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After the bar they’d stumbled their way back to Horace’s place, as they usually did. His apartment was much nicer than Simon’s room at the Berry Big Circus, or anywhere else Simon had ever lived. It wasn’t that Horace had never offered to take him in, but that Simon had firmly refused. Most people didn’t notice, but Simon was proud in his own way, and more than a little stubborn. It was one of the things Horace liked about him, much as it could be completely aggravating at times.
Now was one of those times. Horace yearned for attention that Simon did not feel like giving, no matter how he was prompted or prodded. The redhead had grown quiet as the night went on, nursing his beer and staring into space as Horace tried to keep up a conversation. This wasn’t unusual behavior for Simon, and Horace knew there were times when it was better to leave his introverted friend alone, but as pleasantly buzzed and sociable as he was feeling, he couldn’t help but push for a little attention. After all, this was the first time in months that they’d been in the same city, let alone the same room.
“Come on, you can’t be tired already,” Horace insisted. “How about a match? I’ll show you the antique chess board I picked up in Zheng Fa.” That’s right — how could he have forgotten about that until now? His heart had raced at the thought of showing off his exotic new prize to someone who might actually appreciate it, unlike certain coworkers.
But Simon didn’t seem to share his excitement. He turned his head slowly to meet Horace’s gaze, his expression darkening. “Chess, chess, chess. Don’t you ever get tired of it? You wouldn’t even know how to play if it weren’t for me.”
Horace smirked. “So what? The student always surpasses the master.”
“Oh, please. Even that’s a cliché. Have you ever had an original thought in your life?” Simon growled. His eyes were cold and sharp.
“What the hell’s got you so mad?”
“I liked chess so you started playing. I dyed my hair; you dyed yours. I started researching Zheng Fa, and now you’re guarding its president. So tell me, are you interested in anything I didn’t do first? Are you going to follow me around like a groveling dog until one of us dies?”
Perhaps he should have been angry, but the outburst was so sudden and furious that it left Horace stunned. "You’re drunk.“
"So tell me why, Horace. Do you want to be me? Is that it? Can’t you see that even I don’t want to be me?”
There he went with that shit. He was always so down on himself. Horace didn’t know why Simon refused to accept that he was smart and strong and beautiful. It could get seriously annoying. “Come on, Simon, not this again…”
“Living in fear and anxiety every day, swallowed up by nightmares every night, never knowing when the world is going to come crashing down around me or how much it will hurt when it does — can you even imagine what that feels like?”
There was something in the back of his mind, familiar but long forgotten, that ached at Simon’s question. Though he didn’t know why, Horace thought that maybe he could imagine something like that. The word ‘father’ popped into his mind.
But Simon was not the only one who had a proud and stubborn streak, and Horace had no interest in admitting to such a weak feeling. Instead he said, “Come on, Simon. It’s not as bad as all that. You’re just being dramatic.”
“Of course. Of course you’d say something like that. Someone like you could never understand. You have it sooo easy, with your job and your money and your travel and your ladies.” He spat out every word. “You have everything you’ve ever wanted, so how could you understand the first thing about me?”
This was really starting to get under Horace’s skin. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he grumbled. “For starters, my job isn’t so—”
“Because I have nothing. I have nothing, Horace, and if I died tomorrow—in the very real possibility that I should die tomorrow, no one would even notice. No one but you!”
And that was it. The end of the argument, as empathy finally crashed over Horace in a wave and Simon knocked back the last of his drink, slamming his can to the table. “Simon… c'mon, Simon, that’s not true…”
Simon wobbled up to his feet, head ducked, and mumbled a half-hearted apology as he started for the door. “No. No, I’m sorry. I’m just… drunk. And tired. I’ll see myself out.”
Horace dove after him, catching hold of the bottom of his hoodie. Any trace of an apology immediately disappeared; the look Simon shot him was arctic.
“Let go,” he ordered.
Simon rarely became so openly assertive, and Horace tended to bow to his whims when he did. Truthfully, it was always a little bit frightening when his friend’s mean streak reared its ugly head. But this time, Horace stood by his resolve. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t drive like that.”
“Then I’ll walk.”
“Across LA? In the middle of the night?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
It would be the first time Horace had ever heard of, but he didn’t allow himself to be distracted. "Give it up already. I’ll make the couch up for you.”
“I don’t want to sleep on your lousy couch—”
“Then you can take the bed! You’re not going home like that!”
“Why not?” By this point, Simon was practically screaming.
“Because I’m the same as you, you idiot! You think I wasn’t right there with you in that orphanage? My life isn’t so great either! Nobody appreciates me, my job is a joke… you’re the only thing good thing in my life, and all you ever want to do is run off on your own. One of these days you’ll run off for good, won’t you?”
Simon shrugged, the fight seeming to drain out of him. “Yeah.”
Horace felt as though he’d been slapped. He’d expected Simon to comfort him; to tell him he was being stupid, that they were best friends, were family, were forever— but the Simon there with him at that moment may as well have been a stranger.
And it made him livid. Stunned numbness quickly turned to furious frustration. Yanking on the hoodie, he reached up with his free hand and snatched Simon’s arm as well. “Well, screw that! I’m not going to let you go!”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Why do you want to run off so badly to begin with? Simon, what are you so afraid of?”
Simon didn’t answer.
“If you don’t tell me I can’t help you. Whatever it is, we’ll work it out. Haven’t I always protected you?”
Simon clenched his fists, the knuckles turning white. “This isn’t something you can help me with,” he said in a hushed voice.
“Are you having money problems?” Horace ventured a guess. Simon always seemed to be having money problems. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you, but it turns out my old man left me some money. I’m doing pretty well for myself right now so you don’t have to pay me back right away.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. It’s money,” Simon murmured, voice strained. “There’s somebody I need to pay. It’s a lot.”
“I don’t care. Take as much as you want. Just promise you won’t ditch me.” Needy, pathetic, and desperate. But if money was all it took to make Simon stay, he would gladly pay.
Without looking at him, Simon tilted his head to the side. “You serious?”
“Yes! Shit, Simon, you have to know how I feel about you by now!”
“…Yeah. I do.” Simon finally turned to face him, but Horace couldn’t make heads or tails of his darkened expression. “I’ll sleep on the couch. You can let me go now.”
Horace let go of the jacket and Simon sat down on the floor. He looked oddly lost, holding himself and staring at the wall. Not wanting to see him like that, Horace pulled his friend close. “Stupid. I’m never letting you go.”
Simon lay his face against Horace’s shoulder. “Fine,” he murmured. “I won’t leave you alone.”
“You’d better not,” said Horace, hugging him tightly.
“It’s horrible to be alone. It's… it’s the most horrible feeling in the world.” His voice hitched.
“You’re drunk,” said Horace, rubbing his back.
“So I won’t go that far. Horace, I… I…”
“Shh. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
Simon nodded, and after a few lingering moments Horace herded him to the couch, tossing a blanket over him. Simon’s head disappeared under it immediately, and he trembled under the covers.
Horace watched him, briefly. He felt as though there was something he should say, but nothing came to mind, so he retreated to his own bedroom.
It was fine. It would be fine. Whatever Simon had gotten into, they could face it together in the morning. That’s what best friends were for, right?