Work Text:
He was doing it again. Simon. Putting his hair up in a ponytail. Muttering in stream-of-consciousness with bobby pins clenched between his teeth so the words bled together. He’d say you know what I mean? and Horace answered yeah or uh huh even though he didn’t. He was fiddling with every tiny part of his rifle, unmaking all the adjustments he’d already made, screwing and unscrewing the silencer from the muzzle, clicking the safety like you’d click a pen, modifying the scope without looking through it, even though his cross-hairs were already locked on the back of Simon’s neck. His eyes had gotten used to the dark awhile ago, and he almost wished they hadn’t, because now he couldn't keep them to himself.
Pay attention for once. He was always asking for just a little more, give me something here, tell me what’s on your mind, and now Simon was telling him and he wasn’t listening. He was rehearsing an apology for something he hadn’t even done yet.
They were in a cabin—well, a house, basically, the kind of place rich people called a cabin. It was dressed up in a cabin’s dressings, rustic or whatever the hell, but not bothering to hide the full indoor plumbing, the wifi box, the plasma screen hanging over the (fake) fireplace. The house only had two things in common with an actual cabin. One, it was in the middle of god knows where, the pine barrens or something, woods for miles in every direction. Two, it didn’t have electricity, because Simon had cut the wires.
Speaking of Simon. Down to two bobby pins. Window closing.
“—Not even bothering to give us more time. Just making us risk our own necks.”
Horace started, the keyword snagging his attention. “Part of the job,” he managed, hoping it made sense in context.
Simon viciously pulled one of the pins from between this teeth and worked it into his hair. “Our clientele could stand to learn a little common courtesy.”
“And you could stand to learn a little customer service. It’s a buyers market.”
This was only their third time around. Together, at least. Horace would’ve taken on more hits given the chance, but Simon was picky; he always wanted more info, the why that went with the who, something clients weren’t always eager to share. Horace had wondered at first if it was some false sense of justice, if Simon wasn’t satisified playing executioner and wanted to be judge and jury, too. But he’d realized after awhile that it was less about the mark than it was about the person doing the marking.
I’m always game to work with someone who’s been backed into a corner. I don’t care how they got there, he’d said once. It’s opportunists that I hate.
Horace hadn’t mentioned that, when you got down to it, they were opportunists. Wasn’t worth the debate. He’d yet to tie a logic knot that Simon couldn't slip.
Last bobby pin. When Simon reached back this time, Horace swiped it from between his fingers.
“Hey—”
“Let me. You’re doing terrible. This is hard to watch.”
Simon sighed through his nose. “Fine. Make it quick. And don’t pull any of my hair out if you value your life.”
“You done? Any more requests?” Horace leaned forward, gathering up the remaining strands of hair, taking his sweet time pinning it in place. The side of his hand resting against Simon’s neck. This is nothing, his mind reminded him. This is literally nothing. You know that, right?
Rationally, yeah, he knew it. But that didn’t make much of a difference. He rarely—almost never—got the chance to touch Simon. And even when he got the chance, he didn’t always have the guts. Sometimes the prospect felt like handling something fragile, a glass ornament. Sometimes it was more like touching a hot stove. Either way, not something he did lightly.
What if I were to…
He stared at Simon’s neck, first vertebra. Not something he could get away with easy. He hesitated, then leaned in, curling his fingers into Simon’s ponytail to move it aside.
“Horace,” Simon said, softly, making him freeze mid-motion.
“...What?”
“Hear that?”
Horace blinked. Listened. Maybe… the crackle of gravel. Purr of an engine. A second later yellow light splashed the opposite wall, crawling up the furniture, illuminating the profile of Simon’s face. Glinting off his teeth. He was grinning.
“Showtime.”
Horace opened his eyes on complete darkness.
His head was killing him. Felt like he’d taken a steel-toe to the skull. He closed both hands, automatically, but his gun wasn’t in either.
Tried to sit up. Vertigo threw him back down. His first coherent thought was The hell happened? Then, Simon.
He tried to say it out loud, but when he inhaled to speak pain went through his windpipe like he’d been punched in the throat. He gripped his neck; there was an indent in his skin, smarting like rugburn when he touched it.
Things were starting to take shape around him. He was on his back on the floor, the couch he’d been sitting on looming to his left, the glass coffee table, smashed to pieces, on his right. He stretched out his leg and his foot hit something, soft but heavy.
“Simon,” he wheezed, panic hitting him like freezing water.
“Guess again.”
Horace flinched, chin snapping up.
Simon was standing in the kitchen doorway, a few yards away. His hands were out in front of him, palms down, like his fingers were resting on piano keys. Horace took in a deep gulp of air. Thank fucking god.
“Are you okay?” He managed, voice creaking. Still out of breath. Things still tilting.
“...Are you?” Simon raised an eyebrow. Probably. His face was swimming before Horace’s eyes. “I’m not the one who got choked out.”
He was starting to remember, a little. Getting knocked to the floor. Gun kicked out of his hand with so much force that if he’d been a half second slower it would’ve broken his trigger finger. Something cinching around his neck.
“...What’d he get me with?”
“Extension cord.”
“Damn it. How the hell did he manage to get the jump on us?”
“Don’t feel too bad.” Simon held up the backs of his hands; the knuckles were glistening. Bloody. He looked calm, but his hair had been ripped free of it’s clip and he was listing slightly to the right, putting more weight on that leg. “There were two of them.”
“The hell happened to you?” Horace said, nodding at Simon’s hands. Even that small motion made him nauseous.
“They got a hold of my piano wire,” Simon said, letting out a few little spikes of giddy laughter. “Garrote-happy bastards. Lucky it wasn’t my neck.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Sure am. Don’t think I spattered any, though. We’ll have to get a better look when there's a little more light.” Simon turned back toward the dark kitchen, already starting to tie his hair up again. “Don’t pass out on me. Easy part’s over. We’re just getting started.”
Horace blinked, bringing things into focus. Despite himself—despite the lifeless form inches from the toe of his boot, the dark splotches forming and reforming in his periphery, the pain in his throat whenever he took a breath—his eyes landed on that same spot again, the nape of Simon’s neck, first vertebra. Click. Reset. Just like that.
He got to his feet.
Horace had gotten to know Simon twice now.
First the daydream, then the nightmare, seeing the way the sides played off each other, merging and splitting, neither quite real but neither wholly invented, either. It was like with everyone, he guessed, showing different sides of themselves to different people, in different contexts, but he saw both sides of Simon so often and in such quick succession that it gave him whiplash. Getting used to that cackling laugh that sounded like it was coming through an old speaker. Passing by a hotel bathroom and catching a glimpse of that serene face in the mirror, like seeing a ghost. Simon deranged, sizzling with malice, snapping like a live wire. Simon curled up in the passenger seat, humming along with the radio, eating cereal out of one of those tiny boxes he’d stolen from a continental breakfast two states back.
It was like being on a carousel, going in circles and stuck in place, all at once, dazzling one second and sickening the next. It made Horace dizzy, exhausted him to the brink of collapse, but anything was better than getting off for good.
Besides. At the end of the day—and the beginning, and the middle, and late at night half awake listening to Simon mumbling in his sleep one bed over—he liked both sides and the whole spectrum between.
Not that it did him any good.
“If you wanna play doctor so bad, play by yourself.”
“I’m not the one who’s trying to bleed all over the crime scene,” Horace pointed out, unscrewing the lid from a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “You wanna get caught like that? Hands out.”
“The blood’s dry already,” Simon complained.
“What’s the matter? You’re not scared, are you?”
“Don’t try to provoke me. It’s pathetic.”
“Top-tier killer for hire, Simon Keyes, scared of a little sting. How adorable.”
Simon’s lips curled back into a sneer, but he put his hands out, knuckles up.
They were in the trunk of the van, the closest thing they had to a permanent hideout, parked about a half mile from the scene. There was still cleanup to do—they’d agreed from the get-go not to hire an outside party for that. Too much of a liability. It was going to be a particular pain in the ass this time around, what with the extra stiff and signs of struggle, but at least they didn’t have to rush. No one was expecting these guys back for at least a few days.
“How do you wanna play it this time?” Horace said, soaking some of the alcohol into a monogrammed washcloth he’d taken from the scene. He made a mental note to destroy it later. “Make it look like they did each other in?”
“We’ll have to. No way to do a clean sweep since you panicked and shot him in the den,” Simon said dispassionately. “We’d have to rip the whole carpet up, and even then, the blood probably soaked through. That’s sloppy work, even for you.”
“So sorry,” Horace grumbled. “Next time I’m about to get strangled I’ll try to do it in a more convenient spot.”
“Not my fault you let your guard down.”
Irritated, Horace gripped Simon’s wrist and pressed the washcloth against his knuckles. Simon winced, locking his jaw. A tremor went through his body; Horace could feel it where their knees touched, then again at his palm. He let up on the pressure without thinking. “You alright?”
“Shut up. What do you think?” Simon’s eyes glinted and Horace realized, with a start, that he was blinking back tears. He hadn’t seen that in… when was the last time? It’d been ages.
“Hey, hey,” Horace reached up with the cloth then twitched back, remembering the alcohol. “Don’t. Knock it off.”
Simon snickered, dabbing at his own eyes with his sleeve. “That’s nostalgic.”
“...What is?”
“You used to do that all the time. Try to get me to stop crying. When we were kids. You said the same thing then, too. Knock it off.”
“You remember that?”
“Don’t you?”
“...Yeah, sorta.” He barely got the last syllable out before his throat constricted, trying to cut the breath out of the words, liar, liar, liar. “...Did you? Stop crying, I mean.”
Simon looked at him. Right in the eyes, that look that always made him feel like—
“...No.”
—Like he was being pushed, gently, underwater. Not resisting.
“I couldn’t stop on command. Not back then. Not like I can now.” Simon shrugged and his eyes ghosted away. He looked down at his knuckles and clicked his tongue. “It’d be nice if I could stop bleeding on command, too, wouldn’t it?”
“Here.” Horace picked up the gauze and started unwinding it from the spool. “Straighten your fingers out.”
Simon held his hands out flat. Horace pressed the end of the gauze to the backs of his knuckles, diluted blood seeping pink through the white cloth. He wrapped it around tight, twice, then weaved it between Simon’s fingers.
“You’re actually not bad at this.”
“What do you mean, actually?” Horace muttered. “You have to take first aid training to be a bodyguard. Besides, it’s not rocket science.”
“You don’t really come across as the tending type.”
“Yeah? Compared to who? You, Mr. tender loving care? Other hand.”
Simon didn’t cry this time, barely reacting to the disinfectant sting. Quick study.
It was quiet for a minute, a question precariously balanced on the tip of Horace’s tongue. Even with the excuse to ask, it felt risky. There were some topics that were just straight-up off limits—asking about how Simon had been interrogated, for example, back when he was at the orphanage. That was a non-starter. Horace wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. He felt guilty enough just knowing he hadn’t been there to stop it.
Some topics weren’t quite taboo, though, just… dicey. Like this one.
“...Do you remember everything? From—before?” Horace said, determinedly keeping his eyes down, on the gauze. He didn’t have to clarify before what.
There was a lull. He could feel Simon watching him.
“...Not everything,” He answered, finally. Guarded. “I pick up bits and pieces.”
“...Like?”
“What’s it matter?” Simon said briskly. That stung. It matters to me, Horace wanted to say, but didn’t. I’d like a nice memory or two. He barely remembered anything from before. He felt that Simon was dear to him, always had been, even when they were kids, but he had nothing to back it up. Nothing he could point to and say, there, see, I looked out for you. The only thing he could remember was saying sorry, and again, sorry, I’m so sorry. The earliest clear memory he had of Simon was of betraying him.
“Don’t get all touchy,” Horace muttered. “I’m just asking.”
“You’re always just asking something. Here’s an idea. Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“Little brat. Forget it.” Horace secured the end of the gauze, taking a little longer than he had to, but he couldn’t stall forever. When everything was in place, Simon started to pull his hand back. Horace caught him, held on, without thinking. Simon looked at him. Not that look again. One corner of his mouth twitched up—amusement, confusion, disdain, all stirred together. Once more he tried to pull back and Horace held on, again, on purpose this time.
“What?” Simon said, eyes narrowing. “Can I help you? What’s that idiot look on your face?”
Horace bowed his head. Two risky moves right in a row, he thought, almost resignedly. Not the most expert strategy, maybe, but he’d never been one to turn down a pin when he saw an opening. Guess I’m something of an opportunist myself.
Drawing Simon’s hand up, he pressed a kiss to his knuckles.
He felt him flinch, more satisfying than recoil slamming his shoulder back, but leaving the same dull ache after. He let go. Simon’s hand slipped out of his, their fingertips catching briefly.
Horace turned away, pushing the ajar trunk door open, cracking his neck to the side. He kept his voice steady. Like nothing happened. “Don’t scratch at the bandages. You’ll open the wounds up again. Got it?”
“...Fine.” Simon’s voice held steady too.
“Let’s get to work.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this. Something that just barely crossed the line.
When he’d turned eighteen, finally free of the system, Horace had gone abroad for a year. Severed contact completely. Not that it was all that difficult; finding Simon was a hell of a lot harder than losing him. It had seemed almost paranormal at the time, the way Simon was able to drop off the map like he did; in retrospect, Horace realized he hadn’t had a choice. He’d been running for his life.
But he hadn’t known any of that then.
All he’d known was that he was hooked, that he was lovesick practically out of his mind, and that he shouldn’t be. He had thought if he could put a little distance between them—a good six thousand miles, maybe—he could shake off the feeling that there wasn’t anyone else on the entire planet.
And in a way, it had worked. Bad at first—real bad—then a little better, and a little better, longer and longer stretches of time not actively pining himself into an early grave. By the end of the year Horace had been brimming with overconfidence, thinking he’d figured it out, that it had just been kid stuff after all.
That was his first chance to get out for good. First of many.
He’d had a phone number for Simon—digits scribbled on a slip of paper and tucked in his wallet behind his ID—and that was it. Probably a burner. He probably won’t even answer. What could it hurt?
Two rings and a click. The voice, a little cautious, mistrusting. Horace could still replay it in his head, even now.
...Hello?
Hey, miss me? Let’s catch up.
It had taken him all of three seconds to get knocked off his high horse, that goddamn emotional carousel spinning the ground out from under him. Simon catching sight of him across a parking lot and waving, swinging his arm high over his head. Smiling. His hair had gotten longer, dyed a different color this time, but otherwise just the same.
Horace, over here!
Like a sledgehammer to the chest. Ah. So that’s how it is, huh?
They’d walked around talking until it got dark, until it started to snow, stepping carefully so they didn’t slip on the black ice that patched the sidewalk. Simon bundled up in about fifteen layers of clothing.
You’re that cold?
Aren’t you?
Nah. Feel.
Horace had slipped his ungloved hand into Simon’s coat pocket. Laced their fingers together.
Oh! Simon flinching, then laughing. It had sounded so real at the time, but like everything, now Horace wondered how much of it had been for show. You’re right. Warm.
You’re freezing. No wonder you hate the cold.
...I didn’t always.
An offhand comment. Supposedly. In context, though, it had probably been a well-aimed jab. And damn if it hadn’t struck home.
Another time, paying Simon a visit to tell him he had a new job, heading overseas for awhile. Just stopping in to say goodbye. Getaway attempt number… what was it now? He almost hadn’t gone, knowing it’d be better for him if he didn’t. Knowing that he was only paying the pain forward. That he’d spend his first week and probably his first month in Zheng Fa completely heartsick, burnt out and empty like a spent shell. He’d read that contract and signed it.
So, he gave himself a little something.
Wanna play a match?
Don’t you have to go?
A quick one.
It never was, though, was it? They always fell down into it, sitting on the floor hunched over a chessboard. Starting off playful, breaking each other’s focus, false moves, mini games. Things would get quieter after awhile. Then quieter. They’d go an hour without saying a word.
Simon was four turns from checkmate when he made a wrong move. The defeat that had been tightening around Horace’s neck had come loose, suddenly, possibilities opening up again.
Hey. You’re not going easy on me, are you?
Simon had smiled that gentle smile. Just keeping you a little longer.
Horace had lost anyway. Then he couldn’t put it off anymore. Sitting on the mat in the doorway, putting his boots on as slowly as possible, Simon hovering over him, good luck at your job—
Horace had grabbed him by the wrists and pulled him down quick, toppling him into an embrace. A messy thing. Not the two-second, standard-issue hugs he’d allowed himself in the past. Resting his forehead where Simon’s neck met his shoulder. Wrapping both arms around his waist, tight.
Simon had stiffened, then relaxed, squeezed back just as hard.
That’d been real, hadn’t it?
The motel they were bunkered down in was especially trashy this time around.
They were staying on the lower floor. The room was tiny. Two twins, strangely low ceiling. A cocktail of smells as unpleasant as they were baffling; burnt hair, cream-alcohol gone sour, glue. Two vending machines were parked right outside, not only blocking the lower half of the window, but making a humming noise that was maddening when it got quiet. And it had been quiet for awhile now.
Same drill. Cut down, clean up, hide out, wait for a call. They usually watched TV to see if their handiwork came up on the news, but the TV in the room only had three channels, three varieties of static. At one point they’d had a police scanner to tune into, but it’d been stolen along with their last car. What a life.
Simon had said maybe five words to him while they were staging the scene, all of them commands. He’d walked ahead when they’d had to trek back to the van again, then slept on the drive back. Supposedly. Drastic avoidance maneuvers.
It was just a kiss. Not even a real one. Not even that. How long are you planning on icing me out for?
Now they were boxed into this crypt-sized motel room, vending machine drone hitting from one side and glue-smell swinging from the other, nothing to watch, not even room to pace. Simon reclining on his bed, eyes shut but not asleep, practically emitting silence. Horace was pretty sure if he could keep his mouth shut until the phone rang, if he could let the tension disperse on it’s own, a little at a time, he could get out of this situation without breaking anything. He could let his little gambit, his step over the boundary, become just another thing they never talked about.
But goddamnit. He wanted something to break. Why else would he keep knocking things over?
“Hey, Simon.”
His voice startled even him, cracking the extended quiet like gunshot. Simon didn’t react, at first; then he opened one eye. “What is it?”
Horace leaned against the window frame, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tell me something you remember from when we were kids.”
Simon opened the other eye. He had a mildly disdainful look on his face, like he couldn’t believe Horace had the audacity to even speak to him. He just stared for a moment, then sat up slowly, tilting his head to the side. “...Why don’t you tell me something?”
Horace felt his shoulder’s rise subconsciously. He broke eye contact. Simon snickered, eyes glinting.
“Oh, that’s funny. That’s actually pretty funny! You don’t remember anything, do you?” Simon let out one of his cackling laughs, falling back against the pillows. “Lucky you.”
Horace blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“...Nothing. What did I tell you? It doesn’t matter. Next subject. Next.”
A flinty spark of anger caught in the back of Horace’s throat. “Why are you the one who gets to decide that it doesn’t matter?”
Simon tapped his temple. “Because I’m the one who remembers.”
“You little bastard. You really piss me off sometimes, y'know that?”
“Ooh, scary. Shouldn’t you be grateful? I’d love to ditch a bunch of my memories. Maybe I should go lock myself in a freezer, or something.” He smiled. More like a grimace. “Hey, you want these? You’re always needling me to share, right? Wish you could take them off my hands.”
Horace studied him. There was something, just under the surface of Simon’s words, an edginess. Nervousness, even. “...It wouldn’t kill you to tell me anyway.”
“You wanna be my therapist, now? That’s a riot.”
“I’m not trying to be your therapist, I’m trying to be your friend.”
“And that’s all, right?”
Horace stiffened. His mouth went dry. Simon was looking right at him, a direct challenge, but he couldn’t say a word.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Simon muttered, reclining again, disinterested. “Wonder if you even know what you want from me.”
“What do you want?” Horace snapped, before he could stop himself. When he got right down to it, that was the question. That was what he was always asking, in some roundabout way.
He didn’t add the second part: how can I get it for you?
There was a pause, then Simon sat up. Crossing his legs, he leaned forward, smiling.
“I want you to stop,” He said, and his voice was light, almost cheerful, so much so that it took Horace a second to feel the words cut. Deep. “Stop acting out. Stop trying to get something from me. Stop trying to give something to me. I don’t have anything for you, and I don’t want anything from you. How’s that? Clear enough?”
Horace didn’t answer. Simon had said worse things to him, in the past, but they always felt like feints, only meant to nick him, make a point. These were aimed center-mass. For a minute there was silence, the hum of the vending machines creeping into the room, then recoiling when Simon spoke again.
“You’re pulling on a string that’s not attached to anything, Horace.” His voice had gone quiet, but not soft. He’d stopped smiling. “You’ll be in for a nasty shock when you get to the end and there’s nothing there.”
It sounded final, spoken like a closing line, but Horace wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.
That can’t be it. He thought, not sure if he believed it or just desperately wanted to. That can't be all there is.
“Then why the hell are you fighting back so hard?” He said, finally. “If there’s really nothing left to find, why don’t you let me hurry up and not find it?”
That seemed to catch Simon by surprise, if only for a second. He looked away, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, standing. “...I don’t know what you expect me to say,” he muttered, trying to sidestep Horace, withdraw from the conversation.
Oh no you don’t. Not this time. Horace blocked his path.
“If you really want to get rid of me, how about saying that? You could do all of this on your own, y'know. You don't need my help. If you want me to leave, why not just come out with it?"
Simon stopped. Tilted his head to the side, slowly. He would’ve looked curious if there was even a trace of an expression on his face.
But there was nothing. Blank.
“So if I say that, you’ll go?”
Horace hesitated. That terror of his gun being kicked out of reach, the shape of someone advancing toward him in the dark—it couldn’t hold a candle to this.
“Yeah,” He said. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll do it for you.”
Rage flickered up through Simon’s face, all at once, fire catching fuel. Horace found himself reeling like he’d been hit with a blast of heat, automatically trying to stumble back, but Simon grabbed him by the collar before he could.
“Don’t,” He snarled, “Agree to that so easily.”
Horace caught his breath. For maybe the first time since he'd gotten on, he felt the carousel slow.
Simon’s fist curled into his shirt. “You just do whatever anyone tells you to do, don’t you? You’ve always been like this. Acting like you don’t have a choice. Find someone to take orders from and it’s yes, sir, whatever you say.”
Horace started to retort but Simon beat him to the punch.
“But not with me.”
Slower, now. Things that had always been blurred starting to pick up detail, coming into focus.
“I can’t get rid of you now, can I?” Simon’s voice was rising, and for some reason all Horace could think was he’s not doing it on purpose. “You used to leave all the time. All the time. Always leaving. Now I can’t shake you off to save my life. Think I haven’t tried? I came at you with the absolute worst I had. I all but told you to fuck off and die and you said make me. And that’s all it takes? Just ask nicely? "
The faster he spoke, the slower the world turned.
For a minute it was quiet. Horace couldn’t answer; the sudden end of the momentum had wrenched him forward, sending his mind stumbling into the dark, brilliant lights blinking out, and he couldn’t see, and then—he could.
Simon’s grip slackened. “...What a letdown.”
So that’s it?
All this time. A lifetime, practically, spent feeling sorry for himself, afraid to expect anything, afraid to hold out hope. Hanging on for dear life just for the chance to turn in the same circle, because letting go meant risking the most terrifying possibility—that he was wrong.
And all this time, he’d been right.
“You want me to stay, don’t you?”
Simon, who had started to turn away, flinched to a stop. Gaze unfocused, aimed at the floor but looking at nothing. He shook his head, but his expression was stunned, dazed, like a flash had gone off in front of his eyes.
“All the other times, too. You wanted me to stay. Didn’t you?”
He shook his head, again, snapping his eyes shut. Then he did something Horace hadn’t seen in a long, long time; he reached up and covered both ears with his hands.
Can’t see you. Can’t hear you.
“Aren’t you embarrassed saying something so idiotic?” Simon said, under his breath. Horace reached out and gripped his wrists, tried to pull his hands from his ears, but he held fast. “Why would I have wanted you around? I hated your guts back then. I thought you deserved to die. Or did you forget that, too?”
He was throwing barbs, but Horace could barely feel them. “Simon.”
“All you were to me then was a traitor.” His voice had gone funny, a strange, soupy monotone, like he was heavily medicated. “Why the hell would I have wanted you to stay?”
Horace pulled on his wrists again, this time pulling Simon in with them. Getting close enough that he knew he could be heard. “Put your hands down,” he said, “And I’ll tell you.”
Simon hesitated, then shook his head again, rapidly.
“No way?” Horace muttered. “Fine. Then I’ll show you.”
He let go of Simon’s wrists and took hold of his neck, thumbs resting on either side of his windpipe, where he could feel the pulse. Kicking like crazy. Before he could think too hard about it, he tilted Simon’s head back and kissed him.
Simon didn’t lean in, didn’t pull away. Motionless but yielding, like Horace was telling him something and he was listening.
Oh, this is… this is like...
No. He had nothing. Nothing comparable to this. This was like kissing Simon Keyes for the first time in his life.
He had to pull himself together. Every part of him wanted to push Simon back, down, but he stopped himself. Withdrew. Somehow. Simon opened his eyes. His hands started to slip, then dropped, like the strings had been cut.
They looked at each other.
“You don’t have to ask nicely,” Horace said, and then he was almost pleading. “Just ask.”
There was a long pause.
“Once,” Simon said, finally. “One time. That’s it. So listen carefully.”
“...I’m listening.”
Simon moved in, resting his forehead on Horace’s shoulder. Leaning into him. Putting real weight on him.
“...You had better not leave me again.”
Full stop.
Horace wrapped his arms around Simon, clutched him, maybe too tight, but he didn’t seem to mind.
Not exactly a request, he thought, but I’ll take it.
Horace hadn’t slept this well in years.
He didn’t have a single dream. Lights out, fully unconscious. Something that had been gnawing at the wires of his mind for years, sparking him awake in the middle of the night, had finally dropped dead.
It took him a minute to realize he was awake, staring at the motel room ceiling. He looked to his right.
Simon was sitting cross-legged on the other bed, balancing a knife, point-down, on the tip of his index finger. Something he did when he was thinking. Horace watched him for a second before speaking.
“Morning, gorgeous.”
The knife wobbled; Simon expertly moved his wrist to right it again, never looking away. “Afternoon, more like. It’s almost two.”
Horace sat up. “What, for real? Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Not my job,” Simon said, shrugging. He glanced at Horace out of the corner of his eye, then away again. “...Besides, you could use the extra sleep. It’s been a real 48 hours.”
“Yeah," Horace said, dreamily. "Hey, didn’t we kill some guys earlier?”
Simon let out a snort of laughter; the knife tried to fall and he swooped it back into place again. Horace watched him, eyes drawing the line of his profile. His hair was down, resting on his shoulders, which were hunched; Simon had never had great posture. He looked well-rested, though. If Horace had gotten his way, he might not have.
Oh well. That’s a move for another day. The thought stole through him, a heady thrill, total joy, ridiculously unearned happiness. Suck it, karma. He felt like the floor had started to turn again, lights blinking back on, music starting up. Things weren’t about to get any less hectic. The ride wasn’t about to shut down for good.
But this time, he felt like he’d dragged Simon up on the platform with him.
“The hell are you staring at?” Simon muttered. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah. Do a trick, clown boy.”
“Funny. You’d be wise to stay on my good side, y’know.” He flicked the knife into the air. It did a somersault and he caught it by the handle.
“They’re all good.”
“Watch it, wise guy. I’ll get you.”
Horace leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head, and grinned. “Come and get me, then.”