Work Text:
“Are you sure you wanna try?” Horace’s sofa creaks as he sits down beside him. The air is heavy with the sweet, sugary scent of frosting, and the offender is a slice of chocolate cake.
It’s been on Simon’s mind all night. It’s a sensation of sweetness that delights many, but for him it brings nothing but nausea. And worse, each day more memories have been resurfacing. He had been nothing but a tool to be used by his father, until he was finally discarded.
“I have to,” Simon mutters as he looks towards the plate Horace’s holding. His demons torment him, and they can’t all be faced head on. But he can chip away at them, wearing them down piece by piece, until one day they lay bleeding at his feet.
“Yeah, but…” Horace shakes his head as he glances towards the bucket they’ve placed upon the coffee table. He gingerly spears a piece of cake on his fork, and his forehead is creased with worry as he looks at the sugary offering.
He would have killed the man who loves him so much, in the name of a father who never cared.
“Don’t. It’s only sugar. I can handle a hint of sweetness, right?” Simon’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes. “It’s everywhere, after all. Little traces of him.” He can still remember Gustavia’s final moments. The catharsis of patricide is laced with bitterness, because even though his father’s gone, his shadow hangs over them both.
“You’re right. Those old bastards left more than a few scars,” Horace sighs. They both know that in his case, the scars are more than just emotional. But Simon refuses to dwell on that right now. He unsteadily takes the forkful of cake from Horace’s hand, and he pretends not to notice his friend’s brief moment of resistance.
Simon raises the fork to his lips. His stomach turns, but as he opens his mouth, Horace places his hand upon his arm.
“You’re not doing this to punish yourself, right?” Horace unexpectedly asks.
“What? No.” Guilt isn’t a sensation Simon’s familiar with, but sometimes it flares up in the face of Horace’s love. Once, he would have gleefully trampled over his friend’s grave, but that was before the truth came tumbling out, before Horace vowed they would work together to save him from his plight. “Don’t look at me like that, Horace. I swear, this isn’t about suffering.”
“Alright, if you’re sure. But don’t push yourself, yeah?”
“It’s just cake,” Simon insists. And with that, he takes a bite.
It’s disgusting. No doubt many would disagree, but to him the sweetness is cloying. The soft, spongy texture does nothing to help, and the chocolate frosting coats the inside of his mouth. Simon grimaces, and he clenches his fists as he forces himself to swallow it down. But the revolting taste still lingers, and he fumbles for the glass of water before taking several large gulps.
Memories linger and tug at his frayed psyche. His father’s condition had led him to create many nauseating concoctions on the road to success, and the taste testing sessions had felt unending.
“Hey, steady! You don’t wanna choke on that!” Horace says as Simon downs the last of the water. Horace haphazardly drops the plate down on the table, before comfortingly placing his hand upon Simon’s knee. When he was younger there would have been no such respite. He’s unsure if the flavours ever left him that revolted as a child, Simon doesn’t remember reaching those levels of disgust…
…But if he did reach that point, chances are Gustavia would have scolded him and implored him to continue, using disapproval and guilt as a weapon. He can still taste sweet chocolate upon his tongue, even though he’s washed away every trace.
“How’re you feeling?” Horace asks.
“...Sick.” It was merely a mouthful, and he’s already struggling. He grows pale at the thought of eating the rest, but nausea fuels his rage. “How pathetic. It was barely a bite!” He grabs the plate as fierce determination overtakes him. He’ll shovel the sugary mess into his mouth, choking it down, defeating his demons…
He takes a large bite, and it’s far too much. Simon chokes as he tries to down his mouthful, and smooth frosting and cake crumbs combine to form something revolting. He shudders as he fumbles for the bucket and spits the barely chewed lump into it. Surely he isn’t so weak? A feeble victim of his tormented past? Simon almost retches as he desperately goes for another mouthful, but Horace snatches the plate away.
“Simon! You need to pace yourself!”
“Says who? Sometimes you need to plunge straight into the fire, Horace!”
“And what happens next? You step out with third degree burns?” Horace retorts. Simon grasps for the plate, but Horace throws it towards the ground. The plate shatters when it hits the wooden floorboards, and the cake is reduced to a disgusting, misshapen lump.
Despite his indignation, Simon admits there’s something satisfying about its destruction.
“You need to do this a little at a time, Si. Small steps. Look, I know you can handle it. I’ve seen how strong you are. But you can’t torment yourself,” Horace insists as he gets to his feet. He leads a disgruntled Simon towards the kitchen, before pouring him a fresh glass of water. Simon glares as he rinses the foul taste from his mouth.
He should be angry that he stood in the way of his plans, but Horace’s stubbornness, as always, is filled with love. It’s annoying yet endearing.
“You might not have meant to punish yourself, but you were obviously suffering. And shovelling the entire lot down your throat? There’s no way that’s the right move,” Horace says.
“...I should be able to handle it,” Simon mutters as his anger subsides into resignation. He takes another sip of water, before placing the glass down.
“There’s no should when it comes to recovery. I don’t know much about this stuff, but I know you’ve gotta be kind to yourself. We can try again tomorrow, but I’m not letting you choke. That’s just going to make things worse.”
He’s right. It’s irritating, but at least he’s trying to help. Simon sighs and wraps his arms around himself as Horace places his hand upon his shoulder.
“Did it bring any memories back?” Horace tentatively asks.
“A few. Some of the things he made me try were… well. I can see why he needed my help, let’s put it that way.” There are other memories lurking, each one laced with sadness. There had been no loving hugs or gentle words of encouragement. After his mom left, he had simply existed, a taste tester for his disdainful father. “...It still hurts. I thought it’d be easier, now he’s gone. But his ghost never fades.”
Horace pulls him into a hug, and despite the painful thoughts, it almost feels like home.
“We’ll get through this, Simon. We’ll exorcise our demons, but it’s not going to be easy. And be kind to yourself, yeah? Please, don’t torture yourself over him. He’s not worth it.”
Simon gives him a gentle nod, a promise unspoken, and Horace softly kisses his forehead in response. A deluge of emotion floods through him at the thought of a lonely, bitter future that never came to be. But, despite everything, they have somehow clawed together this moment of love.
Old wounds still bleed, but Simon won’t let them fester and rot. He will cleanse the past, with Horace alongside him.