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 ants 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.