Work Text:
I think I’m in love with my neighbor next door.
Well, maybe that’s a bit dramatic. I haven’t spoken a single word to him in, like, ever.
(Can you be in love with someone you have never spoken to? I feel like you can.)
I moved here a few months ago in order to be closer to work (and because living with Fiona was proving to be a bigger challenge than I previously anticipated, not gonna lie), and all I’ve managed it’s a polite nod every time we’ve run into each other on the stairs. (I swear I forgot how to form words at the simple sight of him.)
He always says hi to me though; sometimes he even raises his hand to wave hello with it too. It’s dead cute. All of him is dead cute - from his bronze unruly curls, to his boring blue eyes, to his freckles and moles scattered all over his body (at least the parts of his body I’ve managed to see); shit, even his name is adorable.
Simon Snow. Who the hell is called Simon Snow? It sounds like a name that belongs in a book with magic and dragons, not in the real world. (I only know his name because I’ve looked at his mailbox. Yes, I know. I’m not only pathetic, but also borderline creepy.)
I know more things about him than I probably should, considering we’ve literally never had a conversation. I know he must be, like me, in his mid twenties. I know he lives alone, and he's most likely single, because I’ve never seen him bring anybody home. I know he works at a McDonald’s, because I’ve seen him with that hideous uniform on. (They make him wear a cap, and it looks ridiculous over his curls. Again, dead cute.) I know he has a lot of home plants, because our balconies are next to each other’s, and sometimes I sit there pretending to read when in reality I’m watching him water them. He does it shirtless, most of the time, now that the summer is creeping in. His shoulders are so broad… His toned chest, his soft tummy - it's all too much. It’s infuriating. It’s torture. I can’t stop looking to save my life.
(I know he sometimes smokes weed, because I can smell it from here. Not a fan of it myself, but it reminds me of Fiona. It reminds me of home.)
And, even though he always smiles brightly when he sees me (I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve being on the receiving end of such angelic act), I know he’s sad. He looks so sad when he doesn’t know I’m staring at him. He just has this look on his eyes. Like he’s never really here. Like he doesn’t know how to carry on.
Why do your eyes look so sad, Simon Snow? (What can I do to change that?)
(***)
I’ve certainly had a day today.
My alarm didn’t sound for whatever reason, and then I had to change at the last moment because I realised there was a stain on the suit I was wearing; so I was almost an hour late to work. Then I proceed to spill coffee all over Lamb - who’s my, well, literal ex boyfriend. (And fifteen years older than me. And sort of my boss. Yeah, not my best decision; there’s so many layers of unprofessional and inappropriate there. No wonder I’m still an intern at this fucking Law Firm; it’s embarrassing considering the amount of time I’ve been working there.)
I stopped at Waitrose on my way back home, but they were out of literally everything I needed. And then I went to buy some treats for Damien (my cat), but I couldn’t find the ones he likes, so he’s gonna be mad at me when I get home.
(Just - yeah. Fuck my life.)
But nothing, literally nothing, could have prepared me for what I found when I opened the front door.
There’s a man trying to get to my balcony because of course there is.
I look around and I see Damien hidden behind the couch, looking visibly terrified. And, I mean, same. I wish I could fit behind the couch too; I’m about to have a heart attack.
That is until I realise who the crazy man trying to break into my flat is, and I can't believe my eyes.
What the fuck is Simon Snow doing jumping from his balcony to mine?!
We live on the third floor, and there must be at least two meters between balconies. Is he fucking insane?
"Could you explain to me what the hell do you think you're doing?" I ask once I've opened the glass door separating the living room from the balcony.
"Fuck!" he yells, and for a second I think he's gonna fall, but he stabilises himself at the last moment. "You scared the shit out of me, mate!"
"I scared the shit out of you?" I ask, incredulous." You're the one breaking and entering!"
"I'm not!" he says, even though that's clearly what's happening. "I'm quite stuck, actually. Could you please help me?"
He has one foot placed at the end of his balcony, the other at the end of mine; one hand holding on the wall, the other a hard grip on my clothes rack.
He does look quite stuck. He clearly didn't think this through, the moron.
"Why would I?" I ask, being the dick I am. "You brought this to yourself; plan it better next time you want to get into someone else's flat."
He sighs. "Mate, I know this does look bad for me, but I swear there's an explanation."
"Explain away, then."
"I rather do it once my life isn't on the line, if possible."
I help him at the end; of course I do. The only reason I get by at this point in life is because of the possibility of him smiling at me at some point of the day; I can't let him die.
After a few minutes struggling, I finally have him safely standing on my balcony. (It involves more touching I'm comfortable with, considering I almost faint every time I see his bare torso from afar. Imagine actually touching it - even if it's through his clothes.)
We're lamely standing in front of each other now, both of us catching our breaths.
"Thank you," he ends up saying.
I could be polite and say you're welcome. Instead I glance at him and say: "Will you now explain to me what possessed you to do that?"
I think he blushes a little bit, but it's hard to say. He was already red all over due to the physical effort he just made. (Dead cute.)
He bends down and grabs something from the floor. "The wind made my work cap go flying and it landed on your balcony."
He's wearing his work uniform, I've just realised. He risked his life for a bloody cap? I can't believe this fucking numpty. "And you thought jumping to my balcony was a good idea?!"
"I tried knocking on the door and you clearly weren't there! I had no other option."
"You're fucking insane," I conclude. "Completely bonkers. You could just have waited for me to come back, you know."
He looks like he didn't think of that, (of course he didn't), but defends himself at last: "I- I was gonna be late! And my boss cares a lot about all of us wearing that stupid cap, and I already lost the replacement. I couldn't show up without it! I can't lose this job, I really need it."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything. It seems my brain has recovered from his initial shock and has now caught up on what's really happening: This boy (stupid, stupid boy) I'm pathetically head over heels for is standing in front of me on my balcony, and I've suddenly forgoten how to form words.
(I can't believe I've finally managed to have a conversation with him, and it had to be under these circumstances.)
"Fuck," he says after a few awkward seconds of silence, looking at the watch on his wrist. "I'm really gonna be late. I need to go. Thanks for, well, saving my life and all that."
I roll my eyes, but this time I do say you're welcome.
After he's left (through the door as a fucking normal person this time) I collapse on the sofa, Damien getting out of his hidden spot now that he's seen there's no danger, and sitting on my lap. (He's gonna get black fur all over my suit, but I don't care right now.)
"Don't look at me like that," I say, petting him on the head. "I know I have terrible taste in men."
(***)
He knocks on my door three days later.
I just got back from work and I'm in the middle of making dinner, but of course I stop everything for him. (I'd do anything for him.)
"Look," he says as a form of greeting when I open the door. "Basilton - your name is Basilton, right?"
"Baz," I correct. (It seems I'm not the only one who's been looking at the mailboxes.) "And your name is?" I ask, because I'm not about to admit I know his name too.
"Simon," he says, extending out his hand awkwardly for me to shake. I do. "Simon Snow."
"Well, Snow," I say, letting go of his hand. (I feel like if I touch him for too long I'm gonna burn.) "What do I owe the honor this time?"
He blushes beautifully at that. "I- emm, well. My cap went flying to your balcony again. And this time I waited for you to come home! See; character development."
I try very hard not to smile; he can't know how endearing I find him. "Well, congratulations on being at least 10% more of a normal person than you were three days ago. I'm proud of you."
"Shut up," he says, looking at the floor. "Will you let me in or not? To pick up my cap, I mean."
I step to the left so he can get in, sighing dramatically. (As if this was an inconvenience for me. As if him being inside my flat wasn't how all of my fantasies begin…)
He goes to the balcony, and thirty seconds later he comes back inside, cap resting on his head, and my cat on his arms.
"I didn't know you had a cat!" he says, excitedly. He holds Damien as if he were a baby, petting his belly meanwhile. I literally have to look away - it's more than my poor, soft heart can take. "He's so cute."
(Damien's not a friendly cat; he usually doesn't trust strangers. But he looks enamoured with Snow already, because of course he does. Lucky bastard. I want Snow to hold me like that too.) (I want him to pet my belly too.)
"You're gonna get fur all over your work clothes if you don't let Damien on the floor," I say, because I'm petty. (And jealous of my cat. Fucking hell, I thought I couldn't possibly get more pathetic…)
"You named your cat Damien?" he asks, not letting go of him. "What kind of name is that for a cat?"
And what kind of name is Simon Snow for a human being? I want to ask, but I refrain myself. "It's a perfectly fine name, Snow."
He pets Damien for a few more seconds before saying: "Okay, I need to leave. I can't be late again."
"Okay," I say, lamely. (I don't really want him to leave.)
(Stay, Simon Snow. You can keep petting my cat. You can pet me next, if you want.)
He lets Damien on the floor now, giving him a peck on the head before.
"Bye, buddy," he says in the most adorable baby voice I've ever heard, and I'm dying inside.
(Stay, Simon. I want forehead kisses too. I'll beg on my knees if that's what it takes.)
(***)
After that, he must get under the impression that it's fine to engage in a conversation with me, because he always tells me a lot more than hi when he sees me now. (Usually when we’re both on our balconies, him taking care of his plants, me sitting on my outside table.)
Not that I’m complaining, of course. I’ve learned a few more things about him this way. I make a mental list of Facts About Simon Snow so I don’t forget:
- He grew up in care, so he doesn’t have a family. He’s mentioned a woman named Ebb that was like his mother a few times; but, for what I’ve understood, she passed away some time ago. (That’s why he’s so sad all the time, I assume… and oh, don’t I relate to this. I know how soul crushing is to lose a mother.)
- He’s, indeed, single; and doesn’t have many friends. He only speaks about a girl called Penny, but he moved to America with his boyfriend last year, apparently. (Which, again, same. My only two friends are more preoccupied dating each other and living three hours away from me. Also, one of them is my cousin, so I don't really know if it counts.)
- He never went to university, and has worked on every possible job you can imagine: bartender at coffee shops, at pubs, at bars; salesperson on every popular clothing store you could think of, on at least three different pizza places, he was even an Uber for quite some time, until his old car broke and couldn’t afford to fix it, much less replace it. He worked on construction, too, before landing his job at McDonald’s; and, fuck, doesn’t it show. His arms are a fucking work of art, I swear.
- He loves food. Like, a lot. An absurd amount. His favourite are sour cherry scones; I’ve seen him eat a bunch of those like there’s no tomorrow. (I’ll have to casually buy him some sometime. You know what they say: The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.)
- He loves my cat. He’s obsessed with him, I’d dare to say. He buys him treats and plays with him, throwing them from his balcony and seeing if Damien will catch them on air. (He does, most of the time.) It’s more adorable than it has any right to be.
- He does smoke weed, but only on his days off work. He says it helps him relax. He always offers to me, but I always decline. (I’ve only ever smoked once, with Fiona, and it made me extremely paranoid. My heart was beating so fast I seriously thought I was gonna die. So, yeah. Not for me.)
- He’s lovely. I already knew that, but, I mean; he’s impossibly lovely. Every single thing I learn about him makes me more and more weak. I want to lock him inside my flat and protect him from the world. I want to do unspeakable things to him. I want him to crush me with those delightful arms of his. I want to run my hands through his crazy curls. I want forehead kisses. (I want anywhere kisses). I want everything. (I want, I want, I want.)
(***)
“You’re wearing jeans.”
We're, once again, on our respective balconies at the same time. He's, as usually, occupied with his plants; I'm not sitting this time, though. I'm hanging up the washing; that's why he's easily able to see what I'm wearing.
“Good observation, Snow.”
“You never wear jeans," he insists. "You’re always in those posh suits of yours.”
“It’s my day off,” I explain.
He's silent for a few seconds, and then asks: “Where do you work that you need to wear a suit everyday, anyway?”
He's told me so much about him, and he doesn't even know where I work. I hate to open up to people, but I think telling him about my job it's safe enough. “In a Law Firm.”
He snorts. “Of course you’re a lawyer.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, you look so posh," he says. He's watering the plants closer to my balcony now. "You talk so posh. No wonder you work as something posh too.”
“I wouldn’t call my job position posh, to be honest," I admit. "Calling me a lawyer is a bit of a stretch. I’m just an intern, actually. And it seems I’ll forever be, so.”
He frowns. “Why?”
I make the impulsive decision to tell him the truth, just to see how he reacts about me being queer. (Might be a risky move; but I can't keep mooning over him if he's an homophobe. I don't think he'll be, but I've been surprised before, so…)
“Because my boss is my ex boyfriend," I say before I lose my nerve. "And he can’t stand the sight of me most days. He’s never gonna promote me.”
“Ex boyfriend?” he asks, almost whispering. He's purposefully avoiding looking me in the eye now.
(Oh my God, is he really an homophobe?) (Don't let him be an homophobe, please, Lord, please.)
“Yeah," I answer, not looking at him either, suddenly very concentrated on the clothes I'm hanging. "Is that… a problem?”
“No!” he quickly says. “Of course not. That would be very hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it?”
I almost drop the shirt I have in hand. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “What do you mean?”
“I- I mean, I’m also… well…”
“Gay?” I finish for him. (Please say yes. Please. That would be such an amazing fact to add to the list…)
He shrugs. “Probably? I don’t really know, to be honest. I had a girlfriend some years ago, but we were never very into each other, I’ve realised. But I- I don’t know; it’s still a very recent discovery.”
It takes all in me not to start happy dancing like a mad man right in front of him. Instead I say: “It’s okay not to know for certain, Snow. Sexuality can be a hard thing to figure out.”
“Yeah…" he clears his throat. "I mean, I’ve had doubts for quite some time now. It’s just that, well. Recently there’s been more solid confirmation.”
He looks at me now, blushing a little. (He looks so good; I wanna eat him.)
I'm feeling brave for once in my life, so I ask: “Has a guy caught your eye, Snow?” I raise one eyebrow just for good measure.
He smirks devilishly, the nightmare. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”
Bloody hell, he’s gonna be the death of me.
(***)
He asked for my number yesterday.
He was at my flat (that's something we sometimes do now; hang out in each other's flat. I think we're friends now?) and he was telling me all about this rat he always sees at the McDonald's parking lot; a rat that looks like me, apparently.
"You're twin brothers separated at birth, I swear," he said, sitting on my kitchen table while I was doing the washing up, Damien on his lap. "He's freakishly long, with pitch black fur, and big grey eyes, always throwing glances. Literally you."
(I should probably be offended by that. But I'm not. I don't know why I find him comparing me to a rat so charming, but I do.)
He asked me for my number before going to work, saying he wanted to send me a picture of the rat so I could see he was right. (Not how I imagined us exchanging numbers, to be honest; but I won't complain.)
A few hours later he, as promised, sent me a picture of the damned rat with the text you underneath it. I stood there smiling at my phone like an idiot, while I could feel Damien staring at me as if I've finally lost the plot.
"Shut up," I told the cat. "You're not one to judge, mate. You're as equally infatuated with him as I am."
(***)
I'm on my way home after work when Simon calls me.
I have to look twice to confirm it’s, indeed, his name written on the screen. My belly is all butterflies, all of a sudden. We’ve texted a lot these past few days, but we’ve never talked on the phone before. (The prospect of it is making me nervous.)
(Why would he call me? What if something has happened to him?)
I put myself together and answer before it goes to voicemail. "Simon? Are you okay?"
"Hi, yeah,” he says. He doesn’t sound okay, exactly, though. “I- emm, should not have called you? Are you busy?"
"No, no, it's okay,” I assure him. (I would have picked up even if I was busy, Snow.) “I'm on my way home. It's just that - well. You've never called me before."
"Yeah, well. Sorry. I just wanted to talk to you for a bit."
He says it like he actually believes this is bothering me, the idiot.
"Aren't you at work? Is something wrong?" I insist.
"I'm at my break. I'm just - not having the best day,” he sighs. “And I didn't know who else to call. Sorry."
"Don't be sorry, Snow,” It’s actually making me feel warm all over to know I’m his first option... “You can call me whenever you want. I didn't have the best day at work either, actually."
"Yeah? Why?"
He sounds like he really wants to not talk about him for a minute, so I go with it. "Lamb yelled at me in front of everyone for something that wasn't even my fault. Then called me pathetic when he caught me crying in the bathroom five minutes later."
"What a fucking dickhead,” he says. And then adds, as if it's nothing: “Do you want me to kill him?"
That makes me snort. "Jesus Christ, Snow."
"I'm serious,” he says. I can’t see him, but somehow I know he’s smiling.”I grew up in care, after all; I know some people. Just say the words and I'll do it."
"My hero," I say, probably way too fondly. Then, because I can't stop myself, I ask: "Why are you having a bad day?"
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Just when I’m about to say he doesn’t need to tell me, he says, almost whispering: "Ebb died today five years ago."
"Shit,” I wasn’t expecting that. I suddenly feel like a twat for complaining about Lamb yelling at me. “You win. I'm sorry."
"It's okay,” he quickly says. “It's not a competition."
"Still, I'm sorry. I - well. I know how you feel," I admit.
"What do you mean?"
Well, now I have to tell him, don't I? (It’s not like I don’t want to. I trust him. I’d trust him with everything. It’s just - I’m not used to talking about this with someone who isn’t my therapist.)
I say it before I lose my nerve. "My mum died when I was five," fuck, I haven’t said those words out loud in, like, who knows how long. Maybe never.
"Oh,” he’s clearly surprised by this. “I'm sorry. You've never told me."
"It's not something I usually talk about," I admit. “It’s incredibly hard for me to talk about it.”
"Yeah, I understand,” he says. “You don't have to tell me anything, though, if you don't want to."
"I want to,” I say, sincerely. I’ve never wanted to open up to someone as I do to him. “I want to tell you things. I think - I think we understand each other better than we originally thought."
"We do,” he says. And then, making my heart melt, he adds: “We match."
"Yeah. We match," I repeat, smiling like a moron. (Thank God he can’t see me.)
We match, Simon Snow. We’re both tragedies. We couldn’t literally be bigger messes. I love it. (I love you. I love you. I love you.)
"How did your mum die?" he asks, after a couple of seconds of silence.
Maybe talking about this on the phone, while I’m walking home and he’s at work, it’s not the best idea; but somehow it feels easier this way, so I tell him. “There was a fire at the school she worked at. Everyone made it out alive; everyone except her.”
“Fuck, Baz,” he whispers. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”
“How did Ebb die?” I quickly ask. I can’t keep talking about my mother without starting to cry; I just can’t.
“Cancer,” he says, bluntly. “They detected it too late. She was gone in less than six months.”
“That’s also terrible, Simon,” well, maybe I’ll cry a little bit, after all. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Why am I still so sad?” he asks. It sounds like he’s crying a little... “It’s been five years. It’s been five years and there’s no day I’m not sad about it. There’s still days I can’t make it out of bed…”
Fucking hell, this is breaking my heart. “I’d like to tell you it gets better, but it’s been twenty years for me and I’m still not over it. Not even close. I don’t think it’s something you can get over… I think you just have to learn to live with it.”
“Shit, you sound like my therapist,” he says, cutting the tension a little bit.
I laugh. “It’s probably something my therapist told me, to be honest.”
He laughs too, and then says: “Baz.”
“Mhmm?”
“I need to leave,” he announces. ”My break is over.”
“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed. “Okay.”
“Can I come to yours later? I’d rather be sad with you than be sad alone.”
I’d rather be sad with you than be sad alone.
Oh, Simon. You don’t have to be sad alone anymore; you have me now.
“Of course you can come,” I say instead. “I’ll make us dinner.”
“That sounds lovely,” he says. “Thank you, Baz.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“See you later then,” he sounds like he doesn’t want to hang up either...
“Yeah," I say, opening the front door of our building. "See you later.”
(I make him an absurd amount of dinner. He eats it all. We don’t talk much; it’s okay though. I’m content with just being sad together.)
(***)
We meet up almost every day now.
We usually stay inside, watching something on Netflix, or playing video games on my Switch. Sometimes we go outside for a run, though; and we're thinking about signing up to a gym together.
(I think that means we’re friends. We really are friends. We might as well be each other's only friend, at this point.)
But, most days, we just have dinner at mine, drink wine while collapsing on the sofa, and take turns to pet Damien.
We're doing that, now. Neither of us has to work tomorrow, so we're drinking more than we normally would. He's lying on the sofa, Damien on his chest (the lucky bastard) and his feet on my lap.
He's worked a double shift today, and he's been complaining his feet hurt; so I thought it would be a good idea to give him a foot massage. Even though I've never given a foot massage to anyone and I have no idea what I'm doing. (Fuck, I think I'm a little bit drunk.) (I think he's a little bit drunk too…)
I must be doing a good job, though; because the noises he's making are torturously sinful. Completely obscene. (I'm three seconds away from spotting a semi in front of him.)
“Fuck, this feels so good," he practically moans. He's fucking moaning, for fuck's sake. "Why does it feel so good? They say you can indirectly touch every part of the body from the foot, right? Do you think I could have an orgasm just from this?”
I almost choke with my own spit.
He's flirting with me, the menace. Well, two can play at this game, Snow.
“I don’t think it works like that, Snow," I say, and then I add, smirking: "Besides, if I wanted to give you an orgasm, I wouldn’t be touching your foot, of all things.”
He gets impossibly red, and says, adorably stuttering: "Sh-shut up."
This is nothing new, really; he always does this. He tries to very obviously flirt with me by saying something extremely suggestive; and then, when I say something extremely suggestive back, he gets all flustered and shy. As if he can't believe I'm flirting back, the moron. (It's fucking adorable.) (I'm so fucking in love with him, my heart's doing acrobatics inside my chest.)
"I like your hands," he says out of nowhere.
"What?" I ask; he's said it so softly I don't know if I've understood correctly.
"I like your hands," he repeats, making me lose the grip on his foot when he reaches for one of my hands. "They're so big, and your fingers are so long..."
Fucking hell. If only he knew. If only he knew all the things I'd like to do to him with my big hands and my long fingers…
"They're freezing, though," he says, now holding my hand in both of his. I'm just staring at him like an idiot. "Your skin is always so cold…"
And you're always so warm, Simon, I want to tell him, but he brings my hand to his mouth and starts kissing my knuckles; slowly and sweetly, and I'm literally lost for words.
We're looking at each other so intensely; it's like we're under some kind of spell. God, I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so bad. (He breaks eye contact to look down on my mouth and, hell, I think he wants to kiss me too…)
The moment is broken when Damien, always so timely, decides he's had enough of Snow's attention not being on him, and starts to rub himself all over his face, completely unannounced.
"Fuck," says Snow, laughing; and letting go of my hand. "Baz, I think your cat is trying to make out with me."
Of course he is. I can't believe I'm competing with my cat for the same man. (I can't believe I'm actually losing. I need to step up my game.)
"It's your fault," I say. "You're leading him on."
(***)
It’s 1am and there’s someone trying to open my door.
I fell asleep on the sofa with Damien curled up on top of me; the telly is still on, its light the only one enlightening the room. For a solid second I think the noise might be coming from it, but then I realise its volume it’s almost on the lowest bar, so it can’t be it. It’s clearly coming from outside.
What the hell is happening?
Damien has already claimed his usual hidden spot behind the sofa, leaving me alone in this.
“Coward,” I tell him. “You’re supposed to protect me, you know?”
(I should’ve gotten a dog.)
I get up and go to the door, phone already in hand in case I need to actually call the police. (I must be half asleep still, because I feel more annoyed than scared, to be honest.)
I look through the peephole and, I kid you not, I see Simon very determined on sticking his keys on my door lock.
What the hell is he doing?
I open the door. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Baz?” he asks, his words coming in a mumble. “Wut’re you doin’ in my flat?”
Okay, he’s drunk. His eyes are all unfocused, and he smells like cheap vodka from here.
"This is my flat, mate,” I say. “Yours is across the hallway.
“Oh,” he says, now realising his mistake. He starts loudly laughing. “You’re right. ‘m so stupid.”
“Shhht,” I shuhs him. “You’re gonna awake everyone in the building.”
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. He’s leaning all his weight on the doorframe. “Baz, I think I need help openin’ my door.”
We try to get into his flat, but the keys he had in hand while trying to open my door were actually his work ones (he's been drinking with his colleagues after closing up, I've learned). And, of course, he doesn’t know where he’s put his actual house keys.
“Okay,” I say, giving up. “We’ll deal with this tomorrow. You can sleep at mine tonight.”
“Yay,” he says, all excited. “A sleepover!”
(***)
It takes me at least ten minutes to convince him to just go to bed.
"Let's've one more drink! The night's young!"
"I think you've already drank enough for the both of us, mate."
Now I have him on my bed, helping him to get undressed when it became clear he wouldn't be able to do it on his own.
He's already shirtless; I'm unbuttoning his jeans when he says, laughing: "Wao, we're moving too fast, don't you think? Buy me dinner first or something."
I laugh too, awkwardly. (Thank God he can't even keep his eyes open at this point; this way he can't see how red my face has become.) "I've literally bought you dinner before. More than once."
"'Suppose you're right…" he says, still laughing a little bit. "Not how I imagined you takin’ my clothes off for the first time…"
Well, I have to agree, don't I? Not how I imagined this moment in my head, to be honest.
"You think about me taking your clothes off?" I know it's not fair to insist; he probably wouldn't be saying this to me if he were sober, but I can't help myself.
"Yeah…" he admits. "All the time… You're all I think ‘bout, Baz…"
I finally have him stripped down to his pants, and the sight of him almost naked in my bed it's way, way more than I can take.
I feel like I'm taking advantage of him by looking when he's clearly out of his right mind… But he's just - so lovely. He has freckles literally everywhere…
"You're staring," he says; fuck, I didn't think he would notice.
"Yeah," I admit. "Sorry."
"'s okay " he says. "I like to stare at you too. You're so pretty…"
Bloody hell, he's gonna kill me. He's gonna kill me if he keeps saying things like this…
I put myself together and ask him if he wants to borrow something to sleep on, but he refuses, saying he'll get too warm.
He then gets under the covers ungraciously, and I turn off the bedside lamp before walking out of my bedroom.
He stops me before I can get out, though. “Where’re you going’?”
“You can have the bed, Snow," I say. He clearly needs it more than me. "I’m gonna sleep on the sofa.”
“No," he says, looking very distressed. "Please, don’t leave. Everyone leaves… My parents never wanted me…. Agatha broke up with me... Penny moved to America… And I know Ebb never wanted to leave me, but she did anyway… Wasn’t her fault, but she left... I feel so lonely, Baz… I’ll be very sad if you leave me too...”
Oh, Simon. You sad, lonely boy… I could never leave you.
"I won't," I say, getting into bed with him. "I won't leave, Simon."
He gets all over me as soon as I'm under the covers, his head between the space of my shoulder and neck, his arm around my chest. (Have I died and this is Heaven?) "Promise?"
"I promise," I say, daring to run my hand through his curls. "I'll stay for as long as you want me to."
"Forever, then."
I keep touching his hair, and he pleasingly hums when I gather the courage to give him a forehead kiss. (All this time fantasizing about him kissing my forehead and it never occurred to me how good it would be to kiss his…)
I think he has already fallen asleep when he suddenly says: "Mmmh, you smell so good...I like you so much, Baz… Want to kiss you so bad… Can I kiss you? I really want to kiss you..."
Fuck, he can't do this to me… My heart is literally about to jump out of my chest...
"Simon, I really, really want to kiss you too," I say, and then it takes everything in me to add: "But I'd like you to be able to remember our first kiss, love."
I can't kiss him when he's this drunk… That's not how our first kiss is gonna be; I refuse.
"'Course you don't want to kiss me…" he says; I don't think he's processing anything I'm saying at this point. "Why would you? Why would someone as perfect as you look twice at a guy like me…"
Oh, Simon… If only you knew...
"Oh, Simon… If only you knew," I say out loud at last; it doesn't matter if he's not really listening. And there's no way he's gonna remember any of this tomorrow anyway. "If only you had the slightest idea of how enamoured I am with you… I'm so in love with you, it's burning me from the inside. You make me burn, Simon. You're like the sun, love… so warm… so alive… And all I do is orbit around you. Close enough to burn, but never close enough to catch on fire…"
"'m such a mess, Baz…" he whispers against my neck. "'Course you don't want me… You deserve so much better…"
"I'm a mess too, love," I say, leaving another peck to his forehead. "We match, remember?"
"We match…" he mumbles. " But you're so beautiful, Baz… I've never felt like this before…"
"Me neither, love."
After a while of silence, he speaks again: "Baz?"
"Mhmm?" I murmur; I was already half asleep. (He's so warm… I could get used to this…)
"I think 'm gay."
That makes me laugh. "That's great, Simon. Welcome to the club."
(***)
Simon’s been weird since that night.
He told me he didn’t remember how he ended sleeping in my bed, and tried to awkwardly ask me if something had happened between us. I, as equally awkward, assured him nothing had happened.
He’s been sort of distant since then, and my theory is that he ended up remembering at least a little bit of what he told me, but I don’t think he remembers what I told him back. I think he’s embarrassed he drunkenly confessed his feelings for me and I didn’t reciprocate. (But I did reciprocate. Of course that’s the part his brain decided to leave out…)
I know I could just talk to him, but what if I’m wrong? What if he really doesn’t remember anything? What if he remembers, but he didn’t mean it?
(What if, what if, what if.)
(***)
Today’s Simon’s 25th birthday and he hasn’t told me.
I found out through Facebook, of all things; the pop up notification saying Today is Simon Snow's birthday mocking me.
Why hasn’t he told me? Is he still embarrassed about what happened the other night? (He has barely spoken to me since the other night…)
He can’t just spend his birthday alone! He told me he didn’t have anyone else… He asked me to please not leave.
I can’t leave him alone on his birthday. (I can’t let him slip through my fingers…)
After work, I stop at his favourite bakery before going home.
(***)
I ring Simon’s doorbell before I lose my nerve. (Does he even want me here? Am I being an idiot who doesn’t know to take a hint?)
He opens the door wearing sweats and a t-shirt (it doesn’t look like he’s left the flat at all today.)
"Happy birthday!" I yell, like an idiot.
"What?" he asks; he looks pretty surprised to see me.
"Happy birthday!" I repeat, still like an idiot.
"But - what - how do you know?" He stutters.
"Facebook,” I simply explain. I get inside then, when it becomes apparent he’s not gonna invite me on his own accord. I close the door behind me before asking: “Why didn't you tell me?"
"I don't know," he shrugs. "I didn't wanna bother you."
I frown. "Why would you bother me? Were you planning on spending your birthday alone?"
"Yeah, well - I mean, I skyped with Penny earlier…” he now seems to realise I’m holding something in my hands. “What is this?"
"For you,” I say, extending my arm.
"What is it?" he asks again.
"Sour cherry scones,” I say; fuck, I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I? “From your favourite place."
He grabs the bag from my hand, looking at it as if he hasn’t seen a scone in his life. "Why?"
"Because you love them," I say, as if it's obvious (because it is obvious.) "And it's the only thing that occurred to me in such short notice… I would've bought you a real present if I had known."
"Baz, you didn't have to… this is- I mean..."
He never finishes his sentence; he just looks at me for a couple of seconds, places the bag of scones on the hallway table; and before I can process what’s happening, he pins me to the door and kisses me.
Simon Snow is kissing me. God, I’m living a charmed life.
(So I was right: Food really was the way to his heart.)
He has my face between his hands, and when I manage to get myself out of my initial shock, I wrap mine around his middle, putting his body as close to me as it can get, and kissing him back with all I have.
(God, I’ve wanted this for so long, I can’t believe it’s happening… He feels so warm; he’s so lovely… He keeps doing this thing with his chin that’s making me crazy…)
"Sorry,” he says, breathlessly, stopping the kiss far too soon for my liking. (What the hell is he apologising for?) “Fuck, I'm sorry. I know you don't want this…"
I blink a few times. Is he being serious right now? "Of course I want this, you fucking numpty. Do you think I would've kissed you back if I didn't want you?"
"But, I thought-"
I interrupt him. "What do you remember from that night, Snow?"
He looks taken aback by that. I don't think he was expecting that question. "I- I remember saying I fancy you. I remember asking if I could kiss you and you telling me no…"
My suspicions were right, then. "I told you I didn't wanna kiss you while drunk, not that I didn't wanna kiss you in general. Quite the contrary, in fact."
"You- you want to kiss me?"
Fucking hell, he really is a numpty. "I just kissed you, Simon."
"I just kissed you," he corrects.
"Okay, yeah,” I admit. “But I kissed you back. Simon, kissing you is all I've been thinking about since I know you..."
"Do you really mean it?” he asks softly; his hand is still caressing my cheek. “Do you really like me back?"
I don't just like you, Simon; I love you, I want to say, but it's definitely too soon for that; I don’t wanna scare him away. So I say instead: "Of course I like you. So, so much, Simon."
His smile could light up the whole building. "Can I kiss you again?"
I smile back, already leaning in. "You don't have to ask."
(***)
We've been snogging on the sofa for what feels like hours.
He's sitting on my lap, currently kissing my neck, and if you'd tell me I've died and gone to Heaven I'd believe you.
I have both my hands under his shirt, holding on his shoulders for dear life; his are tangled on my hair, making a mess of it. (In any other circumstance I'd be annoyed, but right now I can't feel anything less than elated.)
He's hard; I can feel his erection pressed on my thigh, the sweats he's wearing not leaving much to the imagination. I'm hard too - of course I am. I haven't been this turned on in literally my life.
I'm so turned on, in fact, that I don't even realise when my hands get down to his bum on his own accord; pressing his buttocks between them.
(I mean, he has a very nice arse; I can't blame them.)
I can feel him tense above me, though; so I retract my hands immediately.
"Sorry," I say; shit, maybe I took it too far...
“I-it's okay," he says; all the confidence he's been irradiating until now seems to have evaporated completely. "B-but, can we - well. Can we take this slow? I have, like, zero experience with this.”
“Of course, Simon," I say, sincerely. I really don't mind waiting; I'm not a dickhead. "I know you’ve never been with a bloke; there’s no rush.”
“With a bloke or with anyone,” he says under his breath; then sighs when he sees I’m not quite following. “I’ve never had sex, Baz.”
That surprises me. I mean, he had a girlfriend, after all. “Really? Not even with your ex?”
“We didn’t like each other very much, I’ve told you that before," he says, not looking me in the eye. "I’ve never really met anyone I’d like to have sex with, honestly. Until, well. You.”
I take his chin between two fingers and move his head until he's looking at me again. “That’s okay, Simon.”
“Isn’t it weird, though?" he asks. He's running his fingers through my scalp, though; that must be a good sign. "I’m twenty five and still a virgin. That’s weird, isn’t it?”
“It’s not," I say, and then I repeat, for good measure: "Simon, it’s not. There’s no such thing as too late when it comes to sex; everyone has different timings. Hell, it’s not like I’m that experienced myself. Not at all. I’ve only ever been with Lamb, and that was a year ago. So, yeah. We can take it slow. And if you never want to do it, that’s fine too. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“I do want to," he assures me. (He kisses the tip of my nose and I melt.) "I really, really do. Just, not yet. But soon. Or, well - soonish.”
(***)
"Do you wanna know something embarrassing?"
We've moved to my flat, where I promised Simon I would cook him whatever he wanted for dinner. (He asked for pasta Bolognese, the numpty; which is what I make him literally every other night when he comes back tired from work and doesn't feel like eating take away.) (But he told me it's what he's been craving, so I made him some.)
"Of course," I answer, not really knowing where this is going.
"Remember the second time my work cap went flying to your balcony?" I nod. "Well, I did it on purpose."
I almost choked on the bite I was swallowing. "You what?"
"Look, I thought you were pretty, okay?" he says, his face in a cute flush. "And I needed an excuse to knock on your door. The plan was to ask you out on a date but I chickened out at the end…"
God, he's such an idiot. "You're such an idiot. You didn't need an excuse to ask me out. I would've said yes before you even had the chance to finish the question."
"Well, I didn't know that, did I?" he asks, mouth full of pasta. (He really has terrible table manners.) (I hate how endearing I find it.)
I roll my eyes. "It was obvious, Snow."
"It wasn't!" he whines, smiling. "What are you talking about?"
I distract him by pointing out he never ended up eating the scones I brought him (he doesn't need to know how pathetic I've been lusting after him.) We sit on the sofa now, Damien on his lap while he covers the scones with an indecent amount of butter.
"Don't you want any?" he offers me.
"No, it's okay," I say. "They're your birthday gift. You can eat them all."
"Can I ask for something else?" he asks, blushing a little once more. "For my birthday, I mean."
"Of course," I say. "Whatever you want."
"Will you be my boyfriend?"
It takes everything in me not to dramatically gasp out loud. (My heart is beating faster than I ever thought possible.)
"Simon," I say, trying not to let out how affected I am (but I think my giant smile betrays me.) "That was so cheesy."
"Shut up!" he moans; God, he's so cute. "You said I could ask for anything, and that's what I want most. Will you?"
"Yes, you nightmare," I say, sighing as if this was an inconvenience for me. As if it wasn't everything I've ever wanted since I first saw him. "I'll be your boyfriend."
He kisses me on the forehead and says: "Best birthday gift ever."