Chapter Text
The first time Simon caught Roger’s attention was long before the crash, back at boarding school.
Roger was walking to class, kicking at pebbles and the shins of younger boys as he went. He noticed a figure standing by the stream a little way off. Eager to avoid going to class, he approached the person, crouching behind a bush so as not to be seen.
Simon Khoury from the choir was standing precariously on the very edge of the stream, thick black hair curtaining his face, head bent towards the water. Praying, perhaps. He seemed to be unsteady on his feet. His legs wobbled a couple of times, and continued to tremble even after he caught himself. Roger narrowed his eyes in fascination. Simon’s legs were very skinny, bones visible, probably easy to break. Roger could almost hear the snap.
Simon swayed again and this time fell back in gracefully on his backside, like an infant who hadn’t quite mastered standing upright. His head dropped to his knees. Roger was truly captivated now. He crept closer.
He stopped when he could clearly hear Simon’s pained noises, tiny, pathetic whimpers as he clutched his bony knees with shaking hands.
Simon was easily the weakest boy in their year, and not just physically. He was an easy targeted for the meaner students, in fact almost too easy — was the boy they bullied when they were bored but too tired for a proper fight. Everything about him was worth teasing. His delicate, girly looks, his tendency to say batty things, his constant fainting and fits, his talents for women’s work, his brown skin, his apparent preference for boys over girls.
Roger happened to share those last two traits, but only a very suicidal person would ever dare to tease him about it.
He observed how Simon undid the clasp of his choir robe with quavering fingers, only managing on the third try. He threw it on the grass beside him. The sweat stains that went all down his sides and back were visible now, turning his shirt slightly see through. What was he sweating so much for in the middle of Autumn? Was he ill? He looked ill. Roger’s stomach flipped, not with concern but with something much darker.
He moved even nearer until he was kneeling right next to Simon, breathing on his face, watching as he groaned into his hands and sweat rolled down his forehead. Roger wiped a drop of it away. Only then did Simon register his presence.
“Oh,” He gulped. He lifted his eyes with difficulty to look at Roger. His gaze was unfocused. He obviously didn’t realise who was speaking to, because he did not look afraid. Only sick.
“Can you… can you please fetch a teacher?” His breathing was ragged. “I don’t feel very well.”
“Soon,” Roger replied, placing a hand on Simon’s forehead. His skin was red hot under his palm, like walking on sand during a heatwave but better. Roger cupped his cheek and rubbed it gently, feeling it grows warmer and warmer. Simon’s hazel eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, before shutting altogether. He went limp against the grass.
Roger didn’t take his eyes off Simon one time. He didn’t even blink. Simon’s face was peaceful now, a contrast to his earlier panicked expression. Strands of hair stuck to his cheeks. Roger peeled them away. God, Simon was pretty. How has Roger never noticed the softness of his lips before? Everything about him was soft, actually. Hair, personality, skin.
His skin glowed. Instead of being paled by illness like other boys, he became even more radiant. Roger felt a strong urge to lift him up and take him somewhere private, to be the only one there when he woke up. He was about to do so when a voice came from behind them.
Ralph Allebach had seen Simon’s collapse and alerted a teacher. Of course he had. He was the golden boy of the school, the obedient little pet of every authority figure in existence. At that moment Roger longed to take hold of his pretty blond hair and rip every single strand out of his scalp, see what he looked like hairless and bleeding.
The teacher carried Simon to the san, with Ralph at her heels like the good puppy he was, while Roger dug his nails into the dirt beneath him. He imagined digging his fingers into Ralph’s eyes instead. Or Simon’s hair.
Roger did not speak to or even come near Simon after that, but he watched him all of the time. In the choir as Simon’s mouth moved with the words of sanctus. In the dining hall when Maurice tripped him up and he fell hard on his face — Roger switched tables just to hear his cries better. Especially in the changing rooms after PE, when Simon revealed the soft flesh of his torso, glancing nervously over his shoulder like a trapped deer waiting to be shot.
It was clear that Simon hated himself so much. Roger couldn’t see why. In his eyes Simon was the perfect human form, the epitome of God’s creation.
He was adamant that Simon would be his and his only, no matter what he had to do to make it happen.