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Johnny's socks were on his bloody side of the room. Again.
Mismatched. Crusted with something that he desperately hoped was just sweat and dried snowmelt and absolutely steaming with smug bastard energy.
And haphazardly tossed right under the edge of Simon's bunk like a claim.
He didn't touch them. He didn't need to touch them, just gently kicked them to the middle of the floor and settled on the edge of his bed with a tired sigh. The room was empty—thank fuck for that, because he needed it. Finals season had him ready to tear his hair out, his business management presentation went spectacularly terrible thanks to the campus internet dropping in and out...
and not ten seconds later, the door creaked open and a loud, Scottish voice drifted through:
"Oh, no," Johnny drawled, faux apologetic as he stepped in and let the door slam shut. Fucking Christ, if he had to apologize to the RAs again he'd fucking take his pocket knife and stab the sodding prick— "Did me poor wee socks bother His Royal Highness' perimeter again?"
Simon didn't even turn. "They offended my eyes. And my sense of smell."
"Ach, should've worn 'em longer, then. Get 'em real ripe." With that, Johnny belly-flopped onto his own bed with a loud, unrepentant groan. "Christ, 'm fuckin' knackered. Bloody 8am back-to-back-to-back finals... glad it's over."
At least that was something they could agree on. One of the few things, really—because they were always circling, always snapping... Simon honestly couldn't remember the last day they hadn't traded barbed insults before noon. Four months of roommate hell and no end in sight unless he wanted to live on a park bench somewhere. Petty wars. Sharing textbooks. Clashing alarms and differing opinions on when lights out and earbuds in should be. Passive-aggressive sticky notes everywhere: closets, the kettle, their laptops... even the one that Johnny left in his freshly made bed that simply said 'eat a bag of dicks' with a loopy heart drawn in the corner.
And now?
Holiday bloody break.
The dorm was silent, save for the handful that decided to stay over the next few weeks. The rest were already trickling out between final classes and packing up to head home, greeting excited family and friends before heading off on their merry ways.
Lucky bastards.
They didn't have to stay in a shitty room with a barely working radiator and a pest of a roommate because it was cheaper than a single or a flat. Didn't have to deal with the cold air leaching through the window frame, the obnoxious overhead light, or the one cracked tile he routinely stubbed his toe on.
Simon leaned back on his bed, shoving his feet beneath the one nice thing he'd afforded himself, this year: a soft, warm blanket—black gingham fleece big enough that he could wrap himself from head to toe twice if he wanted. With any luck, it'd chase the chill and the loneliness from his bones... and double as a place to hide his only other truly personal belonging: a threadbear, worn stuffed bear he'd never let another soul see.
Ever.
Settling in, Simon instinctively reached for the book he'd left, hoping the familiarity of the pages and the creak of the spine would pull him away to some other place. Of course Johnny had to pick that moment to start humming Christmas songs to himself as he climbed onto his desk chair. Something rustled—plastic against tape—and when Simon glanced over, Johnny was fiddling with a half-dead string of fairy lights, balancing on one foot like a complete moron.
"Trying to electrocute yourself?" Simon asked dryly, rolling his eyes before flipping the page. It'd be one less thing to worry about if he did (and he absolutely would NOT miss the irritating Scot, not one bit), though he supposed he'd have to explain it to the RA and paramedics...
"Tryin' tae decorate," Johnny corrected, flashing him a toothy grin when he glanced back up. "Some of us still have some holiday spirit, y'ken."
"Hmph."
"It's festive!"
"It's a fire hazard."
He watched, though. Watched the idiot flush from the effort, sleeves pushed to his elbows, tongue poking out between his lips as he wrestled the strand in place.
He looked... happy.
And Simon wanted to hate him for it.
How dare he feel so... upbeat? It was the bloody holidays, and they were here! It didn't make any bloody sense—Johnny yapped on the phone with his mum all the goddamn time, went to visit his sisters for the weekend every month... so why the fuck hadn't he gone home to be with them? They clearly loved him, if the letters and care packages were any indication.
It just didn't make sense.
And that thought kept rolling around in his mind, tumbling over and over again for hours—during his shower, while he made tea and nicked a few biscuits from the tin Johnny left out when the man wasn't looking—trying to figure it out. He hated that he couldn't make sense of it, and as he settled down at his desk and glanced again at Johnny, he hated how he couldn't stop glancing over at the other side of the room.
Outside, snow fell in lazy trails. Inside? The silence was the loudest sound.
At least, until Simon finally worked up the nerve to ask, momentarily stunning himself the second his mouth opened. "Why are you still here?"
Johnny didn't even blink. "Bit rude, that. Kickin' me out?"
"No," Simon shook his head, a rare thread of vulnerability leaking into his voice. "Just... you're always talking with your family. Figured you'd be there."
The Scotsman shrugged, scrolling through his phone. "Everyone's a bit busy this year. Older sister's just had a baby, but both of them have been sick. No visitors for a while. Me mam an' pa went to visit me aunt, she moved to Barcelona since her wife's parents are sick. Younger sister took a semester to study in France, she's stayin' there. Gonna meet up for the new year instead."
Simon studied him over the top of his book, and he swore part of his heart just... dropped. Like some small part of him had been hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone had stayed for him. Not out of convenience. But... they'd been right twats to each other since day one...
"Should go," Simon finally murmured. "Surprise them or something."
Johnny didn't answer right away. Just set his phone aside and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking... hurt. "What, so I don't bother your perimeter anymore?"
Simon winced at the sadness in his voice. He'd spent so long looking the other way... he'd never actually paid attention to Johnny's life. How lonely he must've been—was this the first year he'd been alone for the holidays? At least he still had a place to go, but... "Didn't mean it like that."
"Nah," Johnny murmured, quieter now, all the usual bite smoothed out to something... hollow. "I get it. Figured you were looking forward to havin' the place to yourself."
That made Simon sit up. "Why the fuck would I be happy about that?"
Johnny blinked at him like he'd gone proper mad. Like he wasn't prepared to answer that, of all things. "Cause ye bloody hate me?"
The words shouldn't have landed like a punch. But they did. Cause yeah, Johnny drove him insane. He made a mess, played loud music at all hours, never stopped fucking yapping... but he brought colour to the place. To Simon's life. And maybe he'd hated him at first, but...
Christ. He didn't hate him at all.
He was fucking jealous. Jealous of the perfect life Johnny had, the perfect family, the fact that he could afford uni without worrying about it... but maybe it wasn't as perfect as it seemed.
Was he just as lonely as Simon?
He swallowed hard before he spoke. "I... I don't."
Johnny stared at him like he'd grown an extra head. For once, there wasn't a cocky grin on his lips. No mischief. Just... shock. Surprise. Confusion. Guarded curiosity. "Then why do you always look at me like that?"
Simon stared at the mug in his hands. “Like what?”
“Like I’m loud. Annoying. In the way.”
“…You are,” Simon muttered. Then, softer: “But you’re not the only one who stayed.”
That got him a real reaction—something halfway between a laugh and an exhale. Johnny leaned back on his bed, let his head thump against the wall. “Christ.”
Johnny stood up a little while later. Said something about stretching. About walking off the stiffness. Simon stood too, purely out of habit. The lights above them blinked once, twice. Johnny yawned. Scratched the back of his neck—
Then he looked up and froze.
“…Are you takin’ the piss?”
Simon raised a brow. “What now?”
Johnny pointed up. Simon's gaze followed the line of his hand—
—where, above the doorframe, a crooked scrap of plastic mistletoe hung from a loop of scotch tape. Dusty. Wilting. Obviously fake. It hadn’t been there yesterday. Or this morning, for that matter. Simon stared at it.
“Subtle,” he muttered.
Johnny looked back at him, face unreadable. “You put that up?”
“Don’t be daft.”
“You sure?”
Simon gave him a long, steady look. "More likely that you put it up."
Johnny grinned—small. A little sheepish. “Could’ve been the Mistletoe Fairy.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Still tradition, though. Thought we could use more festive spirit."
The air shifted. Warmer now, like the radiator finally kicked in. They were standing too close. Close enough that Simon could see the freckle on Johnny’s cheekbones. Close enough to notice the way his fingers twitched at his sides in anticipation, like he'd been secretly hoping for this. Neither moved, hardly daring to breathe—
“Right,” Johnny said, after a long moment. “This is the part where we both pretend it doesn’t mean anything, yeah?”
Simon didn’t answer.
Just stepped in. One hand curled at Johnny’s hoodie. The other hovered, hesitated, then settled at his jaw. Warm skin. Shallow breath. Close. So fucking close, he could see every shade of blue in the man's eyes—clear as frost and bright as the summer sky.
Johnny didn’t move.
“Do you want this?” Simon asked, voice nearly gone.
Johnny nodded. "Do you?"
Simon didn't answer in words. Just leaned in, closing the distance as his eyes fluttered shut and their lips brushed. It was softer than either of them probably expected. No teeth, no heat. Just lips pressed together like they’d been waiting for this—holding it back through months of bullshit and noise and closeness neither of them could escape. It felt like an eternity had passed and yet no time at all when Simon pulled back a few inches, just far enough to see his face.
“Why didn’t you go?” he asked.
Johnny looked up at him, eyes wide, voice barely a whisper. “Didn’t want to leave you here. Not if you were staying.”
Simon let out a breath. Didn’t realize he’d been holding it.
“You’re such a twat,” he muttered.
Johnny grinned. “Takes one to kiss one.”
Well... with an invite like that... who was he to refuse?
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