Chapter Text
The first time it happens, John isn’t sure where he gets the courage from. The other man has been in the library, in the same spot, almost every single day since the beginning of the semester. He never speaks, never seems to have any friends coming by to meet him. He never even seems to stop working or reading.
The mask he always wears covers the bottom of his face, but his hair, oh, his hair. John would love to sink his hands into that hair. It looks so soft and curly, even from across the floor of the library. And especially when he passes the corner as he helps another student find something they need every so often.
Sometimes, when he’s reading, or doing his homework, or studying, John could almost swear he feels those eyes staring at him. Almost piercing him with how hard he can feel the other staring. And that’s what’s weird. He’s never felt anyone's eyes on him as much, or as accurately as he does with this mystery man in the library. But he knows it’s true and accurate, because he’s managed to catch the other staring at him a few times. Always after John has finished helping someone find a book or point them in the right direction. He can feel those eyes locking onto him every time he starts talking.
If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought that maybe the man had something against him because he was Scottish, seeing as it most often happened when he was talking. But……
Sometimes, if he turns back to his work quick enough, he can catch the other staring at him over the books he has open on the librarian’s desk for his shift. Sometimes, when he’s leading someone over to what they’re looking for, he catches the other man’s eyes. Sometimes, if he passes close enough, he can oh-so-subtly watch the other’s eyes track his every move, under the guise of making eye contact with the person he’s helping.
If he didn’t know any better, John might have thought that the man was stalking him, maybe even plotting how to murder John. But……
Sometimes, if he manages to catch the other’s eyes at just the right moment, he can watch his eyes crinkle at the edges, an unconscious smile hidden behind the mask he wears, but that's so genuine John almost thinks he might drown in the love cast at him from across the floor of the library.
Maybe that’s what finally does it. The casual smiles thrown his direction whenever John catches the man’s eyes, and the man’s eyes just suddenly lose all their tension and they’re crinkling at the edges. And, god, John can tell it’s the most unconscious thing, the way his eyes go soft, and if he was any closer, he knows those eyes would be the colour of melting chocolate for a good cuppa hot chocolate on a cold and snowy winter day. But then something happens, someone walks by the other man’s desk or walks up to John’s desk, and their eye contact is broken. And John can only watch as the man’s shoulders go up around his ears again and, if he’s close enough, the eyes go from molten chocolate to a tense, guarded brown shine that almost matches the colour of the desk he always sits at.
Maybe it’s because he wants nothing more than to see those soft eyes aimed at him closer, and more often. Maybe it’s because he wants to make the other man comfortable enough that he doesn’t feel the need to be so on the defensive all the time.
Either way, one day, when it’s been particularly busy all day, John scribbles a note down on a post-it, halfway through his shift, intending on dropping it on the man’s books the next time he walks by.
It’s just his luck that he doesn’t have a reason to leave his desk again until just a few minutes before his shift is over. The other man has vanished off to god knows where for the moment, but his stuff is still exactly where he left it. So, on his way back to his desk, John stops briefly by the man’s desk. And before he can lose his nerve, he carefully sticks the post-it to the cover of the book the man had closed when he got up to do whatever. Hopefully he sees it immediately and doesn’t just reopen the book and miss it.
Then, courage all but evaporated, John retreats back to his desk for the last few minutes of his shift.
People always assume that John is the most confident person in any room he’s in. Especially when it comes to love and relationships, given how prone he is to flirting with anything and anyone really. So why does he all but run when his shift is over, after seeing the other man come back, notice the post-it, and remove it from the book before opening it again out of the corner of his eye?
The café across the street from the library is a small, cosy little place. John found it just a couple of weeks into his first semester, looking for a nice coffee before his shift at the library one morning.
The little table in the back corner has become his little hiding spot when he stops in after shifts at the library. The staff know him well enough to greet him and make his sugar monstrosity of a caramel mocha frappe before he sits in the corner and absorbs himself in his coffee and books again. It’s always nice to have a little time after his shifts to just relax a bit before he goes home, get some reading or homework or studying done without having to worry about any interruptions in a place that isn’t his tiny apartment. Usually he puts on his nice headphones or uses his far-too-old earbuds to listen to some music as he works. But today, he does not. He’s far too anxious.
At some point, after what feels like hours, John gives up on watching the door, unreasonably sad that the other man had clearly (in his mind) not wanted to meet him.
His hands are wrapped around the mug in front of him as he debates just going home now or pulling out his calculus book to work on that for a little bit when a mug is set on the table across from him. “This seat taken?”
John looks up. Only to be greeted by those molten chocolate eyes, crinkled at the edges. “Oh, uh, I mean it can be yours, if you like?”
The man had actually decided to come and that was the first thing he says to him? John internally beats himself as he smiles and tries to make things right, hoping the man will be kind enough to take that as the terrible flirting attempt it had been. “Name’s John. John MacTavish. Pleasure to finally meet you.”
He sticks his hand out almost as an afterthought, not totally expecting the man to take it.
“Simon Riley,” is all the other man offers as he takes the bag off his shoulder and sets it on the chair near the window before he sits, hands wrapping around his own mug.
They sit in silence for a moment, Simon’s shoulders as tense as they are in the library, even as John gets lost in those liquid cocoa eyes again. Finally able to see them up close and personal, he allows himself to drown in them a little bit. But he doesn’t want Simon to be uncomfortable with him. He wants to give the other at least someone he can be comfortable with, considering it seems like he has no one.
“Hey,” John says, grinning stupidly at his own clear genius, “what do you call a sad cup of coffee?”
The stupid eye crinkles are back as Simon rolls his eyes. “What?”
“A depresso!” John cackles a little at his own joke, pleased with himself as he watches Simon’s shoulders fall from where they were up by his ears.
A huff. “That was terrible, Johnny.”
John’s stomach flips strangely. He’s never once allowed anyone to call him Johnny . It always feels weird and patronising. But, for some reason, he doesn’t think he’ll quite mind Simon calling him Johnny. It just…feels right, somehow.
“Aye, but it made ye laugh, didn’t it?”
The still masked man huffs another breath of a laugh. (god, what would his real, full, belly laugh sound like?) John hopes he can stick around long enough to find out. “I suppose you aren’t wrong. This time.”
There’s an eye roll in there somewhere, John is sure, but he’s too busy watching the other man - Simon - reach up and unhook the mask from around his ears.
Simon is stunning .
A red flush creeps up Simon’s face and his eyes meet John’s quickly before they dart down to the drink sitting in front of him, almost shyly. “Ah fuck, did I say that out loud? Shite, I’m sorry. I didnae mean to say it out loud.”
Why the fuck did he say that? It’s not like the curiosity about what was under the mask was what led to him inviting Simon out. He could’ve cared less about what was under the mask. He just wanted to make sure the man wasn’t going crazy, make sure he was taking breaks. And yeah, sue him, maybe he just wanted to see those molten chocolate eyes up close and personal at least once. But it wasn’t just that.
It’s like some weird part of him has been awoken, now that Simon is here, in front of him. He just wants to take care of him. Make him food, listen to that smooth voice talk to him about anything and everything, take him out if only to make sure he’s not killing himself studying. Wake up next to him and watch a ray of sun catch his eyes and hair just right until he’s an angel haloed by sunlight.
“‘S alright, I suppose, comin’ from a looker such as yourself.”
For once, John is left completely speechless. Cute, hot, witty, and (probably) smart ? He’s never wanted to get to know someone better than in this moment. Wants to know exactly what it is that has Simon going silent and blushing so hard you’d think he was about to explode. But more than anything else, John just wants to see the tiny smile that’d crossed Simon’s face for the briefest moment before he went red. He will do anything to see that smile again, maybe even see if he can make it grow bigger.
They bask in the quiet ambiance of the café for a few minutes, enjoying their drinks. ( god, John wants to know what the other man’s order is, wants to be the one to order for him. ) Before Simon gestures to the binder sitting in front of John, “Whatcha studyin’ that requires that fuckin’ brick?”
“I, uh-” John stutters a moment. It always feels weird, like he’s trying to brag or make himself seem like the smartest one in the room when he has to answer what he’s studying. “Aerospace engineering?”
“Oh?” Simon held his mug right in front of his mouth, poised as though his sip had been interrupted. And there was that little smile again, just behind the cup, like Simon was trying to tease him - which felt unlikely, considering the way his eyes were everywhere but looking at John, like this mountain of a man was shyer and more anxious than John would’ve ever thought. “Is that a question or a statement? I’d have thought that someone studying something as mentally trying as literal rocket science would know exactly what it is they're studying.”
It was John’s turn to blush bright red.
“Hey, now. It’s not like I don't know what I’m studying. I just don’t want people thinking that I’m trying to be a fucking smartarse or anything. Or-“
John pauses for a moment, unsure whether he really wants to tell this man he’s only technically just met one of the things he holds deepest in his heart. But fuck, if the way Simon has his eyebrow quirked at John over his mug doesn’t have John feeling some type of way. A warmth he can’t particularly explain is settling deep in his chest, nestling itself between his ribs and his heart. It almost feels like it’s tugging him into this man’s orbit even further - and, if John is honest with himself, hopefully past the point of no return, past the point where their collision becomes inevitable, until they all but dance around each other, waiting for the day when they finally collide and become one for the rest of eternity.
He shakes himself out of his thoughts as he sighs, meeting Simon’s eyes again.
“People have always thought I’m oh-so-smart, and, I don’t know-” he laughs humorlessly. “I hate people telling me that I’m the smartest person they know because apparently that’s all people know how to tell me when they get to know me and I accidentally let my major slip or I go on some little tangent on something maths or science related. Because it hurts a little more when they realise I can actually be extraordinarily fuckin’ stupid and I have no idea how I’ve made it this far in life. It just- it always happens that I end up disappointing everyone because they somehow think I’m a fuckin’ genius and should be doing so well in classes and like, I can pass, most of the time. But when I fuck up and fail, everyone is so fucking disappointed, and I hate it, but I also can’t lie to people when they ask, and I dunno, I-”
John cuts himself off. One of Simon’s hands is covering his own, cupping his mostly untouched mug.
“It’s alright, Johnny.” Simon brings his other hand to hold Johnny’s around his mug. “I’ve got you. I get it. Maybe not the bit about people thinking you’re a genius, but I understand disappointing people when you fuck up.”
“You? Simon ‘Pretty Boy’ Riley? Pretty enough to make anyone swoon? Disappointing people?” Johnny laughs wetly, suddenly on the verge of tears. No one’s really touched him like this in years. Softly, gently, holding him together like he might be worth something, hands so carefully holding his own together, as if holding them together to remind Johnny how to cradle his own heart and keep it safe himself. “I can’t imagine how you could possibly disappoint anyone.”
Simon’s smile is soft, and sweet, and just the tiniest bit sad as he leans in a little. “I was always expected to be better than perfect, Johnny.” He speaks softer, trying to make sure no one else could hear him. “Just because you think I’m pretty doesn’t mean everyone likes me or thinks the same. My very existence is a disappointment to my family, especially my father, so while I might not get the whole genius and failing people because you’re not as smart as they assume you are, I understand disappointing people by falling short of their expectations. My father was…not the kindest growing up, and I’m very used to falling short of people’s expectations, no matter if it has to do with school or sports or even who I am as a person.”
He looks away for a moment, suddenly shy. Johnny stares at the side of his face, torn between looking at their hands where they lay wrapped around his mug, and keeping his eyes on Simon’s face.
As Simon is turning back to face Johnny, the breath catches in Johnny’s throat. A memory of learning about binary star systems, and the way they orbit each other, flashes through his mind. The late afternoon sun streaming through the doors and windows of the café catches Simon’s face just right as he turns back to face Johnny again.
He’s never been particularly religious, even growing up in a Catholic household, but Johnny could worship this image, this man, before him. By all the gods he never believed in, Simon’s face is haloed by the golden light of the dying day and he looks more heavenly than any images of a paradise after death ever could.
And for a moment, Simon stares into Johnny’s eyes and Johnny almost allows himself to hope that they could stay like this forever. But, alas, all good things must come to an end and soon enough, Simon looks away.
But his hands stay curled around Johnny’s.