* * *
Jack was absently poking at the fire when Simon emerged, flushed and damp, from the bathroom. His dark, wet hair clung to his cheekbones just the way it had in the picture Jack hadn’t drawn. His blue eyes burned, the cut of his cheekbone a perfect slash, and Jack couldn’t look away.
The sleeves of his sweatshirt hung past Simon’s hands so when he wrapped his arms around himself it looked like a straightjacket. Simon was only a few inches shorter than him but he was spare where Jack was muscular.
All in all he presented a picture so tempting that for the first time since it had happened, Jack was grateful for a broken leg because it felt like all that was keeping him from drawing too close to his new friend and breathing in every molecule of him.
“Better?” he asked, voice rough.
Simon nodded and picked his way through the maze of sleeping animals to get to the fire.
The storm still raged darkly outside, making it look more like sunset than morning; the fire glowed and crackled. It was Jack’s favorite sound in the whole world.
Suddenly, Simon turned to him and smiled—a quick, bright smile that cut through him.
It took his fucking breath away.
“Hot dogs,” Simon said, clear as anything.
“Huh?” Jack felt like the fog from outside had descended on him the moment he saw that radiant smile. Then he saw that Bernard, Rat, and Dandelion lay before the fire in a row, snoozing with their legs stretched behind them. Hot dogs.
He laughed, loud and deep. He laughed because Simon had smiled. Because Simon had made a dopey joke. Because Simon was in his cabin, with his pack, damp and warm, skin to Jack’s clothes, happy.
Simon let out a small laugh, low and light, and Jack found himself in the surprising position of having to revise his favorite sound.
“You can move them if you wanna sit there,” Jack said, just to say something.
Simon shook his head and sat on the couch instead. He seemed the most relaxed Jack had seen him.
Jack sank down on the couch too, easing his casted leg to rest on the coffee table.
“You aren’t missing work, are you?” Jack asked softly, hoping to preserve Simon’s relaxation. “I just realized you never told me what you do.”
Simon shook his head. Swallowed. Tucked his hands underneath him.
“It’s fine. I work from home. G-graphic design.”
“That’s cool. You’re an artist too.”
Simon scoffed. “Not like you.”
“Lemme see?”
He handed Simon his phone. Simon blinked at him for a moment, then let out a sigh and pulled up his website. He scrolled peremptorily through a few pages before Jack grabbed the phone from his hand to peruse in detail.
Simon’s designs were deceptively simple and Jack made note of the URL so he could look at the site later on his computer and see more of the detail. What at first looked like a simple border was, on closer inspection, words marching around the page. A clean layout of squares revealed itself, when you got to the bottom, to form the initials of the company. To the casual observer they were minimal and modern, but each design had a wink.
“These are amazing.”
Simon ducked his head but he was smiling.
“Have you always worked from home?”
Given Simon’s trouble speaking with people it would make sense that he sought out something he could do solo.
Simon shook his head.
“I worked at a c-company before.” He shuddered. “It was awful. Cubicles and p-people and no one would leave me alone.”
“What’d they do?” Jack asked, preemptively furious on Simon’s behalf.
Simon turned to him, eyes wide with horror. “Talked to me! Had b-birthday cakes and—and holiday parties.”
Jack laughed at his nauseated expression. “Monsters.”
Simon smiled and rolled his eyes.
The fire crackled cheerily along with the chorus of animal whuffles and burbles.
“If you don’t have to be at work,” Jack said slowly, “do you want to hang out? Watch a movie or something? Doesn’t seem like the storm’s letting up anytime soon...”
Simon nodded and joy zinged up Jack’s spine. He grabbed the remote before Simon could change his mind and started flipping channels.
He flipped past sports and news and reality TV and soap operas, finding nothing. He’d learned the hard way the last few weeks that television wasn’t organized for people with nothing to do during the day. Jack switched over to Netflix and Simon perked up.
“You pick, okay?”
He handed Simon the remote.
Simon bit his lip and extricated a hand from where he was sitting on them to take it.
He scrolled directly to The Great British Bake Off and raised a questioning eyebrow at Jack.
“I’ve never seen it.”
“What!?”
“I don’t bake.”
“That’s—That—that,” Simon stammered, but this seemed out of passion rather than shyness. “That has nothing to do with anything.”
Jack held up his hands in surrender and settled in to watch.
After a few minutes of Simon looking over at him expectantly he said, “It’s very... British?”