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.