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5TH OF NOVEMBER 2000
The bags piled up in the corners of the room, the scissors snipping away at the scalp, nipping his skin for the 2 nd time. He let out a whispered Fuck , pressing a paper towel to his head in an attempt to calm the burning, and eventually the bleeding. He placed down the kitchen scissors, his veiny and rather thin hands clinging to the side of the sink, staring down at the strands of hair in the bathroom sink, blood mixing into the dirty blonde strands. It hurt, and he was unequipped, but he was finally done shaving his head... and it looked like shit. One side was uneven, big strands on the back, and he couldn’t see the pieces behind his ears because of how much blood there was.
He lets out a grumble, an unmotivated one, a stressed one. He didn’t like his face to begin with, the nose was long and crooked, and his two-colored pupils drew more attention to him, and this sad excuse of a haircut… it made it even worse… not to mention the new living group he moved in doesn't really appreciate the mask he wears. He knew they wouldn’t understand, but it hurt to hear. The towel he was using to wipe the wounds clean was now stained red instead of white, probably because this wasn’t the first time. He ruffled through the empty Citalopram packages, reaching deep into the wooden cabinet filled with trash, and took out two dirty bandages he bought a year or two back. “Good enough.”
The balaclava was tight around his face, but that just made sure no one could take it off of him. He sat down on his bed, kicking his dirty clothes over to the other end of the bed, tugging the curtains, as if they could shut any more than they already were. He loved November, but like this, how could he enjoy it? How was he supposed to? The blue light shined in his brown eyes, the green blob in his left eye shining especially light, as he checked his messages... probably for the first time in 3 or 4 days. Messages were annoying, they always were. People always expect you to put in the effort of actually caring for whatever short dumb messages they sent, and most of the time people pressured you when they feel like you haven’t answered quick enough.
Yet, his muted and furrowed face loosened at one notification.
“Scot” was the contact name he gave that one insane year 10 transfer kid, the one who cussed like the sailor, the one who somehow managed to toss the usually uncooked cob of corn across the gigantic lunchroom without hitting anyone. And surprisingly, the one who really wanted to befriend him. The kid quiet in the corner, the kid who started wearing face coverings since year 8, the kid with bad grades, the kid who’s worst offense was accidentally skipping class, not because of a late bus, but because he fell asleep in the courtyard in a secluded area. That’s who the little troublemaker wanted to be friends with.
The message was simple, but it caught his eye, because it was fragile when he normally wasn’t.
Let’s meet up, it’s Guy Fawkes Night. Miss you. 4:12 PM
Simon’s fingers slid onto the Emojis, then slid to GiF, sending him a stupid gif that he had saved of the Scottish Flag waving in the air. He chuckled to himself, and his eyes widened when he realized the Scot had immediately read the message as soon as he got it. Like an old grandpa, he sent the crying-laughing emoji, before actually answering.
Picking you up in about two hours, send me your address . 5:45 PM
5:45 PM no, i don’t have time rn
I haven’t seen you in three weeks, just send me your address, damn brit . 5:46 PM
Had it really been so long?
Please. 5:50 PM
I even have a gift. 5:51 PM
08:00 PM
He kicked the blanket off himself when he heard the knocking, spraying himself with the axe deodorant while he moved to the door. He peered through the peek hole, the pimple riddled face, the rushed brushed through mullet peering back at him with a nervous smile. God, John was so weird, but not like Simon could judge him that much himself. He knew what it was like for him when he was 14, as if 16 was any different though. He let the chains crackle as he unlocked the door, the masked boy standing in front of him.
“Scots are very persuasive.” He joked, yet not before getting winded by the massive, arm-wrestling hug the Scot gave the Brit, without any context. “Woah, you aight...?” “Mm.” He grumbled something incoherent, closing his eyes as he buried his face, smelling in the dirty hoodie that smelt just like Simon. It wasn’t a while before he let go, smiling at Simon, letting his teeth and green braces show. “Missed ye, you brammer.” “Uh..” Simon’s eyes widened under the balaclava, seeing how excited he was. “Missed you too, you bellend.” He grinned, ruffling John’s mullet.
“Alright, let’s get you all-“ His tone becomes mocking towards the brit. “Fine and Proper.” He mocks, sliding into the room, with visible hesitance from Simon. Fuck, there were bloody tissues and dirty clothes all over. Empty fast-food bags, water bottles crushed up, and the posters on the wall were beginning to fall... he felt like a mess as soon as the Scot paused when he saw the scene. “I wasn’t uh… expecting guests ov-“ “You cut your hair?” John pointed to the sink in the corner of his room, full of big strands and small ones, an entertained glint in his eyes. One that Simon didn’t even realize he had missed in the time he was gone. Then, he realized why he was asking, and crossed his arms sarcastically, obviously, scoffing.
“I’m not showing you.”
“Come on! Can’t be that hackit.”
“Leave it out, I’m not showing you.”
08:11 PM
He felt slightly embarrassed, holding the clean towel- well, as clean as it can be in this trashy room- to his face tightly. He had cut out two tiny holes just to see, just to make sure John wasn’t shaving him bald, as he could feel the vibrations of the razor bounce against his head. When John was concentrating, he was so much calmer, the soft fingertips pushing onto the side of his head, holding it steady and tilting him when he needed to. His breath lightly grazed the properly shaved buzz cut as he went over some small areas, looking up into the mirror only softly, immediately gazing back to his task when he noticed Simon’s eyes lingering. Yet a little green pamphlet stuck on the mirror caught his eye, giving him a moment of pause.
“Chief, you thinkin’ of joining the military?”
Simon’s eyes narrowing to it, his dark and gloomy eyebags a stark contrast to the white cloth. He had it as a goal for a while, maybe for the experience, or for how much he cherished his country, but now… it felt hopeless. How would he join the military like this, when he couldn’t even take care of himself?
“I thought about it.”
“You’re going to sleep with a lot of lads there.” John taunted.
Simon giggled, his expression barely changing though, but he didn’t skip a beat. “Yeah, I’m excited about that part.”
“What?” John grinned.
“Nun’.”
John laughed heartily, the razor shaking as he practically cackled, the sunshine radiating off his face and filling the dark, dirty, depressive room with a new sense of warmth. It genuinely startled and stunned Simon, his eyes widening as he stared at the man’s toothy smile. Just as quick as it came, it was gone, but its effects weren’t gone.
“What branch ya thinkin’?”
“Just… the British military,” Simon begrudgingly shrugged, sinking into his creaky old seat as he adjusted his hand, digging into the cushion instead of his own palm. “Haven’t really thought about it.” Oh, what a lie that was.
“Better not join Air force, you’ll turn into one of those privileged twats.”
That got another hearty laugh out of the Brit, and the vibrations against his head stopped for a second, no longer drowning out the metal background music that was practically unhearable.
“What’ cha think?”
“… Turn around really quickly.”
John stared into the wall, his arms crossed, as Simon hesitantly lowered the towel to show his face. Well, you couldn’t shave off the hideous crooked nose, nor the eyebags, or the weirdly colored eyes. But with the clean cut, he didn’t look half that bad, except for the massive band aids behind his ears. He picked up his balaclava, patting his shaved scalp free of loose hair and dandruff, and tugging the black stretchy fabric over his face.
“Okay.”
When the Scot laid eyes on him again, he couldn’t help but grin as he saw the masked man leaned over the sink, applying a little black eyeshadow around the slit making his eyes visible. It was something Simon did to make recognizing him harder, at least the him he left behind, when he moved out. “Mysterious man,” he whistled, moving closer and leaning against the counter. He lost himself in the mirror, staring at those eyebags being roughly covered with an even darker color. His eyes were almost... matte, in a way. While Johns glowed and shined. Polar opposites.
Simon stared into his eyes, in an intense way that made most people flinch. Everyone but John.
“Makes you look even better.”
Simon raised an eyebrow under his mask, and he lowered the brush from the palette, the powder inside cracked and broken from the amount of times he’s dropped it. “Hm?”
John’s eyes widened when he realized what just happened, and fuck, why would he say that? His mind went into overdrive. “Makes you look even edgier,” He rumbled, moving to the door. “Be out soon, you emo, we need to head out.”
8:31 PM
The car vibrated as he slammed the door shut behind him, a bit harder than he intended, sinking into the used and torn leather. His rough hands grabbed the stick, looking over at Simon with a soft smile as the bulky teenager stumbled into the seat next to him. The man looked down for a second, to the car door, to the seat as he let himself sink in more, and whistled.
“I thought your old man gave you his run-down thing, not this fancy joint.”
“Fancy? Oh please.”
The old engine roared to life, as John turned the key in the slot. He put the car into gear, turning around to look behind him as he slowly moved out of the parking lot he was in.
“You got to admit, this is a pretty nice… ride.”
He leaned back, his eyes glancing down at how John’s hand gripped the knob of the gear stick. His nail polish was chapped, crackled, and the bones were showing through his skin. He grabbed tighter, shifting into another gear, the movement smooth. He only realized he was staring when John started driving forward, pulling into the street and making their way to John’s house and garden.
“I guess so…”
John barely knew what to say to that. Usually, he was very careful with his words around Simon, making sure to paint himself nicely. I mean, of course he did, he was his friend. But at moments like these he wished he had rather bit his tongue. In other words, he worried a little bit about if he came across as spoiled. It was a fancy ride, despite the cracked leather, the faded labels, and the coffee stains. To call it a run-down thing was an exaggeration, one that painted the car and his father’s gift as worse than it actually was. Especially to someone who didn’t have a-
“Who’s going to be there?”
Simon’s voice startled him back, which made him realize he should probably stop worrying about trivial matters like that right now. Mostly because he was behind the wheel.
“Ah, just my dad and my ma, some family friends, aunties and uncles...”
“So I’ll stick out like a sore thumb…” He muttered.
“You stick out anywhere, you div.”
His mismatched eyes rolled over to him, his expression furrowing as he attempted to figure out what John meant. The braced teeth of John shined with a soft smile as he saw Simon practically stare holes into him, like an innocent child who doesn’t get an adult joke.
“The mask.”
A lightbulb went off in his head, making Simon rest back and place one hand on his face, like he forgot it was even on. He nestled his back into the synthetic leather, his back slouching, a certain type of discomfort falling onto him. He knew the comments that followed with it, attempts to get him to remove it, physically or mentally. Nothing breaks or makes a friendship more than the mask for Simon, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was strangely dependent on it.
The panic that came from leaving the house, seeing eyes on him, eyes seeing him. If someone were fucked enough in the head, they could photograph him, and then they had view to something so personal, all the time . It overwhelmed him. So, even if John was his friend, someone he cherished, the guy he got into trouble with for jokingly flirting during class with, he couldn’t help but clench his teeth. Preparing for the discomfort this conversation might have, and the permanent influence it might have.
“Looks so weird,” he added, just before the silence got awkward. “Usually, you see ski masks worn underneath somethin’. You just look like… a smooth, bald black egg, with eyes drawn on.”
Through Simon’s tense body, and his tense mind, thinking of ways to explain why he wore the mask, trying to rationalize it for the Scot so he could just leave it be, he earned a restrained chuckle. One he didn’t really want to let out, wanting to be tense and cold, a bad coping mechanism he learned a while back. He picked at the dead skin around his nails, looking back at the Scot.
“Why’d you have to preface that the egg was bald?” He asked, and as soon as it left his mouth, the joke wrote itself. “You been seeing some hairy eggs lately, John?”
“Yeah, sadly not yours though.”
“I mean… you could, for 30 quid.”
Something Simon would never take for granted was the way John laughed. It was one of those laughs that you would see in a compilation on YouTube, the type you’d think something was wrong with your engine when you heard it. His eyes squint, lines in the corner of his cheeks, wrinkling up. The braces showed fully, digging into his lips as they curved upwards and wrapped tighter around the pearly white teeth. If it wasn’t a soft, breathless and dry giggle, followed by a snort, then it was an open wide mouth laugh, starting deep and in the lungs, then high, and into a wheeze as he slapped his thigh.
John can’t possibly know how much joy his laughter brings to Simon. Especially right now.
“Sometimes I think you’re actually gay, dude.” He snorted out, after containing his laughter.
“Only for you.”
9:04 PM
The drive seemed shorter than it was. Everything seemed that way with Simon by his side. Class, Trips to the grocery store, and annoying family reunions like this one. He didn’t hate anything about his family, maybe the jabs sometimes taken by his cousins, but other than that they were loving and nice to be around. It’s just the fact that they rarely visit, and that he doesn’t feel the strong ancestral and cultural urge to put family above everything else, since he grew up here.
A hiss escapes him, taking the form of a steamy cloud of smoke, as he meets Simon outside of the car. The comfort of the coffee leather seats and the warmth of the engine leaving them, leaving them stripped with a cold shiver down their backs and nothing but their big oversized jackets and hoodies to fend it off. He rubs his hands together, looking at Simon, who’s light was illuminated by the blue screen phone he was staring into, surrounded by the darkness of the woods. There was distinctive Scottish chatter in the background, followed by a bright orange glow hanging over the trees, probably striking out for miles among miles.
“Oi, ah.. just to,” He almost accidentally swallowed his words when he saw Simon look up into his eyes. “let ya know, uh… my relatives, they have a strong accent. And they might ask some uncomfortable questions about.. ya know, the mask, and stuff.”
“Oh, I’m just sticking by your side anyways.” He muttered, sending the typed-up message to his supervisors without much thought. “Not to sound mean, but I don’t really fancy meeting the rest of your family, or your guys' family friends. At least not right now, I came for you, y’know?”
John tried to play it off, how nervous he was to have Simon in front of his parents, as if they were a couple. His parents knew he was bringing over a lad , that’s all he said before he rushed from the bonfire to go pick him up, but they didn’t know Simon. The tall, masked man, who looked like a total delinquent next to him, with his nerdy braces and his messy hair. He doesn’t even know why he’s sweating about this; his parents have never really disapproved of a friend before… Maybe he’s just being irrational, or maybe he’s just overthinking things… or maybe he just really wanted them to like him. But why though?
Simon, however, wasn’t that worried. He could tell John was, the way he ran his hand through his hair, the way he looked towards the burning ash in the sky with uncertainty, the way the darkness of the night seemed to unsettle him. He snapped the, somehow even more anxious than him, teen back to reality by softly patting his back, making him jolt and turn up at him. “Relax, even if they don’t like me, I’ll still be your friend, you annoying scot.” He hummed, looking away. “Besides… I’m glad you dragged me along. Better than rotting in bed, aye?”
John grinned, before he cackled. “Is that your best attempt at speaking Scottish? Aye?”
“You found it funny,” He smiled, and even if it seemed like a half assed smile, it was the best he had managed in a long, long time. “Bet your parents will too.”
“They might knock ya crooked teeth out of your mouth, you brit.”
He managed to distract the Scot from what was concerning him, or at least ease the tension from his shoulders, visible by the way he slowly travelled towards the roaring flames, a tiny smile on his face. The highland accent rang in his ears though as he stumbled onto the bonfire with John, his dad sitting among the other fathers and mothers.
Shaven head, a stubbly, almost spiky beard, with wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and holding a mysterious orange ice cold beverage, covering the label with his hand. The woman across from him, with thicker cheeks and smile wrinkles, with short cut dyed blonde hair, was chattering with him. Over the several kids, with similar appearances and voices, he saw two that resembled John. The younger one in the play pit, the older one handing out sparklers to be lit later.
“Aye, Thir yer are.” The old man spoke, his voice revealing he was probably a smoker. But he looked too kind to do it in front of his kids. “Thought ye wasn’t gunna show.”
The woman looked over, seeming a bit shyer by the way her smiling and grinning face tuned down a bit at the sight of the stranger her son brought. Instead of showing all her pearly whites, she was smiling with just her lips now. The other families paused when they saw him, seemingly startled by the big masked man, but John nodded towards them, making most of their eyes boggle back to the conversation, or their drinks. Did John clear them up about the mask before he got here?
“Just had to drive a long way, uh-“ John still talked in a somewhat English accent, even if his parents teased him about it. “This is Simon, my friend from school. The older one.”
“Ah,” The dad stood up, offering a hand to the man. Simon wasn’t used to handshakes, so it took him a moment. “Nice t’ meet ya. We left you’se some Irn-Bru, Shuid be o’ th’cooler next to th’bonfire.”
To be honest, when John said they’d be hard to understand, he didn’t expect this. He was thinking more so it just sounds like gibberish then oh, it’s just English . But maybe John just trained him well, that’s why it was easy to understand.
“Thank you, sir. It’s nice to meet you too.” He kept himself polite, even if it didn’t fit the casual energy of the loud chattering from some drunk fathers. “What’s Irn-Bru? I’ve never had it.”
“It’s like… an orange, ginger like soda. We had to import it from Scotland.” John nudged Simon, grabbing his arm slightly, like he wanted to drag Simon away to the bonfire with him already. “Aye, an if ya enjoy it, ya qualify fo’ a Scottish citizenship.” He joked, a big grin on his face as his shoulders chuckled along with him.
That was an actually good joke, cracking Simon up a bit under the balaclava, and the dad nodded and gestured to the bonfire. “Gunna leave ya twa alone noo, Wur gunnae join ya two soon. Listen t’ some songs, order some food, an’ light some fireworks.”
Finally, John could drag Simon away from his totally embarrassing and lame parents, which went back to chattering. He smiled at Simon. “Sorry ‘bout my dad, he can be a bit much.”
Simon had to hold back a chuckle, noticing how John’s Scottish accent broke through the cracks of his fake semi-English one when he was around other Scots. He liked his voice like this more to be honest.
“It’s alright, he seems chill.” Simon said, listening to the crunching of grass under his boots as John moved them over in front of a tree log, with a heavy sigh he took a seat on the warm bark, the fire roaring next to them.
“Don’t mind the stares,” John interjected, handing the orange bubbly liquid can into Simon’s hand, leaning forwards to put his elbows to his knees. “I’ve never brought a friend to one of our family’s events.”
“Think it has more so to do with my mask, and the fact I’m the only brit.” He taunted.
“Yeah, they’ve never seen one of ya with straight teeth. Too bad we didn’t bring any tea, aye?”
“Yeah, tragic. So, when do the bagpipes get here?”
“Think they’ll arrive when ya queen and her little army of dobbers pay a visit.”
“Woah,” Simon gasps with mock offense, smirking under the mask as he jokingly holds up his hand, covering John’s face from his vision. “Too far.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Leaning in close, John’s shoulder dug into Simon’s, him barely feeling the jab due to the thick puffer jacket he had on, resembling a roadman. The two of them swayed to the side, a chuckle rumbling in John’s throat, while the masked man just smiled contemptuously. A little wave of silence fell between them, not awkward due to the crackles of the fire. Then, Simon rumbled softly.
“How’s school been like? I haven’t gotten the chance to go back yet... still been feeling…” For the lack of a better term, or for the lack of wanting to explain himself. “…sick.”
“Boring as fuck, man, you need to come back!” John whined, looking over at him with a grin, not catching the tense energy just yet. “Miss Jones is still annoyin’, like, if you’re gonna talk about how meditation saved ya life for the 80 th time in the row, then at least let me sleep through it.” He sighed, cracking open his drink with a loud sizzle. “How does sitting in silence for 40 minutes a day help with diabetes? I just don’t get her, twisted head, mate.”
“She’s still on with that?” He looked surprised, chuckling. “I thought her arguing with uh… Olivia would’ve deterred her.”
“Nah, they’re still up with that back and forth. The rest of the class still oogles at the teach like she’s found out the secret to life or.. whatever.” John shrugged, his eyes lowering down to the can in Simon’s hand. He realized that he had drank halfway through while Simon was still tracing the rim of the can with his nails. “Ya gonna try it? Won’t blame ya if not.”
Simon looked down at the beverage he’s been unconsciously playing with, carefully letting the can fizz to life as he snapped it open. He paused, realizing the struggle he would have of drinking this through his mask. Oh well, lifting it up won’t hurt. There’s only family here, surely no one would take a photo… they’re all busy drinking anyways.
Lifting the balaclava up, stopping as it barely catched on his upper lip, looking down at the drink again. He took a heartful sip, letting citrus and blackcurrant sizzle on his tongue. Usually, he was pretty picky over his food choices, but this drink was pretty good. If not, maybe a little bit too strong for him. The feeling of eyes on him was slowly creeping up on him, and when he lifted his gaze from the metal can, he found someone gawking. Not a curious kid, or a disrespectful elder, but his own best friend.
John looked at him, stunned, like a deer in headlights. As if he had seen something forbidden, or something impossible. What for Simon came across as shock, was something entirely else for John. He quickly tore away his gaze, dedicating the muscular neck connecting to the stubble beard to memory. “My bad- uh-“ He closed his eyes, shaking his head, like trying to get away from his own heart racing thoughts. “Didn’t mean to stare.”
“It’s alright.” He let out a tiny huff, nodding as he looked away again, leaning closer to the bonfire slightly. It was a comforting feeling, his face and chest warm while his back shivered in the cold. “Wouldn’t have pulled off my mask if I didn’t want you seeing me, idiot.”
John looked back at him slowly, his posture resembling a dog with his tail between his legs, getting caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah..” He muttered, looking down at his own drink. The heat was a bit uncomfortable for him, maybe a bit too hot, so he leaned back into the darkness, being careful to not fall back onto his ass. At least not in front of Simon.
Simon enjoyed the silence for a minute, swirling his can with delicate circles of his wrist, accidentally removing the fizz. He had been in the dark for so long, in his room, struggling, exhausted, and demotivated. This was exactly what he needed, someone to grab him by the wrists, tug him up and out of bed, tell him to get his shit together. Someone like John.
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
“What-? Oh, uh, no stress man. Glad to have you.”
John stuttered out, trying to make it seem like he wasn’t staring at the badly shaven beard. The crooked, previously broken nose, the mole barely hidden by the dirty blond beard, right on the left side of his lips. And God, those lips. The scar on them, and the way they pursed out slightly. If he wasn’t sure if he was gay, he was sure now, alright. No more passive aggressive gay jokes or axe body spray could hide it anymore.
Now was actually… a good moment. They were far enough from the rest, all alone. Not like in school, or when they went to the cinema, surrounded by others. No, they were actually alone. For the first time in a long while, he relaxed his posture. He knew he shouldn’t though, what if he misread Simon? Hell, there was nothing to read, Simon didn’t send any… well, gay signals. If that even exists.
“You have a girl, Simon?”
The British man’s eyes rose, dismissing the blush on John’s cheeks as a weird light effect from the orange flame. The view of the fire was too beautiful to ignore though, so he broke off eye contact only a moment after holding it.
“Not yet, haven’t gotten to know any girls I really like like that.”
“No one digs the whole mysterious…” He gestured to him, leaning onto his knees. “thing you got going on?”
“They dig it until they realize I won’t take it off for anyone . Stays on in the house, out the house, and in my sleep…”
“… Well, why don’t you?”
Simon paused. Fuck, this really isn’t the place you should trauma dump in, right? This energy was positive, friendly banter back and forth, he couldn’t just… unpack everything here. But John looked so kind, looked at him so caringly, genuine curiosity in his eyes. He wanted to hear, he wanted to listen, help carry the load. And thank God Simon picked up on that.
“Uh… you know what… Scopophobia?”
Silence rang out for a second. More so three.
“Sorry mate. No plan.”
“Right, yeah, thought so… basically, I just-..” He struggled to formulate it, his fingers digging into the can like he could squeeze the words out of it. “The main definition is… a fear of being stared at. Which is kind of what I have?” He muttered, lowering his head. “I don’t know if it’s a fear or something, I just know that I go through immense dread showing my face like that in public… like, like people’s stares” He inhaled sharply, clinging onto the can a bit tighter. “stick to me. And suffocate me. And then I have to fight my way out of that suffocating feeling.”
“Ah.” John muttered, his breath pausing as he looked at Simon’s eyes. His lashes seemed more wet, red replacing the white as he choked back tears. Bad, bad memories were flooding his head, and even if Simon didn’t intend too, he let his troubles show. He pinched his short, bitten nails into his hands, looking away. He ruined this. He ruined another happy moment. He should’ve just fucking stayed inside.
“Well,”
John’s voice startled him back into his senses, blinking away the tears quickly. Shit, shit, okay, get your shit together. Wiping his palm against his eyes, he looked back over to John, who was ruffling in a book bag that had been left next to the freezer. He pulled out a square shaped object, wrapped in gift wrapper paper and held together desperately by transparent, cheap tape.
“i think the girls might dig the uh… mysterious, scopophobia thing with this.”
Before he could ask any questions, the gift was dropped onto Simon’s lap, and John softly toasted his more than half empty Irn-Bru against Simon’s barely touched Irn-Bru. Simon’s calloused fingers traced over the bumpy surface, looking up at John with a bit of confusion. Without knowing it, the distraction John provided worked, his tears blinked away as he let out a little scoffy chuckle.
“What’s this?”
“Aye, didn’t I tell you I had a gift?”
Right, that one message.
His short nails softly dug into the paper, hooking under the tape and tugging, until the wooden mask slid out of the mess of wrapping. He recognized it immediately, the doodles of ideas he had made on the side of his very old geography notes, the ones he sent to John after him begging the night before a test. Simon tilted the wooden skull shaped mask, scratches and indents on the side. The paint job was sloppy, white and black mixing nicely at some parts, and at some parts sharp edges or pure acrylic splatters. The elastic was stapled on the fully black painted inside, the cut sides burnt off with a lighter.
“Ya days of being a bald black egg are over.” John joked, grabbing the wrapping and turning to stuff it into his book bag. When he turned back, muscley arms were around his back, shaking his body, and making the drink in his hand shake and spill slightly. Now, not only the fire kept John warm, as Simon completely settled into the hug, his head hanging over John’s thin shoulder. His eyes closed, the mask clinged in his hand like a lifeline, while his other hand held his back.
The fire crackled, the darkness concealing them from prying eyes. An owl nearby sung his song, mixing into the children’s battering and playing in the background, who were on the other side of the giant fireplace. Simon’s eyes finally shut when John hesitantly wrapped his arms around him, a sharp inhale, and then he buried his face, his ice cold clothed nose digging into the fabric. His forehead rested against his shoulder, the ice cold empty soda can on the back of his back sending even more shivers down his spine. John’s Adam's apple throbbed as he gulped down nervously, moving his head towards Simon’s. His chin rested on the temple of Simon, triggering a single sentence escaping the British man’s lips, a whisper.
“Thank you, Johnny.”