Chapter Text
Simon had no idea how the fuck he ended up in this situation. Actually, he did. He'd seen some fucked up shit. And in turn, it fucked him up too.
He'd tried to bury it for so long, truly, he had. But it was only a matter of time before it caught up with him.
Unfortunately, having a panic attack in front of 30 of his work colleagues was *not* how he planned to deal with it. Still, he couldn't take it back now. Because now, Simon Riley was unemployed.
He couldn't believe the audacity of his asshole boss. He had literally given his entire life to his job, and this is how he was repayed? Ungrateful little shit should be kissing the ground where Simon Riley once stood.
He took a deep breath. He was standing outside his old office building, still in his shirt and tie, uncomfortably tight around his neck. God, he had no idea what to do. Work was what got him out of bed in the morning. It was what kept him distracted.
Although in the end, that didn't work out too well for him, he realised. With rage still burning hot in the pit of his stomach, he turned away from the building and forced himself to walk away.
Now he had to find a new job, and the idea made him feel ill. Change didn't come easily to Simon Riley, hell if he wished it did. Life would be much easier if he was like everyone else, he realised.
He walked the streets of Manchester, his rage slowly depleting into a pathetic flame deep inside of him. A flame he should probably extinguish before it grew again and got him into something he shouldn't. He walked past the public park, empty on a cold Novembers afternoon. *This city was is so fucking bleak,* he thought to himself as he made his way down the sidewalk.
Across the road, a dog barks, sirens blare, cars honk their horns, an angry routine.
Simon was numb to it all by now. His whole body felt heavy as he turned the corner, his house sizing into his vision.
it was nothing fancy, a simple red-brick terraced place like every other house in bloody England. Simon didn't mind. He liked the farmiliarity. He walked up his garden path, ignoring the dying, withering plants lining the gravel, and let himself in the front door. He slammed his door and stood in the hall, seething suddenly.
He scrabbled to pull off his tie, throwing it to the ground with a frustrated growl. He tore off his shirt too, hating the way the plastic buttons felt against his fingers.
He burned all over. Sometimes, he wondered if he might simply be destined for failure. He needed that job, he really did. And now, well, fuck.
He could feel himself falling apart.He slumped down on the sofa, closing his eyes. all he really wanted to do was sleep off whatever it was that was weighing him down so heavily.
No, he couldn't. He had to find a fucking job. Or, find an alternative way of making money. He considered his options, of which he had very few.
Go out, try and find a new job, force himself into an unwanted routine immediately, which he was not sure he could handle right now. *Or*, rent his house out to some fuck-up for a couple months.
It was good money, he heard, and it saved him from getting another fucking office job, at least for a bit.
The idea of having some twat living in his house made him sick to his stomach, but forcing himself into a hundred more job interviews somehow seemed worse. Besides, he had a spare room. He'd barely ever see them, hopefully.
Jesus, his head ached. He let out a quiet groan, stretching out on his worn leather sofa.
One day, Simon was going to be happy. It was on his bucket list. He often thought about what would have happened if he'd persued his dreams of becoming a soldier. Not a day went by where he didn't, in fact.
But no, instead, he was a depressed borderline alcoholic with no living family and no friends to speak of. God, that was sad. Sad and lonely, that was what he was. He couldn't remember the last time he was kissed, let alone had a relationship.
He sighed as he thought about it. The idea of someone loving Simon felt unfathomable. He couldn't really see himself ever loving someone else, either. That part of him died a long time ago. He fell asleep on the couch, still in his work trousers. Usually that would bother him, but he was past caring. What was there to care about, anyways?
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He woke with a quiet groan, almost rolling onto the floor.
"Fuckin' hell.." He mumbled to himself, rubbing his eyes.
He reached for his phone in his pocket, conveniently on 3% battery.
11:12pm. Jesus, it wasn't even tomorrow yet. He sat up, rubbing his forehead with an exausted sigh.
He may as well write that add for a lodger, he supposed. He'd put it in the local newsagents tomorrow, and pray some poor soul was unlucky enough to want to stay with him.
He stood up, stretching his arms above his head. Waking up wasn't usually this hard, unless he was hungover, which, for once, he wasn't.
He made his way to the kitchen, flipping on the light switch and grabbing a pen from the many biros scattered across his table.
He grabbed a peice of paper and hesitated, biting the end of the pen. What was he even doing? Surely he should think about this more. Nah. Maybe it was time to be spontaneous for once. Simon knew that was bullshit as he scribbled down the ad.
Ten quid a night, seemed fair. That would make him enough to keep him on his feet whilst he went out searching for a job, as long as he kept the lights off most of the time and banned himself from using the central heating. Simon groaned, resting his head in his hands. This was not fair, man.
"Man up, Riley." He muttered to himself, those words far too farmilliar. Jesus, he sounded like his dad.
He finished off the half-arsed ad, before standing up and pouring himself a tea. Black, naturally. He stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Outside, an owl hooted. Everything was quiet.
Just the way he liked it. God, he hoped whoever came to live with him wasn't a total asshole. Preferably it was someone like himself. Someone reserved. Considerate, and hopefully not an alcoholic.
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