Work Text:
Simon could feel himself falling.
Between supporting the kids and trying to hide his own grief from them and everyone at South Sussex Police Station, he was completely neglecting himself. He knew it was only a matter of time before it was too much, and he dreaded to think what would happen when he snapped.
When he’d received the call, he’d been at work, elbow-deep in case files, trying not to think about the look on Jake’s face as he’d walked out on him over a month ago. It had been cruel, but this thing with Jake had become far more than Simon had anticipated far too quickly, and he’d freaked out. Honestly, he’d been looking for an excuse to end it for a while. He just hadn’t realised how hurt Jake would be, or how much he’d actually miss him. Now it was probably too late to do anything about it. His phone buzzing in his drawer had caught his attention: unknown number. In hindsight, if he’d known what news that call would bring, he wouldn’t have answered it. Hearing that your Mum, Sister, and Granddad had all been killed in a car accident wasn’t exactly conducive to a productive working environment. He hadn’t stayed in the office long after that.
Simon had been catatonic with grief for three days, barely eating, drinking water only to keep himself alive. Two days later he was on a train north to Sheffield for the funeral, and to collect his Sister’s children, Jason, Andrew, and Chloe – they’d been at their child-minders at the time of the accident. They were coming back to Brighton to live with him. Their Dad wasn’t in the picture anymore (and Simon hadn’t seen his own since he was five), so it was either that or they’d go into care, something he was never going to let happen. Even if he’d known how difficult it would be, he’d still make the same decision.
The first month was one of the hardest of his life. Simon had been frantically looking for a new place for them to live (his flat was too small for the four of them), getting his car traded in for a more child-friendly one, and getting Jason and Andrew enrolled in school (Chloe was only 11 months old). He’d taken a month’s compassionate leave from work, but it still felt like he had no time for anything. Nosy social workers were sniffing round, just waiting for him to slip up so they could take the kids away from him; and they themselves were a whole other ball game. At ten, Jason was old enough to understand what had happened. He masked his hurt with anger and lashed out at Simon at every opportunity, fighting him on every decision and generally being as difficult as possible. Andrew was much younger though, and even though he knew something bad had happened, he couldn’t grasp the gravity of the situation – Simon didn’t have a clue how to explain death to a six year-old. He’d barely spoken a word since they’d arrived, except to cling to Simon and cry bitterly for his Mum, breaking his heart afresh. In some respects, Chloe was better than the boys. Because she was so young, she couldn’t comprehend what had happened any better than Andrew could, and would mostly do whatever Simon wanted her to; he still knew that she missed her Mum though. Sometimes she’d cry for hours on end, and nothing he could do would calm her. Even when it was late at night and they’d gone to bed, Simon still couldn’t hide – Jason and Andrew were sharing his bed until they moved, and Simon had emptied out his sock drawer, stuffing it with pillows and blankets to create a make-shift cot for Chloe. Jason and Andrew couldn’t sleep on the sofa, and though it made Simon feel better to have them close by, it left him with barely any privacy. He’d taken to stifling his tears until late into the evening, then trying desperately to keep quiet as he fell apart over the kitchen table.
They moved out a week before Simon was due to go back to work. The flat was filled with boxes upon boxes of Simon’s things, so much stuff even though it felt like he was throwing 90% of it away. The chaos was a welcome distraction though, a chance to organise his mind as he was organising his possessions, and Simon relished in it. Jason started school that same week, his new car arrived (a silver Peugeot hatchback), and he had found a child-minder to send the kids to – better to find out now if they didn’t like it than when he was stuck at work. He spent the peace of those days sorting, boxing, filing, labelling, and transporting everything they owned into the new house – the bottom two floors of a three-storey house, converted so the top floor was a separate flat that the landlady lived in. It felt like moving on, going forwards, and Simon felt like he could breathe properly for the first time since he’d had the phone call. It was Chloe’s first birthday on the Saturday, and even though he spent the entire day struggling to speak or breathe past the lump in his throat, Simon plastered a smile on his face and forced himself to make it a special day for her. Even Jason made an effort, managing to go a whole day without starting an argument. It killed Simon that his Sister wasn’t here to celebrate her baby’s first birthday with them, and he disappeared on more than one occasion to pull himself together, but Chloe spent the entire day giggling, and running around, and playing with her favourite toys, and Simon took more photos than his phone’s memory could handle, fancying he could see her Mum in her smile. He even managed to bake her a cake, a vanilla sponge with a raspberry buttercream filling and white icing on the top, sprinkled with sugar stars, and hundreds and thousands, and considering Simon’s previous baking experiences he thought it was nothing short of a miracle that he didn’t burn the place down.
And then he went back to work.
The stress of his job had never really registered with Simon before. He loved being a solicitor, and would regularly take work home with him, poring over case files until late into the evening. He’d never had to worry about making time for anyone else before either – even when Jake was there, he pretty much did his own thing anyway, understanding that Simon had work that needed to be done and letting him get on with it; even if Jake did distract him, it was either for wine, or sex, two things Simon was always down for. Now he had three small children depending on him, demanding his attention, needing him, in a way that no one had ever needed him before. Work had to stay at work – important documents were likely to get drawn on, or chewed – and fitting everything in was far more difficult than it sounded. Only now, two months later, does he think he’s got it sorted, but the stress is driving him to distraction. He’s currently sat in an interrogation room, his client next to him, vehemently denying everything even though she was told to only say ‘no comment’, DS Jo Moffat getting visibly more and more irritated across the table, and all Simon can think about is whether or not he hung the washing up to dry when he got up this morning. He knows he spaced out when he sees DS Moffat angrily hit the stop button on the recorder, marching out of the room, another officer coming in to take his client back to her cell. Simon can feel his eyes prickling with tears – recently he’s taken to bursting into tears for no apparent reason at odd points of the day – as he leaves the interrogation room, and makes a beeline for his office. His hands are shaking, his vision blurring rapidly, and breathing is becoming more and more difficult, and Simon needs to find somewhere private before he explodes. Luckily, thankfully, the first door he tries is unlocked, and the room is empty, and Simon stumbles over to the far corner, dropping his folder as he goes, falling into the wall, his shoulder colliding painfully with the cream-coloured plaster board. The pain barely registers compared to the ache in his chest, and Simon slumps down into the corner, folding in on himself as the tears come, thick and fast. He hates the noises he’s making, harsh, keening sobs forced from his throat, but he can’t stop them.
He starts when he feels a hand on his shoulder, jumping into the wall and hitting his shoulder again, head snapping up to see who had touched him. DS Moffat is kneeling down next to him, eyes wide, clearly no idea how to process the scene in front of her. Simon knows he looks like a mess, and he tries to control himself, he really does, tries to steady his breathing and wipe the tears from his face, but it hurts so much, and as much as he wants to stop he just can’t. He drops his head to his hands and gives up, allowing the sobs to rack his body. He feels DS Moffat’s hands come back up to his shoulders, thumbs rubbing across the tops of his shoulder blades, more prominent now because Simon hasn’t been eating properly for months. It’s a comforting gesture, and Simon clings to it, allowing himself to be pulled into an embrace, his head coming to rest on her shoulder. He leans into her, his tears staining her blouse, and lets himself go. Jo rubs her hands up and down his arm, whispering comforting things to him, rocking them both gently. Eventually Simon’s tears subside and he’s able to breathe without choking. He pulls away from Jo and leans back against the wall, resting his head against the cool plaster, hoping it will ease the headache he can feel brewing behind his eyes. He hears a rustling as Jo stands up, footsteps walking away from him and the door opening. His eyes start to sting and he feels panic rise in his chest, because no, he wants her to stay, he hasn’t felt this calm for three months, and it’s not fair-
He jolts when he feels a hand on his arm. Jo is still here. She hadn’t gone anywhere, just to the door. Maybe she locked it. She pulls a packet of tissues out of her pocket and hands one to him. Simon gives her a wan smile as he accepts it, blowing his nose and drying his face. His head still aches, the dull thud becoming a deep thrumming, and he wants to ask if she has any paracetamol but his voice doesn’t seem to want to co-operate. They sit in silence, and Simon basks in the calm, the chance to sit back, and breathe, and take stock of his emotions.
A knock at the door disturbs them, and Jo gets up to answer it. Simon doesn’t look up; at this point he’s too tired to care who it is. He can hear murmuring as Jo talks to whoever it is at the door, and hears the click as it closes again. Simon tilts his head and opens his eyes as he hears footsteps coming closer to him again. He starts when he sees Jake stood beside Jo; seeing him again feels like being punched, but Simon figures that given everything he did, it’s the least he deserves, so he stamps down the hurt in his chest and focuses on Jo. They crouch down next to him and Jo puts her hand back on his arm. When she speaks, her voice is soft, quiet, and Simon is grateful because his forehead is really starting to throb.
“Simon, Jake’s going to take you home,” and Simon starts to shake his head, because that’s the last thing he needs, he’ll be fine if he could just go back and focus on his work. Jo squeezes his arm, remaining adamant. “No, Simon, you’re going to go home, and you’re going to rest. Take the rest of the week off. You need to take care of yourself.”
“But I’m fine.” Jo arches an eyebrow at him. “Now.” He adds.
“Ok, but my right shoulder would have to disagree with you.”
Simon huffs and closes his eyes again, resting his head on his hand. “Ok.”
Jo helps him to stand up, which is good because Simon almost falls over when he’s upright. Jake hands him his folder as they reach the door, and they make their way to the car park. Jake drives Simon home in a panda car; he’s in no position to drive himself. Simon spends most of the ride with his eyes closed, trying to empty his mind. He listens to the noise of the car, the revs of the engine as Jake changes up and down gears. He remembers just in time to tell Jake his new address. Otherwise they don’t speak. When they arrive, Jake helps him inside and upstairs, sitting him on his bed before disappearing again. Simon thinks he’s left; gets lost in his thoughts, his regrets, his wishes that he still had Jake. He has no idea if they’d have survived the kids, the move, the stress, but he wished he hadn’t pushed him away like he had. Suddenly Jake is in front of him again, calling his name, his hand warm where he’d placed it on Simon’s knee.
“Hey. I thought you were getting changed?”
“I … Yea, I just sat down.”
Jake blinks at him. “Simon … We’ve been here 10 minutes. I made you some tea. Peppermint.” Jake looks sheepish, as if he’s not supposed to remember that it’s Simon’s favourite. Simon looks at his bedside table – there’s a mug sat on the coaster, steam curling from the top, a minty aroma filling the air. Two paracetamol tablets sit on the table next to the coaster; Simon gulps them down with the hot tea. The mint pervades his senses, tingling on his tongue, the warmth soothing the headache ahead of the paracetamol. Jake stands up, moving around Simon’s room. Simon tries to concentrate on what he’s doing, but all he can think about is why Jake is doing any of this – it’s not like he deserves it, least of all from him. His eyes sting as they fill with tears again, spilling over his eyelids and dripping into his tea. He can’t stop the stray sob that escapes, and then Jake is in front of him again, removing the mug from his hands before he drops it, taking his face in his hands and wiping away the tears as they fall. His hands are warm, so warm, and Simon wants to bury himself in them, he feels so cold.
“Hey, it’s ok. Come on, deep breaths, in,” and Jake breathes in, clearly intending for Simon to copy him, “and out,” and he releases the breath. Simon does copy him, or tries to, his breaths are far more shuddering than Jakes, but he manages to get control of himself before he loses it completely. Jake’s hands leave his face and he tries not to whimper at the loss. Jake starts helping Simon undress, pulling off his shoes, unknotting his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, and given the look of shock that crosses Jake’s face when the shirt comes off, Simon thinks he must have lost more weight than he realised. The look is gone in an instant as Jake schools his features, helping Simon into the jumper and sweatpants he’d pulled out of his drawers for him. Jake stands Simon up when they’re done, pulling back the duvet cover on the bed, gently urging Simon to lie down on the cool sheets, placing the duvet over him when he’s comfortable. Simon reaches over to grab his tea, taking smaller sips of the comforting brew as Jake goes over to the window, opening it slightly and half-drawing his curtains. He comes back to sit next to Simon on the bed when he’s done, taking his free hand in his.
“I’m going to go back to the station now. Will you be ok?” Simon nods, not trusting himself to speak. Jake gives him a small smile. “I’ll bring your car back later on this afternoon, when I’ve finished my shift.” Simon nods again. He doesn’t want Jake to leave at all, but doesn’t know how to ask him to stay. Jake stands up and leaves, and Simon can feel anxiety building in his chest, an uncomfortable feeling that makes him fidget. His vision begins to blur again, and Simon can’t stop the noise that escapes his throat when he takes a deep breath to try and calm himself down. He puts his tea back down, sitting forward and burying his face in the duvet, muffling the noises he’s making. He wants to call out to Jake, ask him to come back, because he really needs a hug, but knows that he doesn’t have the right to ask Jake for anything, not after what he did-
The bed dips next to him, hands grasping his shoulders, squeezing gently. Simon lifts his head and practically throws himself forward at Jake, winding his arms around him and burying his face in his neck. Jake’s own arms come up around and he begins to rock them gently, carding his fingers through Simon’s hair and whispering soothing endearments to him. The smell of Jake’s aftershave fills Simon’s nose, something spicy and warm, the familiar scent calming Simon and helping him to control his breathing. Jake presses a kiss to the side of his head, causing fresh tears to spill out of Simon’s eyes. He takes a deep breath and speaks before he can stop himself.
“Please stay.”
Jake’s arms tighten around him a fraction, but otherwise he doesn’t move, and Simon thinks he’s blown it, fucked up like he always does. He clings on tighter to Jake when he tries to move back, tries to pull Simon away from him so he can look at him. Simon digs his fingers in harder in response, jamming his head in Jake’s neck, stubbornly refusing to move.
“Simon-”
“No.”
“Simon, look at me.”
And Jake’s voice is just commanding enough that Simon relents, releasing Jake from his iron grip and allowing himself to be pulled back. He refuses to open his eyes. Jake’s hands rub up and down his arms.
“Simon, I need to go back to the station,” and Simon shakes his head, more tears escaping, “and you should try and get some sleep.” But Simon really doesn’t want any sleep, he wants Jake to stay, he doesn’t want to be alone anymore. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep, ok?” Simon considers it for a second, then nods. Any chance to be closer to Jake. Jake cups his face in his hands and presses a kiss to his forehead, and Simon arches into the touch, desperation betraying him. Jake lies Simon back down on the bed, pulling the duvet back up. He takes his shoes, Kevlar vest, and utility belt off and walks round to the other side of the bed, sitting down and scooching over, bringing an arm up to wrap around Simon’s shoulders as he settles his head on his chest. It’s a little awkward because Simon’s under the covers and Jake’s on top of them, but somehow it works, and Simon is asleep in seconds.
Jake is gone when Simon wakes up, the space next to him on the bed cold to touch. A look at the clock reveals it’s 4 ‘o’ clock; it was 11 when they’d left the station. Simon’s stomach grumbles noisily, unhappy that he missed lunch, but Simon can’t really summon the energy to make himself anything to eat. But he’s thirsty as well, so he drags himself out of bed, grabbing his mug off the coaster and walking to the kitchen. His headache is starting to make a comeback so Simon stops by the bathroom to grab some more paracetamol. He doesn’t spot the note on the kitchen table until he’s put the kettle on, the white paper folded and stood up, Simon’s name in Jake’s neat handwriting on the front:
‘Simon, I made you a sandwich for lunch. It’s in a Tupperware box in the fridge. Feel better. Jake.’
The sandwich is pretty basic – ham and lettuce – but to Simon it’s the best thing he’s eaten in a long time. He eats it with another mug of peppermint tea, staring out the window, chewing slowly, sipping the tea, watching the branches of the trees outside the window dance in the wind. By the time he’s finished it’s 10 past 5 and Simon thinks he should probably put some shoes on and go fetch the kids from the child-minder. He changes the sweatpants for a pair of jeans, and sticks a t-shirt on under the jumper, quickly running a brush through his hair so it’s not quite so fly-away. Not an easy thing to achieve with curly hair, and it’s windy outside anyway, but at least he’ll know he tried.
The child-minder, Jenna, hugs him tightly when he arrives; Simon’s not usually one for hugging strangers, but she’s the most motherly person on the planet, and it’d probably have been rude to refuse. Andrew races up to him as he steps through the door, waving a drawing at him, proudly declaring it to be a picture of Simon, and even though it looks nothing like him, Simon loves it and promises to stick it on the fridge when they get home. Chloe comes toddling over – she’s just learning to walk, at the Maggie Simpson stage of stand up, fall over, stand up, fall over, but she still manages to tear around the house faster than Simon can blink, and he can only imagine what she’ll be like when she finally gets the hang of it. Jason comes downstairs as Simon’s getting Andrew’s shoes on, keeping one eye on Chloe, who’s fidgeting around in the pushchair like she’s about to jump out of it. He’s still surly with Simon; only seems to speak to him to start an argument, takes four times longer to do the things he asks him to, or doesn’t do them at all. Simon knows he’s only doing it because he’s hurting, he was never this badly behaved before, but he just wants to yell at Jason, he’s not the only one who’s upset. But he doesn’t say anything, just hands Jason his jacket and rucksack as he reaches the door, and he snatches them wordlessly out of his hands in reply.
Andrew chatters away happily to Simon as they walk home, telling him all about the duplo castle he built at play-time, the other pictures he drew, the worms he found in Jenna’s garden, the numbers he’d learnt to count on his fingers, sticking them in the air and waving them at Simon as he did so. Chloe squeals and waves her own hands in the air with Andrew, laughing happily and bouncing up and down in her seat, the hinges of the pushchair squeaking unhappily as she wiggles around. Her happiness is infectious and Simon finds himself laughing along with her. Even Jason manages to crack a smile. He looks away sharply when he sees Simon looking at him, replacing the smile with a scowl that Simon wishes wasn’t becoming his most familiar expression. Jason lengthens his strides, overtaking them and walking ahead, ignoring them for the rest of the walk.
Jake is pulling up in Simon’s car outside the house when they arrive back home. He gives Simon a small smile as he hands him his keys, and Simon wants to ask him to come inside, but his tongue has tied itself in knots, and he can’t do more than stutter out a thank you and stare at the floor. Jake pulls him into a hug, speaking softly in his ear, “if you need anything, call me”, and Simon almost starts crying again, he can’t believe Jake would be willing to do this for him. But apparently Simon seriously misjudged Jake’s feelings for him, because he presses a kiss to his cheek as he pulls away, a light blush blooming across his cheekbones. He looks down at the floor as he steps away, trying to rein in the huge grin that’s working its’ way across his face. He presses the keys into Simon’s hands, before turning, grabbing his bag from the passenger seat of the car, and making his way home. Simon watches him go for a few seconds before shaking himself and letting the kids inside. Andrew races past Jason, heading straight for the fridge, holding his picture up high and looking at Simon expectantly. Jason drops his bag on the floor and slopes off upstairs to his bedroom. Simon can hear the door slam as he unbuckles Chloe and lets her out of the pushchair. She barely sits still long enough for him to take her shoes off before she’s racing across the living room floor, disappearing off into the dining room. Simon makes to go after her, but Andrew is calling his name, waving the picture around, and he’s got his school folder in his hand, full of other drawings and school things he wants to show Simon, including a gold star on the sheet of simple maths problems he’d done in class earlier that day, which of course goes on the fridge next to the picture. Chloe reappears in the kitchen door, a cheeky grin on her face, and she races off when Simon makes to go after her. Andrew laughs and runs off too, so apparently they’re now playing hide-and-seek and Simon is it.
They don’t see Jason again until later in the evening, when Simon’s dishing up dinner, spaghetti bolognaise (Andrew’s favourite), and he doesn’t even look at Simon when he sets his plate in front of him, just pokes at the spaghetti with his fork and sighs. Usually Simon can tell when he’s fishing for an argument, but he hasn’t exactly been on top form today, and he asks Jason what’s wrong before he can stop himself and instantly regrets it.
“Bolognaise again?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Andrew asked for it.”
“But we have it loads.”
“I ask you every week what you want to eat. If you want something different, tell me.”
Jason huffs. “I want something different.”
Simon grips his fork tightly and forces himself not to react. “You can have something different tomorrow.”
“I want it now.”
“Jason, please, just eat your dinner.”
“No! I don’t want it.”
“Well there isn’t anything else!”
Jason glares at Simon before standing up, grabbing his plate, flinging it off the table. Simon flinches when it smashes against the wall, smearing sauce, pasta, and mince over the wallpaper. Chloe begins to cry, the loud noise scaring her, and Simon is torn between screaming at Jason and bursting into tears himself. Jason storms out of the room and stamps up the stairs, slamming his door multiple times behind him, and it’s a wonder that the landlady has never come down to ask what all the noise is about. Simon closes his eyes, taking deep breathes and clenching his fists to try and contain himself. When he opens them again, Andrew is staring forlornly at him, eyes shining, and Simon rushes round to the other side of the table, enveloping Andrew in a hug, allowing him to bury his face in his chest. Simon can feel him trembling and he tightens his arms around him, squeezing him gently until he calms down. After a minute or so, he pulls away, looking into Simon’s face, his expression sad and tired, all traces of his earlier happiness erased.
“Why is Jason so mad?”
Simon smiles sadly at Andrew. “He isn’t mad. He’s upset about your Mum. He pretends that he’s angry so no-one can see how sad he is.”
Andrew glances down. “Oh.”
Simon hugs him tightly, and presses kisses to his hair and face until he smiles again. “C’mon. Eat your dinner. It’ll go cold.” Simon cuts the spaghetti into smaller pieces and passes the spoon to Andrew so he can feed himself. He’ll get tomato all over himself regardless, but at least if the pasta is in small pieces it doesn’t fly around flicking sauce everywhere when he sucks it off the spoon. Chloe is still sniffling in her seat, and she looks at Simon with big, watery eyes, tear-tracks staining her cheeks, so Simon picks her up and sits her in his lap, feeding her from there, kissing a different part of her head between mouthfuls until she’s brightened up again. He doesn’t manage to eat his own dinner before it goes cold, but he’s not even hungry anymore so he doesn’t really care. He sits Chloe and Andrew in front of the TV while he clears their plates away, pausing and staring despondently at the mess that was Jason’s dinner on the floor; he’ll clear it up later when Chloe and Andrew are in bed, he doesn’t want to think about it right now. He picks at his own dinner while he does the washing up, but ends up throwing half of it away because the lump in his throat makes it hard to swallow anything.
Simon grabs smooth peanut butter and seedless strawberry jam from the cupboards, and sets about making a sandwich for Jason. He might not be massively keen on accepting anything from Simon right now, but he must be starving up there, and he’s never been able to resist peanut butter and jam sandwiches. He cuts the sandwich into triangles, and takes them upstairs with a glass of milk, some chocolate chip biscuits perched on the side of the plate with the sandwich. He meets Jason on the stairs; he was sneaking down quietly, obviously not wanting to run into Simon. They stare at each other for a few seconds before Simon holds the plate and glass out for Jason to take. He looks down as he takes them, for once not snatching, and stands there awkwardly for a second before mumbling “I’m sorry” at his feet.
Simon’s heart clenches. “It’s ok. Don’t worry about it.”
Jason gives him a small smile, gesturing with the plate. “Thank you.”
Simon steps forward. “You’re welcome.” He kisses Jason’s forehead, before he turns and walks back upstairs. Simon watches him go, only turning and walking back down the stairs when Jason’s disappeared round the corner into his bedroom. He doesn’t let himself think about it until later in the evening when he’s putting Andrew and Chloe to bed. Andrew fell asleep the second his head hit his pillow, but Chloe needed more comforting; the argument earlier had unsettled her, and she cried when Simon had tried to put her down. He holds her against him, rocking her gently and humming softly, a nameless tune that he makes up as he goes along. She eventually falls asleep, jaw going slack, the dummy tipping out of her mouth to rest against her cheek. Simon knocks it back in with his thumb as he lies her down in her cot; he knows she’ll only cry if she wakes up and it’s not there.
Simon changes back into his sweatpants before going downstairs again, getting himself a glass of wine and sitting back down on the sofa, settling into the cool fabric and letting his head drop back to rest against the back cushion. He turns the TV off, pulls his legs up so his feet are on the sofa and he can rest his arms on his knees. He closes his eyes and tries to relax, to empty his mind; he concentrates on his breathing, the slow in, out, in, out, periodically taking sips of his wine until the glass is empty. He hears Jason pad down the stairs and put his (now empty) plate and glass in the kitchen. The footsteps pause at the door of the living room, and Simon is half glad that it looks like he’s fallen asleep, because as much as he loves Jason, he can’t have this conversation now. He hears Jason come into the living room, his slippers making a soft ‘fwoof’ noise as the cushioned sole deflates then re-inflates with every step he takes across the carpet. He starts rummaging around in the ottoman by the TV stand, and as much as Simon wants to open an eye to see what he’s doing, he doesn’t want to spoil this apparent, new-found peace between them, so he maintains his pretence of being asleep. The footsteps approach him now, and it takes everything he has not to jump when his wine glass is suddenly pulled out of his hands. A blanket is thrown over his legs and pulled down over his arms, and Simon stays as still as he can, until the footsteps are gone, into the kitchen, placing the wine glass on the counter, then back upstairs, the bedroom door closing softly behind them.
Simon opens his eyes and stares down at the blanket. The gesture makes his heart fill with emotion, and he pulls the blanket more securely around his legs and arms. It’s the blue, tartan-patterned one his Mum bought him to put on his bed before he left to go to university, over 10 years ago now. It’s one of his favourites, and he knows that Jason’s seen him with it before. He feels himself welling up, but he clears his throat, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes and taking a few deep breaths; he refuses to cry again. But the feeling is still there, bubbling away under the surface, twisting and distorting itself into something darker the more he tries to suppress it, and Simon quietly begins to panic. He grabs his phone. Jake said he should call, but it’s late and he might be asleep; but his hands begin to shake as he stares at the bright screen, and Simon can feel himself spiralling out of control. He dials the number quickly, before he can stop himself; Jake picks up after three rings.
“Hello?”
Simon tries to answer, but his words are stuck in his throat, and for a few moments all he does is open and close his mouth, like a fish. He can practically hear Jake’s confused expression when he speaks again.
“ … Simon?”
Simon’s breath all leaves him in a rush. “Yes. Yes, I’m here. Sorry.”
Jake chuckles. “That’s ok. How are you?”
“Yea, I-I’m ok. How did you know it was me?”
“I have Caller ID.”
Simon could’ve slapped himself. Smooth. He’s really struggling to make sensible conversation at this point, but he needs Jake to keep talking, he’s the only thing keeping him sane right now.
Jake pauses on the other end of the phone. “Simon … are you ok?”
Simon shifts about uncomfortably in his seat. He scrapes his hand across his face and tries to force the words out of his throat, but it’s closed up and he’s only just managing to breathe. “No.” His voice croaks and breaks as he speaks, tears slide down his cheeks, and he pulls his knees further up towards his chest, curling in on himself on the sofa. He clenches his fist and presses it against his lips, rocking backwards and forwards slightly, trying not to break down (for, what? the fifth time today? Christ it’s tedious), grasping desperately at the last few threads of his self-control. He hears the tell-tale shuffling and banging noises of someone moving around on the other end of the phone before Jake speaks again.
“I’m coming over.” And Simon doesn’t even have the energy to argue, to tell him it’s 11pm and you have work tomorrow, he just wants to not cry anymore, wants Jason not to be angry, wants Andrew not to be sad, and more than anything he wants to go back to the beginning to when he first met Jake and do it all right this time. He hears Jake calling his name and realises he’d asked him a question. “What?”
“I said I’ll be 20 minutes, ok?”
Simon nods, before realising that Jake can’t actually see him. “Yea. Ok.”
Simon is still trying to stifle his tears when he hears the doorbell go, announcing Jake outside. He hurries out of the room, hand in front of his mouth, as if it were the lid on the jar of his emotions and if he removed it they would all come tumbling out, opening the door to reveal Jake’s concerned face. He doesn’t say a word as Jake steps forward, pulling him into his arms, allowing him to bury his face in his neck as he breaks down. Jake had pushed himself onto his tiptoes, making him as tall as Simon so it was easier for him to hold him close. He squeezes him tightly, rubbing his hands up and down his back, before pulling away and taking Simon by the arm, steering him further indoors back towards the sofa, closing the door behind him with his foot. He sits Simon down, placing himself next to him, cradling his face in his hands. Simon is shaking like a leaf, almost hyperventilating from the effort not to just dissolve, like sugar in hot tea. The ache in his chest is back, the weight pressing down on his lungs, making it even harder to control his breathing, and his heart feels like it’s beating at 100 miles an hour. There’s a ringing in his ears, a tinny noise that gets louder and louder, drowning out everything, even Jake as he tries to talk Simon down, employing every tactic he knows to try and calm him. But Simon is too far gone, doesn’t hear Jake, doesn’t feel his hands rubbing up and down his arms, gripping his shoulders; he’s trapped in his head, eyes screwed shut, the noise still getting louder, making his ear drums ache, and it feels like he’s about to fly apart at the seams, he’s miles too hot, and his skin is too tight and it itches, and he just wants to tear it off, but he can’t move his arms, and ohmygod-
A minty scent tingles in his nose, weaving past the bars and breaking through the locks in his brain. Simon grasps it, concentrating on following it. It dampens the noise in his ears, muffling it, washing it away, and he feels himself begin to relax, slowly at first, then all at once, and with a rush he realises he can breathe again. He gulps in huge breaths of air and mint aroma, and when he snaps his eyes open, Jake is in front of him, kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa, a mug of peppermint tea in his hand, holding it as close to Simon’s face as he dares. Relief is written plain across his features, and he gives Simon a small smile when he sags into the sofa, body going limp. He runs a hand through Simon’s hair.
“Hey. What brought that on?”
Simon shrugs and breathes deeply, chasing away the last tendrils of panic from his brain. Jake sits him upright, pressing the mug into his hands, and Simon relays the events of the evening between sips of tea. Jake manages to keep his expression mostly passive, though Simon does see anger flicker across his face once or twice. He’s quiet for a few moments after Simon has finished.
“Listen, why don’t you stay here, and I’ll clear up the mess.”
“No, Jake, I can’t ask you to do that.”
Jake shakes his head. “You didn’t ask, I offered. Stay here, drink the tea. I won’t be long.”
Simon can here Jake beetling around his kitchen, rootling through his cupboards, finding all the things he needed, before making his way back into the dining room. Simon watches him from his seat on the sofa, completely spacing out, not even realising Jake has finished until he’s sitting down next to him, taking the mug out of his hands, switching the TV on and tucking Simon under his arm, snug against his side, the blanket draped across their knees. They sit together on the sofa, the TV flickering softly in the background. Simon isn’t paying any attention to it, fatigue washing over him as he rests against Jake’s warm body. Simon can feel his eyelids drooping, the effect of the wine he drank earlier combining with the rhythmic thudding of Jake’s heartbeat under his ear, lulling him to sleep. In his mind’s eye he sees his Mum, Granddad, and Sister, sat around the table in their home in Sheffield. They were laughing together at something his Granddad had said, he’d always been one for telling brilliant stories, always wildly exaggerated in intensity and drama, but Simon and his Sister had always loved them. She was grinning happily at him as he waved his arms around, demonstrating how close a bomb had been to hitting the Spitfire he’d been in. His Mum was next to her, smiling fondly at his Granddad as she sipped her tea. Simon stared at them longingly, aching to join them. He tried walking towards them, but he couldn’t move his legs, and though he shouted himself hoarse, they never heard him either, just carried on listening to his Granddad and sipping their tea. He shouted more, tried to move his legs and arms, anything to get their attention, but try as he might, he remained still. He watched as his Mum got up, walking around the table, collecting mugs and taking them to the sink, turning on the tap and washing them out. Simon wanted so much to reach out to her, to speak to her, to tell her he loved her one more time. He wanted to hug his Sister, to bury his nose in her hair and the scent of the ridiculous strawberry shampoo she always insisted on using. He wanted to sit with her and listen to his Granddad tell them an outrageous story of that time in 1943 when he was in Germany and he definitely won a fist fight against Hitler in a bar in Berlin, swear down.
The image is shattered when Jake shifts next to him, sitting him more upright, rousing him from his sleep. He wants to complain, but when he makes a noise it comes out as more of a drowsy sound of vaguely-irritated nonsense. Jake snorts softly, and pulls Simon to his feet in response. “You’ll be more comfortable in bed.” Simon grumbles again, but follows Jake as he leads him up the stairs. He settles Simon under the covers, and he sinks into the pillows, closing his eyes with a sigh. He hears Jake shuffling around his room, opening and closing drawers, pulling things out of them. He opens his eyes again when he feels the covers being pulled back on the other side of the bed, and raises his eyebrows at the sight of Jake climbing under the covers, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt that he recognises as his own. He grins and can’t resist commenting. “This is presumptuous.”
Jake laughs, his eyes shining with amusement in the half-light of the lamp on the bedside table. “No it’s not.” He holds his arm out, and Simon happily wriggles over, snuggling up to Jake’s side. He settles his head on Jake’s chest, delightfully reminiscent of earlier, only now it’s better because he can wind his arms round Jake’s middle and throw a leg over his, tangling them together. He basks in the warmth radiating from Jake’s body, burying his nose in Jake’s chest and breathing in his scent. It’s a peaceful evening, but, in the quiet of the night-time, doubt begins to creep over Simon. He looks up at Jake.
“Why are you doing all this? For me, of all people.”
Jake sighs and glances down at his feet, pausing and gathering his thoughts before speaking. “Because I still have feelings for you. Strong feelings. And maybe you don’t feel that way about me anymore, but you need someone right now. If you’ll let me, I’d like to be that person.”
Simon can’t believe how he’d managed to make such a noble, beautiful person want to do that for him, especially after how he’d hurt them, but his own feelings for Jake are flying around his head, screaming at him to grab Jake and cling onto him with everything he has, don’t you dare let him leave again. Simon can feel himself welling up, but for once it’s not because he’s sad, no, he’s so fucking happy, and maybe this won’t be the end of it, and it definitely isn’t going to be plain sailing, but it feels perfect right now, and honestly that’s all Simon cares about.