Chapter Text
Roger didn’t know exactly how long he had been in love with Simon. It started off as a sort of fascination with the smaller, kinder boy, then friendship, and slowly, it turned into something more. He found himself thinking about Simon when he was scared, Simon’s eyes, his smile, his warm hands.
He even dreamt about him. Not the usual, unwanted nightmares he had about killing or hurting people. These were soft, almost boring dreams. He dreamt about watching Simon make tea in the kitchen, braiding his long hair, sitting on the couch with him in the evening and listening to the rain.
They weren’t the kind of things he ever did in real life. He’d never thought about doing them, either, until he met Simon.
They were close friends now, even closer than Roger was with Jack or Maurice, but Roger ached for more. Not just a pining, romantic kind of ache; it actually hurt. It hurt because he knew he couldn’t - shouldn’t - be with Simon in that way. He had a tendency to destroy beautiful things, and Simon was the most beautiful thing he’d ever known.
It was a rainy Sunday morning when Maurice invited the group to his house. The group consisted of Roger, Simon, Maurice, Ralph, Jack, Piggy (really Nicky, but nobody called him that except for Simon), and Sam and Eric. It was safe to say they didn’t all like eachother - for example, Roger wasn’t exactly the biggest fan of Ralph, but he put up with him because he was one of Simon’s best friends - but they had drifted together somehow over the past few years and stuck like glue.
Roger didn’t mind going to these big group gatherings. It meant that he could be near Simon without the risk of crossing the invisible line that kept him a safe distance away. With the others around to judge him, he would never dare try anything beyond shallow friendship with Simon. Maurice, Jack and Eric were the best to have around at times like these. They were always joking about gay people. Fags, as Maurice called them (Jack and Eric didn’t go that far). The jokes stung a little, but they were like a leash for Roger, holding him back from doing something he’d regret.
Maurice’s flat was tiny, but Roger was used to it - his own home was even smaller. Maurice often invited them over on weekends. It was often the only time he had to himself during the week. He spent the other days taking care of his little brother and sister while his Mum wasn’t home, which was most of the time, but his siblings went to their dad’s for weekends.
The eight of them barely fit in the cramped bedroom. Simon squeezed in
beside Roger on the bed. Roger wanted to sit next to him so, so, so much, but his skin was prickling and he felt like he couldn’t trust himself. He moved to sit on the floor beside Jack and Ralph. Simon’s eyes flicked towards him questioningly, then quickly looked away. Roger’s heart sank. He probably thinks I hate him.
He sighed and stared at the floor to stop his eyes from wandering towards Simon, which they inevitably would if he relaxed for even a second. Simon thinking Roger hated him was still better than the truth.
“Rog? Are you even listening?” Maurice shook his shoulder. He flinched and looked up so fast his neck hurt. His friends sometimes forgot how much Roger hated being touched suddenly like that.
“Yeah. Don’t call me Rog.” He mumbled.
“I’m sorry.” Maurice said. Roger could tell he was apologising for the touching rather than the nickname. He nodded. He knew it wasn’t on purpose.
“Anyway. I have no clue what I’m gonna do after school-“ Maurice then paused and started coughing. It was a funny sight, like a kitten hacking up a hairball that didn’t quite fit in its throat. Ralph thumped him on the back.
“You’re smoking again.” Ralph accused, crossing his arms and putting on a stern face. Ralph loved to lecture his friends on their “fatal” habits, even those he wasn’t particularly close to, like Maurice.
“Just something to take the edge off.” Maurice grinned.
“It’s not funny, Maurice.” Piggy chimed in. “Your lungs are turning black. People die from lung cancer all the time-“
“Oh, shut up, fatty!”
Roger tuned out their arguing. He found his mind drifting, and his eyes drifted too, over to - surprise surprise - Simon. He was leaning against the headboard, fiddling with his long, dark hair. His hair was magnificent. It wasn’t quite as long as Roger’s - Roger hadn’t cut his since he was seven, and it had grown down to his waist, straight and limp and frizzy. Simon’s was far more beautiful. It was thick and a shade of brown that looked black at first, but shone a rich chestnut as soon as the light hit it. Right now, Simon was busy braiding it into two plaits on either side of his head. So cute.
Ralph tapped Roger on the back, breaking him out of his trance.
“What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing.” Roger immediately wiped the stupid grin off his face, returning to his default expression, blank and slightly irritated. “Just… Maurice. He’s funny.”
Possibly one of the biggest lies he’d ever told.
“Wow. I never thought I’d hear you say that.” Ralph raised his eyebrows.
Drop it. Drop it. Drop it. Roger prayed.
Luckily, Ralph was distracted by Jack, who was talking about the college. Every word that came out of Jack’s mouth recently just sounded like “trust fund trust fund my father’s money connections nepotism chalet in Paris gigantic mansion most expensive university in the country trust fund”, but Ralph seemed to drink up every word.
The rest of the afternoon was a bit of a blur for Roger. Maurice made some terrible jokes, Jack and Eric joined in. Roger lost count of the amount of times Maurice said the f slur. Jack talked some more about how he was moving to France after school and pretty much getting everything he’d ever wanted. Ralph looked at Jack like he was the sun - Roger was vaguely intrigued by that, but he was too distracted to really think about it.
He kept his eyes fixed strictly on the floor. Even glancing at Simon felt as bad as hitting him. A look could lead to a touch, and that could lead to Roger breaking Simon beyond repair. Every time his gaze landed on that beautiful, gentle boy, Roger felt as if his eyes were burning the soft brown skin.
He went home feeling sick and didn’t even bother putting pyjamas on before bed. His last thoughts before he drifted off were all about how disgusting he was. How dare he love someone so much more pure than him?