There were worse things in life, all things considered. Even if Simon wasn’t cut out for customer service in the slightest, at least he got to be surrounded by music daily. And his boss recognized this and knew he wasn’t the best at talking with customers. He’s too imposing, tall and muscled but unsure, not quite grown into himself at the tender age of twenty-five, but having a bloke like that around may have scared some folks off. It also kept others from acting up. The aesthetic he donned didn’t do anything to help that either, and he often heard the man muttering about being unable to keep up with the trends of today’s youth.
Clothes are black and solovair boots worn and scuffed, nothing too unusual. Working class is virtually fitting for Manchester. It was the chipped black lacquer on his nails that set Simon apart, the dusting of black eyeshadow rimming deep brown eyes and standing out stark against his pale skin and making brown eyes smoulder and soft blonde locks curling over his forehead appear stark. He wasn’t some Perry boy or a skinhead (nazi or otherwise), nor was he a punk or a mod. Some kind of amalgamation of the latter two. Though it was all the same to most people, he was just some queer who was too big to get his teeth kicked in. Lucky bastard, in the words of his father. However, one of these days, he figured he might end up with a shiv lodged between his ribs or for the indents of a chain to sear into the meat of his muscles. Violence isn’t something new for him, though, and the idea of this scares him less than it should.
It's late in the evening, closing time approaching on a quiet Sunday. The shop was filled with the soft sounds of Sonic Youth playing from the speakers. Simon carefully arranged the front display with a newly arrived album, an INXS release, that's sure to attract teenage girls in droves to purchase various formats of the album. The juxtaposition of this new offering next to the Depeche Mode album, released just a few weeks earlier, made for a bit of an eye grab.
“Those twa dinnae seem like they go together,” Simon’s back straightens when he hears a voice behind him. Scottish thick on the man’s tongue rather than the familiar layers of a Manchester accent. He places the last two CDs from the box onto the shelf before turning to stare at the customer.
He’s no perry boy, that’s for sure, something closer to what Simon is. Prey for that lot, perhaps, and something tells Simon that much is true, such as how his lip bisects with a cut, the plump flesh slightly swollen, red, and irritated with crusting blood. The man doesn’t have his hair in a clean cut; brown hair is shaggy and overgrown, styled in a floppy Mohawk. Silver piercings littered his skin, glinting under the shop’s fluorescent lights. A few through his ear and one through his nostril.
“Ye lookin’ at me like you’re about to stick me on the shelf right next to INXS and Depeche,” The man laughs, the sound of a deep rumble that doesn’t sound like it should come from the man.
Simon rolls his eyes, shakes off the fact he stared awkwardly for far too long and probably made an ass of himself. “Can I help you find something?” He asks, breaking down the box he’d finished emptying before walking around towards the till with heavy steps.
“Aye,” The man nods, trailing after Simon, standing on the other side of the counter and staring the man down. As if the fact the other had just previously stared him down didn’t bother him in the slightest. “Twa things,”
“Go on.” Simon prompts, setting the flattened box down on the counter and turning his attention towards the man. He stares again, taking in the spiked leather jacket, worn in the bends of his joints, creased and close to cracking. And the most atrocious green tartan trousers Simon thinks he’s ever seen.
“Need tickets to Buzzco*cks, you got ’em?”
“I do, yeah, and the other thing?”
“I need a job.”
Simon snorts a mirthless little sound. “An’ what order you looking to get those things?” Maybe the man before him was some yuppy, playing the part of a punk only to be living on Daddy and Mummy’s dime and subsequently cut off.
The man’s eyes were narrow, hands moving and reaching into his jacket, and he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and his worn leather wallet. “In the order I said, ye bawbag.” He flattens the paper or attempts as much before sliding it over to the other.
Simon quickly scans the paper. He sees the name ‘John McTavish’ in big blocky letters, a sparse collection of words in neat lead penmanship filling the rest of the paper. There’s something about Catholic high school, and Simon has to bite his chest to stifle a snicker.
“Ye the one to be giving this to? Or should I come back?” John asks, brow quirked.
“Nah, I’ll take it for you though.” Simon shrugs. It wasn’t his place to do any hiring; it was nothing more than an associate the boss trusted too much, but he could pass the piece of paper on to his boss easily and allow the other to make up his mind. He leaves the paper there, squatting under the counter and going through the drawer, searching for the rubber-banded stack of thick card stock, only popping back up when he has the stack in hand. “How many?”
“Just one, ‘less taking you bolsters my chances of landing a gig here.” John smiles at him, his split lip quirking barely, and Simon rolls his eyes for the second time in their meeting.
“Not a chance.” Simon replies flatly, and rather than deflate that, John just laughs. The sound is loud and grating, like the chimes on his mother’s patio. “Four quid.”
John pulls out a five-pound note from his wallet, equally as wrinkled as the resume he had previously produced and holds it out. They exchange goods rather quickly, one piece of card stock and a piece of metal for a flimsy crumpled note.
“I’ll see ya ’round.” John smiles, stuffing his belongings back into the various pockets of his jacket.
God, Simon hoped not.
Simon’s never been overly lucky. He’s been dealt a sh*t hand at life that really just seemed like it was culminating into a great nothing, so it really wasn’t all that shocking when he walked in and saw his boss, Peter, speaking with the ratty punk he’d faced nearly a week ago now. He recognized him from behind due to the horrid green pattern on his trousers.
“Ah, Simon!” Peter greets them with one of his warm smiles, more warmth than Simon deserves, given his penchant for being a subpar employee. “I’d like ya to meet John.”
“I’m familiar.” Simon nodded, staring between the two men. Peter is small, standing beside John, grey hairs speckling his beard and littered in his thinning combover.
“Aye. Told ya I’d see ya ’round.” John beamed at him, something in his eyes glinting with something Simon couldn’t quite discern.
“Good, I’m glad you’re already acquainted. I’ve scheduled you lads together for the next while. You know Nancy isn’t great with training.” Peter rambles, speaking animatedly with his hands. “Suppose neither are ye, but you least know how to do your job.”
Something his father once said rang in his head: the reward for competency was more work. Maybe the only thing the man has said that wasn’t utter horse sh*t.
“Ah, come off it. M'sure, Simon’s going to be just fine.” John nods and says it with such confidence that Simon’s head spins. They didn’t know each other, hardly long enough to properly assess each other. Sure, Simon had quickly judged the man, but he knew it was just that.
“Alright lad, let’s finish that paper work then. Hold down the fort, yeah, Simon?”
It’s only half past noon, the day a slow crawl. Thirty minutes have passed since Peter and John had gone into the backroom. Not a single customer has walked through the doors yet, though that much is expected. The store usually remained sleepy during the weekdays until school let out. Get Your Wings playing over the speakers, and with how often Aerosmith plays over these speakers, Simon has come to recognize the band as one of Peter’s favourites. Not so much his taste, but at least it wasn’t horrible on the ears.
He’s sitting on the backless bar stool behind the counter, feet propped up on one of the shelves below the countertop, staring vacantly off into the sea of album covers when his ears pricked towards the sound of John’s boots began to bounce off the scuffed blueish green speckled linoleum.
An uncomfortable silence stretches between them, or at least awkward to Simon. John stands to the right of him, caging him in behind the counter. He leans back against the far counter, arms crossing over his chest. The man isn’t wearing that grungy leather jacket, likely tucked into the back of the store behind the thick door with a sign in big red block letters that read ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.’ But his shirt wasn’t all that much better. A worn rolling stones shirt with the print fading and cracked, the bottom tearing and fraying. Simon was unsure whether it was
well-loved or pulled from a garbage bin.
“Are you homeless or something?” Simon asks, brown eyes lifting to stare into the deep blues of John’s. Those eyes widen momentarily before the corners crinkle and his face splits into a wide grin, laughter erupting from within him like a volcano. The sound washes over him like falling ash.
“Yer bum's oot the windae, ye f*ckin' bampot. ‘M not bloody homeless!” John is still laughing at him, staring at him incredulously for suggesting such a notion. “Aye, I ken I might look it, but Christ, certainly dinnae smell it, do I?”
Simon's head spins with the words that tumble past John's lip, and he bites back the urge to tell him to speak proper English, but he's unsure if saying such a thing will earn him a write-up.
“You don’t, but I can’t tell if you pulled that shirt from a rubbish bin or have been wearing that same tee for three years straight.” Simon shrugged, muscled arms crossing over his chest, the corner of his lip curving in the barest hint of a smirk. “All I know, you hopped on a train and rode it from Scotland to ‘ere and are living out a bindle.”
“Yer something else, Simon. Quite the imagination ye got rattling around there.” John laughs, seemingly not taking offence to anything that he had hurled his way. “Aye, came in on train from Glasgow to here. No bindle though, an’ I have a place to stay. That has four walls and a roof, thank ye for asking.”
And that’s how it went for the next few weeks. Between the linoleum-paving and tacky off-white beige walls, Simon would make some off-handed comment at John’s expense, and John would laugh at him, looking at the older man like he was a loon. John always took it in stride, which was peculiar in its own right. When Simon conversed with others, it was stilted and awkward most of the time. He’d say the wrong thing and watch the conversation smoulder and die. John was different, though; their conversation wasn’t stilted, one-sided perhaps, as John never seemed to shut up. But he didn’t seem to mind that Simon was quiet and didn’t always say the right things.
Through those weeks, he’d learned that John was nineteen, living in Manchester with his sister, attending university here. Had a penchant for getting in trouble, hence moving down south. Simon wasn’t sure if the move was willing or not. John was somewhat tight-lipped about it, and he wasn’t about to pry. The only bit he’d share about that was that he moved down here for the blooming punk scene. And Simon wasn’t one to pry, not when all he’d offered up was his taste in music (they had differing tastes but found common ground in Motorhead and The Damned), drove a beat-up ’77 ford Pinto, was a closeted football fan and that he had a brother younger than John. Simon had John’s biography compared to the scraps Simon offered to the other.
The last notes of a song fizzle out, and before Simon can react, John jumps from his seat, moves towards the music system, and pops the previous CD out and back into its respective case. Thank God that wasn’t something Simon had to get on the lad about. Nancy was a nice enough girl but honestly didn’t seem to grasp the concept of putting an item back where it came from, probably why Peter had the two working together more often than not.
“It’s my turn to pick the music.” John announces, grabbing one of his CDs from a pile and opening it up with careful, callused fingers. The cover was all tones of blue with a large orange block letter in the upper corner. Nothing that Simon knew.
“Oh yeah? What gives you that idea?” Simon snorts, though he makes zero effort to move and stop the man.
“You pick every f*ckin’ CD we play!” John shoots him a look. Eyes narrowed playfully as he slid the CD into the mouth of the player.
“I’ve got seniority,” Simon says plainly. The speakers crackled momentarily before heavy guitars played softly right out of the bat. If it was Nancy here, Simon knew it would’ve been one of the big boy bands playing. Maybe Morrissey in an attempt to try and appease Simon and find some middle ground. He hated Morrisey but never said so to her. Truthfully, Simon didn’t mind this, but he wasn’t inclined to offer that up either.
“Alright, seanathair,” John chuckles, turning to look at the other, blue eyes shining in triumph. The word goes over Simon’s head, as things often did. Sometimes, it was like John was speaking nonsense between the splicing of languages and the thick accent. “Wouldn’t hurt ya to listen to something other than that depressing gothic sh*te. Look, God bless Ian Curtis, but at least New Order doesn’t make ye wanna follow suit.”
Simon pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long huff. Before raising his gaze to stare at the other, he asked, “Johnny, do you ever shut up?”
There’s a moment where John’s face goes slack with surprise at the name, but it only lasts a fraction of a moment before he’s smiling wide at the other. “Nah, never learned how to shut my gob. If ya find out how, ring myma, she might leave my da for ya if you do.”
Sometimes, John comes in like he had the first day that Simon had met him, where his lip had been freshly split. Bruises bloom over his tan skin in various locations, sometimes blotches over his arms and other times over his face. The worst was the time John showed up with a black eye, hardly able to open the damn thing. Peter had sent John home that day, citing that his ugly mug would scare the customers more than Simon did.
Simon didn’t think much of it. Knew the kid was a punk, had been to a show or two, and had seen how rowdy the pits could get. Especially when the skins showed up.
It was more strange when Simon showed up with them. It was rare, not as common of an occurrence as John’s seemed to be, but it happened, and on those days, John appeared to watch his tongue more, picking up on the tension that coiled beneath pale skin like a viper moments away from striking. He never asked, though, offered a quirked brow at most, studying Peter’s face and the emotions that cycled over his wrinkles and bearded visage when he took notice. John was more intelligent than he looked or pretended to be.
They didn’t talk about it. Not verbally, at least. The only communication on the matter was with lingering looks as each tried to peel back the layers of bruised flesh to find concrete answers.
John has been working at the music store for a few months now. October has slipped into the new year. The only indicator of time passing is the changes in weather, with rain storms being swapped for furious snow storms. And how Simon has begrudgingly warmed up to the Scot.
It’s a late Thursday evening. Nearly nine o’clock, not that time mattered at this time of year. The sun set at four, plunging the continent into prolonged darkness. Simon went to work when it was dark and left when it was dark. The only slivers of daylight he got were during his smoke breaks.
The shopping center’s parking lot is scarce with cars.
“Oy! It’s that f*ckin’ fa*ggot!” John cringes, lines in his face going hard as the words echo across the lot. Simon says nothing; he just takes a drag from his cigarette. “Ya want somethin’ in ya mouth that bad? Got a nice f*ckin’ slab of concrete with yer name on it, ye f*cking poof.”
Simon glances at the two lads yelling at John and sees them standing under the eaves of a darkened and gated storefront. The red of their cigarette cherries glowing and giving way to their location. He thinks he can see a bottle in one of their hands. They make no effort to leave the stoop, content to holler from afar, where there isn’t a risk of retaliation. He turns to look at John again and sees how his fists curl tightly and repeatedly release. He watches the gears turning in Johnny’s head and contemplates turning on his heel.
“Come on, get in the car, Johnny.” Suddenly, the bruises that cover John make more sense. The pit is an easy excuse and a straightforward cover story. And maybe they are the truth, but Simon feels they’re not the whole truth.
“Dinnae need a f*ckin’ ride,” John mutters, shoving his tattered, gloved hands into his jean jacket.
“Didn’t ask,” Simon says, stopping at the driver’s door of his car. It was a deep maroon, paint peeling around the tire wheels and rusting. The car wasn’t pretty, but it got him around. One day, he’d sell the thing and get something that didn’t look like it was hardly street-legal. He leans over the center console, unlocks the car, and shoots John a heavy gaze. “Get in.”
John looks like he’s about to argue. He stares at Simon and can see the words sitting on the tip of his tongue. But the younger man swallows them down, Adam’s apple bobbing as he gets into the car. Simon can hear the muffled jeers from the boys outside; he can’t quite discern what’s being said, but he knows he’s glad he can’t hear them.
“Can I bum a cig?” John asks once they’ve left the lot. Simon gestures to the cup holder that houses his pack and lighter, and John rolls the window down before helping himself.
The only other words they exchange over the soft sounds of New Order playing over the tinny car speaker system are directions to John’s place. An average-sized flat in a not-great area of Manchester (was any area good?), two stories of rusted red brick. Several housing units, all side by side, were divided by nothing but thin walls devoid of privacy.
“We’re solid, yeah, Simon?” It’s the first words they’ve spoken that even remotely touch on the subject. And even then, they skirted around the topic. Said without being spoken. But Simon still thinks it’s an admission. It makes something twist in his stomach, something warm and tight that sits heavy in the pit like searing coals.
Despite Princess Diana’s efforts, these sorts of things weren’t openly spoken about. Not with the unknown, at least, not strangers. Not when the government PSA drones on the telly about the horrors faced by an incurable disease or the shrieks of Thatcher calling that lot deviants and vile.
“Don’t be daft, ya knob. Course we are.”
John smiles at Simon. It reaches his eyes, his skin wrinkling around the edges, but something resounding in those blue pools radiates sadness. Simon mirrors it, unable to stop himself.
“Will you paint my nails?”
The question startled Simon from where he sat on the backless stool by the till, reorganizing the concert ticket drawer. He looks at John sitting on the counter, hand outstretched, as he stares at bitten-down nails.
“You punks do that?” Simon knows the answer is yes but can’t pass up the opportunity to tease the man. He puts the bundle of tickets back into the drawer and locks it. “Don’t have any polish on me.”
“Aye, ye bloody well ken we do.” John rolls his eyes, lifting his gaze from his hand to stare at Simon briefly before averting his eyes. “I’ll go get some from Asda. Dinnae think that we’re about to get slammed at,” He pauses and looks at the clock on the cream-coloured wall behind Simon. “11:30 on a Monday.”
“Fine, pick me up a pack of fa*gs too.” Simon grumbles, trying to ignore the warmth that bloomed just below his skin when John’s face lit up. When did they get here? Simon hadn’t even noticed that he had slipped or that their relationship had become something more than colleagues or acquaintances.
“Aye, Sir.” John hops off the counter with a laugh, turns on his heel, exits the small music store and walks down the linoleum-paved tiles of the shopping center.
It’s quiet without John here. It’s something strange to him these days. Even on the days that he runs the store alone, it feels like something is off and missing. The music is background noise to John’s chatter these days, not the other way around. He finds himself looking forward to the days they work together, even if it means John will chat his ear off till his throat is raw and Simon’s ear is bleeding.
John returns a handful of moments later and places the pack of cigarettes on the counter alongside a cheap bottle of black nail polish. He takes up residence once more on the countertop, sitting a bit closer to Simon this time. They don’t speak as Simon grabs the bottle, shakes it, and twists the top loose before setting it down so that he can manhandle the other.
John’s boot rests on the edge of Simon’s jean-clad thigh, his hand resting on his own knee at an angle that is both comfortable for him and easy access for Simon to get to work. He holds John’s hand carefully as if afraid the touch will scorch him and leave his hand sloughing off seared flesh. It feels that way, at least, with the way the contact of skin makes warmth shoot up his arm, spreading through his body like the first sip of tea.
“So how come I’ve never seen anyone busting’ yer balls about looking like a fa*g?” The question comes out of nowhere, and Simon nearly coats John’s entire ring finger with black paint. He quickly recovers and pours his focus into doing a half-decent job of painting the other’s nails. This was the first time Simon had ever painted another’s nails. If he f*cked this up, he wonders if John would ever let him try again.
“We don’t see each out of work,” Simon says, which is true enough. It’s not as if Simon was a stranger to such treatment. The thing is, though, Simon was at least three-quarters of a foot taller than John and far more broad, too. Looked like a footie player. It wasn’t that John was small; he was also tall, and his muscular structure was lean. He looked scrawnier than he was. He looked more like prey; he was loud and boisterous. A beacon for backward sh*tes to pound on. Simon usually kept his nose out of it and didn’t give a response. Didn’t want to be seen and would instead float on like a phantom. It went hand in hand with his ideals about how his life culminated in a great nothingness. Perhaps that was a sign of cowardice, a fear of himself and what that meant.
John nods at Simon’s answer and looks as if he’s mulling something over in his head as he observes the other pull the brush over the thick bed of his thumb. Watching the gradient of white and pink be swallowed whole by black. “Does it bother you?”
“Being called a queer?”
“Aye. Being thought of as queer.”
It’s Simon’s turn to sit there in contemplative silence. Letting the sounds of Shadow Play fill the terse silence that grows between them. It’s tense, loaded, and heavy, but Simon doesn’t feel awkward. Doesn’t feel attacked, cornered and ready to fight.
Usually, when faced with questions like this, he feels that way. Shame. Shame, like when his father asked if that’s what he was, backhanding him before he could answer. Shame when his mother asked if he had it. John didn’t make him feel that way.
“I’m not sure.” Simon answered honestly, dipping the brush back into the bottle. He leans back and stares at John. Looks at the way his overgrown Mohawk pokes at his eyes, obscuring his vision. “Does it bother you?”
“Nah,” John answers easily. There’s something that flickers in his eyes. “Bothers everyone else, though.” There’s an edge to his words, and Simon wants badly to pry, wondering if the nature of this conversation was a good enough excuse that he could. “S’part of why I moved down here, couldn’t deal with the way my ma and da looked at me. Needed to get away.”
“An you chose Manchester?” Simon snorts, grabbing John’s hand and blowing gently over the tacky lacquer. He watches gooseflesh rise on John’s hand, the delicate hairs standing on end. John’s eyes dilate at the action, and Simon’s stomach twists. “Why not Edinburgh? Don’t mean anythin’ by it but a Scot out this way?”
“Mary.” John supplies “Sisters out here for uni, it was cheaper to crash out with her than to squat in Edinburgh.”
That made sense. Simon released John’s hand and reached for the other.
“...Are you?” Simon lifts his gaze for a moment but quickly averts it and begins to paint the other hand, focusing on his pinky first.
“Aye,” John says the word quietly as if willing Ian’s drone and the sombre bass to swallow them whole. It’s the quietest Simon thinks he’s ever heard John. “And you?”
Simon doesn’t answer, letting the question roll around in his head. Thinks about the Physique mag stuffed under his mattress. Stares at the glossy coat of black on John’s pinky and tries to find his words. Tries to find the courage to speak such a thing aloud when he’s spent so much of his life trying to hide that part of himself. Shown through cracks of his penchant for Pet Shop Boys and makeup, for his lingering gazes on lads playing footie.
“Yeah.” Simon finally says, the word clawing its way out his throat, leaving raw talon marks in their wake. He busies himself by moving onto John’s other fingers. He can’t bring himself to look at John, even if they are in the same boat.
They don’t say anything else on the matter. Simon finishes painting John’s nails and leaves to take a cigarette break, and then when he returns, they carry on as if nothing has transpired between them. The movement is far too tender for the location far too intimate. Dangerous even to be talking about at the store where anyone could walk in. To confirm the rumours and accusations. Enough was said.
John smiles wide at the woman on the other side of the till, handing her the receipt and telling her to have a good day. She smiles warmly, returns the kind words and exits the store. Working with John had become a bit of a relief; he always worked with the customers, leaving Simon with more tedious tasks that didn’t involve small talk with the public. It gave Simon’s ears a break.
When the woman is gone, Soap leans over the counter, staring intently at the chipping paint of the countertop. “You free after work today?”
While placing a cassette on the shelf, Simon pauses, turning to shoot John a look. “Depends what you had in mind.”
“They’re rerunning the Star Wars trilogy tonight at the Scala-”
“And I thought your music taste was bad.”
“Piss off, I’m going to pretend that you did not just say that.” Simon can feel John’s glare from across the store. “My mate bailed on me so I have an extra ticket. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“You only got one mate?” Somehow, Simon didn’t believe that.
“Dinnae be like that.”
“Fine.”
John lets out a short, victorious sound noise, and Simon can’t help but smile fondly as he places the next plastic case on the shelf.
The rest of the day passes quickly. The shop is clean, and stocked, money counted, and put away. Now, John stands there, and Simon locks the rolling shutter at the front of the store.
“Hey, Johnny, how many stormtroopers does it take to change a light bulb?” Simon takes a drag from his cigarette as they walk towards the red beater.
John shoots him a look, lips pressed thin. “How many?”
“None, ’cause they’re all on the dark side.” Simon smiles slightly around the cigarette, warmth wrestling with the burn of smoke within his chest as John laughs.
“That was bad. Like really bad.” John laughs, elbow knocking playfully into Simon’s side. “What do you call a thousand skins at the bottom of the sea?” Simon doesn’t think, just shifts his gaze to the other “Oi-sters.”
Simon laughs and chokes a bit on the smoke in his mouth.
“Now that’s a joke.” John beams at him, falling into the car’s passenger seat when Simon unlocks the door.
It’s been a while since Simon has been at a theatre, the last time being when his brother Tommy had begged to be taken to an R-rated movie, and their mother refused to let the boy see it. He can’t even remember what movie it was, some low-budget gorey flick that held his interest only for the sheer violence that flashed over the screen, plot non-existent. In Simon’s opinion, at least Star Wars had a plot, but it fell flat otherwise. If he had to pick, Star Trek was better.
They’re halfway through the second film, crammed together in the back of the theatre. Sitting side by side, neither dared to use the armrest between the two, but their knees touched. He can feel John’s warmth radiate off him this close, warming him. He wants badly to reach out, the feeling foreign. He’s no stranger to baser desires of lust over a bloke catching his eye, thinking about what they’d look like under him, but to crave that softer, more innocent, intimate action was strange. Not at all what he was used to. It made butterflies beat in his stomach, daring to fly and tease up his esophagus. The movie doesn’t even matter to him anymore; he can’t focus on it. Not when John is the only thing he can think about.
His eyes slide over to the man, catching John’s entranced eyes as a litany of colours wash over his soft features, blue lights gleaming off the silver nostril piercing. He was much more interested in this view than the movie. Maybe John can feel his gaze because his eyes flicker over to Simon, and Simon blushes, quickly looking back at the screen. He thinks he sees John’s lip quirk.
Something has changed, something shifted. Tectonic plates move closer but do not smash, fitting together like a puzzle. With the more time spent together, they’ve moved from being merely work friends to seeing each other outside of work. John has seen Simon be called a queer at least once while they walked down the street, and Simon has seen where John gets some of those bruises (he’d ended that night with bruises blossoming over his own knuckles that night too.) John had even managed to drag Simon out for a night to catch a Conflict show.
The music really wasn’t Simon’s scene, but damn, seeing John in his element didn’t make his stomach twist. It made the rowdy bodies that pushed into his hulking frame worth it to see John with a blissed-out expression as he tumbled around in the pit. It made him realize he’d do just about anything, for the man was close enough to accept speed from the young man to allow himself to tumble over and follow John to the ends. In the end, Simon declines. That wasn’t his scene, speed, poppers, K and E. None of it appealed to him, mind too dark of a place for any mind alteration to be a good thing. John didn’t need to see how pathetic Simon really was.
Simon would rather cut his tongue out than admit that he had ended his night with his hand wrapped around his co*ck, spilling over his knuckles with John’s name on his lips. It was the residual adrenaline from the show. Thats all.
Simon has his number scrawled on a scrap piece of receipt paper, stuffed into his wallet, and kept snug between a few notes. John has him, but Simon tells him not to call. Not unless it’s an emergency. He doesn’t need to see the look on his mother’s face when she calls Simon, telling him the phone is for me. Nor does he need his father’s scorn if he happened to pop in, make himself at home and terrorize the family. One of these days, he needs to get his own line installed.
It’s a typical day in Manchester, rain pelting down and splitting against the cracking concrete, nearly drowning out the sound of the phone ringing with how it hits the metal phone booth that works thanklessly at keeping him dry. It’s one of those days his father dropped in. Pretending like he wasn’t thrown out a few weeks prior for backhanding his mother over some minor slight. The same cycle was never-ending, no matter how much he and Tommy would beg her to leave. Misery loves the company, he supposed, so what did it say about him that he stuck around rather than moving his sorry ass out.
The phone drones as it rings, and he’s not sure John will even pick it up. Or if Mary will either; they’ve spoken a few words to each other by now. He’s stuffed into a tiny phone booth, which is a comical site. A hulking 6’4 lad stuffed into the booth on the side of the street as his car parked pulled off to the side of the road. On the last ring, the phone stops ringing, and there is silence before a soft voice answers.
“Hello?” A female voice and a thick accent are much like the male counterpart. Today was one of those days that he spoke some more words to Mary, raising the running tally.
“It’s Simon.”
“John’s not here.” Mary sounds regretful when she says it
“f*ck.” He grits his teeth, eyes squeezing shut as he lets out a sharp exhale.
“How no' you swing by? Sure he won’t mind.” Mary offers, though she sounds tentative. As if unsure if this is water that she should be treading in. Trying to be supportive but unsure and nervously bumbling over unclear and unspoken boundaries. What has John told her about him?
“You sure?” Do you mind? Is what he’s really asking.
“Aye.”
He stands outside the white door and stares at the paint stained with age. Creeping of green moss crawled up the door and made a home in the moulding of the door panels. He stares momentarily, feeling something crawling up his throat and weighing him down, but he shakes it off and knocks.
It’s like the phone, except the only drone in the background is the sound of tires driving through puddles and the gentle whirring of machines. There’s no phone line to indicate a time frame. But then he hears the gentle shuffling from behind the door, which swings open. He met with a near-carbon copy of John, only scaled down and feminine. They have the same eyes that Simon is helpless to get lost in.
Mary smiles; it’s a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes but is gentle and sweet. There is nothing about it that makes him feel bad. She just seems tired. He gets that. “Simon, it’s good to finally put a face to ya name.” She opens the door wider and steps further into the house.
He follows her and bends down to start unlacing his boots as she closes the door. “You as well.” He’s unsure what else to say because no DNA testing is required, and she looks nearly identical to John. She’s not John. He finds it hard to speak and find words that aren’t short and blunt, making the conversation awkward and terse.
“He also said ye weren’t a man of many words.” Mary laughs softly, and Simon lifts his gaze, pulling off a boot and watching her grip her cardigan and pull it tighter around herself. “Fine with me, John doesn’t know how to shut up.” Simon smiles, and his gaze lowers as he begins to work on his second boot. “I’m in the middle of writing my term paper. John’s room is just up the stairs, second door on the left.”
That explains why she looks so tired, at least. With that, she turns on her heel and walks down the hallway, disappearing into a lit doorless frame. He pulls off his other boot and makes his way up the stairs, standing in front of John’s door. His feet feel leaden, worse than when he stood outside the door to their flat. This wasn’t just entering John’s home. This was his bedroom. A more private, intimate space. He contemplates sitting outside the door until John returns home but thinks it would be more peculiar than actually going in. So he steels himself, takes a deep breath and turns the handle, pushing into the room.
He stands in the frame for a moment, taking in the dark room before reaching over onto the wall and flicking the light switch to take the room in more fully. It’s about what he expects, piles of dirty clothes strewn over a rolling desk chair and falling haphazardly onto the floor like rolling magma out of a volcano. His walls aren’t fully covered, but there are a few posters over the walls. Fugazi, Black Flag over the walls and a Scottish flag draped over the window, acting as a flimsy curtain. There’s an ashtray on the window sill next to it, overflowing with ash and bent butts.. He steps further into the room, closes the door behind himself and turns about to look closer at the personal effects that make up John’s room. A record player on the beat-up wooden chest of drawers and a milk crate houses records sitting next to it. The floor is littered with garbage (mostly crumpled papers, foil snack wrappers and cans of beer) and clothes, and Simon doesn’t think much of it. It’s not as if he was likely expecting any company.
He moves towards the small twin-sized bed, the mattress creaking under his weight as he settles. A sudden tiredness sweeps over him, a bone-deep ache that has him lying back in the bed. Thought about how John had likely fallen asleep in this exact spot since he had moved to Manchester. Though something tells Simon John slept like a jackass, sprawled out at weird angles.
He doesn’t even notice that he’s fallen asleep until he’s jolted awake, his heart leaping out of his body at the sound of a door slamming.
“John. John!” The sound of boot-clad feet trudging up the stairs, “What happened? John, are you okay?” Mary’s voice is shrill, dripping with worry, and he can hear her lighter footsteps trailing after him.
“M’fine leave me alone!” The bedroom door swings open, the doorknob knocking back and hitting the drywall with a resounding thud. And for a moment, Simon thinks coming here is a mistake. The door shuts with another loud slam, and Simon sits up and stares at John, noting how his nose drips down his face, blood thick and coagulated. Collecting on the front of his shirt. There are a few scratches along his cheekbone, and the patch of skin is red and angry, purple blooming. His lip is split with another cut, though its shallow and not of concern comparatively.
“Simon.” The word is heavy on John’s tongue, a wide array of emotions, anger, surprise, and weariness cycling over his face.
“John.” Simon says softly, watching John’s shoulders deflate upon hearing his voice. “Sorry, Mary said it was fine for me to come over.”
“Aye, it is.” John nods, moving and grabbing a dirty t-shirt off the ground, bringing it up to wipe the blood that’s collected just below his nose.
“Didn’t expect to see ya though.” He tosses the dirty shirt onto the floor again.
Simon gets to his feet and walks over to John. He takes his face and carefully holds it between calloused fingers, inspecting the damage splattered over John’s face. The other man doesn’t move away, only flinches when Simon presses his fingers against tender flesh during his examination. “A&E? Or do you want me to patch you up?”
“Yer aff yer heid if ya think we’re going to A&E.” John snorts, wincing slightly at the movement. He jerks away from Simon’s gentle touch and walks to the far side of the room, gently kicking open the adjoining bathroom door. He turns and looks over his shoulder. “Under the bed there’s a bottle of whiskey. Grab it.” He says before disappearing into the small side room.
Simon does as he’s told, crouching on the dusty floorboards and peers under the bed. There’s a bottle of whiskey on its side, about three-quarters full, a Blue Boy magazine and a blue pamphlet. He doesn’t think much of the contents, grabbing the whiskey bottle and minding his business until his eyes catch the big letters embossed on the front of the pamphlet. A cold zing shoots up his spine as he reads the words, letting them sink in heavily and curdle in his stomach.
‘AIDS.
DON’T DIE OF IGNORANCE.’
Simon grabs the bottle of whiskey and quickly gets up, moving towards the bathroom with sluggish, heavy feet that catch with clumsy movements. John is leaning over the sink, staring at himself in the mirror, inspecting the state of his nose. His eyes flitter over to Simon, and he raises a brow.
“You okay, Si?”
“You can tell me you know.” The words are heavy on Simon’s tongue. His mind racing 100 miles per minute as he thinks about it. Tries to recall every symptom that had been shoved down his throat, that he desperately tried to remember.
“What are ye on about?”
“Do you have it?” It comes off accusatory, but he doesn’t mean it that way. Doesn’t know how to have a conversation like this. It feels like he’s talking to a stranger and saying all the wrong words. He sounds like his mother, and it makes him sick. Bile creeps up his throat, burning his esophagus as he struggles to get the words out. “Saw the pamphlet while grabbing this.” He gestures to the bottle.
John stills, body pulling tight. He can see the moment that the man understands those words, the moment that he withdraws, and his eyes glaze over as walls are erected. “Does it bother ya? You’ve got my blood on ye too.” John scowls and jerks his head to John’s hand, and his eyes drift to see the pale skin stained. “Might give it to ya.”
“It doesn’t,” Simon says instantly, and he means it. The intensity of his gaze doesn’t shift, but his voice is earnest, and there isn’t a lick of anger within it. Doesn’t know why this bothers him as much as it does, and he doesn’t know why the idea of losing John to this tears at his insides like a wild animal. John was really his only friend, the hurdle in his steady climb to his great nothingness. He can’t lose that. John could infect him, and Simon’s only thought would be that they could go together. What a sick thought, Simon thinks.
John seems satisfied with that answer, and his shoulder relaxes, but the look doesn’t entirely leave his face. “I dinnae. Just got tested.” His words are sharp as he snatches the bottle of whiskey from Simon’s grasp. He flicks the cap off and takes a swig, leaning back against the grimy porcelain sink. “Do ye? Have it that is.” John holds out the bottle, and Simon takes it and drinks a large amount that leaves his throat burning and numb.
“No.” Simon says, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. He hands the bottle back and reaches to grab the cleanest washcloth he can find, turning the tap on and letting the water run for a moment to heat up. The water hitting the porcelain bowl fills the silence between them, though it doesn’t resolve any of the gnawing tension, so as Simon puts the cloth beneath the tap, he speaks, “Though that doesn’t matter to most people, does it? Far as they are concerned, we both do.”
John laughs, a sharp, mirthless huff as he bobs his head in agreement. He moves to sit on the toilet when Simon directs him to. Allows the man to maneuver his face and gently dab at the drying blood. He’s fussy, squirming under the gentle yet firm touch, not yielding under Simon’s heavy pinning gaze.
“Sooner you stop f*ckin’ squirming, sooner I’ll be done.” Simon mutters, and John finally stills. Let the rough cloth be dragged over the scrape on his cheek without moving. “So what happened?”
It’s the first time Simon has asked how John gets his bruises.
“Some guys jumped me as I was leaving the store.” John replies, staring at a point off in the distance behind Simon’s shoulder. “You ken how it goes.”
“Hope they look worse than you.”
John smiles at that. “Aye. ‘M from Glasgow, skelped em' real good.”
“That’s why I’m here too.” Simon offers, in return, tit for tat. More willing to offer the information up for the other. “My dad popped in. Didn’t want to get caught up in that. Didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Do ye want to spend the night?” John looks up at him, blue eyes swirling with hesitation and fear. His brows crease, but his voice doesn’t shake with the nerves; his hands grasping hard at his patellas convey all Simon needs.
“Yeah. I would like that.”
They each have another swig before the cap is spun back onto the bottle, left to sit on the toilet’s water tank. Both clumsily exited the tiny, cramped half-bathroom and approached the bed. It’s awkward, and they don’t fit right. Simon was broad and tall, and John was not too far from his stature.
John is squished up against the wall, head resting on Simon’s shoulder, both hands awkwardly kept to themselves. This was uncharted territory. Simon was unsure where the boundaries lie. He can’t see anything in the darkness, but he can hear the even breathing of John beside him. The taller man wonders if the other is just as nervous as he is. Sleep comes quicker than he thinks it should in such an awkward state where he feels like he is walking along a razor’s edge, but feeling the warmth radiate off John is enough to lull his body into a sense of security, and he drifts off
quickly.
When he wakes, a grayish-blue light is washed over the room as the overcast dawn light knocks at the blinds. He blinks bleary eyes, a foreign weight pressed over half his body and arm tingling slightly. Tired eyes dart over, seeing John still in the throes of sleep. His face is pressed to Simon’s neck, lips parted just slightly, allowing warm puffs of air to puff out against his collar. The younger man’s leg is hiked up over Simon’s thighs, and something hard presses against his hip.
f*ck, that is all Simon can think. Because, really, the thoughts in his head are wrong. He wants to know what John was dreaming about. Was he thinking of Simon? What could John’s co*ck feel like in his hand? His mouth? Would Simon taste liquor and cigarettes on John’s tongue? But the man is asleep, and he feels violated on John’s behalf for these thoughts. Did John think about Simon as he thought of the other? He knew now that he had a real chance, that this could be more than a pipe dream if Simon had the stones or was more of a man. So even when John’s hips are rolling into him, when blood begins to rush to his own co*ck, he remains as still as a board. It was torture.
John stirs, jerking slightly and making a little noise as his eyes flutter open. Simon could feel the whisps of his eyelashes against his skin as he oriented himself to the waking world. Simon doesn’t say anything, only meets John’s gaze when he pushes himself up so he’s half upright, supporting himself on his forearm. He looks at Simon, cheeks flushed and eyes nervous.
“It’s okay.” Simon says because it looks like John just might implode if he doesn’t break the tension. And well, Simon might as well also implode because his own co*ck is still half hard in his trousers. “It happens.”
“Right. Sorry.” John murmurs, moving to sit up properly. The feeling is returning to Simon’s arm now that he doesn’t have the weight of the other pinning his veins. He moves clumsily out of the bed, limbs still lagged with sleep. Simon doesn’t move, doesn’t even lift his head, resigned to staring at the ceiling until his co*ck isn’t half hard and his thoughts are more pure. And maybe this was a sign that he needed to get laid. If just this closeness was enough to stir something up within him, then perhaps it was time for him to relent to his desires. But then he can’t remember when he wanted someone as much as he wanted John.
“What did you dream of?” Simon says without really thinking. He’s not sure he wants to know, not sure if he’s privy to that information even.
“A real bonnie lad.” John offers with a bit of a chuckle. Simon moves to prop himself up on both his forearms to watch as John putters around the room, looking for something to wear. “Big f*cker,” John’s eyes flick to him, and Simon feels his throat get tight “Thought about having his co*ck shoved so far down my throat I could choke.”
Simon shouldn’t have asked; he didn’t know what he was thinking. “I gotta get to work, Peter will have my heid if I’m late again.” John pulls his shirt off, tossing it onto one of the piles, grabs another and sniffs. Simon catches the way metal glints on John’s chest in the light of the room, and Simon thinks he really might have a heart attack.
“Come here.” Simon says, sitting up and moving to swing his legs over the side of the bed so his threadbare socks touch the floor.
John doesn’t move at first, an array of emotions flying over his face, and, after a moment, John moves, allowing Simon to pull him into the space between his spread thighs.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” Simon whispers, hands skating up John’s sides, fingers hooking under the hem of his shirt and dragging it slightly upwards to expose the smooth plane of muscle. He tips his head upwards and looks at John, who stares at him with dilated pupils and parted lips.
“Tell me to stop.” He murmurs, leaning in and brushing his lips over John’s hip.
“Please.” John’s hand moves and cradles the back of Simon’s head. Fingers carding through soft blonde locks, blunted fingernails scraping along his nape.
“Please stop?” Simon whispers, teeth catching the flesh and nipping gently.
“Dinnae ye f*cking dare.” John releases Simon’s head, hands moving to his shoulders and shoving him backwards on the mattress. Narrowly missing, smashing his head into the wall behind them. He’s quick to pounce, straddling Simon’s waist and leaning down and kissing him with enough intensity and force that it takes Simon a moment to catch up and return the movement.
Kissing John is exactly what he expects, and the spitfire attitude perfectly translates into how he kisses. It’s like everything John does; he pours his whole being into it, and Simon thinks John might be trying to devour him. He doesn’t mind. His hands find John’s waist, fingertips curling into the meat of his hips, black nails bleeding into John’s black t-shirt.
“f*ck Si,” John murmurs, hips rocking down against Simon in a filthy move. “f*cking finally, thought ya’d never make a bloody move.” He murmured, hips canting in a wholly desperate way that Simon didn’t believe he deserved. Truly, he doesn’t, but selfishly, he revels in the fact that John still feels that way.
“Are you just going to become more of a slag until I finally snapped?” Simon rasps, teeth catching on John’s lower lip hard enough that the man winces and cries. “Thought about taking ya in the backroom.”
“Wish you had,” John says, pulling away from the kiss to shed his shirt and toss it back into some pile on the floor. “Would’ve let ya.” He shoots Simon a wicked grin, greedy hands moving to rid Simon of his own shirt. Eyes wide when the thick expanse of the chest was visible to him. If John’s movements were frantic before, this was something else entirely as his hands roved over pale flesh. “Would’ve let ya have me anywhere.”
“Yeah? You want people to know you’re mine?”
“Christ, Si. You can’t just say sh*t like that,” If it weren’t for how John’s eyes fluttered and a strangled noise caught in his throat, Simon would’ve worried that he had misspoken, and that possessive streak made John recoil in disgust. “‘M gunna blow ya. Can’t stop thinking about what you taste like,”
“Think about it often?” Simon chuckles, lifting his hips to aid in John pulling off his own briefs. The younger man pauses as he stares at Simon’s co*ck, thick and full against the wiry blonde hairs that trailed from groin to navel, rosy red head beading with precum and three rows of piercings along the shaft. His eyes are wide, cheeks flushing an impressive shade of red. For a moment, Simon feels nervous under John’s gaze, but then the man is leaning forward and dragging his tongue from sack to tip, the point of his tongue going flat against each raised bit of flesh from the barbells.
“Yeah, but this was never part of it.” John practically moans the words as he drags his tongue in the same motion, making Simon grunt softly. “Ye really are somethin’, Si. f*ckin’ huge too.”
“You going to keep running your mou-” Simon’s words trail off into a broken moan when John suddenly swallows his down in one fluid motion, nose brushing against the wiry hair. “f*ck.” His hand flies to cradle the back of John’s skull, fingertips scraping over the fuzzy bits of shaved-down hair.
“That’s it,” he moans, head falling back against the bed as pleasure licks up his spine. He stares at the ceiling, getting lost in the feeling of John bobbing his head along his length and the swirling patterns of stucco overhead. “So good for me, Johnny.”
The vibrations of a moan rattle through his body, making his fingers curl in messy brown strands as John’s fingers dug into the soft, pale flesh of Simon’s hips. He lifts his head slightly to stare down at John, to catch the way John stares up at him with those wide eyes, blue nearly eclipsed by the blacks of his blown pupils; tears collect along his eyelashes, threatening to spill over and the sight it enough to make Simon almost blow his load. He pulls the man off of him rather harshly, chuckling as John whines of displeasure at Simon daring to disrupt him.
“Gunna cum if you keep goin’ like that.” Simon breathes, shifting on the creaking twin-sized bed and ushering John to get on his back. Their movements are anything but graceful, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters at this moment aside from this fiery thing that burns between them. “Where’s y’condoms? Lube?”
John pauses his frantic quest to rid himself of all his clothes, staring at Simon with his shirt half off his arm. “Drawer,” He murmurs almost shyly, with a jerk of his head toward the bedside table as he moves to take his underwear off as well. It’s hard to pull away from the site; he has to consciously force himself to do so, fumbling clumsily with the drawer and wincing when it scratches on its tracks. But he doesn’t stop. He reaches in blindly until he feels a bottle and a strip of condoms.
He feels like a bloody virgin right now, hands trembling as he pours the cold jelly on his fingers, spreading it around in an attempt at warming before he presses them against John’s entrance. The slip inside is easy, easier than it should be, and Simon can’t help but wonder when John did this the last time. He wonders how many people had heard the younger man choke on a gasp, seeing how his brows cinch together from just one finger.
“sh*t, Si.” John sighs, hips rocking down in an attempt to get the other to move at a more desirable speed. He takes the hint, slips in a second finger and revels in how John moans at the stretch. “Feels s'much better than my fingers.”
“You seem to think about me often, Johnny.” Simon chuckles, thrusting the digits in slowly, feeling the tight heat from the inside. He wanted to take the man apart slowly, piece by piece, so he could selfishly ruin John for anyone else. No one else would be able to f*ck John like he could. With his free hand, he skates it up John’s chest, stopping when his fingers brush the metal poking through John’s nipple, thumb brushing over it until it was pebbling and John was gasping. One day he would have to explore these more.
“Aye, I told ye, ya daft c*nt.” John was a mess, tan skin flushed a beautiful red and skin glistening in a sheen of sweat. Simon pushed a third finger in for that, smirking when the anger fled from John’s face when his mouth fell open dumbly as he bullied the pads of his fingers against his prostate. Simon openly laughed when John’s back arched off the bed with a choked-off moan. “All I can think about, so hurry up an’ get inside me.”
“Sure you can take me?” Simon asks, wrapping his free hand around his co*ck, slowly stroking himself and shivering at the feeling. There is a hint of nervousness in his words, and sure, John hasn’t given him any reason that he needs to worry about him not wanting him despite his size. But taking someone down your throat (though John had done that like a pro) and taking that up your ass were two different things. And it wouldn’t have been the first time someone tapped out due to his sheer size.
“Mhm,” John moans, grabbing Simon by the arm, pulling his down and smashing their lips together in a violent kiss. Too much teeth and tongue, and Simon was sure he would taste that coppery taste soon with the other’s lip only barely scabbed. “Please, Si, dinnae make me beg.”
“Not this time,” Simon murmurs against John’s lips, pulling away only completely, resting his weight on the backs of his heels. He rolls on the condom, slicks his co*ck up and, with one hand, grips John’s hip hard enough to bruise as he lines himself up. “Next time, I might.” He says as he pushes inside, achingly slow. He watches John carefully, watches the way his eyes shoot open, and his face turns a shade darker. He would’ve stopped out of panic if it wasn’t for the way John’s calves locked around his waist, holding him here and not allowing him to withdraw.
“f*ck- feels so good.” John moans, nails dragging from Simon’s shoulder down to his wrist. “So much, feel so f*cking full, Si.”
“Do you need me to stop?” Simon breathed; it felt heavenly. John was so tight and warm around him and God that he did not want to stop praying to a God he didn’t even believe in for the man to tell him no. He needed this as much as he needed it. Simon knew the stretch had to hurt, but John was hardly one to shy away from pain. “Not even all the way there.”
“Dinnae you dare,” John growls, pulling his calf slightly forward to push Simon even deeper. Just barely so, but enough that he’s whining, back arching as his head lolls back against the pillow. He rocks his hips in a desperate attempt to entice the other man. “Please, f*ck, please, Simon.”
With that, Simon pushes until his hips meet the curve of John’s ass. His mouth fell open in a low, drawn-out moan at the feeling of being so deep inside John, wrapped up in that tight, velvety heat. His eyes are nearly shutting as pleasure zings up his spine like a jolt of electricity, but he can’t let his eyes fall shut, not when John is splayed out before him, looking entirely f*cked out. Could see the way that any snark had been f*cked out of him, and the only thing he could think about was him.
“That’s a good boy, taking me so well.” John groans at that, and Simon can feel the moment that the other tightens around him. Slowly, he begins to work his hips in a steady rhythm, fueled by the way John moans, letting out choked little noises. “Y’like that? Being my good boy?” He asks, leaning down to mouth sloppily against John’s fluttering pulse. “Takin’ me like a proper f*ckin’ slag.”
He hears a broken sob and feels that John’s hands desperately reach for purchase over his shoulders. Nails clawing and sure to leave their own mark. A thought that leaves him exhilarated.
The younger man turns his head, lips pressing against his ear wetly, hot puffs of air blowing over his own heated flesh. “Yes, yes, please, Simon, f*ck.” Simon isn’t sure if he’s ever heard something so sweet. He talks about ruining John for others, and he’s positive John has done the same for him. “S’Deep inside me. Feels so good.”
This time, Simon does have to close his eyes. Can’t take hearing John and seeing him at once. Drives him too close to the sun and threatens to burn him alive. How divine that would be. But he can’t, not yet. With each thrust, the tip of his co*ck bumps against John’s prostate, making the man delirious as he speaks in tongues. But he won’t come, not before John does.
“Touch me, please, Si, f*ck touch me,” John babbles, nipping at Simon’s ear lobe, nails digging in harshly into the meat of his shoulder. “So close.”
“No,” Simon responds, moving his hands to hook under John’s knees, forcing them upwards and allowing him to push harder into the man.
“Either cum like this or not at all.” He growls it low, and when John whimpers at that, he can’t help but moan.
John clings to Simon, unable to move from where he’s pinned, from the sheer ecstasy that Simon drowns him in. Each harsh movement has John crying out desperately and has the muscles in his thighs quaking violently. co*ck hard and leaking profusely against his taut stomach, matting the coarse hair from his navel downwards. He looks helpless, utterly helpless to the throes of pleasure, and Simon sees the moment that John tumbles past the point of no return. Doesn't need to watch him spill to know he's coming, painting his abdomen in his spend. When his mouth opens like a fish out of water as a silent scream rolls off his tongue, his body writing as best as he can while being pinned down by Simon’s sheer mass.
He’s clenched so tightly around Simon, thrusting into him with no real rhythm, with the other man’s name on his lips like a prayer. It only takes a few moments longer before he thrusts one last time and finishes, filling up the rubber with his hot seed. He collapses onto the other with a huff, chest heaving with exertion.
“Holy sh*t,” John murmurs, his tone rather dreamy, as he nuzzles his nose against the sweaty crevice where his nose and collar meet.
“Yeah.” Is all Simon can muster, humming softly at the affection bestowed upon him.
“No, holy sh*t, yer heavy. Crushing me.” John snickers, turning into full-blown laughter as Simon quickly stumbles to get his weight off the other. However, he doesn’t get very far, not when John is wrapping his arms around his neck, holding him hostage. “Kiddin’, m’kiddin, Si. Holy sh*t that felt good.”
Simon laughs and turns his head to nip at John’s neck in retribution. “f*ckin’ numpty.” He says without any real heat.
“Feels good like this, too.” John murmurs, rocking his hips slightly, smiling when Simon hisses in overstimulation.
“Insatiable.” He chuckles, slowly pulling out and grabbing the rubber by the base to prevent creating an even bigger mess; he ties it off and tosses it at the overflowing rubbish bin in the corner of the room before rolling on his side to lie next to John.
“Aye.” John hums before he sits up rather upright with a panicked look on his face that makes Simon’s body fill with panic, “sh*t! I have to get to work.” if a heady dose of panic hadn’t just been injected straight into Simon’s bloodstream, he may have laughed at the way John shot up, stumbling on legs made of jelly as he hastily pulled random articles of clothing on that were littered around the floor. “f*ck, Peter’s gunna kill me.”
“I’ll give ya a ride,” Simon says, getting up and pulling on his clothes. “Then youll be,” He looks at the clock on the dresser. They still had time; there were twenty minutes before John’s shift started, which, if he got himself there on the bus, may have been an issue but not with Simon’s sh*t car. “Not as late.”
“Yer a life saver Si,” John sighs with a broad smile, tension from his shoulders. He looks at the taller man with a lopsided grin, “Tell ye what, I’ll suck ya off when I get off today as thank you.”
Simon laughs, pulling his shirt over his head. “Alright. Call it a deal.”
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