will help him do it.
"Drying rack should work," Bram says. "Or measuring cups."
Ethan turns toward him. "Do y'all sit around and make up absurd names for cuddling positions to mess with us?"
Bram looks Ethan in the eyes and says, "Yes. We do." Ethan's startled laugh distracts him enough for Bram to tip him onto the bed. "All right," Bram says as he climbs on after. "Let's cuddle that stress out of you."