by Roan Parrish
When Simon wrapped his arms around Jack, Jack pulled him close. Then they were hugging, mouths awkwardly pressed together and crutches smooshed to Simon’s back, and Simon huffed out a laugh.
“Hi,” he said again, and now he sounded more relaxed.
Satisfaction bloomed in Jack’s chest the way it had when he’d realized the reason Puddles kept stopping in the middle of the road was the lightning shaped sticks. Jack had gently removed the obstacle and Puddles had looked at him with such gratitude, as if all the time he had simply been waiting for someone to pay attention.
Chapter Eleven
Simon
It wasn’t often that Simon absolutely had to meet with clients in person, but when it happened, the day before the meeting was always spent attempting to distract himself so he wouldn’t extend the period of torment longer than necessary.
Yesterday, he’d distracted himself by kissing Jack until he felt the bigger man shaking beneath him, every muscle tensed, mouth hot and hungry. Then he’d distracted himself by shoving his hand down Jack’s pants and bringing him off with hard strokes to his magnificent cock, swallowing the sounds of Jack’s groans in his mouth like he could grow stronger by consuming them.
Now he was sitting in his car outside an aggressively busy Starbucks trying to ignore the sensation of his lungs shriveling to the size of raisins. He sang to himself to help regulate his breathing. The phrasing of most songs wouldn’t let you hyperventilate and still keep to rhythm. But the second he stopped singing and got out of the car, it was there. The weight on his chest, the tongue that felt swollen enough to choke him. The shuddery stutter of blood not getting where it needed to be.
You are so fucking tough. You’re gonna be fine. You’ve done this before and you survived, and you can do it again.
Then, sneaking in for the first time, a tiny, flickering joy: After this, you can go see Jack. Jack would let you hide and it would be okay.
But although he tried to hold on to the joy of You can, Simon didn’t want to run to Jack. Didn’t want to make this Jack’s burden or make Jack too necessary to his survival. Because what if? What if it didn’t last?
Still, Simon put his hand on the back of his neck where Jack’s hand always seemed to land when they kissed. He squeezed gently the way Jack squeezed.
It didn’t feel the same.
The meeting did not go well. Though Simon made it a practice to tell clients and potential clients that he preferred to communicate via email or text and that meeting with him in person was not indicative of the experience of working with him; and though the interactive designs Simon had prepared and walked this potential client through were, he thought, excellent, it didn’t matter.
Mason Holeyfield, CEO of Holey Cow Steakhouse, was impatient with Simon’s stuttering, interrupting him to ask the questions that Simon was trying to answer and attempting to finish his sentences. He liked the designs, Simon could tell, but in the end Simon could read the calculus Mason was doing on his face. It was an old arithmetic. Mason could find another good ole boy like himself—hearty, loud, direct, and confident—to do his website, so why would he bother making himself uncomfortable and awkward with Simon?
Simon slunk out of the bathroom where he’d fled the second the meeting was over and trudged to his car.
“Hey,” a voice yelled behind him. He stared straight ahead and unlocked the car. “Hey!”
Simon glanced over his shoulder to find a young man loping toward him, holding out his scarf.
“You dropped this.”
Simon reached out a shaking hand to claim the scarf. His attempt at Thank you came out a garbled mumble and the guy’s expression turned sharp. Simon recognized him suddenly as the barista from inside.
“Okaaaay,” the guy said. It was a universal comment on the ingratitude of customers casually offered up to the gods of the food service industry, Simon knew it was, but as he threw himself into the car and slammed the door behind him, tears flooded his eyes.
Those were the worst ones. When someone else felt disrespected or insulted by his failure and there was nothing he could do to allay it.
* * *
Simon was late getting to Jack’s for the pack’s evening walk. He’d gone home after the disastrous meeting and fallen into bed, exhausted and shaky, and only just woken up. He hadn’t eaten all day, too anxious before his meeting and too nauseated afterward, and now his head throbbed with a hunger headache.
As he navigated the winding path to Jack’s house, his heart beat harder and harder. His whole body ached to be held. To be pet. Comforted. But the shame he felt at the day’s failure made it impossible to ask for what he wanted. He didn’t even feel like he deserved it. He wasn’t a child anymore.
But as it happened, Jack burst out the front door before Simon even dragged himself all the way out of the car.
“Guess what?” he said. He was grinning and his hair looked combed for once.
Simon attempted to arrange his face in an expression of enthusiastic curiosity.
“What?” he choked out.
His stomach roiled as the word rattled in his throat. He just had time to see the smile slide off Jack’s handsome face before he retched.
Since he hadn’t eaten, it was just a sick upchuck of water, coffee, and bile, and it burned in his throat and through his sinuses, leaving him coughing and sputtering on his knees in the dirt. His head spun.
He was dimly aware of a flurry of activity and then Jack was by his side, bent at the waist trying to peer at him without losing his balance.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick? Are you okay? Simon?”
Jack’s questions increased in volume as Simon couldn’t answer. Finally, nausea past, he was able to look up. Jack’s brow was furrowed, his eyes worried. Shame burned in Simon’s cheeks and he closed his eyes. There was always the tiny, distant possibility that when he opened them again, Jack would be gone.
Jack wasn’t gone. Instead, Jack was squatting on his good leg with his casted leg extended in front of him, trying to sit next to Simon. He looked so ridiculously like a lumberjack attempting a figure skating move that Simon almost laughed. Then Jack’s heavy form landed beside him with an Oof, and Jack’s hands were searching him as if he thought he mind find a bullet hole or a vial of poison.
Simon tried to say he was okay but nothing came out and he could tell he’d retch again if he kept trying. Sometimes the words he couldn’t spit out hurled themselves down his throat instead, tickling and gagging until he couldn’t swallow. When it got to that point it was hard to make it stop, so Simon set his jaw firmly and didn’t try.
What now?
This was the part of the scene where—if he was unlucky enough to be in public—Simon usually waved off whoever could see him and scrambled away. But this wasn’t just anyone; this was Jack. And for the first time in his life, Simon had another language, another way.
Taking a small trial breath, Simon eased forward on his knees and let himself stroke Jack’s arm with two shaking fingers.
Jack’s frantic movements stopped and he studied Simon’s face. Simon forced himself to blink and swallow and breathe by distracting himself with Jack. He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder and leaned closer. Just as he remembered that he’d recently puked and probably he should be staying as far away as possible, Jack pulled him into his arms.
Simon went. He let himself fall against Jack’s strong chest, the position awkward but the relief undeniable. Jack’s arms wrapped around him, one palm stroking up and down his back, and Simon felt tears of relief and shame wet Jack’s sweatshirt as he buried his face in Jack’s strong shoulder.
The sky darkened as they sat there, and still Simon couldn’t make the words come. He couldn’t conjure I fucked everything up. I’m pathetic. I’m a failure. I tried. I’m tough. I survived it. Please just hold me. Let’s go inside. I’m cold. There are an
ts crawling on me.
He just burrowed closer and let Jack hold him.
* * *
It wasn’t until much later—until Simon walked the pack, waving off Jack’s concern, finally glaring at him to get him to back off; until Simon was home, lying in bed and pretending the pillow he was holding was Jack—that Simon remembered Jack had begun to tell him something when he’d first arrived.
And once he’d remembered it, he couldn’t sleep until he knew. If he didn’t ask, he’d lie here all night imagining a hundred different scenarios, all of them somehow ending with Jack hating him because he was self-absorbed and insensitive.
Hey, he texted Jack. What were you gonna tell me before?
Hey, darlin’. How’re you doing? And a kiss emoji.
Simon closed his eyes in mortification. How? How could Jack stand him? How could Jack have seen him the way he’d been today and still want anything to do with him?
I’m ok. I’m so sorry.
Jack hadn’t made him talk about it. Jack had just held him until they couldn’t stand sitting on the hard ground anymore, then they’d pulled each other up and gone inside. Simon had washed his face, Jack had clipped on the dogs’ leashes (after the glare) and off Simon had gone. When he dropped the pack back off, he’d kissed Jack and Jack had kissed him back, but Jack hadn’t asked what had happened. He’d just asked, Are you okay to drive? When Simon had nodded, Jack had kissed his cheek, the gesture so sweet Simon had almost lost himself to tears again.
Nothing to be sorry for from where I’m standing, Jack wrote. But you can tell me if you want?
There was a pause, during which Simon was trying to decide how much detail he wanted to go into, and then another message came through.
Did someone hurt you?
Simon could almost hear the growl that would underlie that question if they were together. The one that promised retribution to anyone who hurt him and yet had nothing but gentleness for him.
No. Bad meeting with a potential client. He hated me and I freaked out in the bathroom and then just kinda lost it. It wasn’t the most accurate or the most detailed gloss, but it was how it had felt.
Is that why you got sick?
Simon appreciated that Jack didn’t try and police his language the way well-meaning therapists from his past had. He knew it wasn’t productive to think of his actions and reactions in negative terms, but goddammit that was his business.
I get so nauseous. Nauseated? Which is it? And I hadn’t eaten so I just felt all fucked up.
Did you eat when you got home?
A little.
Nauseated. I looked it up. Nauseous is causing nausea, nauseated is feeling it.
Simon snorted.
You’re such a nerd, he wrote.
Excuse me, I think you mean Man of Learning.
Nerd of googling, Simon wrote, but he put a smiley face in case being called a nerd offended Jack’s lumberjack-y soul the way having a broken leg did.
I’m glad you’re feeling better, Jack wrote. Then, Will I see you in the morning?
Apparently he’d looked as bad as he’d still felt when he left Jack’s if that was in question.
Definitely.
Good. Then the ellipsis of Jack’s typing went on for a long time, then faltered. Then, I can’t wait to kiss you tomorrow. Night.
Simon’s heart fluttered. Jack still wanted to kiss him. He hadn’t turned Jack off forever.
But how long and how many more humiliating episodes before he did?
* * *
True to Jack’s word, when Simon opened the door to Jack’s the next morning, he found himself soundly and thoroughly kissed. He squirmed with the pleasure of it, and a noise came out of him that had felt like a purr in his mouth but sounded like a giggle.
Jack laughed and leaned in for another kiss, but Simon stopped him with a hand to his chest.
“You still didn’t tell me.”
“Huh?”
“What you were g-going to t-tell me yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah. I drew! I woke up and I couldn’t sleep and I drew trees for an hour and fell back asleep. Like I used to.”
Jack grinned and Simon found himself irrationally touched at the thought of Jack drawing trees.
“That’s great.”
“Yeah. I know it was only trees and only one night, but...” Jack shrugged, looking a little self-conscious. “It seemed like a good sign.”
Simon smiled. “See? Worst-case scenario defeated.” He kissed Jack again and then turned to the business of leashes and bags.
“Okay, see you in a bit,” Jack said as Simon left.
Simon plastered a smile on and waved. He breathed in the fresh morning air, tasting the promise of winter. It was his favorite time of the year.
They walked for a while, Pirate chasing squirrels, Rat ranging along as far as her leash would go, Dandelion grinning her simple, contented doggy smile, Puddles’ head swinging back and forth to search for threats, and Bernard a source of warmth next to his hip. But he didn’t feel as peaceful as he usually did when out with the pack.
He patted Bernard’s head.
“I’m jealous of your dad,” he whispered.
Bernard ruffed in sympathy.
Simon didn’t like this side of himself. The side that saw others’ struggles—and how simply they could sometimes overcome them—and raged. Wished he could trade places.
Yeah, he knew that things were rarely as clear-cut as they seemed from the outside. After all, he’d felt Jack’s fear in the middle of the night. But now, here they were, days later, and Jack had emerged victorious.
He’d rushed outside to tell Simon about his triumph only to be faced with evidence of Simon’s defeat.
Simon sighed and let himself feel it. For five minutes, he let himself give in to every single petty, unkind, ungenerous thought.
Then, when the five minutes were up, he made himself stop.
* * *
“Wanna stick around a bit?” Jack asked when he got back.
“Okay.” Simon unclipped leashes and watched the dogs run to the kitchen and their food bowls. He walked to Jack and put his hands on Jack’s shoulders. “I’m really glad. About your drawing.” He infused it with all the sincerity he had now that he’d burned off the envy, and Jack’s smile was pure joy.
“Thanks. I’m really fucking relieved. Hope it lasts.”
Simon dropped onto the couch and let out a deep breath. On the floor, Pickles batted at something near him and he reached down to pet her. His wrist scraped against the hard corner of a book and he pulled it out.
“Are these your trees?” he asked, flipping open the notebook.
They were utterly gorgeous ink sketches. But they weren’t of trees. Simon admired the lines of muscle and sinew rendered in smooth, confident strokes.
“Oh, don’t—” Jack said, looking over at him. But it was too late. The lines had coalesced into...him. The drawings were of him.
“Um,” Jack said.
Simon knew he should close the sketchbook. It was intrusive to look. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. On the next page he lay, head lolling off the bed, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. A messy-haired head and broad shoulders that could only be Jack’s were buried between his thighs.
His eyes flew to Jack. Embarrassment wasn’t an expression he’d ever thought he’d see on Jack’s face, but there it was.
“Simon, I...” But then he bit his lip. Simon turned another page.
Him, on his back, cock hard and straining against his stomach, eyes looking straight out of the drawing, desperate.
Simon stared at his own face. He looked...beautiful. He looked free.
On the next page, sketches of his profile, his eyebrows.
“I’m, uh. Simon, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I m
ean, I meant to, but I... I was drawing and it... Fuck.”
Simon turned another page. He lay prone on the bed, legs spread, ass raised, looking back over his shoulder with lust-hooded eyes.
A dark, liquid heat sluiced through him, guts to balls, and his breath caught. He looked up at Jack, who was watching him closely.
“I’m sorry,” Jack murmured again. But when Simon held out a hand to him, he lowered himself to the couch immediately.
Simon slid between Jack’s legs, back to his chest, careful not to touch his cast, and opened the sketchbook again.
Jack groaned.
“Tell me,” Simon whispered. He felt Jack’s cock harden against his ass.
“Um.”
In the drawing, Simon was naked and spread out on the bed. His mouth was wet and open, his eyes closed, and his hands were tangled in the bedclothes. One powerful shoulder and arm were visible, hand wrapped around Simon’s erection as Simon’s hips strained upward toward the contact.
“Tell me.”
When Jack spoke, his voice was low and rough in Simon’s ear.
“I want you to close your eyes so all you can do is feel. Then I would touch you, taste you everywhere.” Simon jumped when Jack ran a palm up his ribs. “Everywhere.”
Simon took a shaky breath, cock hardening.
“Then what?”
“Then I would suck you until you were almost there. Until I could taste you leaking in my mouth.”
Simon’s breath came faster.
“Then I would slide inside you so slowly you’d beg me for more.”
Simon pressed his ass against Jack’s erection and listened to his breathing go ragged.
“I’d fuck you so good, darlin’. Until you were begging and screaming. But I wouldn’t let you come right away.”
Jack’s hand slid from his ribs to his nipple and he plucked at it as he spoke.
“I’d slow down until you couldn’t stand it. Until you were desperate.”