Work Text:
Simon fainted again.
It happened during choir. The choirmaster was working hard to get the right pitch, and when the boys finally hit the high note, a crash echoed through the rows. Simon had fallen.
'Good heavens,' sighed the choirmaster. 'He needs to go to the sickbay.'
He and two of the boys lifted Simon. He was pale, his head lolling back.
'Head boy! Gather his things!'
Jack Merridew, the choir leader, pursed his lips and looked down at the notebooks scattered where Simon had been standing. He picked them up. A music book, a hymnal and psalter... Another notebook. Unlabelled. Jack opened it, glanced over the pages, and realised it was a personal diary.
Reading closer, he found his own name. A memory of the old oak tree. Simon wrote about him in a strange way — so strange that Jack's ears began to burn. His first instinct was to throw away these girlish fantasies, or better yet, read them aloud to the whole choir to teach Simon a lesson.
Jack read the entry over and over. Slowly, his lips curled into a slight smirk. He ran his thumb over the ink.
'Well, well: "...his hair shone like the sun,"' he thought.
Jack closed the notebook and glanced at the other boys before heading to the cloakroom.
When Simon returned, Jack was sitting on a bench. He looked perfectly composed as he handed over the sheet music and texts. But as he passed the personal diary, he paused and looked Simon straight in the eye, his expression shifting briefly into a mock.
Simon froze. His fingers, still cold from the faint, began to tremble. A silence hung between the boys.
Jack wouldn't let go of the notebook, holding it firmly. With a tug on the edge, he forced Simon to take a step closer.
'Hold it tight,' Jack ordered quietly. 'You're always dropping things.'
Simon swallowed, unable to tear his eyes away from the head boy. Jack knew. Now Jack knew everything. The thought made him feel hot and cold all at once.
Finally, Jack loosened his fingers, releasing the notebook. He lifted his head, drawing himself up to his full height. As he walked past towards the exit, he deliberately brushed against Simon.
The sunlight, streaming through the Gothic window, caught his red hair, making it blaze once more. In spite of everything, Simon watched it in awe.
'Try not to fall over again,' Jack tossed over his shoulder, and, noticing Simon's stare, he gave a barely perceptible squint and a smirk. 'I need your voice.'
The door slammed shut. Simon was left alone, pressing the notebook to his chest.
Tonight, he would definitely write about how beautifully the sun suited Jack Merridew once again.