Better Than People (Garnet Run 1)

Simon climbed into bed and Jack joined him, though he knew he couldn’t sleep. Simon handed him the sketchbook and the pens. Then he stripped off Jack’s sweatshirt and slid beneath the covers.

“Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack,” he said dramatically, batting his eyelashes.

Jack’s cock twitched, but Simon dissolved into giggles, burying his face in the pillow.

Jack reached under the covers, found Simon’s bare ass, and gave it a squeeze and then an affectionate slap.

“I’ll draw you like one of my...” Jack muttered, but Simon turned to him and gave him an evaluating look.

“What are you scared of?” he asked gently.

“I’m not—” Jack began automatically, but Simon’s expression was so open.

This was a man who knew what it was to be scared.

“It used to feel like breathing. Pick up a pen and draw. Now I... It makes me think of everything that’s happened. With Davis.”

He shook his head. In the weeks after it had sunk in—that Davis hadn’t just done something selfish, he had done something that proved he couldn’t possibly care about Jack, because no one would do such a thing to someone they cared about.

It had made him question everything. And questioning was the opposite of how it used to feel to draw.

“What if I can’t do it anymore?”

Simon slid closer and rested his chin on Jack’s shoulder.

“You can,” he said softly. “But I know what you mean.”

Jack waited for him to go on. This, too, he was learning. That even when Simon’s words came easy—as they were more and more often with him—sometimes he had to work up to what he wanted to say.

“It’s a mental block. Nothing to do with your ability. But a mental block’s still real.”

He kissed Jack’s cheek. He was so damn sweet.

“Like right now, I can talk to you fine. But when I leave...the next time I see you, I’ll still think about it the whole way here. What if I can’t? What if right now is magic and I can never repeat it.”

Jack wanted to tell him that right now was magic, but he bit his lip. Instead, he stroked Simon’s hair.

“So what do you do? When you worry about that?”

Simon pressed closer and Jack could feel his sigh.

“First I try logic. I go through all the times I’ve done it before, like evidence I can do it again. It usually d-doesn’t work because there’s also evidence to the contrary.”

He twined his fingers through Jack’s.

“Then I think about what the w-worst thing is that could happen. Like, I probably won’t puke the way I used to in s-school,” he said with a shudder. “And I won’t d-die. I’ll feel shitty, and embarrassed, and I’ll want to run.” He squeezed Jack’s hand. “But. Even if it’s bad, I know I can handle it.”

Jack turned and tipped Simon’s face to his for a kiss. He wanted to tell Simon how sorry he was that things couldn’t be easier for him. How much he admired his bravery, his utter fucking guts. But it felt insulting or patronizing, so Jack just stroked his hair and kissed him harder.

“So,” Simon said, with a final kiss to Jack’s lips. “What’s your worst-case scenario?”

Jack closed his eyes, imagining years stretching out before him where he had no escape. No vocation, no projects, no other world than the real one.

“Being just...this. Just a guy who doesn’t have...passion?” Jack said.

He couldn’t meet Simon’s eyes.

“That’s pretty bad,” Simon said.

“I don’t think I could handle it,” he said, realizing that he didn’t have Simon’s confidence that no matter how bad things got he could handle them. There’s more than one way to be strong, Jack, Simon had told him in the woods. No fucking kidding.

After a moment, Simon pulled at his shoulder to get an arm behind him and hugged him tight.

“Then don’t let it happen,” Simon said, and though his voice was gentle, Jack could hear the steel behind it. “Don’t let that asshole take this away from you, Jack.”

“Simon.”

But Jack didn’t have anything more to say. Not really. He let Simon hold him for a minute, enjoyed the feeling of his arms around him.

Please don’t let him leave me too. He’s so lovely—please don’t let him turn out to be something else.

The thought swooped into his mind like an eagle and without thinking he pulled Simon on top of him and held him close.

Simon came willingly, rested his forehead against Jack’s like he could tell it was what he needed. But after a minute, he pulled back, traced Jack’s mouth with his finger, and said, “Draw me something.”

Jack swallowed emotion down. He hadn’t put pen to paper in eight months but Simon wanted it and so Jack would try.

“What do you want me to draw?”

Simon rolled off Jack’s lap and plopped the sketchbook there, then tucked himself to Jack’s side.