Work Text:
20000501: treehouse,
20070210: fire,
20100318: and departure
Something Simon always remembered well was proudly counting the bruises on his legs. His memories always fuzzily resurfaced in different ways, but always with at least a few bumps and scrapes here and there, splotched across his thin legs as if they were the scribbled-in drawings of a toddler. In his memories, he'd often play with a boy in the same class as him, though Simon could never recall how or why they even became friends — he had always been an unsociable and somewhat gloomy type of child, and this boy was confident and earnest. Maybe life was just funny that way.
Horace — Simon remembered the name of his best friend well because his father always forgot it and Simon would have to remind him — was excitable, too. He liked to act out TV shows and trek around the backyard pretending it was the jungle and stay awake past bedtime talking to Simon instead of sleeping. He had a treehouse near his house, and that was where the two of them spent many of their days. Simon was clumsy and often couldn't land jumps from the treehouse to the ground, but he didn't like crying in front of his dad, so he'd hold it in until he and Horace were out of sight and then burst into tears. Horace's eyes would widen and he'd look surprised, almost confused, until the muted crying stopped. Simon was always the one who made fun of Horace, so he never understood why at those times he never teased him in return. He never had as many bruises as Simon, either.
At Simon's first visit of many to play at his friend's house, Horace had immediately grabbed him by the wrist and practically dragged him up the treehouse, all the while saying, "This is our secret hideout. Whatever we say here is a secret forever, okay?" And Simon had nodded wordlessly, still overwhelmed and afraid to say anything awkward. As time went on, he became more outspoken like Horace, but in a bit of a different way. The boy he'd spent his youngest years with was the reckless type of excitable; the clueless kind that would never notice the feelings of others, but even so you'd never get bored of being pulled around by his enthusiasm. When Simon opened up, it was harder to see on the surface unless you knew him. He'd perhaps giggle a bit more freely, let himself act a little snappier, spill his heart to anyone who'd listen. He was a subdued boy, but what lay beyond his shy expressions was the spark of determination, if nothing else.
It was one day after Simon had tripped and scuffed the palms of his hands that they'd retreated back to the treehouse, and Horace had done something unlike his usual self. Simon bit his lip climbing the tree, his hair and the leaves around them both shifting in the breeze. They reached the top and Simon sat cross-legged. He blew on his throbbing palms with his face scrunched up, trying to fight tears back. For a second he made firm eye contact with Simon with that weird face of his, and in the next moment he began to gently take both of Simon's injured hands in his own. He was never the type to handle anything with care, so the careful look in his eye and the way only the tips of their fingers interlocked so as not to touch the scrapes on his palms put a weird feeling in Simon's stomach.
"...My dad holds my hand when I'm scared," was all he offered as explanation. Simon stared at him for another short moment — trying to decipher Horace's honest expression — but then he laughed, quietly.
"I'm scared?" The tears that threatened to spill were fading away. "Are you sure you're not trying to play the knight again?"
Seeing Simon smile made Horace smile in return. He stood up quickly in defense. Simon's fingers slipped helplessly from his grip. "Obviously I'm always aiming to be a knight."
"Dunno if you're cut out for it," Simon snapped back with a merciless grin. "Aren't knights supposed to be cooler?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Horace's clumsy retort tumbled out of his mouth with a gruffness, and he crossed his arms. "Anyway, stick your pinkie out. You gotta promise something for me now."
Simon did as he asked, his face glowing. Horace squatted down to meet his eyes, since Simon was still on the floor. Under his gaze, Simon felt a little less sure of himself. Then, Horace linked their pinkies together. Again acting unnaturally serious, he stated the promise.
"Tell me if you're scared." Simon laughed a little at the words, and Horace glared at him stubbornly. "Stop laughing...! It's super duper important!"
Simon did stop laughing, but a wry smile remained. Even so, he half-nodded as he looked into Horace's eyes, which were much more sincere than his own. He squeezed Horace's pinky as they shook, and in a playful tone, he said "I promise."
Horace smiled as if satisfied. Simon thought he made expressions like that a lot — ones where his smile reached all the way to his eyes and his gaze was honest and full of life. Those kinds of expressions could always bring out a smile in return from him, even if it was merely snickering at him.
But this time, Simon too smiled up to his eyes. It was these kinds of mundane memories that Simon couldn't quite recall perfectly in the beginning. They were vague and foggy in his mind as if some part of himself had wanted to keep them locked away. Trying to revisit such distant memories sent a cold shiver through his body perhaps in reminder of that idea. Even though what he did remember was so happy. Even though what he did remember withheld a strong feeling of warmth more than anything else.
Simon's memories always came back in chunks — each occurrence cast out a thread that connected to another occurrence, until finally that thread wore thin and could no longer be seen nor held. And those memories were never really complete. It was only a few exchanges of words, maybe, or — much more often — it was just a few images, which triggered more images, which thawed out old feelings that he'd never even known had been so close. Feelings were certainly the worst to rediscover, because they tore at Simon as if they were fresh wounds again.
The day before he turned fifteen, Simon ran away. The orphanage he had lived in for the better of eight years had become a place he could no longer set foot in without feeling unsafe, without feeling like he was being watched like a predator tracking its prey. His father never came to take him home, and eventually he gave up on hoping it would ever happen. As he grew up the thought of his father made his throat tighten. The confusion and sadness that had always consumed him twisted into something else — something like despair, hopelessness.
His memory of his separation from his father was hazy, just like all of the other memories of his childhood. He remembered diligently watching the car's clock for the time his father told him. He remembered a sudden weight pinning down his thin body, so heavy that he could not move. He remembered his own voice shouting so desperately that his throat felt raw, and the frantic apologies of his best friend. He remembered someone else's tears falling onto his face.
That memory didn't come back to him right away. For a while in that cold orphanage, he lived peacefully with Horace, his only memories of him blurry ones of joy and friendship. They'd talk and play and laugh, and in those days it almost seemed like they had become best friends twice over, as new people with memories that didn't pay mind to betrayal or abandonment.
But soon people and places and words that he didn't recall would begin flashing in his brain, and he would be scared — he'd cower and he'd be reminded of what he had been told when he was younger, that his memory of his old life had been shut out. His head always hurt when those memories came, always, but no one ever helped him. He'd toss and turn in his small bed and call out and cry, but no knight came to steal him away from the monster. Why was it always him that was tortured and not Horace? Why didn't the orphanage's director rush in to help him? Why didn't his father come to rescue him? Where was his father? Why hadn't he come to save him yet? Why?
It wasn't until a particular cold, cold evening that Simon would recall a certain memory filled with tears and loathing and despair. Like any other night, he did not want to sleep — it was becoming something Simon dreaded near constantly — but his eyes closed almost upon their own accord. He drifted to sleep with his pillow clutched tightly over his face, and soon, the memories did come as if they were but dreams.
"I have to go see my dad!"
There was shouting. Screaming. Crying.
"Stop! Please, Horace, stop it!"
He couldn't move his hands. Someone was pinning him down against a car door. His cheek hurt; it was being forced against the lock of the door.
"Simon, I'm sorry! I can't! I can't, Simon, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry...!"
Frantic apologies. Simon's struggling weakened. His crying became but background noise.
"Please... Let me go..."
Then, after a long while of Simon weakly sobbing, silence.
A memory like that, Simon now knew, was too horrifying to ever be a mere nightmare. From it, more things forced their way to the surface, crashing against his head one after another — the competition, the sweet tastes in his mouth, the pride he felt on that day before the incident. Of course, right then he just lay helplessly in his bed, probably keeping some other children awake he was in such distress. His head hurt. His head felt like it was going to split in two. He stumbled out of bed, barely keeping his balance. The tile was cold against his bare feet.
I have to find Ms. Roland, was his thought. His feet didn't feel quite synced up as they staggered downstairs. The quiet pitter-patter of his footsteps was the only noise keeping Simon locked into reality, as opposed to his brain trapping him in its endless throbbing and pounding. The cold seeped into him, too; even from in the building he thought he could feel the winter wind on his skin.
He heard a chillingly familiar voice outside when he dragged his feet down the final step, one of the director's. She said some words Simon didn't understand, but then she spoke again and he froze in place. The rest felt merely like a scramble of sensations that passed so quickly Simon couldn't quite sort out everything, even though it all took several minutes. His bare feet stinging in the ice and snow. His heart hammering as he tried to hold his breath for as long as he could. Checking behind his shoulder with every step he took. Speaking in a hushed but urgent voice to a man he remembered. Pulling his black hair aside while flames pressed at his backside. Snow melting. Trying to slip back into the orphanage with the bottoms of his feet blue and his head pounding even more violently than before.
Though Simon was terrified, the encounter brought to light another crucial memory — a savior. An assassin that had bent his own code to save two scared and dying six-year-old boys. Through that act, a murderer had brought Simon closer to humanity than he'd ever been before. Was this the nature of humanity? The people who say they're on your side offer you nothing, while those souls cast out are the only ones to show kindness to outsiders? With only that, Simon experienced what he regarded as his first — perhaps his only — taste of warmth. Of kindness. And just through existing, his savior confirmed that the memory of Simon's very first betrayal was not a twisted nightmare, but reality. Simon's father was undeniably gone forever, and that memory made it evident.
It must have been... because of what Horace did that Simon would never get to see his father again. That he couldn't be rescued from this orphanage that would soon be turned into a living hell. That fact was what distorted whatever warmth Simon had been bestowed from his childhood best friend into bitterness and cold. And something else unlike all of that began to steadily increase in size inside him, too — anger, boiling hot and consuming. That flame inside him was perhaps the only thing keeping Simon from freezing up completely, unable to feel or act. Suddenly, instead of feeling a sense of familiarity or comfort when he saw his childhood best friend — that memory that stung in Simon's mind made him feel nothing but disconnect. It was so easy to hate him; to see his face not as a friend but one of a traitor.
That night, Simon shivered under his covers. His feet were freezing even though his hair stuck to his forehead he felt so hot, and every other moment he thought he heard the door open downstairs. He vainly tried to hold his breath, but when he heaved out in failure a sob escaped his mouth. He tried to muffle it by shoving his head in his pillow. He continued his ugly, choked crying as quietly as he could. "Dad," he whimpered. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry I couldn't —" The thought was cut off by the creak of floorboards downstairs and he shut his mouth tight.
He killed Dad. It's his fault. It's not my fault, it's his. It's his. He thought that as his heart hammered waiting for the sound of the staircase. He knew he had been seen. He felt it in his gut that something terrible was going to happen, that Ms. Roland was going to do something terrible to him. But then he watched the few sleepy children blinking half-awake at the commotion, and his body relaxed, though the dread still remained. Dread for the morning, when the witness of other children would not be an issue. Simon slept, but he slept wary and still trembling. And he thought again, It's not my fault. Why is this happening to me? It's not my fault, it's not my fault...
So when he woke up the next day — and the day after that and the day after that — he felt sick whenever he received a smile or words of concern from that person or whenever he acted so familiar — didn't Horace remember what he'd done? Perhaps he didn't care?
"Simon, what's wrong?"
"Simon, what do you wanna watch?"
"Simon, let's ask if we can go out today!"
Every word was like a ever-tightening grip around his throat. The more Horace smiled, the more Simon detested the smile — the one he had once admired. The more Horace worried, the more Simon wanted to scoff and spit out that there would never be anything worse than him. All the while, Simon confirmed one thing for certain, and he did it over and over again — he hated Horace Knightley, and every time he didn't notice that fact, he only hated him more.
So in the end, running away from everything he'd ever known wasn't all that difficult. His only friend from childhood had left him, even if he hadn't realized as much yet. His father was long dead, or he surely would have come to rescue him a thousand times over. He was constantly under interrogation in his orphanage-turned-prison, and his mind was beginning to wear from the director's poison-laced gazes and words. He had not much reason to remain. He had many a reason to escape.
The morning before he left, Simon thought about cutting his hair. In fact, he'd been thinking about it in the few weeks he had been planning to run away; a change in appearance would surely grant him some safety. But every time he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors hovering over a lock of hair, he couldn't do it. For some reason, a weakness in will always held him back from squeezing the scissors together and chopping away at his black hair. That morning was no different in that regard. But as Simon was about to take the final chance to cut his hair, to squint his eyes shut and just do it — he was interrupted.
"Oh, Simon," he heard a gruff voice from over his shoulder say. It sounded kind of withdrawn, like he was preparing himself for backlash. Horace. "Um, are you... gonna cut it off?"
"Yes." Simon set the scissors down. He didn't turn around.
"Oh." Horace never knew how to respond when Simon gave him the cold shoulder. He never would learn, either. "I don't think you should."
"Why not?"
"Well, if you mess up, I'll have to look at it every day, for starters," he chuckled, but there was a lingering tension thick in the space between them. Simon did not laugh. Simon did not reply. There was an exhaustive silence before Horace swallowed and spoke up again. His eyes darted between the back of Simon's head and scissors resting underneath his hand. "So..."
"I don't need your help." Simon felt his expression change, but he averted his eyes. "Don't you have something better to do?"
Horace might have been an idiot, but Simon knew that even he could tell when he was not wanted. It was clear enough when his expression became the slightest bit less tensed, as if he were tired. Confused, and tired. Accepting. It was the last time Simon would see his best friend's face for a long time. Even though he figured it was fitting for someone he hated so much, he never could get that resigned look in Horace's eyes out of his mind. It was haunting, almost, to recall it. That even someone as insensitive as Horace could sense his own kind of helplessness.
It was raining when Simon left, the air electric and humid. His rainboots splashed and splattered in the puddles gathering in the dirty street gutters. No matter how much he wanted to, Simon never turned to look back — not for his childhood, not for his best friend, not for his father. Not even to send a final look, not even a declaration of vengeance, to his oppressors.
And he never did cut his hair.
20150319: reunion
"... Simon."
In front of an open door, Horace stood five years older than he was the last time Simon had seen his best friend's face. A face he barely recognized, yet was hauntingly familiar. One he never expected to see nor wanted to see again. Though he, at first, couldn't see any of its details — he couldn't get his vision to focus, nor get his throat to form words. He felt himself involuntarily take a step backwards, and his hand reached out to keep his balance. In fact, for a moment, he just stood there, frozen, trying to get his mind to start working again. His heart hammered so hard it physically hurt, and his head was beginning with its familiar ache again.
A few silent seconds passed while Simon recovered. Bewildered, he stared at his old friend before him. Written all over his expression was a strange mixture of expectation, hesitation — and concern. Most of all, he looked uncharacteristically weary. It was unsettling to see him that way, when his memory of him had been always so carefree,so full of energy. His eyes looked over Simon's expression, evaluating it, and tentatively, he took a step forward.
Before Simon even knew what Horace was going to do, he stuttered back another step. He felt a pit in his stomach, seeing him again, and everything in his body was telling him this was wrong. That he should be running far, far away. That if he stared like a deer caught in headlines for a moment longer, this silence would kill him. So he spoke.
"Get out of my sight." He spat out the first words he'd said to his best friend in five years without really thinking about it. But they were said with such a conviction that after, he noticed his hands shook a bit. He clenched his fists tightly shut. His head hurt. God, it hurt.
Horace's expression shifted at the outburst, but not in the way Simon expected it to. He looked apologetic. And he looked completely unsurprised.
"Simon, listen —" He reached forward for Simon's wrist in an attempt to calm him down. It was something he'd probably done a hundred times back at the orphanage, and Simon had never really reacted to it before. Horace did it when Simon was crying, when he was trying to tell him something, when they argued. But now Simon slapped his hand away and defiantly locked eyes with him, like a child opposing their mother. It was at that time he noted that Horace was taller than him now, and much better built. Yet he recoiled at the swing as if he were still the child.
"I told you to leave," Simon repeated himself, his voice cracking.
"Simon, I —" Horace doesn't try to move this time. "Sorry. Guess I shouldn't have expected everything would stay the same."
Simon took a deep breath and stared expectantly. Horace gazed into the ground, perhaps searching for words. Simon almost scoffed; it was just like him to do something like this without thinking of the consequences. For him to do something like this, after Simon's life had just fallen into a monotonous, safe loop. Of course he would. And of course Simon had been found by anyone at all, after taking so many measures to disconnect himself from his past. Was he actually the careless one?
After Horace opened his mouth he looked like he was still trying to think, trying to process something. But when he did actually start his little speech, it came out harsh and clumsy. It didn't seem like he used those five years to figure what to say. That was just like him, too. Perhaps Horace had taken on more troubles since then, but at least being a narrow-minded idiot was a trait that stuck.
Horace started just by sighing. "Do you... Do you have any idea how much you scared me? How much shit I went through trying to find you?" His words were rough and inconsiderate, as usual, but the silence after told Simon all he needed to know. It passed slowly; he watched the way Horace bit his lip and the way he averted his gaze with his eyes glazed over. Simon felt his fingernails dig into his palms. Horace sighed another time, but this time with fondness, like a scolding. "I thought... I thought I'd never see you again. I thought... I lost you, Simon."
Simon stared blankly.
"I don't care about any of the details." Horace looked pleadingly into his eyes. "But don't ever just... leave like that again. Please."
Simon inhaled again. Horace had truly become even more pathetic than the last time he'd seen him. Emotional. Insecure. Afraid of abandonment. And he seemed desperate to please more than anything — Simon wondered what in the world happened to his childhood friend that made him into such a coward. If he had cared enough, he would have felt sick to his stomach.
"Horace..." Simon said his name in a soft way as his brain worked. It was easy, really. Just tell him what he wants to hear, the way he wants to hear it. It was second nature now, and yet it felt suffocating to carry it out. "God, you're an idiot... Do you really think I'm gonna leave?"
Relief washed over Horace's face. He couldn't disguise it in his voice, even, as he said, "Good. Good..."
Hot anger seared through Simon's body. How disgusting it was that Horace would be so happy. How easy it was to twist his every emotion to Simon's will. Why did he look at Simon like that, as if he truly didn't care how he had been treated? Even a single-minded person would surely wonder why they had been shunned. And still, there was the ever-present question — didn't he remember? Wasn't it unforgivable, what Horace had done to him? And yet, wasn't he still there at Simon's mercy, asking for forgiveness?
Horace then seemed to acknowledge that Simon had become tolerant of him again, perhaps after hearing the warmth laced skillfully into his tone. There was a brief but pregnant pause before Simon snickered and gestured at him.
"You got tall these past few years, huh?" he murmured, looking up at Horace.
Horace smirked in return. "And your hair is red now."
"Just wanted a change," Simon lied. "Since I never cut it."
"It's nice."
"It's annoying."
That nonchalant smile remained.
Simon still felt nauseated — at Horace's sudden appearance, at his words, at his expressions. Familiar things that had at one point calmed him turning against him.
It's been a long time — why not forgive him?
But what has he ever done to deserve your forgiveness?
Bright flashes of white behind his eyes. Thoughts and voices clashing in his mind, unrelenting. The feeling that his skull was going to split in two. Words as memories; unspeakable, horrendous, unforgivable. Feelings, blending together; disgust and confusion and detachment.
"I'm sorry," he began, expressionless, "if you wanted a tearful reunion." Then he weakly smiled, as if to bring levity. Though he felt as if it could have shone a little brighter.
"Nah. I get it. It's fine with you just being here." Horace said that, but then he smiled. He smiled up to his eyes. And Simon felt as if he'd seen the same expression long ago, locked somewhere so far away and yet so unbearably close at the same time. But things were different now. He was the strong one, and Horace was the coward who came knocking on his door, trying to reach him. So what would someone like Horace know of hardship? He'd been coddled all his life compared to what Simon had been through. He'd never lived through nightmares like Simon had. He hadn't writhed in bed with pain as only a young child, and he hadn't been treated like a criminal for saving a life. He could never understand the things an outcast felt.
No. Horace would never be forgiven.
20151207: security
Simon was awoken by footsteps. His eyes groggily squinted open to gaze at the dark landscape laid out before him. He lay on a sofa he didn't remember falling asleep on (but wasn't surprised that he had). The coffee table that was always placed in front of it was scattered with chess pieces, last night's fast food dinner, and a few documents of Horace's he didn't have any business with. As he shifted, half-asleep, he noticed Horace in front of the door, pulling off his blazer. It seemed like he noticed him too, because he paused, then tossed the blazer to his side.
"Sorry, did I wake you up?" he apologized as he approached the sofa.
"Nope," he responded, voice drowsy.
Horace sighed. "You know you don't have to stay up until I get back anymore. My new job's gonna wear you out more than it will me if you do."
"It's okay." Simon looked up at Horace towering above him, and feigned reassurance. "I never get to see you because of your dumb job anyway. I'll just have to get used to it, right?"
Horace let loose a tired smile. His eyes looked distant and somehow seemed troubled, but Simon didn't say anything. "I'm serious, Simon..."
"There's leftovers in the fridge." Simon turned his head back to his pillow. "Goodnight."
Horace rolled his eyes and tugged the blanket over Simon's head with a smirk. "Night."
Lately, Simon didn't have as much trouble falling asleep as he used to. It seemed like his memories had given up on torturing him — perhaps they had gotten tired of their work after so many years of resurfacing. At night, the most he'd have to stay up worrying about were trivial things compared to the nightmares that kept him up few years ago. Like where he'd go when Horace inevitably bought a house on his own with his fancy, new secret job. Or finding a low-profile job that could pay enough to feed him every day.
Because these nights would pass by without incident time after time, Simon grew complacent. Putting on a front had become such a constant burden that it hardly felt like a burden at all anymore. Still there lingered a loathing of Horace's oblivious nature; he still was so easy to lead along, so terrible at detecting nuances in his voice and expressions. But thoughts started finding their way to the front of his mind again — that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to swallow his pride. Maybe he could make peace with the hot anger in his chest. Sometimes those thoughts were comforting. Sometimes they were terrifying. But he always hated them either way.
One night he found himself drifting off again, this time in the futon he usually slept in instead of the sofa. Involuntarily closing his eyes, he wondered if the snow of the season meant Horace would be home later tonight. He often found that those kinds of natural thoughts were his last ones before he fell asleep. And the next thing he felt — that night, anyway — was in a dream. Except he could hear the static in his head as if replaying a memory, so he thought that it was not a dream at all.
He was freezing cold, like his skin would crack if touched. The air was so cold it felt hard to breathe. When he looked around at his surroundings, his blood turned ice cold, too — a car. The back of a familiar car, with its same grey seats and tall headrests. His body wanted to breathe — over and over again, frantically, in panic — but the air felt thick and untouchable, so he ended coughing over and over and over again. Then he stopped — he thought he felt blood on his face, in his hands. His pounding heart was the only thing he could feel moving in his body. A shadow drew over his body; then a weight.
Stop it, he wanted to cry, but he couldn't breathe. The person pinning him down didn't have a face, but he knew who it was by their scent, by the way they held him down without faltering. This time, they were silent, void of tears or apologies. Simon could only choke on empty air, unable to scream or beg. Past the figure atop him, he noticed the sky outside was twisting with quiet, violent snowfall. The mark of the tie around his wrists throbbed like a heartbeat. Dad was gone. Dad was gone. His blood pooled on the car floor. Simon couldn't do anything. Simon was trapped. Simon could only watch as his father was killed in front of his own eyes.
Then he was shaken awake. The first thing he noticed was that Horace's hand had locked with his; then he noticed the blood on his face was actually the sensation of tears on his cheeks. Horace hovered over him with a look of concern.
"Are you okay? What happened?" he fired off. "You were tossing and talking in your sleep, but then you started thrashing around and yelling and I was trying to wake you up but that only made it worse, and I..."
Horace looked positively panicked. His eyes were wide and his face pale. The grip on his hand was unusually tight. He seemed... distressed? Why did he care so much? It wasn't as if he was in any real danger. It was scary. It didn't make any sense. It didn't make any sense, and it made Simon's chest hurt. How could he tell him that he was the villain that caused this? How could there be such a disconnect between the Horace in his nightmare and the Horace right in front of him, looking at him like he had almost just died?
He pushed Horace off and wiped his face. Their hands disconnected, and his voice was dull and cold. "It's nothing."
"That was not —" Horace took in a breath, trying not to raise his voice. "That's bullshit. There's no way that was —"
"What do you know?" Simon snapped, his mouth moving on its own. "I said it's nothing."
Horace looked taken aback, and immediately his tone softened. "Simon, listen. You don't have to talk about it. I don't care about the details as long as you're okay."
Simon was quiet. He noticed he'd kicked the blankets off in his sleep, and his futon had slid a few inches. "You don't have to worry about it," he mumbled as he gazed over there, only half-sincere. He didn't know if his voice cracking was part of the act.
There was a moment of silence where Simon couldn't meet his best friend's eyes. Horace sighed and motioned toward Simon. "C'mon, get up. I can make your bed again."
Simon stared blankly, unmoving.
"You're not going to sleep again." The way Horace said it made it sound like a observation rather than a question. "Man. You're giving me a lot of shit to deal with, aren't you?"
Simon grimaced, and could tell Horace was trying his best to be careful with his words. He started to lay down again, to deny any sympathy. "You have work tomorrow, don't you? Go to bed, I'm fine."
Horace shook his head. He paused, then stood up and tugged the coffee table over to where their futons lay. With a swipe of his hands he discarded the trash from the top and pulled the chessboard to the center. "We haven't played for a while, right? How 'bout it?"
Simon rolled his eyes but crawled over to the coffee table and put his chin on the surface. Horace grinned as if satisfied and began putting each piece in place. "I'll beat you this time, you'll see," he said. Simon couldn't help but sneer in his mind. His ego was always the biggest when it came to chess; even though he looked tired as hell, he seemed motivated.
They played for a while, and Simon won. As Horace was setting up for a rematch, Simon laid his head down on the table. His eyelids felt heavy, despite how much he dreaded sleep. His eyes closed to the sound of chess pieces clacking against the board. Even after it stopped, no one shouted to wake him up. He always hated the vulnerability of falling asleep first; but just for that night, at the silence of four in the morning, he felt fleetingly secure enough to let Horace softly watch him as fell asleep.
He woke up the next morning in his futon.
That kind of life was hard for Simon to swallow for a long time. But slowly, the kinks of uncertainty and fear began to smooth themselves out, even if they never completely disappeared. For the first time in a long, long while, Simon felt some semblance of security. So those nights didn't feel so awful and oppressive at first. Sometimes, on nights where he'd watch Horace close the door behind him and mumble a sleepy goodnight, he'd even think about telling the truth. About the crime he'd witnessed almost nine years ago that had faded so much he sometimes wondered if it truly happened. About his memory of that heavy winter night as a child. About the man who had saved the both of them. That idea seemed nice, but the thought of it was as easy to dismiss as it was to embrace.
Of course, such notions could never last for very long. Simon then did not know of the monster pulling the strings behind Horace's work — a monster he'd seen at work nine years ago, and a monster forever branded into his memory. Such a monster was manipulating Horace to his will, someone Simon held only at arm's length. But even that much was far, far too close for comfort. One of the bad people had been so close to him for so long, and he had been living innocently without a care in the world.
Trapped. It was at times like these — times when he realized even his idiot best friend was against him, even if was too cowardly and obedient to realize — that Simon felt his most hopeless. Horace had no way of knowing, but he still made his stomach churn. How could he protect such a disgusting person? How could he let him continue carrying out such a bloody, awful lie? It made him sick, but Simon truthfully wasn't surprised someone like Horace would do it.
With his headaches and the occasional nightmares also returned the hot flame burning in his chest begging to be set free. The pain bursting in his temples was only a constant reminder of his hatred for the ones who ruined his life and the boy who acted like he didn't.
The boy who never washed clean the blood on his hands, because he was too busy looking ahead to notice it.
The boy who pretended he was a knight when truly, he was really nothing more than an executioner.
20170319: ring
simon
work is gonna run later tonight. don't stay up. seriously.
There was no signature, but no one else but Horace would have written such an annoying note and stuck it to his forehead while he was asleep. He skimmed over it half-asleep, and then read it over again with piqued interest. The birds chirped outside cheerfully since Horace had opened a window last night, it seemed. He could hear the spring breeze shifting the tree branches outside, too. Just another day.
Simon crawled out of bed and crumpled up the note to toss in the garbage bin. He rolled his eyes. He would not listen, of course.
2:49AM
Even in the darkness, Simon knew that Horace had returned from work by the clink of keys in his pocket and the slow creak of the door gently closing, trying not to wake him. He froze and feigned sleep so Horace wouldn't stop for confrontation — usually it wasn't an issue, but... As Horace made his way around the room, Simon noticed his footsteps were unusually unbalanced and he clutched his head as if in pain. He thought to himself that maybe he was drunk, though he couldn't imagine why or how.
Suddenly Horace stopped, and he stopped beside Simon. He sat down next to his futon, and for a moment didn't do anything but gaze at him. What was he doing? Simon swallowed as Horace leaned over until he was but a few inches from Simon, face-to-face. Horace's familiar scent overcame him — kind of wooden and ashy; kind of like coffee; kind of like the fake strawberry scent from the shampoo he used. Simon was close to being able to draw just a little closer to embrace that scent, so it may be felt all around him. Strangely, he could not detect the scent of alcohol, even as Horace inched ever-closer to him. Simon was still, and hoped Horace was dense enough not to notice his tensed body.
At first, all he did was thoughtfully run his fingers through Simon's thin red hair, from the roots that were slightly darkening to the strands that ran beside his face. It lasted only a moment, perhaps only letting himself go through the motion a few times, before Horace cupped Simon's face in his hands. Hesitant and subtle, just barely touching his lips enough for it to be called a kiss at all — Simon wanted to squirm under the touch, wanted to push him away. He was going to cry out, saying "How could this have happened?" and "Why?", his throat raw and his body stiff — but his eyes stayed shut.
It really wasn't such an unpleasant feeling. Horace's hand that cradled his sleeping face was careful and delicate, and there was something strangely familiar about it. His hand was cold to the touch, but even so, something about it made him feel like he could lean into it if he wanted to. The kiss made his chest tighten. He wasn't sure what it meant. But it wasn't about whether it felt good or not, for the most sickening feeling sourced from his mind. His mind that was telling him this was dangerous. It was telling him he needed to snap awake and push him off, to tell him to never act as if he truly cared about him again. It was telling him to cry.
I'm scared.
Simon was scared. No, terrified. Terrified, not knowing what would happen if there were no longer any barriers to keep Horace and him separated. Keeping him at arm's length was getting harder and harder as Horace got more and more oblivious to others — just as how he was when they were children. So involved with himself he couldn't notice how Simon had his eyes squinted open when he had kissed him. So lovesick he was unable to see that Simon was only using him. The way things were, it seemed impossible to keep his promise now. It was a promise he was sure Horace wouldn't recall: "Tell me when you're scared". But it was not a promise easily kept, either; Simon had definitively broken it a number of times already. Because keeping such childish promises was another thing that Simon was scared of.
The kiss ended. Horace again brushed Simon's hair out of his face with care, lingering by his side for a moment.
I'm scared.
Horace drew away to take his leave. Taking care to be slow so as not to startle him, Simon reached over to take hold of his wrist. With a sleepy gaze plastered on his face, Simon peeked his eyes open to see Horace's face somewhat panicked. Once he saw it, he had to bite back his laughter with that sly, foxlike grin. He gently tugged at the fabric of Horace's jacket, saying simply, "Was that what you call a kiss?"
Simon couldn't describe Horace's expression with a single word, for it seemed like he went through many reactions at once. Relief. Embarrassment. Longing. Disbelief. Simon tried to offer a smile of reassurance, and pulled Horace closer still. If it was how Horace felt — even if it was idiotic, naive, illogical — then Simon could take advantage of it. Simon was a master of manipulation, after all, and even better at finding weaknesses. So the fact that he hadn't anticipated this — this thing Horace had been hiding — was alarming. But if he had to adapt, to improvise, then he would. What else could he do?
"Simon, are..." Horace grabbed the hand clinging to his jacket. That stupidly sincere look in his eye was all too familiar. But more than anything, he seemed nervous. "Are you sure about this?"
The words struck Simon's chest like a knife, and he didn't know why. "Of course." His voice was low and composed. "You act like I'm gonna take your virginity or something."
"You just seemed weird for a minute," Horace reasoned in a mumble, his face growing hot. Something again constricted in Simon's chest, but he just rolled his eyes.
"God, shut up and just kiss me."
Horace looked doubtful again, and he didn't move. Out of patience, Simon broke free of the grip around his wrist (it had become pretty flimsy in his faltering moment) and pulled him over by the collar. With his free hand, Simon mimicked what Horace had done and cupped a hand around his cheek. It made Simon feel so exposed, so vulnerable to kiss someone like his childhood friend — even if he was oblivious and easy to manipulate. With his hidden doubts and all, Simon leaned into him seeming anything but hesitant. It was really a much better kiss than the unsure one Horace had left on his lips as he pretended to sleep — but it felt somehow different. Even as he rationalized, even as Horace rested his forearm on the ground next to Simon to brush his hair away again, even as Simon's hand moved from his cheek to his neck to underneath the collar of his shirt — something was wrong.
It was a few moments before Simon pulled away, and as his heart hammered he put a hand over Horace's mouth and leaned in to haughtily murmur, "See? It's easy."
Simon let him drag away the hand over his mouth and very suddenly he felt the weight of someone on top of him. A sensation went through his body he hadn't anticipated, but no sooner than it happened was it washed away by Horace's lips on his. The first kiss was deep and slow, but the moment it let up he felt a hand on the back of his neck pulling him impossibly closer. His head felt light as his shirt was seamlessly pulled over his head and his legs raised to cross around Horace's waist. Horace's lips went from Simon's mouth to its corners, then from his cheek to his jaw.
What... was happening...?
Horace paused for a moment at the space between Simon's jaw and his hairline. His fingers tangled in strands and strands of red hair — He did it again. Damn it. Something so meaningless as slowly, carefully brushing through his hair shouldn't put such a tender expression on Horace's face. Simon could still feel Horace's lips against his skin as he mumbled, "...Did you know?"
The question wasn't accusatory; Horace still lay there, Simon in his arms, as if perfectly content. Even so, Simon's blood froze and he resisted the urge to flinch. He didn't know.
"Of course," Simon lied, and he had to wonder if his voice wavered. If Horace noticed, he didn't react. His touch faded from Simon's hair, and his lips sometimes met his neck in such a way that Simon almost thought he was mouthing something out under his breath. It was worse when Simon was in this position, when he felt like he had to do something, say something. Sometimes he did feel words forming in his throat, but they were forced back down before they could be realized.
With an exhale, Horace whispered something under his chin. It wasn't much — only a few words.
"Simon..." His voice shook, and at this Simon took a sharp but brief breath. He kissed a place on his neck again as if stalling for time. "... Don't leave."
"...I won't... leave..." Simon muttered in reply, subdued. "Definitely..."
Suddenly Horace fell into an embrace. He paused for a long while, head against Simon's heartbeat. Then, as small as a child, he whispered, "I love you, Simon." It was so faint that Simon thought perhaps he was only saying it to himself.
But Simon froze as he heard the words and Horace leaned in to kiss him again. This wasn't right. This wasn't supposed to happen. Why was Horace on top of him? Why was everything so heavy?
it hurts car door wrists tied cold cold crying screaming begging it hurts it hurts hurts hurts
"Stop." Quiet, undetectable at first. "Stop it...! Get off!" His voice raised from a whisper to a shout. He pushed Horace away, though it was hardly necessary since his cry had startled him like a cat and he quickly sat up. Simon kept his hands on Horace's chest so as to preserve the distance. This was all wrong. Horace didn't love him. He didn't know anything. He was just an idiot who didn't understand his own feelings. He didn't know Simon at all.
Get off of me. Stay away. Stop. Familiar, childlike thoughts crawled through his skin. They felt like a disease consuming his body in an instant, sucking up his breath and vitality. His face burned and his breathing felt labored. His hands trembled and he was scared. He had said things he didn't mean. He had done things he didn't want. He was scared. No, he was terrified. Horace looked mortified, though. Surprised, apologetic, cautious — every emotion Simon would have expected under the circumstances. Just like him.
"Are you okay?" he asked frantically, as if there was nothing else he could do. Simon stared in Horace's stupid worried eyes blankly. "God, I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have —"
"Shut up," blurted Simon. He didn't give Horace the time to react before he slunk away with his knees hugged to his chest. "Stop trying so hard. You always want to be the tough guy. Always need to protect someone like some stupid knight. You need to take care of people to feel important. So just fucking stop it. Stop acting like you really care so much." His fingernails dug into his legs. "You... like me. You're a goddamn idiot for doing all of this."
Horace froze, wordless for a moment. "Is that what you think?" he asked solemnly. Simon didn't answer, but the two of them locked eyes. Horace's eyes were grey and pacifying, but simple-minded. Staring into them always felt strange, like there was a disconnect between who Horace was looking at and who Simon actually was. Sometimes that sensation made Simon think that his work was paying off, but most of the time it just felt hollow. Like right now.
"I should've known you'd break that promise," Horace finally said; he smiled, even though his words were those of sadness.
"... Promise?" Simon echoed, but he knew precisely what promise his best friend spoke of.
"Yeah. I wouldn't have made that with you it if it didn't matter how you felt."
Simon could suddenly feel a hand in his. He felt a biting chill against his bare back. He felt the throbbing nailmarks he'd left on his own knees. He tried feeling everything except the hand holding onto his tightly — the details of Horace's resolute, familiar hands being recalled little by little with every which way his hands, small and petite by comparison, touched them. But when Simon realized his blunder and tried to pull his hand away, Horace held it tighter. It felt awful, like he was being tethered to a fence by a rope and no amount of struggling would allow him to escape. Horace was doing it again — trying to protect someone who didn't need protecting. Trying to read the emotions of someone who didn't want their emotions read. Defeated and having regained composure, Simon's hand slumped into Horace's embrace.
"We don't have to... you know. Just... pretend this all never happened, if that's what you want." Horace looked at him, expecting an answer.
But Simon again responded with silence. He retreated behind his knees again, looking away helplessly. The way Horace was looking at him made it painfully clear that was not what he wanted. How foolish it was to wear his heart on his sleeve like that. Only weaklings were so easy to read.
Simon's head was a flurry of thoughts. It seemed pathetic how naive Horace was being. He wanted to grin, but it didn't feel right; he couldn't call it a victory. You couldn't trust things like this. Anyone can say they care about you. Hadn't he, all those years ago... Simon tried to recall, but his skin prickled. It was easy to call Horace a liar, but really, it was never about that. Horace wasn't a bad person. Simon looked to his hand again with a sigh. Horace was spineless, cowardly, narrow-minded — selfish, even. But he wasn't a liar, no matter how much he wanted him to be.
"Huh." Simon touched one of Horace's fingers blankly and glanced at his expression. There was a bulky ring around his index finger that he didn't recognize from yesterday. Horace recoiled at his stare, and finally, his hand drew away. Suddenly, his gaze looked guilty, and it was pointed at the ground. He hid the hand that held the ring.
Simon searched his eyes and felt his stomach drop, although, again, he didn't know why. Why did it look like there were words on the tip of Horace's tongue? Why did it feel so suffocating when Horace's eyes were focused on the ground? Why did the touch of metal on his thumb still linger?
"Simon?" He said his name thoughtlessly, without thinking. He still looked through him, and his expression was distant and cold. It was so unlike him, and it didn't suit him at all.
"What?" Simon realized his entire body was tensed up.
A long pause.
"... Nothing." Horace blinked, and smiled wearily. "Never mind. Let's go to bed."
He pat Simon's head that was trying to hide away. He didn't brush away his hair, but the tenderness in his touch and the way it lingered made it easy to see that he wanted to.
"Goodnight." Horace looked like he desperately wanted to tell him something, but the words were trapped in his throat. His ring hand remained hidden behind his back.
Simon could hardly shut his eyes that night. How could he, when Horace was laying right behind his back? Over and over, he kept reliving the feeling of lips on his neck, like scars that burned for ages after you got them. He remembered fingertips pushing his hair back like it was something they'd wanted to do their entire life. He remembered the hand cradling his cheek like he would break if he weren't handled carefully. He remembered all of it, but he wished he hadn't. He wished he could forget all of it.
Simon knew whatever Horace thought he felt for him, it was easy to deal with. It was easy to not acknowledge. It was easy to take advantage of. And he would; who could pass up on a pawn that was so easily captured? But it was the strings attached to something like this that kept him awake.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.
He had no idea. It was so easy for him to say "I love you", it was so easy for him to play the good guy — he, who never asked why Simon left him all alone. Horace, who never doubted him. Horace, still a little boy playing pretend, still thinking himself a knight protecting the princess.
You don't remember, do you?
If only you hadn't stopped me...
20190529: migraine
Simon had a lot of time.
He thought a lot. Mostly about his mistakes. And about what other people might have considered mistakes — but he still didn't, even after sitting around in prison for a while. He thought about his father, and why he allowed him to lead a life believing he still loved him. He thought about the young boy who was handed a gun, stared at it, then put it down on the ground.
Simon didn't regret much. But he always thought about how his life would change if things were different. If he'd never witnessed what he had twelve years ago. If he had someone he could go to, he could trust. If could have just remembered a little bit more...
Ah, that's right — and he wondered about his best friend, whose blood he had on his hands. Often it seemed like he didn't have control over his own mind — it replayed those last moments with him over and over again like a broken record. Simon would smile, he'd hand over the chess board, and he'd turn around, feeling a gaze pointed at the back of his head. At the time, his mind was empty — it had to be, if he wanted to mastermind the game to his utmost. Simon couldn't recall a single thought he'd dwelled on while he fulfilled that role those days.
In retrospect, he wondered how he'd managed it, because now, he couldn't help but wistfully wonder all kinds of things. What was Horace thinking? Did he sense, perhaps, that his death was drawing near? Or did he feel the same as normal? He thought these things with a hint of sorrow, yes, but at the same time it felt so far away. So out of reach. So unchangeable. If he knew that everything was Simon's fault, would he have stayed? Would he have tried to stop him, told him he had no reason to want to kill anyone? Would he still love him like he claimed he had before, so foolishly?
Some part of him knew that if, in another lifetime, Horace had known what hate truly lived in Simon, nothing would have changed. Since he was a coward, and a hopelessly loyal one. Since the same thing had happened ages ago, when Simon deserted him in the orphanage, and he'd searched for him as if he'd done no wrong. He was always so headstrong, so earnest. And he always looked to someone to please. That never changed with him, and now it never would.
Simon dreamed of memories near every night now, as if he were back at the orphanage, a child writhing and crying in his bed again. It was cruel, like life wanted to dangle things in front of his eyes that he could not reach. Mostly the things he remembered were from the days of his childhood. His father wrapping his arms around him from behind, teaching him how to mix cake batter. Seeing his elementary schoolyard for the first time, feeling overwhelmed by all the energetic children. But a lot of them were meaningless, innocent memories, and those were the worst ones. Like recalling the make-believe scenarios he had acted out, or hanging upside down from trees trying to see who would drop first, or scribbling on coloring pages earnestly. Yeah. Something like guilt bubbled up in his chest after he woke from those kinds of dreams. Because he'd always shared them with someone.
"Small one," a familiar, creaky voice cut Simon off, as it often did when he seemed too lost in his thoughts. Simon glanced up from where he lay, unsurprised to see Sirhan Dogen before his eyes. Simon offered a look of appreciation as his savior approached and placed a hand on his head affectionately. He paused for a moment, before saying, "Your hair grows rather quickly, small one. Soon... you'd almost look like a young boy again, yes?"
Simon exhaled, hardly reacting at all to his words. "It has been a long time, hasn't it?"
He stared straight ahead, his eyelids feeling heavy. The room he observed was bare, yet plentiful. Metal bars to the left. A table mostly free of litter, but with a chess board on it, even though he couldn't use it unless he wanted to play it himself. He supposed there was a way to use braille if either of them desired it, but it didn't seem like Dogen was ever really interested in chess matches after he learned who Simon was. And Simon didn't really like the game much anymore.
Dogen sometimes chastised Simon, but when he said things like "You've been reckless, small one" it felt less like a lecture and more like he was only musing. He was a very quiet man, and one slow to anger. When he spoke, it always felt grave, solemn. More, he was quick to notice things like if Simon was quiet for too long or breathing too quickly. For Simon, he was quite a comforting person to be around, even when he was scolding him or nudging him from a dream or thought.
Acknowledging his words, Simon paused and regarded his hair half-heartedly, which had indeed grown in the time since he got it trimmed and dyed. Beginning to doze off again, he wondered if Horace would bug him not to cut it if he were still alive. It wasn't the best idea to think in those terms — if Horace knew this, if Horace was around to do that. It wasn't very fitting of a villain to have those kinds of fleeting thoughts, he knew. Yet, they'd lingered there for a long while now.
Usually it was everyday things, like waking up on Wednesdays thinking Horace would bring home groceries later that night even though they'd hadn't lived together for well over a year. Sometimes it was harder to pinpoint. How could you describe the way he'd gingerly tucked the stray strands of Simon's hair behind his ear? Or the feeling he got when he couldn't stay up late enough for Horace to come home and woke up the next morning with a blanket over him and the sun in his eyes?
It was hard, but the question he always came back to was the same: Why did Horace have to stop him that day? Could they have lived normal lives, found normal happiness had he not been the root of so many misfortunes? Could they have been normal best friends?
Simon did not regret much, but he did wonder. He wondered how much Horace regretted in the seconds before he died. He wondered if he regretted not falling in love while he had the chance. He wondered if he remembered his crimes, and felt sorry for them. He wondered if Horace regretted his cowardice, his weakness.
He wondered if he would ever forgive him.
The knight died all cold and alone protecting the princess until his final moments, and the princess lived imprisoned in her own dungeon for the rest of her days, miserable and safe — and she lived happily ever after. The end.