Chapter Text
he wakes a little headachey, a little sore, disoriented, a few instants of where the fuck am i before his brain manages to kickstart into some sort of working order. this is simon’s bed. simon brought him home last night, pushed soap into his bed and fucked the absolute living daylights out of him and didn’t kick him out afterwards, but let him stay the night, has left him in bed. the morning light is thin and grey through the skylight cut through the sloping ceiling, bright enough that it must be a decent human hour to get out of bed, so soap hauls himself out from between the soft sheets to pick up his clothes and start fumbling himself into them.
the room is pretty bare, he notices, not that much furniture - just a nightstand and a chest of drawers, one of the drawers still slightly open. there are two big cardboard boxes in the corner look like the sort you get from a mover, heavy-duty, but they’re not labelled.
he’s so fucking curious, but more than anything he wants to see the rest of the flat, so he drifts into the hall, follows it to the end to where he can hear what sounds tantalisingly like a boiling kettle.
the main room is a combined kitchen and living space, and it’s also pretty empty. there’s a small sofa heaped with blankets with a laptop closed on it, a haphazard stack of books on another big packing box beside it like an end table, and then a gorgeous drafting desk against the wall with what looks like a vintage art supply cabinet tucked under it, squares of watercolour painted on something against it.
“help you at all, mactavish?”
he turns around.
simon is leaning against the kitchen counters, a glass of water in his hands, watching him. there’s an amused sort of look on his face, one that can’t be hidden behind the glass as he takes a swallow. he’s fully-dressed, but the navy longsleeve he has on is unstructured, loose, softens him a little. “fuck me, you look like you’re about to pass out again.”
“feel it,” he says, padding over. he isn’t sure exactly when it becomes taking the glass from simon but it happens shockingly naturally, like it was simon’s intention all along. he drains about half of the pint glass in a single go and stops only because he can hear simon fucking laughing at him. “don’t you fuckin’ start. this is your fault.”
“mmhmm.” the kettle clicks off and simon turns around. “you don’t drink tea.” it’s not a question, but at the same time, it is.
“nope,” he answers, follows to watch simon haul two mugs out of his cupboards, dig out a tin of nescafé that probably hasn’t seen daylight in months, and dump a spoonful of that into one mug and a spoonful of loose-leaf tea from a jar into the other. “straight in? livin’ on the edge, simon.”
“takes more than a few leaves to scare me,” comes the answer immediately as simon pours the water in. “sugar? milk?”
soap’s not aware that he’s come so close until he feels simon’s arm against his own, feels the warmth through the sleeve of simon’s shirt. “nah. black.”
“sociopath.” the coffee is pushed toward him without further fanfare. he swaps the water for the coffee immediately. “i’d ask what’s wrong with you, but i think there’s probably too much to list.”
he snorts into the mug. it’s not good coffee, but it’s coffee nonetheless, and he takes as big a gulp as he can stand as simon spoons sugar into the tea and stirs it. “probably make you late for work, aye. what time’s it?”
“quarter past sevenish. chucking-out time soon.”
“thought so,” soap answers, bringing the mug with him to take a closer look at the drafting desk. the paper taped to the board resting on the surface is dedicated to six thumbnails, little landscapes in washes of desaturated colour - a couple of streets, a shopfront, a living room with the loose figure of a man that could be gary sitting in it. “these are cute,” he says, quietly. “well, no, not cute, but... they’re nice. i haven’t done analog paintin’ since i did my course at college.”
simon is still standing by the counter, watches him with a sort of strange, tense expression. “they’re just hobby work. nothing worth staring at.”
“but i like them,” he says, watches the way simon’s eyes drop to the mug of tea in his hands. “maybe it’s just a hobby, but you’ve got barely anythin’ else unpacked and this is set up all nice.” something occurs to him, then - “how long have you lived here? same time as you moved the shop?”
“don’t see how it’s any of your business,” simon replies, but there’s something reluctant in his tone. after a long moment of silence he begins to pad over. “yeah. fresh start.”
he blurts out “breakup?” before he can really engage his brain, and he can see the way simon stands bolt-upright, stiff at the words. “sorry. it’s just - the night price took the header down the steps, gary was sayin’ you had some ex he hated. he was pretty drunk, you can’t be angry at him.”
“yes i fucking can,” simon grouses into his mug. all the give and play has gone out of his voice. “it’s about time you left, isn’t it?”
he’s hit a nerve, he knows, and the ‘right’ thing to do is probably to give ground, give space, but right now he’s not sure that if he steps outside simon’s orbit that he’ll be allowed back in. and he wants to be allowed back in. maybe it’s that the sex has just destroyed anything he had approaching judgement, but -
“i’m not tryin’ to get into your head about it, promise,” he says, sets his mostly-empty cup at the flat end of the desk. “i’m just curious about you, y’know. interested in you.”
maybe that’s the wrong thing to say. the dark eyes flick up at him sharp while the rest of simon stays stock-still. “well that makes it all better,” comes the sarcastic answer, and it looks like he might be about to say something else, but -
“i’d just like to get to know you, i mean.” he reaches over and peels the mug of tea out of simon’s hands slowly to set that aside, too. “go out with you again, just us.”
simon’s lips part as soap presses closer. as soap slides his palms up across his chest, he blinks once, twice. “i don’t -”
“i just want you to think about it.” he slides a hand into the back of simon’s hair, pulls him forward and down gently. simon lets him. “no pressure, nothin’ serious for now, just...” he trails off to lean in that last inch and kiss simon, slow and soft. after a moment a big hand wraps carefully around the back of his neck, one of those raw and beautiful sighs coming out of the other man, and he can’t help but smile against simon’s lips. “alright?”
“you’re so fucking annoying,” simon breathes, but then he’s the one to kiss soap again, drawing back with a soft tug of teeth in his lower lip. “fine. i’ll think about it.”
the smile is a grin now, he knows. he genuinely feels a little bit giddy. “in that case, i’ll see you on wednesday. have fun at work.”
“out.” it’s long-suffering, now, a swat on soap’s arm as he ducks past to go and fetch his coat from the bedroom. “i swear to fucking god, johnny.”
he lets himself out trying not to laugh, and practically bounces down the stairs.
when he gets home, he goes straight to the bathroom to begin running the water, whistling as he goes. it’s only when he starts to his bedroom to get clean clothes and a towel that he notices the two pairs of eyes curiously watching him from beyond the doorway to the living room.
“good morning, john,” jakob greets him from the sofa, in a voice that tries and very much fails to be casual.
hongjin, sprawled across jakob’s lap, just smirks. “looks like you had a good night. i told you i liked that shirt yesterday, didn’t i?”
“don’t either of you fuckin’ start in.” he points at them both firmly. “i’m no’ havin’ it.”
“we’re proud of you!” hongjin singsongs after him as he heads for his room.
he’s not even embarrassed. not until, halfway through his bath, his message alert goes off. he reaches for his phone sitting on the lid of the toilet, and reads what the actual fuck have you done to my best friend?
is he alright?? he sends back to gary, aware he’s frowning, watches the typing indicator pop up.
downright fucking cheery its scaring me
he can’t help the laugh, untensing a little, stretching back out in the hot water. and thats my fault???
unless he lied to me and it wasn’t you he fucked last night?
soap laughs so abruptly he chokes. fuckin hell wheres my privacy??? GDPR??? hello???? he’s not, if he’s honest, that bothered that gary knows. even if, he realises with a wince, there’s a pretty good chance simon has given him the exact play-by-play.
trying to get him to rate you out of ten tbh
i will leave the COUNTRY, he answers.
i’ll come visit ❤️
he locks the phone and puts it down before he drops it in the tub, dragging his hands over his face and shifting down to immerse himself properly. the surreal feeling is back, but he honestly doesn’t hate it. the release of tension is real - he feels so fucking relaxed that he might not manage getting out of the bath, honestly - and if gary’s saying simon is chipper then it’s done him some good, too.
he has to try not to overthink it. he has work he needs to do, anyway, and that’ll keep him occupied for a bit.
it’s just that he gets to occupy himself feeling good. if nothing else, it was worth it for that.
he lasts about ten minutes after he arrives at work on tuesday before he tells gaz. gaz just looks at him, unimpressed, and goes back to scrolling the appointment book. “bloody hell, soap, i’d fucking hope so. own goal of the century if you didn’t end up hitting it after the way you were making eyes at each other.”
soap is faintly offended by that one. “fuck off, you cunt, you’re supposed to be happy for me!”
“i am, mate, it was starting to get pathetic.” gaz just grins at him, catches the scarf from the coatrack as soap balls it up and throws it at him. “he’s in tomorrow, right? you going to need a chaperone?”
soap grimaces. it doesn’t sound like gaz knows, so gary has at least kept that quiet, but - “sure it’ll be fine. shouldn’t even take that long, he sits dead still.”
“you a thing now?”
he shrugs. “his choice.”
“christ, soap.” gaz throws the scarf back at him, and it thumps softly into his shoulder. “you fucking better be, i can’t have you moping and pining and shit. proper ruins the vibes in here.”
he laughs at that and puts the scarf back on the rack. “thanks, gaz, you always know what to say to make me feel better.”
“you’re welcome, darling,” gaz replies, sickly-sweet.
“i’ll take you in now, simon.”
he’s been doing a pretty good job of not fixating too badly, but as simon’s eyes lift from his phone soap’s heart actually fucking skips. “morning.”
“mornin’. d’you have something against all chairs, or is it just ours?”
simon raises an eyebrow at him as he passes soap in the corridor, takes himself into the room. “are you genuinely fucking offended by the way i sit down?”
“wee bit,” he bats back, shutting the door behind the two of them. “like you’re rubbin’ how long your legs are in all of our faces. we get it, you’re fuckin’ tall.”
simon snorts as he turns away to pull his shirt off over his head. “you need better priorities, johnny.”
the nickname makes him far happier than it has any right to. “maybe. looks like it’s healed nicely. can i have a closer look?” it’s healed beautifully, he realises, as simon comes over to stand in front of his stool. the lines are crisp, inky-black, different weights and thicknesses all distinct, and while most of it was price’s foundation soap allows himself to be proud of it, too.
“you happy?” simon asks, quietly.
“esctatic,” he answers with a little laugh. “assume the position, then.”
“buy me dinner first.” there is, he thinks, an amused tone in that low voice. “or a drink, at least.”
once simon’s lying on his side, he starts with his prep, cleaning the skin and taking off the fine hair with the disposable razor. “you say that like i’m not tryin’.”
another soft snort at that. “true.”
it should probably feel awkward. it doesn’t. “just so i know what i’m expectin’, you always get revved up gettin’ worked on? or is it just me?”
“don’t start thinking you’re special.” they’re bantering again, that subtle playful twist in simon’s words. “sometimes. the hot and cold, the pain. sometimes your artist’s fucking handsy and has to be constantly touching you.”
soap looks at where his gloved left hand is spread along simon’s back and grins. “i’m not hearin’ that i’m not special, simon.” the answer is another little scoff, but as soap applies vaseline to where he’ll be working simon stretches subtly under the touch, muscles shifting under his skin, and soap can’t help himself. “don’t get me wrong, i’m not complainin’ about it.”
as soap draws back to set his needles, simon lets out a quiet hum. “‘course not. feeds your ego, doesn’t it?”
“i mean, usually i’d say somethin’ about how i’d rather someone was turned on than sufferin’ and cryin’, but in this case? more that it’s just hot as fuck.” that makes simon actually laugh. “you know, i’m goin’ to be a wee bit offended if you go back to having price as your artist.”
“you going to fight him for me?” there’s a very faint hitch in simon’s voice midway through the sentence as soap sets needles to skin, but he doesn’t move. “i don’t know if pinching me off him right as i’ve come back to him is the best career move.”
“he’s a big boy, i’m sure he’ll cope.” it’s true enough, though. the thighpiece soap now knows is there isn’t price’s work, nor a few of the other smaller pieces. “why’d you stop seein' him in the first place?”
there’s a pause that stretches for a long moment. “wasn’t allowed,” comes the simple, blunt answer. there’s an affected sort of casual quality to it. “too much of a threat, apparently.”
oh. there’s a lot unspoken in those two sentences, but somehow they’re very, very eloquent, and now soap understands completely why simon reacted the way he did to the word ‘breakup’. it’s fucking heartbreaking. “i’m sorry to hear that,” he murmurs, carefully shading another patch of red in the flowers. “guess i won’t be fightin’ price for you, then.”
“why’s that?”
“probably sick of havin’ someone else make decisions for you, aren’t you?” he’s focusing intensely on what he’s doing, because if he lets himself he’s going to get distracted. it’s not unusual that clients get personal during their sessions, but -
well, simon’s not the usual client.
“you’ve got that right,” simon sighs.
he dabs at the excess ink carefully, aware that he touches a little more than he really has to. the blood-red shade in the depths of the petals is, as soap had imagined, a beautiful contrast to simon’s skin. “i won’t actually be offended, y’know.”
simon breathes out that soft single-note laugh. there’s that faint breathy tone just starting to edge into his voice, the one that make’s soap’s pulse quicken in conditioned response. “liar.”
“you know better, do you?” he shoots back.
“you basically told me as much, didn’t you?” soap can’t see it, concentrating as he is, but he’s aware of the way simon shifts his head to be able to glance up and back at him. “or do you just forget everything when you come?”
soap can feel himself flush hot at the words, the attention. “and what exactly did i say?”
“telling me you were fantasising about fucking me rough ‘til i cry isn’t unattached behaviour, you know.”
“jesus christ,” soap breathes. “you need to stop if you want me to do a good job here, simon, i can’t.”
there’s an amused noise at that. “and you implied it was easy to get me turned on.”
“i’m a weak man, what can i say?” he takes a deep breath to try to steady himself. “you can torture me some other time when i’m not putting permanent artwork on you.”
“thought the invitation was implied when you tried to ask me out.” simon pillows his head on his arm again, but his tone is still teasing. “has that ever worked for you before?”
he’s not sure this is better than simon talking about them fucking. this is how you end up with a humiliation kink or something, it has to be. “can’t say i’ve used that exact strategy on anyone before,” soap answers. “usually the ‘let me take you on a date’ happens beforehand.”
“and that works?”
“do you want me to fuck this up, simon? i still can, you know.”
a snort. “what, and take the hit to your pride?”
“you’re the fuckin’ worst, you know that, right?” his cheeks are fucking burning. “never thought i’d see the day when someone out-smartarsed me.”
“better get used to it.” that, too, is said simply, plainly, without any of the weight to it that soap’s brain immediately attaches.
he physically has to lift his right hand, holding the machine, away. “hang on.” soap dabs away the excess ink on autopilot but then he lifts his eyes from simon’s back to his face, can see that keen dark gaze from behind simon’s shoulder. simon’s also a little flushed in the face, but he’s not sure how much of it is down to the tattoo process. “is that -”
“you said it didn’t have to be serious, didn’t you?”
soap swallows. “yeah. i did.”
“then maybe i wouldn’t mind.” simon turns his gaze away. it’s very, very almost self-conscious. “let you buy me that drink.”
he feels a little dazed, honestly, like someone’s come and smacked him in the back of the head with a fucking shovel or something, because he just isn’t prepared for this right now. it’s his first appointment of the day, he’s got something like ninety minutes of work left to do, and simon’s just agreed to go on something resembling a date with him.
he’s got to be a useful member of society for more than seven hours still. this is unfair.
“i’d like that a lot,” soap says, on autopilot. “i’d like that so fucking much, simon.”
the other man just laughs, glances sidelong at him again. the pink of his flush is so, so fucking pretty, makes all of soap’s animal urges want to force their way to the surface all over again. “i can tell. try and focus, johnny.”
“think i’ve changed my mind.” his voice is a little strained as he sets his left hand back on that overheated skin, sets the machine back to the task of filling in the red shadows. “price can have you back no bother. don’t think i can take this every time.”
“you’ll learn,” simon answers, the smug bastard.
as the alarm goes off, he groans. “no,” he whines, burrowing deeper into the warmth of the bed. “not like this.”
the laugh is right beside his ear, soft and deep and sleep-rough on top of the normal-rough. “oh grow up, johnny, you don’t start work ‘til half fucking ten.”
“exactly,” he answers. there are hands trying to pry him off where he’s wrapped around simon’s body like a koala, but he resists, buries his face in the smooth, warm skin of simon’s throat. “it’s fuckin’ six or something. i’m no’ havin’ it.”
“quarter past six, actually,” comes the correction. he’s being pushed over onto his back, spreads his legs to let simon between them. soap can feel his objection to the early wake-up draining away as hands slide down his chest, his stomach, down the outsides of his bare thighs. “i see how it is. not so fussy now, are you...?”
soap’s closed his eyes again, lets his palm skate up simon’s arm to his shoulders and down his chest by feel alone. if he grabs an indulgent handful of simon’s pec, he can’t be blamed, he’s still half-asleep. “suppose not,” he murmurs, luxuriates in the warm touches. a hand roughly squeezes his arse and he can’t help but arch a little. “surely you can stay a little bit longer...”
“‘five minutes’?” with that, all the warmth withdraws entirely, the duvet letting a huge gust of cool air in as simon slides out of the bed all at once. when soap grimaces and opens his eyes again, he has to admit, it’s sort of worth it.
simon riley, tall and solid and perfect, is standing completely naked in the middle of soap’s room, looking for his bag in the mess of their discarded clothes from the night before. the recent tattoo stands out against the pale skin - it’s been nearly two weeks, and the colours are starting to heal in vivid and velvety, the soft grey of the moth’s wings contrasting against the fiery-orange of the petals which in turn harmonise with the colours of the spear tattoo stretched along simon’s thigh. there are fingernail scratches down his back, his hips, his long legs. soap knows that, even if they aren’t visible from this angle, there are two gorgeous bitemarks low on his neck, where it meets his shoulder.
he’s so fucking beautiful, even in the watery morning light through the curtained window, that he’s hard to look at.
“i think i hate you, actually,” soap groans, and pulls the duvet right up to his chin. “never goin’ to hear the end of it, am i?”
“no,” comes the blunt answer, chased with a faint laugh, as simon hauls underwear from his bag and pulls it on. “not until you do something else i can get more mileage out of.”
“this is bullying,” soap protests without any real force behind it. as much of a shame as it is to watch all the adorned skin vanish under simon’s clothes, it’s sort of mesmerising to watch him. it feels startlingly domestic, like he’s watching his boyfriend get ready for work, rather than just... the man he’s sort-of seeing.
he’d said it didn’t need to be serious, but he already wants it to be.
“your latch locks automatically right? i’ll text you later,” simon says as he hauls the pullover on over his head, bedhead made somehow even worse, and as he leans down to retrieve his phone from next to soap in the bed he seems to hesitate.
“what?” soap asks, quietly.
“just thought you’d want to say goodbye properly.” it’s still in that teasing tone of voice, but there’s something in it that makes soap immediately push up on one elbow, reaching for the other, dragging simon into a kiss.
he feels, more than hears, the soft sigh into it, against his mouth, and it hits him like the strongest fucking adrenaline high, makes him grin.
“we work directly across the street from each other, you fuckin’ sap,” he laughs against simon’s lips. “i’ll see you later. promise.”
“i’ll hold you to that,” simon murmurs, and with one last kiss leaves the room with his bag and phone in hand. soap can hear the front door opening and closing from where he lies in bed, still smiling to himself like some fucking lunatic.
maybe he isn’t the only one who wants it to be serious.