(no subject)
The first time Matt meets Simon, it’s on the stairs of his flat building, right as Simon is about to fall.
Matt is the kind of person that isn’t always paying attention, so it’s only by luck that he happens to look up as he begins ascending the stairs, just in time to see Simon trip half a flight above him. There’s a second where he can only watch in horror, and then his groceries go flying as he rushes to catch him before he falls.
It doesn’t quite work. He can’t stop the man from falling, but his useless grip does slow him down enough that the impact isn’t (he hopes) quite as bad. Even so, the man still swears loudly when he collides, and even as Matt begins freaking out, some part of his brain manages to register that he swore in French, because that’s the language he starts to babble in.
“Jésus-Christ, es-tu d’accord?! Is anything broken?! Do you need to go to the hospital?!”
The man groans and hauls himself into a sitting position, rubbing his nose and wincing sharply. “No, no, c’est d’accord, je-” And then he pauses, and looks up at Matt, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Français?”
“Quoi?” Matt says blankly, and then it clicks. “Eh, half. My mother was French.”
“Ah. So you are...”
“Américain.”
“Ah.” His brows drop and he extends a hand and smiles. “Simon.”
“Matt.” Simon’s hand is warm when he takes it. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Simon grins crookedly. “I’m fine,” he says, the change to English making his voice go slightly rough. Matt takes a second to be surprised while Simon looks behind his legs. “Sorry about your groceries.”
Matt turns to look back at where his food now lays in a mess across the floor; the tomatoes and bread have been squished by the milk and the eggs are everywhere. Internally, he groans.
“Yeah, well...” He sighs. “Better I go hungry for a week than a new neighbor die.” He looks back at Simon. “You are a new tenant, right?” Because he’s not seen him around the building before, and there are only four other tenants.
“Yes. Just moved in last week.” Simon stands up and grins sheepishly. “I’m very sorry. Let me make it up to you.”
“You don’t-”
“I want to,” he insists. “I’m a good cook. Let me make you dinner tonight.”
Matt flushes. He’s not sure that’s a good idea, because he’s beginning to notice that Simon is tall, and lean, and has unruly black hair and soft hazel eyes and his chin is covered in stubble and has a slightly crooked grin and the whole thing is really quite sexy. The French accent isn’t helping. Dinner sounds a bit too much like a date, even if it isn’t.
He frowns. “I don’t know...”
“Please.” Simon looks pleading. “I feel awful.”
And Matt is weak, so he says yes.
--
Matt’s last name is Silber. He’s twenty and works as a bartender. He’s going to university for a degree in macroeconomics. His father was American and his mother was French. He was raised in Alexandria, Virginia but spent most of his time in Washington, D.C. and is only going to school here because his uncle Walter, who pays his tuition, is making him, so please excuse him as he switches between American slang and British, because there are some terms he refuses to adopt. Like snog. Or knickers.
Simon’s last name is Baudelaire. He’s twenty-three and has lived in France his whole life but has cousins in England that he had to visit every summer which is why he knows the language. He spent five years studying Fine Art and now he’s a freelance artist taking a year abroad for inspiration. He’s currently looking for galleries that would be willing to display his work. He also smokes.
They learn all this about each other as Simon helps Matt clean up the groceries and bring what’s left back to his flat. Matt notices that Simon catches it when he mentions his parents in past tense, but he doesn’t say anything, for which Matt is grateful. It’s not something he likes to discuss.
When they finish, Simon invites him to his flat, insisting that he owes Matt a drink. The flat is only half unpacked but it still has a warm feeling to it, making him feel relaxed as he sits down and accepts a glass of wine. They continue to talk while Simon moves around the tiny kitchen, chopping and frying and stirring something that smells divine. Matt hasn’t had real home-cooked food in years and it’s making him drool.
“So why macroeconomics?” Simon asks as he minces garlic. He does it like a pro and it’s mesmerizing to watch.
“It’s the only field of business I’m good at,” he answers. “And Walter wanted me to go into business. I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“What did you want to do?”
Matt blinks. “What?”
“You said Walter wanted you to go into business,” he clarifies. “I assume that means you wanted to do something else.”
I did, he almost says, but stops himself. It was a silly dream, and there’s no use dwelling on it now.
“Not really,” he says instead. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so he gave me direction. Otherwise I’d still be undeclared.”
He glances up and catches Simon’s gaze, and feels something shoot through his gut that’s both thrilling and terrifying, like those hazel eyes are looking right through him. “I see,” Simon says. His tone is odd and it makes Matt think the artist can tell he’s lying. He shifts guiltily.
“Why art?” he asks, relaxing when Simon smiles.
“I was always a good artist,” he explains, dumping the contents of the cutting board into a pot on the stove. “Ever since I was young I always loved to make art. My parents were supportive so by the time I was a teenager, I knew what I wanted to do. And here I am.”
“Cool.” The aroma of the food is amazing. “God, what’re you making? It smells fantastic.”
Simon laughs, and Matt flushes because wow, that is a really sexy sound. “You’ll see,” he says. Matt just nods because he doesn’t trust his mouth right now.
It turns out to be tomato soup and garlic bread, both which have no right to be as delicious as Simon manages to make them. Matt can’t stop saying how delicious it is, which must be annoying but Simon just teases him and calls him a food slut.
“You’d be too if you had to live on sandwiches and frozen meals,” he retorts. “I can cook eggs and toast and pancakes. Sometimes not even.”
Simon laughs. “Tell you what. Since I destroyed your groceries. I’ll make you dinner for the next week.”
Matt stares. “Really?”
“Yeah. I cook for myself anyway and food tastes better when you have someone to share it with.” He grins. “You can even keep the leftovers.”
Matt thinks he might be in love.
--
They make small talk for the rest of the night; then Matt helps with the dishes and they say goodbye, Simon asking he has any requests. Matt replies that he’s allergic to peaches and won’t eat salmon.
His flat, which is old and very small, containing only a bedroom, bathroom and living room connected to a tiny kitchen, seems even smaller than usual that night, reminding Matt of how lonely he really is. He hasn’t had a boyfriend since high school, his closest friend is across the Atlantic and he hates his uncle and family. He’s been living alone a long time, not entirely by choice, and Simon’s company for those few hours have made him acutely aware of it.
He goes to bed almost sad enough to cry.
--
The feeling lessens and worsens as the month goes on.
They can’t have dinner every night; uni’s starting again and Matt works until midnight. But Simon insists that he still owes him a week’s worth of meals, so Matt makes it over when he can. They talk and laugh and find out more about each other, and it’s nice.
Simon tells Matt more about his life and his art; he works primarily in charcoal and pastel, secondarily in photography and he hates painting. He grew up in Rhodes and studied in Paris, and he’s already been featured in several galleries there. Matt thinks that’s amazing (and is reminded of his own lost art, but tries not to dwell on it). Matt tells Simon about growing up near D.C., the classes that he hates and the interesting people that come to the pub. Within three dinners he feels like he’s known Simon his whole life.
But it’s also difficult. Matt begins to realize Simon is ruggedly handsome and just his type; relaxed but focused, free but controlled. His smile and his laugh make Matt’s stomach flutter. It’s wonderful and awful and Matt can’t help longing though he knows he shouldn't, because Matt has plain brown hair and eyes and is a boring macroeconomics major, and Simon isn’t going to be interested in him.
--
Actually, that’s a lie; Simon may very well be interested in him, but Matt isn’t sure a relationship would be a such a good idea at this point.
One Sunday a month, Matt is required to join his uncle and family for dinner. The experience consists of eating gourmet food in an elaborate dining room in the manor house (because Walter is extremely wealthy and never lets anyone forget it) and being interrogated about his life and school and stealthily put-down when he doesn’t measure up to the fantastic achievements of Walter’s children. It’s even worse because technically, he’s not even related to Walter. Brigitte, his wife, is Matt’s mother’s sister. But Walter’s head of the household, so he’s the one that gets to take control.
Tonight consist of Juliette and René, his older cousins, bragging about their amazing feats (Juliette will be graduating early from med school; René is interning with an award-winning chemist), then Nicholas, the youngest, still in secondary school, bragging about being top of his class for term once again. Then Brigitte, a fashion designer, brags about how well her new line is doing, and finally Walter brags about how well his company is doing.
Then it’s Matt’s turn.
“So, Matthew,” Walter begins, because he never uses Matt’s preferred name, “term has started. What are you taking?”
Matt knows he asks this because he once tried to take an extra-curricular class Walter didn’t approve of, and his tuition was cut off. Now, he only takes economics courses, which he lists.
Walter smiles. “Good. Any chance for field experience?”
“I haven’t checked.”
“But you will, yes?” He’s very adamant about Matt making connections so he can have a good job once he graduates.
“Of course.”
“Excellent. Good to see you showing some initiative, especially when you’re usually so lacking in it.” Matt flinches as Walter smirks, and thus comes the monthly barrage of criticism and mocking that he has to call a family dinner.
--
He leaves feeling miserable and wanting to cry. When he gets home, he sits down at the piano in his living room, and begins to play a sorrowful tune, reminiscing.
He was going to be a musician once. He was good, constantly performing and even writing some of his own music. He won several scholarships and his mother, who didn’t earn a lot of money, would help him with student loans.
Then the accident happened, and he lost her and his younger sister. She didn’t have life insurance and had left little money behind, two of his scholarships were pulled to go to “more qualified students”, and, unable to find another adult who could co-sign a loan, Matt couldn’t pay the tuition. Desperate for money, he had turned to Brigitte and Water, whom his mother had never liked for their snobbish attitudes.
Walter had agreed on the condition that Matt would attend college in England and give up on his music, which wasn’t a ‘safe’ field. He hadn’t wanted to, but he had been desperate to attend a good college so he agreed and went into economics, which he had been decent at. His original plan was to save up enough money to go back to the US for music, but over the years, Walter and Brigitte, who had always considered music a fool’s dream, had convinced him that he wasn’t good enough to make it in the field. “After all,” he remembers Walter saying one night, “why else would they have taken two of your scholarships?”
It was that more than anything that had convinced him that he wasn’t good enough, and he had given up, convinced that he would just fail if he tried and would have been miserable for the rest of his life.
He wonders if that really would have been so much different than how he is now.
--
He cheers up quickly, however, when Simon starts inviting him over for dinner every night he can make it. Spending time with the artist makes him happier than he’s been in ages. It’s rather disconcerting.
“Can I ask you a favor?” Simon asks suddenly one night in February.
“Sure.”
“Will you be a model for me?”
Matt blinks. “What?”
“A gallery in town agreed to show some of my work, but I need a few more pieces. I was wondering if I could use you as a model.”
“Why me?”
Simon shrugs. “I don’t really know anybody else.”
Matt thinks for a moment.
“Will I have to be naked?” Because he’s sure that would be A Very Bad Idea.
Simon laughs. “I’ll let you keep your knickers.”
Which is less than what Matt would like, but Simon looks pleading, so he says yes.
--
Modeling, as it turns out, involves Matt stripping down to his underwear and posing on either a bunch of pillows or a chair for long periods of time while being slowly roasted alive by the extremely hot spotlights Simon has focused on him, which he claims give the figure interesting shadows. All Matt knows is that even the flat’s crappy heating isn’t enough to keep him from sweating.
It’s a very awkward experience. At least, Matt thinks so. He’s not sure how Simon feels because the artist is too focused on his drawing, but the brunet can barely keep himself from fidgeting uncomfortably whenever Simon looks at him. He has suddenly become very conscious of the fact that he is rather scrawny, and when compared with the fairly lean muscle of Simon (which he can see because for some godforsaken reason, the artist doesn’t have a shirt on), he feels very inadequate.
“Are you sure you want to use me?” he asks nervously.
Simon raises an eyebrow. “Of course. Why?”
“Well, it’s just... I don’t, you know, have... theidealbody,” he finishes in rush, cheeks going bright pink.
Simon, however, just laughs. “You’re fine,” he says. “I needed someone more willowy anyway.”
Matt blinks. “But I’m not willowy.”
“You’re skinny and not short; it’s close enough.”
Which makes Matt laugh really loudly, because he does that when he’s nervous.
Simon has him pose in several different positions, some for only a few minutes, others for what feels like hours. Sometimes it’s fine because it’s comfortable, other times he can barely hold himself still because it’s so awkward. He’s not sure how much time passes, but eventually, all his muscles start to cramp.
“When will you be finished?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager.
“This is the last one,” Simon says, but his brow is furrowed. “Do you think we could do this again tomorrow? I’m not sure I’m happy with what I got today.”
Matt grimaces. “Sorry.”
“No, no, it’s not your fault, I just can’t...” He sighs, sounding frustrated. “I can’t seem to get what’s in my head onto the paper.” He sets his pencil down and shrugs. “Let’s just call it a night.”
Matt groans in agreement and stretches his limbs, relishing in the slight burn it provides. “Jesus. I don’t get how people can do that on a regular basis, it’s murder.”
Simon looks up. “Sorry. If you don’t want to do it tomorrow-”
“No no, it’s fine!” Matt says quickly. “I want to help. Really. I just meant I wouldn’t be able to do it all the time.”
Simon looks skeptical for a moment, but then he smiles. “Thanks,” he says softly, and Matt’s knees go a little weak.
--
The next day, Simon seems even more frustrated. He puts Matt in a myriad of different positions, but within a few minutes he scraps them all. Matt tries to help, but not knowing anything about art, can’t do much.
“Ugh!” The artist glares at his canvas. “Why can’t I get this?”
“Desolé,” Matt says automatically, because he feels bad.
“No, it’s not your fault it’s just...” He groans. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Maybe if you positioned me yourself it would help,” Matt suggests, and then freezes because what the hell did he just say? He looks up at the artist, slightly terrified, but to his relief and horror, Simon actually looks thoughtful.
“That... Might actually work,” he says and walks over to where Matt is. The brunet’s heart begins to pound against as his chest with each step, and when Simon touches him, he thinks it might burst.
The artist’s hands are large and warm, slightly calloused but incredibly gentle. He murmurs to himself in French as he carefully arranges Matt’s body, each touch leaving a scorching trail in its wake. Matt can feel himself turning red, acutely aware of every little action the artist makes. He tries to think about something, anything else, but the entirety of his attention is focused on the other man. When he swallows, his throat is completely dry.
“Peut-être... Non, ici.” He lays one arm over his stomach. “Et les jambes...”
Matt’s entire body is burning. He closes his eyes and tries to curb his arousal, thinking of dead kittens, naked old people, naked fat people, vaginas, but nothing works. He can feel the blood beginning to pool in his groin and finally, in desperation, he thinks of the accident.
It works. He deflates entirely as Simon finishes arranging him, guilt roaring through him that he had to use that memory. He doesn’t open his eyes, afraid that is he does he might start crying, but thankfully Simon says, “Keep your eyes closed. Think you can hold this position for awhile?”
Matt nods, not trusting himself to speak.
--
It takes Simon a long time to finish, but when he does, he’s smiling. “Ça c’est bien,” he says, then beams at the brunet. “Thanks so much for your help.”
“Pas de problem.” Matt sits up and stretches, groaning. “Just don’t ask me to do it again anytime in the near future.”
Simon laughs. “Okay.”
Matt’s stomach starts to flutter again at the sound, and he flushes and grabs his clothes, dressing quickly. “Would you like to have dinner tonight?” he hears Simon ask.
“Yeah. I have some stuff I have to do first, though,” he lies, not sure he should stay with the artist lest he do something stupid which, knowing him, is very liable to happen.
“Okay.” Simon smiles at him as he follows him to the door. “À tout à l’heure.”
“Later,” he says, and as soon as the door closes, bolts back to his flat, heart pounding.
As soon as he gets there, his phone rings. Thinking it’s Simon he grows confused, but upon looking at the caller I.D., he sees that it is in fact Winston, his best friend from childhood and beyond. He breathes a sigh of relief.
“You never call me,” the other man whines as soon as he says hello. Matt rolls his eyes.
“You’re the one who’s always busy with your engineering crap,” he retorts, and laughs a little as he imagines Winston's scrunching up his face like he always does.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a horrible person, I’m too busy living up to my parents impossible expectations to call, it’s all my fault, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Thought your parents wanted you to be a doctor?”
“Doctor, accountant or lawyer,” Winston corrects. “The only three jobs the Chinese think are worthwhile. But they changed their minds when they saw what kind of figures I would be making.”
“Which are?”
“If I ever survive graduate school and the internships? Upwards of six.”
“Wow.” Matt’s never even dreamed of being able to make that kind of money.
“It’s much less impressive when you figure out how much will be going towards paying back my student loans,” Winston says irritably. “Also I think I’ll probably die before this semester is over.”
“No, you won’t,” Matt says, smiling fondly at the familiarity of his friend. Winston is one of those people that knows he’s smart enough to do what he has to, but he’s lazy enough to be an expert procrastinator and ends up heaping piles of unnecessary stress upon himself.
“Shows what you know,” he grumbles. “But enough about me, what’s new with you?”
Matt blinks, then flushes deeply as he remembers what just happened with Simon. “I, um... I have a new neighbor.”
“He’s cute,” Winston says immediately.
“Says who?”
“You hesitated. That means you’re embarrassed to be talking about it.” Matt can just see the huge grin spreading over Winston’s face. The man lives to torment; always has. He caused quite a lot of trouble in high school via illegal rocket explosions and wayward science experiments. “So, what’s he like? Is he single?”
“Yeah.” Matt flushes even deeper. “And he’s... He’s French-”
“Ooo, sexy.”
“Shut up. You don’t even like guys.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate their aesthetic beauty. So, French.” Matt imagines he’s doing an eyebrow wiggle. “He must really like you, what with your mad language skills.”
“Actually, he speaks English really well. Most of our conversations happen in it.”
“Oh. Well, what else?”
“He’s an artist.”
“Wait, wait, a French artist? Seriously?” He sounds like he’s going to burst out laughing, and now that Matt thinks about it, it is kind of funny.
“Yeah.”
Winston laughs. “Brilliant. I love it. Does he smoke?”
“Um...”
“He does! Dude, you’re totally crushing on the quintessential French stereotype!”
“He’s not!” Matt protests. “I mean, he is, kind of, but he’s like... Deeper than that. He’s really nice and he makes me food and I just...” He sighs. “I feel good around him.”
“Like, Damon good?”
His first boyfriend. It lasted six months. “No, more like... More like Brandon good.” His third. Two years.
Winston gives a low whistle. “That’s pretty powerful stuff. You gonna make a move?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t... I mean, I don’t know if he’s gay.”
“So find out.”
“But-”
“Dude, just do it. You haven’t gotten any action in way too long. Besides, he’s French. He probably won’t take offense even if he’s not.”
“I...” Matt tries to protest, and then realizes he doesn’t have anything to say. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”
“Great!” He’s sure Winston is beaming. “So, guess what happened last week in the cafeteria?”
--
About a week later, just as March is starting, Matt is over for dinner, they’re talking about the show, and suddenly Matt realizes he’s never seen any of Simon’s artwork.
“Really?” Simon says, surprised.
“Yeah.” Matt frowns. “I guess with work and school I just never had a chance, but... Can I now?”
“Sure.” Simon gets up and goes to the living room, to a bookshelf. “Come here.”
Matt follows, and Simon hands him a couple of sketch books. “This is my early work during uni,” he explains, kneeling down. “These”-he pulls out a large folder from behind the bookshelf-“are some of my finished pieces.” He brings it over to Matt, who has seated himself on the couch. “They’re not the greatest-”
“They’re amazing,” Matt cuts him off, slowly flipping through the sketchbooks. A lot of it is random scribbles and concept work, half-finished drawing and quick studies, but Matt swears he’s never seen anything this good in his life. “I mean... Wow.”
“Eh... Merci.” He looks up and sees Simon’s cheeks are faintly pink. It’s rather adorable.
He goes through all the sketchbooks before moving on to the projects, which are even more incredible. Matt wasn’t really sure what a pastel artist was before now, but as he moves through the pieces, he understand; it’s much like a very concentrated, bright, more elaborate and detailed version of drawing with chalk. “These are... God, I don’t even know.” He laughs. “You’re incredible.”
“I’m okay,” Simon says, and Matt instantly recognizes the tone of his voice; thankful of the praise but trying to stay modest because you know getting a swelled head is just going to cause trouble. He often used to feel the same thing every time someone complimented him on his music.
“You’re way better than okay.” He finishes looking at the last of them. “Can I see what you’re working on right now?”
“Ah, yeah.” Simon goes over to the canvas and pulls back the cloth covering it. Matt almost chokes.
It’s some version of him, long and willowy, rendered in bright greens and soft blues with billowing robes and yellows and oranges dancing in the background. It’s very obviously not done, but it still looks magnificent. He feels his jaw go slack. “What...”
“I wanted to do a mythical creatures theme,” Simon explains. “There’s going to be wings too, and some more foliage.” Then he blushes again. “Unless you don’t like it...?”
“Are you insane?” Matt breathes. “That’s fantastic. I can’t believe you used me for that. You should have used like... I don’t know, a movie star, or something.”
Simon chuckles. “I liked using you,” he admits. “You’re very easy to draw.”
Matt laughs, a bit disbelievingly. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure that’s all you.” He leans back against the couch, still shocked. “God, how are you still single right now? You should be having to fend the ladies off with a crowbar.”
Something odd flashes over Simon’s face. “I’m not interested in women,” he says carefully.
“Oh.” Matt blinks. “Guys then. Whatever. You should be having to fend off something.”
For a moment, Simon doesn’t say anything. Then, slowly, he smiles. “I had a bad breakup with my last boyfriend,” he explains. “I haven’t really been looking for anything since.”
“Ew.” Matt makes a face. “How bad?”
“He threw a hairdryer at my head.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.” He grins. “So, you want desert?”
Matt’s a starving uni student. Of course he wants dessert.
--
One night in the middle of the month, Matt comes home to find Simon asleep outside his door.
“What are you doing?” he asks as he shakes him awake. The artist groans and opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at Matt before grinning sheepishly.
“I locked myself out,” he explains, standing up. “And I can’t get another key until tomorrow, so I was hoping I could stay with you.”
“Oh.” Matt blinks. “Um, yeah. Sure.”
Matt’s apartment is extremely boring when compared to Simon’s, the only interesting thing being the piano against the far wall, which Simon spots immediately. “Why do you have a piano?” he asks, looking confused.
“Oh. Um...” Matt flushes, and with a jolt realizes that he’s going to have to explain himself; the thought makes him vaguely sick. “I, uh... I play.”
“Really?” Simon sits down on the bench and begins fiddling with the keys. “For how long?”
“A long time,” he answers vaguely, hoping Simon will drop it, but he doesn’t.
“How long is that?”
“Since I was a kid.”
“Vraiment?” He turns back to look at the brunet, who is hanging up his coat, trying not to blush. “You must be pretty good then, yeah?”
“I’m decent,” Matt lies. Don’t ask me to play, he thinks desperately. For the love of God, don’t ask-
“Will you play for me?”
Fuck.
“I don’t know,” he stalls, trying to sound tired. “It’s been a long day...”
“Just one song? Please?”
He knows before he does it that looking at Simon is a terrible idea, but his gaze is moving before he can stop himself, and Simon is sitting on the bench, pleading look plastered perfectly on his face, and Matt crumbles like a burning building.
“Fine,” he sighs. “One song.”
Simon grins and moves from the bench, turning his attention to the music on top of the piano, rifling through the sheets as Matt walks over and sits down. “This one,” he declares after a moment, and sets Mozart’s Fantasia in D minor down on the keys.
Something dark and heavy coils in Matt’s stomach. “That one?” he repeats. He thinks he can feel bile rising in his throat.
“Yeah. It looks interesting.”
Matt sits down slowly, mind reeling at the memories this song brings. It was his best, once. The one that landed him half his scholarships, that he played so much he could do it with his eyes closed. His mother’s favorite.
He shouldn’t. He should find another one or pretend to play this one while really playing something else, because there’s no way this can end well. And normally, he thinks he’d be able to. But for some reason, as soon as his fingers touch the keys, he starts it. Stop! his mind screams at him. Stop, stop right now, do you have any idea how fucking stupid you’re being?!
But he can’t stop. He wants to, he really does, but his fingers refuse to listen to him, and soon, he’s lost in the familiar, melancholy melody. Part of him starts to forget Simon is even there, playing as he would if he were alone. But the rest of him is acutely aware of the artist’s gaze, and he doesn’t have to look to know that it’s shocked.
He plays it flawlessly right up until the end; the last part of the song is supposed to be lighter, happier, but without even thinking about it, Matt starts playing in the minor key. He started doing that after his mother and sister died, because it didn’t seem right to play it happily when he can’t associate it with good memories anymore, but it also makes him feel incredibly guilty because he knows his mother wouldn’t have wanted him to think like that.
When he finishes, it’s quiet for a very long time.
“That was amazing,” Simon says eventually, quietly, and when Matt looks at him he sees that his brow is furrowed and he has a puzzled expression on his face. Matt fidgets uncomfortably.
“Thanks,” he says. “I, uh... I have some homework I have to do now. There’s... There’s food in the fridge. And you can take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Still looking at him strangely, Simon says, “No, I’ll sleep on the couch. It’s my fault I got locked out.”
“Are you-”
“I’m sure,” he says, and his voice leaves no room for argument. Then he gets up and goes to the kitchen, looking for food. Matt stays at the bench for several long moments, feeling slightly miserable, before forcing himself up and getting his homework.
--
They don’t talk, which is unusual because normally neither of them can shut up. The tension in the air is thick and Matt can feel it sinking into his muscles, making his shoulders tighten and his stomach coil. He tries to concentrate on his homework, but the dark aura is making it impossible for him to understand anything.
“You were lying, weren’t you?” Simon says suddenly, and Matt looks up.
“About what?” he asks, but Simon just gives him a look that says ‘stop fucking around’, so Matt sighs. “Yeah.”
Simon frowns at him. “You play beautifully; obviously you wanted to become a musician at some point. Why didn’t you?”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter; it’s a lost dream anyway.”
“Why was it lost?”
Matt doesn’t answer at first, torn between lying again or telling the truth. “It just didn’t work out that way,” he says eventually, and tries to go back to his homework, but Simon isn’t done yet.
“Why?”
“Because it just didn’t.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Not one I’m willing to take. Why didn’t you become a musician?”
“Why does it matter?” Matt yells suddenly, and glares at him fiercely. “I told you, it’s a lost dream, so it doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t do! So just drop it!”
He doesn’t mean to snap, but Simon is wading through dangerous waters, and Matt doesn’t want him to go any further. He catches a glimpse of the artist’s shocked expression before he stands up suddenly and stalks to his room, slamming the door behind him. It’s childish, but he doesn’t care. He wants to get his point across.
Except Simon doesn’t take the hint, and a few minutes later the door opens, and even though Matt resolutely does not look up, he can feel the other man’s gaze on him. He tries to ignore it for several minutes, and just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, Simon speaks.
“Can I ask you one thing?”
“What,” he bites out viciously. He doesn’t want to talk about this.
“Does it have anything to do with why you refer to your mother in the past tense?”
The question hits him like a punch to the face, and for a minute, he can’t speak at all. When he finally manages to find his voice, he wants to tell Simon that no, don’t be ridiculous, but it comes out as a quiet, shaky, “Yes.”
The subject doesn’t come up again after that.
--
The air between them is tense for a few days; Matt gets the feeling Simon doesn’t want to cross a line and the brunet is just a little too depressed to say much of anything. It’s too bad, because he actually thinks that he might, maybe, possibly be able to talk to Simon about this without completely breaking down, but he’s so used to bottling it all up, he can’t bring himself to say anything.
Winston calls later to see how things are going.
“I played for him,” Matt tells him quietly.
There’s a pause.
“I thought you said you would never play for someone again,” he says.
“I did.” It was a vow he took after he gave up on his dream.
“Then why did you do it?”
“I...” Matt laughs hollowly. “I don’t know. It just... It just didn’t seem right not to.”
For several moments, Winston doesn’t say anything.
“He’s really getting to you, isn’t he.” It’s not a question.
Matt gives a facsimile of a laugh again. “Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah, he is.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“... I don’t know,” he says, sighing. “I really don’t know.”
--
In April, Simon’s show opens, and Matt is invited to attend. He doesn’t particularly want to go, feeling he would be grossly out of place, but Simon insists that as his muse and model he has to, and eventually, he relents.
He’s been to gallery openings before; Walter sometimes makes him go so he can make ‘business connections’. They’ve all been extremely boring, filled with stuffy old men, pretentious jerks and mediocre paintings, mostly landscapes, that do nothing for him. The only good part has been the food.
Simon’s opening doesn’t have food.
It does, however, have a wild variety of eccentric people, amazing artwork, and Simon.
This means that the place is more busy than the park on a Saturday afternoon during summer. It’s noisy and lively and really quite fun and Matt doesn’t notice any of this; he’s too in awe of everything Simon has put up, because all of it-the photographs, the pastel works, the charcoal sketches, the occasional colored pencil piece-are incredible.
He’s also somewhat embarrassed because there’s an entire wall covered with images that are all touting his image in some way or another.
“You didn’t say you were going to use so many of me,” Matt mutters to the artist as he stares at the wall before him. It’s not obviously him; the beings are all fantastical and the sketches carefully stop before showing his features, but Matt knows it’s him. It makes his cheeks burn.
“A good artist always showcases his best muse,” Simon replies, sounding amused, then wanders off to engage the audience. Matt watches him, marveling at the way he seamlessly slides into conversation, making people laugh effortlessly, like he’s known them for years. It’s obvious the people here are here because they want to be, because the lure of Simon’s work draws them in like flies to honey. They’re all part of his world.
It makes Matt feel horribly out of place, and he tries not draw attention to himself by standing in the corner.
It doesn’t work.
“Stop hiding!” Simon chides when he spots him, dragging him out. “Socialize!”
“I don’t know any of these people!” Matt protests. Simon rolls his eyes.
“Neither do I.”
“You’re charismatic; I’m not.”
“Then this is a great time to learn,” he says, and forces Matt into a circle of people. He has no idea what they're talking about and tries to shy away, but someone catches sight of him and asks, “How do you know Simon?”
Matt flushes. “I’m his neighbor.”
“Oh, really?” Several eyes light up. “The one that saved him breaking his neck?”
So Matt has to recount their first meeting, and the dinners, and eventually he admits to being a model, which leads to his opinions on the art. He doesn’t have much to say, but he gets other people going and learns more about art critique than he ever thought possible. It’s not quite what he wants to talk abut, but it’s not economics, which is fantastic. So he tries his best to keep up.
By the end, he’s laughing and talking with these people like they’re his best friends, and when they invite him to a pub for post-celebratory drinks, he readily agrees.
Most of them get madly drunk, but Matt’s a bartender and knows not to overindulge. Simon has (only, he claims) three martinis and two pints and spends the next few hours being very affectionate, draping his arms over Matt’s shoulders and hugging him and even kissing him once on the cheek (and Matt’s pretty sure he was aiming for his mouth and just happened to miss).
At half-one, they get kicked out, and Matt takes Simon home. The artist is actually a fairly lucid drunk, which is nice because the brunet can just guide him back.
He really wishes he would stop trying to kiss him, though. Mostly.
“Will you stop it?” he snaps the fifth time it happens, even as he blushes.
“But I want to kiss you,” Simon whines, pouting.
“You’re drunk,” Matt grumbles, and Simon giggles.
“Drunk men tell no lies.” He leans against the wall as Matt unlocks his flat and bats his eyelashes. “That’s what Americans say, no?”
“Drunk men also have no judgement,” Mat retorts, leading him into the kitchen and getting a glass of water. “Drink this, it’ll help with the hangover.”
“How to you know?” Simon demands.
“My mother was a nurse,” he explains, and makes sure he drinks it all and another glass besides. Then he takes Simon to his bedroom and grabs a bin, strips him to his underwear (and discovers his legs are rather pale with knobby knees, not nearly as sexy as the rest of him; it helps curb the dull arousal thrumming in his veins) and tucks him in.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asks when he thinks he’s done. Simon grins lazily.
“Embrasse-moi,” he demands.
Matt rolls his eyes. “Non.”
“S’il te plait?”
“Non.”
“I won’t go to sleep if you don’t kiss me.”
“Non.”
Simon pouts. “Je vais chanter!” Matt raises an eyebrow. “Frere Jaques, Frere Jaques! Dormez-vous! Dormez-vo-”
“Okay, okay, I’ll kiss you, just shut up!” he yells, and Simon shuts up, grinning. Matt sighs, trying very hard to ignore the sudden fluttering in his stomach as he moves forward to kiss his cheek.
Or at least he tries, but at the last second Simon turns his head and crashes their lips together.
For a moment, the world freezes, and Matt can only stare.
Then his brain registers soft and warm, and his eyes slips shut as Simon tilts his head, mouth moving slowly against his, gentle and coaxing. Matt’s muscles go weak when he feels the slide of a tongue against his lips, and he moans softly, mindlessly parting them. The artist tastes like smoke and martini and a bit of wine, and heat begins to simmer low in his belly.
And then he remembers that Simon is drunk, and that this is a bad, bad idea, and he pulls away.
Simon pouts. “I wasn’t done,” he whines, and tries to move back in, but Matt pushes him away.
“J’ai t’embrasse,” he says firmly, even as he feels shivers run up his spine. “Now, you have to sleep. Bon nuit.”
Simon continues to pout, but snuggles into the covers anyway. “One more?” he pleads, and with the first kiss still tingling on his lips, Matt just sighs and gives him a quick peck. Simon makes a happy noise and grins goofily up at him. “Merci,” he giggles. “Bon nuit.”
“Ne pas vomiter,” Matt says, and leaves. He can still feel Simon’s lips against his.
When he dreams that night, he dreams of warm hands, a soft mouth, and bright hazel eyes.
--
When he wakes up, he has an intense craving for pancakes, something that he’s learned cannot be ignored. So he begins bustling around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients and frying up sausages (he refuses to eat British bacon because it is not. Fucking. Bacon). He’s so busy he doesn’t even notice Simon is up until the artist wraps his arms around him from behind, murmurs, “Bonjour,” and kisses his cheek.
The bottom drops out of Matt’s stomach and he flushes deeply. “B-bonjour,” he stammers.
“Mmm.” A hand slides under his shirt to press against his stomach and the brunet squeaks. Simon chuckles.
“You kissed me last night,” he says.
Matt swallow thickly. “So I did.”
He hums. “You’re not going to freak out, are you?” he murmurs against Matt’s ear, sending warm shivers through his body.
“That depends,” he says carefully, surprised when his voice doesn’t shake. “Are you... Serious about this?”
A pause.
“Are you?”
Matt sighs.
“If you want me to be.”
He feels Simon grin against his ear.
“I do.”
“Okay then.”
“... Really?”
Matt sighs again, but feels himself smile. “Yeah.”
Simon makes a happy noise and suddenly Matt is bring turned around and assaulted with kisses, moaning as Simon pries his mouth open and ravages it, hands stroking up his back and burying themselves in his hair. Matt shivers and grips his shoulders, body pressing against the artist’s as arousal starts to course through his veins.
Then something occurs to him.
“hey,” he gasps as he breaks off. “How do you not have a massive headache right now?”
Simon blinks. “Oh, I do,” he says. “I just wanted to get this cleared up first.”
“... Oh.”
After Simon’s downed some aspirin, they sit down to breakfast. The atmosphere is light and giddy, and as they talk and joke and laugh and Simon sneaks the occasional touch and kiss, Matt feels kind of like he’s floating.
It’s the happiest he’s been in the long, long time.
--
He has to go to dinner that night, but it’s better than usual because this morning’s events have left him feeling rebellious and defiant. So when the conversation comes around to him, instead of talking about school, he says casually, “I’m seeing someone.”
He relishes in the way Walter’s face tightens; his uncle has never been good at hiding his homophobia. “Who?”
“My neighbor; his name is Simon.”
Walter glares. “So it’s a man,” he grits out.
“Well, obviously,” Matt chirps. “I’m gay, aren’t I?”
“No, you’re just going through some ridiculous-”
“Arrête!” Brigitte snaps. “Matthew, stop antagonizing your uncle! Walter, we’ve already been over this; he’s gay. It’s not a phase, and it’s not going to change. So shut up and just be thankful he’s not a queen!”
Walter goes purple and starts tearing into his food viciously; Matt lifts his wine glass to hide his smirk. When he first came here, his sexuality was the only things he point blank refused to give up, because he’d known he was gay since he was twelve and he sure as hell wasn’t turning straight now. Walter protested vehemently, but because years of working in the fashion industry had made Brigitte grow quite familiar with the gay crowd, she refused to see it as the problem her husband thought it was. His uncle fought tooth and nail to try and force him back in the closet, but Matt held strong and without his wife’s support, he was forced to give up.
It used to be a small consolation prize, because Matt never had a lasting relationship, but tonight, he can feel the confidence thrumming through him.
He may not have his music any longer, but now he has something that almost makes up for it.
He has Simon.
And he’ll die before he lets them take that away.
Part Two
Matt is the kind of person that isn’t always paying attention, so it’s only by luck that he happens to look up as he begins ascending the stairs, just in time to see Simon trip half a flight above him. There’s a second where he can only watch in horror, and then his groceries go flying as he rushes to catch him before he falls.
It doesn’t quite work. He can’t stop the man from falling, but his useless grip does slow him down enough that the impact isn’t (he hopes) quite as bad. Even so, the man still swears loudly when he collides, and even as Matt begins freaking out, some part of his brain manages to register that he swore in French, because that’s the language he starts to babble in.
“Jésus-Christ, es-tu d’accord?! Is anything broken?! Do you need to go to the hospital?!”
The man groans and hauls himself into a sitting position, rubbing his nose and wincing sharply. “No, no, c’est d’accord, je-” And then he pauses, and looks up at Matt, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Français?”
“Quoi?” Matt says blankly, and then it clicks. “Eh, half. My mother was French.”
“Ah. So you are...”
“Américain.”
“Ah.” His brows drop and he extends a hand and smiles. “Simon.”
“Matt.” Simon’s hand is warm when he takes it. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Simon grins crookedly. “I’m fine,” he says, the change to English making his voice go slightly rough. Matt takes a second to be surprised while Simon looks behind his legs. “Sorry about your groceries.”
Matt turns to look back at where his food now lays in a mess across the floor; the tomatoes and bread have been squished by the milk and the eggs are everywhere. Internally, he groans.
“Yeah, well...” He sighs. “Better I go hungry for a week than a new neighbor die.” He looks back at Simon. “You are a new tenant, right?” Because he’s not seen him around the building before, and there are only four other tenants.
“Yes. Just moved in last week.” Simon stands up and grins sheepishly. “I’m very sorry. Let me make it up to you.”
“You don’t-”
“I want to,” he insists. “I’m a good cook. Let me make you dinner tonight.”
Matt flushes. He’s not sure that’s a good idea, because he’s beginning to notice that Simon is tall, and lean, and has unruly black hair and soft hazel eyes and his chin is covered in stubble and has a slightly crooked grin and the whole thing is really quite sexy. The French accent isn’t helping. Dinner sounds a bit too much like a date, even if it isn’t.
He frowns. “I don’t know...”
“Please.” Simon looks pleading. “I feel awful.”
And Matt is weak, so he says yes.
--
Matt’s last name is Silber. He’s twenty and works as a bartender. He’s going to university for a degree in macroeconomics. His father was American and his mother was French. He was raised in Alexandria, Virginia but spent most of his time in Washington, D.C. and is only going to school here because his uncle Walter, who pays his tuition, is making him, so please excuse him as he switches between American slang and British, because there are some terms he refuses to adopt. Like snog. Or knickers.
Simon’s last name is Baudelaire. He’s twenty-three and has lived in France his whole life but has cousins in England that he had to visit every summer which is why he knows the language. He spent five years studying Fine Art and now he’s a freelance artist taking a year abroad for inspiration. He’s currently looking for galleries that would be willing to display his work. He also smokes.
They learn all this about each other as Simon helps Matt clean up the groceries and bring what’s left back to his flat. Matt notices that Simon catches it when he mentions his parents in past tense, but he doesn’t say anything, for which Matt is grateful. It’s not something he likes to discuss.
When they finish, Simon invites him to his flat, insisting that he owes Matt a drink. The flat is only half unpacked but it still has a warm feeling to it, making him feel relaxed as he sits down and accepts a glass of wine. They continue to talk while Simon moves around the tiny kitchen, chopping and frying and stirring something that smells divine. Matt hasn’t had real home-cooked food in years and it’s making him drool.
“So why macroeconomics?” Simon asks as he minces garlic. He does it like a pro and it’s mesmerizing to watch.
“It’s the only field of business I’m good at,” he answers. “And Walter wanted me to go into business. I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“What did you want to do?”
Matt blinks. “What?”
“You said Walter wanted you to go into business,” he clarifies. “I assume that means you wanted to do something else.”
I did, he almost says, but stops himself. It was a silly dream, and there’s no use dwelling on it now.
“Not really,” he says instead. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so he gave me direction. Otherwise I’d still be undeclared.”
He glances up and catches Simon’s gaze, and feels something shoot through his gut that’s both thrilling and terrifying, like those hazel eyes are looking right through him. “I see,” Simon says. His tone is odd and it makes Matt think the artist can tell he’s lying. He shifts guiltily.
“Why art?” he asks, relaxing when Simon smiles.
“I was always a good artist,” he explains, dumping the contents of the cutting board into a pot on the stove. “Ever since I was young I always loved to make art. My parents were supportive so by the time I was a teenager, I knew what I wanted to do. And here I am.”
“Cool.” The aroma of the food is amazing. “God, what’re you making? It smells fantastic.”
Simon laughs, and Matt flushes because wow, that is a really sexy sound. “You’ll see,” he says. Matt just nods because he doesn’t trust his mouth right now.
It turns out to be tomato soup and garlic bread, both which have no right to be as delicious as Simon manages to make them. Matt can’t stop saying how delicious it is, which must be annoying but Simon just teases him and calls him a food slut.
“You’d be too if you had to live on sandwiches and frozen meals,” he retorts. “I can cook eggs and toast and pancakes. Sometimes not even.”
Simon laughs. “Tell you what. Since I destroyed your groceries. I’ll make you dinner for the next week.”
Matt stares. “Really?”
“Yeah. I cook for myself anyway and food tastes better when you have someone to share it with.” He grins. “You can even keep the leftovers.”
Matt thinks he might be in love.
--
They make small talk for the rest of the night; then Matt helps with the dishes and they say goodbye, Simon asking he has any requests. Matt replies that he’s allergic to peaches and won’t eat salmon.
His flat, which is old and very small, containing only a bedroom, bathroom and living room connected to a tiny kitchen, seems even smaller than usual that night, reminding Matt of how lonely he really is. He hasn’t had a boyfriend since high school, his closest friend is across the Atlantic and he hates his uncle and family. He’s been living alone a long time, not entirely by choice, and Simon’s company for those few hours have made him acutely aware of it.
He goes to bed almost sad enough to cry.
--
The feeling lessens and worsens as the month goes on.
They can’t have dinner every night; uni’s starting again and Matt works until midnight. But Simon insists that he still owes him a week’s worth of meals, so Matt makes it over when he can. They talk and laugh and find out more about each other, and it’s nice.
Simon tells Matt more about his life and his art; he works primarily in charcoal and pastel, secondarily in photography and he hates painting. He grew up in Rhodes and studied in Paris, and he’s already been featured in several galleries there. Matt thinks that’s amazing (and is reminded of his own lost art, but tries not to dwell on it). Matt tells Simon about growing up near D.C., the classes that he hates and the interesting people that come to the pub. Within three dinners he feels like he’s known Simon his whole life.
But it’s also difficult. Matt begins to realize Simon is ruggedly handsome and just his type; relaxed but focused, free but controlled. His smile and his laugh make Matt’s stomach flutter. It’s wonderful and awful and Matt can’t help longing though he knows he shouldn't, because Matt has plain brown hair and eyes and is a boring macroeconomics major, and Simon isn’t going to be interested in him.
--
Actually, that’s a lie; Simon may very well be interested in him, but Matt isn’t sure a relationship would be a such a good idea at this point.
One Sunday a month, Matt is required to join his uncle and family for dinner. The experience consists of eating gourmet food in an elaborate dining room in the manor house (because Walter is extremely wealthy and never lets anyone forget it) and being interrogated about his life and school and stealthily put-down when he doesn’t measure up to the fantastic achievements of Walter’s children. It’s even worse because technically, he’s not even related to Walter. Brigitte, his wife, is Matt’s mother’s sister. But Walter’s head of the household, so he’s the one that gets to take control.
Tonight consist of Juliette and René, his older cousins, bragging about their amazing feats (Juliette will be graduating early from med school; René is interning with an award-winning chemist), then Nicholas, the youngest, still in secondary school, bragging about being top of his class for term once again. Then Brigitte, a fashion designer, brags about how well her new line is doing, and finally Walter brags about how well his company is doing.
Then it’s Matt’s turn.
“So, Matthew,” Walter begins, because he never uses Matt’s preferred name, “term has started. What are you taking?”
Matt knows he asks this because he once tried to take an extra-curricular class Walter didn’t approve of, and his tuition was cut off. Now, he only takes economics courses, which he lists.
Walter smiles. “Good. Any chance for field experience?”
“I haven’t checked.”
“But you will, yes?” He’s very adamant about Matt making connections so he can have a good job once he graduates.
“Of course.”
“Excellent. Good to see you showing some initiative, especially when you’re usually so lacking in it.” Matt flinches as Walter smirks, and thus comes the monthly barrage of criticism and mocking that he has to call a family dinner.
--
He leaves feeling miserable and wanting to cry. When he gets home, he sits down at the piano in his living room, and begins to play a sorrowful tune, reminiscing.
He was going to be a musician once. He was good, constantly performing and even writing some of his own music. He won several scholarships and his mother, who didn’t earn a lot of money, would help him with student loans.
Then the accident happened, and he lost her and his younger sister. She didn’t have life insurance and had left little money behind, two of his scholarships were pulled to go to “more qualified students”, and, unable to find another adult who could co-sign a loan, Matt couldn’t pay the tuition. Desperate for money, he had turned to Brigitte and Water, whom his mother had never liked for their snobbish attitudes.
Walter had agreed on the condition that Matt would attend college in England and give up on his music, which wasn’t a ‘safe’ field. He hadn’t wanted to, but he had been desperate to attend a good college so he agreed and went into economics, which he had been decent at. His original plan was to save up enough money to go back to the US for music, but over the years, Walter and Brigitte, who had always considered music a fool’s dream, had convinced him that he wasn’t good enough to make it in the field. “After all,” he remembers Walter saying one night, “why else would they have taken two of your scholarships?”
It was that more than anything that had convinced him that he wasn’t good enough, and he had given up, convinced that he would just fail if he tried and would have been miserable for the rest of his life.
He wonders if that really would have been so much different than how he is now.
--
He cheers up quickly, however, when Simon starts inviting him over for dinner every night he can make it. Spending time with the artist makes him happier than he’s been in ages. It’s rather disconcerting.
“Can I ask you a favor?” Simon asks suddenly one night in February.
“Sure.”
“Will you be a model for me?”
Matt blinks. “What?”
“A gallery in town agreed to show some of my work, but I need a few more pieces. I was wondering if I could use you as a model.”
“Why me?”
Simon shrugs. “I don’t really know anybody else.”
Matt thinks for a moment.
“Will I have to be naked?” Because he’s sure that would be A Very Bad Idea.
Simon laughs. “I’ll let you keep your knickers.”
Which is less than what Matt would like, but Simon looks pleading, so he says yes.
--
Modeling, as it turns out, involves Matt stripping down to his underwear and posing on either a bunch of pillows or a chair for long periods of time while being slowly roasted alive by the extremely hot spotlights Simon has focused on him, which he claims give the figure interesting shadows. All Matt knows is that even the flat’s crappy heating isn’t enough to keep him from sweating.
It’s a very awkward experience. At least, Matt thinks so. He’s not sure how Simon feels because the artist is too focused on his drawing, but the brunet can barely keep himself from fidgeting uncomfortably whenever Simon looks at him. He has suddenly become very conscious of the fact that he is rather scrawny, and when compared with the fairly lean muscle of Simon (which he can see because for some godforsaken reason, the artist doesn’t have a shirt on), he feels very inadequate.
“Are you sure you want to use me?” he asks nervously.
Simon raises an eyebrow. “Of course. Why?”
“Well, it’s just... I don’t, you know, have... theidealbody,” he finishes in rush, cheeks going bright pink.
Simon, however, just laughs. “You’re fine,” he says. “I needed someone more willowy anyway.”
Matt blinks. “But I’m not willowy.”
“You’re skinny and not short; it’s close enough.”
Which makes Matt laugh really loudly, because he does that when he’s nervous.
Simon has him pose in several different positions, some for only a few minutes, others for what feels like hours. Sometimes it’s fine because it’s comfortable, other times he can barely hold himself still because it’s so awkward. He’s not sure how much time passes, but eventually, all his muscles start to cramp.
“When will you be finished?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager.
“This is the last one,” Simon says, but his brow is furrowed. “Do you think we could do this again tomorrow? I’m not sure I’m happy with what I got today.”
Matt grimaces. “Sorry.”
“No, no, it’s not your fault, I just can’t...” He sighs, sounding frustrated. “I can’t seem to get what’s in my head onto the paper.” He sets his pencil down and shrugs. “Let’s just call it a night.”
Matt groans in agreement and stretches his limbs, relishing in the slight burn it provides. “Jesus. I don’t get how people can do that on a regular basis, it’s murder.”
Simon looks up. “Sorry. If you don’t want to do it tomorrow-”
“No no, it’s fine!” Matt says quickly. “I want to help. Really. I just meant I wouldn’t be able to do it all the time.”
Simon looks skeptical for a moment, but then he smiles. “Thanks,” he says softly, and Matt’s knees go a little weak.
--
The next day, Simon seems even more frustrated. He puts Matt in a myriad of different positions, but within a few minutes he scraps them all. Matt tries to help, but not knowing anything about art, can’t do much.
“Ugh!” The artist glares at his canvas. “Why can’t I get this?”
“Desolé,” Matt says automatically, because he feels bad.
“No, it’s not your fault it’s just...” He groans. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Maybe if you positioned me yourself it would help,” Matt suggests, and then freezes because what the hell did he just say? He looks up at the artist, slightly terrified, but to his relief and horror, Simon actually looks thoughtful.
“That... Might actually work,” he says and walks over to where Matt is. The brunet’s heart begins to pound against as his chest with each step, and when Simon touches him, he thinks it might burst.
The artist’s hands are large and warm, slightly calloused but incredibly gentle. He murmurs to himself in French as he carefully arranges Matt’s body, each touch leaving a scorching trail in its wake. Matt can feel himself turning red, acutely aware of every little action the artist makes. He tries to think about something, anything else, but the entirety of his attention is focused on the other man. When he swallows, his throat is completely dry.
“Peut-être... Non, ici.” He lays one arm over his stomach. “Et les jambes...”
Matt’s entire body is burning. He closes his eyes and tries to curb his arousal, thinking of dead kittens, naked old people, naked fat people, vaginas, but nothing works. He can feel the blood beginning to pool in his groin and finally, in desperation, he thinks of the accident.
It works. He deflates entirely as Simon finishes arranging him, guilt roaring through him that he had to use that memory. He doesn’t open his eyes, afraid that is he does he might start crying, but thankfully Simon says, “Keep your eyes closed. Think you can hold this position for awhile?”
Matt nods, not trusting himself to speak.
--
It takes Simon a long time to finish, but when he does, he’s smiling. “Ça c’est bien,” he says, then beams at the brunet. “Thanks so much for your help.”
“Pas de problem.” Matt sits up and stretches, groaning. “Just don’t ask me to do it again anytime in the near future.”
Simon laughs. “Okay.”
Matt’s stomach starts to flutter again at the sound, and he flushes and grabs his clothes, dressing quickly. “Would you like to have dinner tonight?” he hears Simon ask.
“Yeah. I have some stuff I have to do first, though,” he lies, not sure he should stay with the artist lest he do something stupid which, knowing him, is very liable to happen.
“Okay.” Simon smiles at him as he follows him to the door. “À tout à l’heure.”
“Later,” he says, and as soon as the door closes, bolts back to his flat, heart pounding.
As soon as he gets there, his phone rings. Thinking it’s Simon he grows confused, but upon looking at the caller I.D., he sees that it is in fact Winston, his best friend from childhood and beyond. He breathes a sigh of relief.
“You never call me,” the other man whines as soon as he says hello. Matt rolls his eyes.
“You’re the one who’s always busy with your engineering crap,” he retorts, and laughs a little as he imagines Winston's scrunching up his face like he always does.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a horrible person, I’m too busy living up to my parents impossible expectations to call, it’s all my fault, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Thought your parents wanted you to be a doctor?”
“Doctor, accountant or lawyer,” Winston corrects. “The only three jobs the Chinese think are worthwhile. But they changed their minds when they saw what kind of figures I would be making.”
“Which are?”
“If I ever survive graduate school and the internships? Upwards of six.”
“Wow.” Matt’s never even dreamed of being able to make that kind of money.
“It’s much less impressive when you figure out how much will be going towards paying back my student loans,” Winston says irritably. “Also I think I’ll probably die before this semester is over.”
“No, you won’t,” Matt says, smiling fondly at the familiarity of his friend. Winston is one of those people that knows he’s smart enough to do what he has to, but he’s lazy enough to be an expert procrastinator and ends up heaping piles of unnecessary stress upon himself.
“Shows what you know,” he grumbles. “But enough about me, what’s new with you?”
Matt blinks, then flushes deeply as he remembers what just happened with Simon. “I, um... I have a new neighbor.”
“He’s cute,” Winston says immediately.
“Says who?”
“You hesitated. That means you’re embarrassed to be talking about it.” Matt can just see the huge grin spreading over Winston’s face. The man lives to torment; always has. He caused quite a lot of trouble in high school via illegal rocket explosions and wayward science experiments. “So, what’s he like? Is he single?”
“Yeah.” Matt flushes even deeper. “And he’s... He’s French-”
“Ooo, sexy.”
“Shut up. You don’t even like guys.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate their aesthetic beauty. So, French.” Matt imagines he’s doing an eyebrow wiggle. “He must really like you, what with your mad language skills.”
“Actually, he speaks English really well. Most of our conversations happen in it.”
“Oh. Well, what else?”
“He’s an artist.”
“Wait, wait, a French artist? Seriously?” He sounds like he’s going to burst out laughing, and now that Matt thinks about it, it is kind of funny.
“Yeah.”
Winston laughs. “Brilliant. I love it. Does he smoke?”
“Um...”
“He does! Dude, you’re totally crushing on the quintessential French stereotype!”
“He’s not!” Matt protests. “I mean, he is, kind of, but he’s like... Deeper than that. He’s really nice and he makes me food and I just...” He sighs. “I feel good around him.”
“Like, Damon good?”
His first boyfriend. It lasted six months. “No, more like... More like Brandon good.” His third. Two years.
Winston gives a low whistle. “That’s pretty powerful stuff. You gonna make a move?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t... I mean, I don’t know if he’s gay.”
“So find out.”
“But-”
“Dude, just do it. You haven’t gotten any action in way too long. Besides, he’s French. He probably won’t take offense even if he’s not.”
“I...” Matt tries to protest, and then realizes he doesn’t have anything to say. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”
“Great!” He’s sure Winston is beaming. “So, guess what happened last week in the cafeteria?”
--
About a week later, just as March is starting, Matt is over for dinner, they’re talking about the show, and suddenly Matt realizes he’s never seen any of Simon’s artwork.
“Really?” Simon says, surprised.
“Yeah.” Matt frowns. “I guess with work and school I just never had a chance, but... Can I now?”
“Sure.” Simon gets up and goes to the living room, to a bookshelf. “Come here.”
Matt follows, and Simon hands him a couple of sketch books. “This is my early work during uni,” he explains, kneeling down. “These”-he pulls out a large folder from behind the bookshelf-“are some of my finished pieces.” He brings it over to Matt, who has seated himself on the couch. “They’re not the greatest-”
“They’re amazing,” Matt cuts him off, slowly flipping through the sketchbooks. A lot of it is random scribbles and concept work, half-finished drawing and quick studies, but Matt swears he’s never seen anything this good in his life. “I mean... Wow.”
“Eh... Merci.” He looks up and sees Simon’s cheeks are faintly pink. It’s rather adorable.
He goes through all the sketchbooks before moving on to the projects, which are even more incredible. Matt wasn’t really sure what a pastel artist was before now, but as he moves through the pieces, he understand; it’s much like a very concentrated, bright, more elaborate and detailed version of drawing with chalk. “These are... God, I don’t even know.” He laughs. “You’re incredible.”
“I’m okay,” Simon says, and Matt instantly recognizes the tone of his voice; thankful of the praise but trying to stay modest because you know getting a swelled head is just going to cause trouble. He often used to feel the same thing every time someone complimented him on his music.
“You’re way better than okay.” He finishes looking at the last of them. “Can I see what you’re working on right now?”
“Ah, yeah.” Simon goes over to the canvas and pulls back the cloth covering it. Matt almost chokes.
It’s some version of him, long and willowy, rendered in bright greens and soft blues with billowing robes and yellows and oranges dancing in the background. It’s very obviously not done, but it still looks magnificent. He feels his jaw go slack. “What...”
“I wanted to do a mythical creatures theme,” Simon explains. “There’s going to be wings too, and some more foliage.” Then he blushes again. “Unless you don’t like it...?”
“Are you insane?” Matt breathes. “That’s fantastic. I can’t believe you used me for that. You should have used like... I don’t know, a movie star, or something.”
Simon chuckles. “I liked using you,” he admits. “You’re very easy to draw.”
Matt laughs, a bit disbelievingly. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure that’s all you.” He leans back against the couch, still shocked. “God, how are you still single right now? You should be having to fend the ladies off with a crowbar.”
Something odd flashes over Simon’s face. “I’m not interested in women,” he says carefully.
“Oh.” Matt blinks. “Guys then. Whatever. You should be having to fend off something.”
For a moment, Simon doesn’t say anything. Then, slowly, he smiles. “I had a bad breakup with my last boyfriend,” he explains. “I haven’t really been looking for anything since.”
“Ew.” Matt makes a face. “How bad?”
“He threw a hairdryer at my head.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.” He grins. “So, you want desert?”
Matt’s a starving uni student. Of course he wants dessert.
--
One night in the middle of the month, Matt comes home to find Simon asleep outside his door.
“What are you doing?” he asks as he shakes him awake. The artist groans and opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at Matt before grinning sheepishly.
“I locked myself out,” he explains, standing up. “And I can’t get another key until tomorrow, so I was hoping I could stay with you.”
“Oh.” Matt blinks. “Um, yeah. Sure.”
Matt’s apartment is extremely boring when compared to Simon’s, the only interesting thing being the piano against the far wall, which Simon spots immediately. “Why do you have a piano?” he asks, looking confused.
“Oh. Um...” Matt flushes, and with a jolt realizes that he’s going to have to explain himself; the thought makes him vaguely sick. “I, uh... I play.”
“Really?” Simon sits down on the bench and begins fiddling with the keys. “For how long?”
“A long time,” he answers vaguely, hoping Simon will drop it, but he doesn’t.
“How long is that?”
“Since I was a kid.”
“Vraiment?” He turns back to look at the brunet, who is hanging up his coat, trying not to blush. “You must be pretty good then, yeah?”
“I’m decent,” Matt lies. Don’t ask me to play, he thinks desperately. For the love of God, don’t ask-
“Will you play for me?”
Fuck.
“I don’t know,” he stalls, trying to sound tired. “It’s been a long day...”
“Just one song? Please?”
He knows before he does it that looking at Simon is a terrible idea, but his gaze is moving before he can stop himself, and Simon is sitting on the bench, pleading look plastered perfectly on his face, and Matt crumbles like a burning building.
“Fine,” he sighs. “One song.”
Simon grins and moves from the bench, turning his attention to the music on top of the piano, rifling through the sheets as Matt walks over and sits down. “This one,” he declares after a moment, and sets Mozart’s Fantasia in D minor down on the keys.
Something dark and heavy coils in Matt’s stomach. “That one?” he repeats. He thinks he can feel bile rising in his throat.
“Yeah. It looks interesting.”
Matt sits down slowly, mind reeling at the memories this song brings. It was his best, once. The one that landed him half his scholarships, that he played so much he could do it with his eyes closed. His mother’s favorite.
He shouldn’t. He should find another one or pretend to play this one while really playing something else, because there’s no way this can end well. And normally, he thinks he’d be able to. But for some reason, as soon as his fingers touch the keys, he starts it. Stop! his mind screams at him. Stop, stop right now, do you have any idea how fucking stupid you’re being?!
But he can’t stop. He wants to, he really does, but his fingers refuse to listen to him, and soon, he’s lost in the familiar, melancholy melody. Part of him starts to forget Simon is even there, playing as he would if he were alone. But the rest of him is acutely aware of the artist’s gaze, and he doesn’t have to look to know that it’s shocked.
He plays it flawlessly right up until the end; the last part of the song is supposed to be lighter, happier, but without even thinking about it, Matt starts playing in the minor key. He started doing that after his mother and sister died, because it didn’t seem right to play it happily when he can’t associate it with good memories anymore, but it also makes him feel incredibly guilty because he knows his mother wouldn’t have wanted him to think like that.
When he finishes, it’s quiet for a very long time.
“That was amazing,” Simon says eventually, quietly, and when Matt looks at him he sees that his brow is furrowed and he has a puzzled expression on his face. Matt fidgets uncomfortably.
“Thanks,” he says. “I, uh... I have some homework I have to do now. There’s... There’s food in the fridge. And you can take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Still looking at him strangely, Simon says, “No, I’ll sleep on the couch. It’s my fault I got locked out.”
“Are you-”
“I’m sure,” he says, and his voice leaves no room for argument. Then he gets up and goes to the kitchen, looking for food. Matt stays at the bench for several long moments, feeling slightly miserable, before forcing himself up and getting his homework.
--
They don’t talk, which is unusual because normally neither of them can shut up. The tension in the air is thick and Matt can feel it sinking into his muscles, making his shoulders tighten and his stomach coil. He tries to concentrate on his homework, but the dark aura is making it impossible for him to understand anything.
“You were lying, weren’t you?” Simon says suddenly, and Matt looks up.
“About what?” he asks, but Simon just gives him a look that says ‘stop fucking around’, so Matt sighs. “Yeah.”
Simon frowns at him. “You play beautifully; obviously you wanted to become a musician at some point. Why didn’t you?”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter; it’s a lost dream anyway.”
“Why was it lost?”
Matt doesn’t answer at first, torn between lying again or telling the truth. “It just didn’t work out that way,” he says eventually, and tries to go back to his homework, but Simon isn’t done yet.
“Why?”
“Because it just didn’t.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Not one I’m willing to take. Why didn’t you become a musician?”
“Why does it matter?” Matt yells suddenly, and glares at him fiercely. “I told you, it’s a lost dream, so it doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t do! So just drop it!”
He doesn’t mean to snap, but Simon is wading through dangerous waters, and Matt doesn’t want him to go any further. He catches a glimpse of the artist’s shocked expression before he stands up suddenly and stalks to his room, slamming the door behind him. It’s childish, but he doesn’t care. He wants to get his point across.
Except Simon doesn’t take the hint, and a few minutes later the door opens, and even though Matt resolutely does not look up, he can feel the other man’s gaze on him. He tries to ignore it for several minutes, and just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, Simon speaks.
“Can I ask you one thing?”
“What,” he bites out viciously. He doesn’t want to talk about this.
“Does it have anything to do with why you refer to your mother in the past tense?”
The question hits him like a punch to the face, and for a minute, he can’t speak at all. When he finally manages to find his voice, he wants to tell Simon that no, don’t be ridiculous, but it comes out as a quiet, shaky, “Yes.”
The subject doesn’t come up again after that.
--
The air between them is tense for a few days; Matt gets the feeling Simon doesn’t want to cross a line and the brunet is just a little too depressed to say much of anything. It’s too bad, because he actually thinks that he might, maybe, possibly be able to talk to Simon about this without completely breaking down, but he’s so used to bottling it all up, he can’t bring himself to say anything.
Winston calls later to see how things are going.
“I played for him,” Matt tells him quietly.
There’s a pause.
“I thought you said you would never play for someone again,” he says.
“I did.” It was a vow he took after he gave up on his dream.
“Then why did you do it?”
“I...” Matt laughs hollowly. “I don’t know. It just... It just didn’t seem right not to.”
For several moments, Winston doesn’t say anything.
“He’s really getting to you, isn’t he.” It’s not a question.
Matt gives a facsimile of a laugh again. “Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah, he is.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“... I don’t know,” he says, sighing. “I really don’t know.”
--
In April, Simon’s show opens, and Matt is invited to attend. He doesn’t particularly want to go, feeling he would be grossly out of place, but Simon insists that as his muse and model he has to, and eventually, he relents.
He’s been to gallery openings before; Walter sometimes makes him go so he can make ‘business connections’. They’ve all been extremely boring, filled with stuffy old men, pretentious jerks and mediocre paintings, mostly landscapes, that do nothing for him. The only good part has been the food.
Simon’s opening doesn’t have food.
It does, however, have a wild variety of eccentric people, amazing artwork, and Simon.
This means that the place is more busy than the park on a Saturday afternoon during summer. It’s noisy and lively and really quite fun and Matt doesn’t notice any of this; he’s too in awe of everything Simon has put up, because all of it-the photographs, the pastel works, the charcoal sketches, the occasional colored pencil piece-are incredible.
He’s also somewhat embarrassed because there’s an entire wall covered with images that are all touting his image in some way or another.
“You didn’t say you were going to use so many of me,” Matt mutters to the artist as he stares at the wall before him. It’s not obviously him; the beings are all fantastical and the sketches carefully stop before showing his features, but Matt knows it’s him. It makes his cheeks burn.
“A good artist always showcases his best muse,” Simon replies, sounding amused, then wanders off to engage the audience. Matt watches him, marveling at the way he seamlessly slides into conversation, making people laugh effortlessly, like he’s known them for years. It’s obvious the people here are here because they want to be, because the lure of Simon’s work draws them in like flies to honey. They’re all part of his world.
It makes Matt feel horribly out of place, and he tries not draw attention to himself by standing in the corner.
It doesn’t work.
“Stop hiding!” Simon chides when he spots him, dragging him out. “Socialize!”
“I don’t know any of these people!” Matt protests. Simon rolls his eyes.
“Neither do I.”
“You’re charismatic; I’m not.”
“Then this is a great time to learn,” he says, and forces Matt into a circle of people. He has no idea what they're talking about and tries to shy away, but someone catches sight of him and asks, “How do you know Simon?”
Matt flushes. “I’m his neighbor.”
“Oh, really?” Several eyes light up. “The one that saved him breaking his neck?”
So Matt has to recount their first meeting, and the dinners, and eventually he admits to being a model, which leads to his opinions on the art. He doesn’t have much to say, but he gets other people going and learns more about art critique than he ever thought possible. It’s not quite what he wants to talk abut, but it’s not economics, which is fantastic. So he tries his best to keep up.
By the end, he’s laughing and talking with these people like they’re his best friends, and when they invite him to a pub for post-celebratory drinks, he readily agrees.
Most of them get madly drunk, but Matt’s a bartender and knows not to overindulge. Simon has (only, he claims) three martinis and two pints and spends the next few hours being very affectionate, draping his arms over Matt’s shoulders and hugging him and even kissing him once on the cheek (and Matt’s pretty sure he was aiming for his mouth and just happened to miss).
At half-one, they get kicked out, and Matt takes Simon home. The artist is actually a fairly lucid drunk, which is nice because the brunet can just guide him back.
He really wishes he would stop trying to kiss him, though. Mostly.
“Will you stop it?” he snaps the fifth time it happens, even as he blushes.
“But I want to kiss you,” Simon whines, pouting.
“You’re drunk,” Matt grumbles, and Simon giggles.
“Drunk men tell no lies.” He leans against the wall as Matt unlocks his flat and bats his eyelashes. “That’s what Americans say, no?”
“Drunk men also have no judgement,” Mat retorts, leading him into the kitchen and getting a glass of water. “Drink this, it’ll help with the hangover.”
“How to you know?” Simon demands.
“My mother was a nurse,” he explains, and makes sure he drinks it all and another glass besides. Then he takes Simon to his bedroom and grabs a bin, strips him to his underwear (and discovers his legs are rather pale with knobby knees, not nearly as sexy as the rest of him; it helps curb the dull arousal thrumming in his veins) and tucks him in.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asks when he thinks he’s done. Simon grins lazily.
“Embrasse-moi,” he demands.
Matt rolls his eyes. “Non.”
“S’il te plait?”
“Non.”
“I won’t go to sleep if you don’t kiss me.”
“Non.”
Simon pouts. “Je vais chanter!” Matt raises an eyebrow. “Frere Jaques, Frere Jaques! Dormez-vous! Dormez-vo-”
“Okay, okay, I’ll kiss you, just shut up!” he yells, and Simon shuts up, grinning. Matt sighs, trying very hard to ignore the sudden fluttering in his stomach as he moves forward to kiss his cheek.
Or at least he tries, but at the last second Simon turns his head and crashes their lips together.
For a moment, the world freezes, and Matt can only stare.
Then his brain registers soft and warm, and his eyes slips shut as Simon tilts his head, mouth moving slowly against his, gentle and coaxing. Matt’s muscles go weak when he feels the slide of a tongue against his lips, and he moans softly, mindlessly parting them. The artist tastes like smoke and martini and a bit of wine, and heat begins to simmer low in his belly.
And then he remembers that Simon is drunk, and that this is a bad, bad idea, and he pulls away.
Simon pouts. “I wasn’t done,” he whines, and tries to move back in, but Matt pushes him away.
“J’ai t’embrasse,” he says firmly, even as he feels shivers run up his spine. “Now, you have to sleep. Bon nuit.”
Simon continues to pout, but snuggles into the covers anyway. “One more?” he pleads, and with the first kiss still tingling on his lips, Matt just sighs and gives him a quick peck. Simon makes a happy noise and grins goofily up at him. “Merci,” he giggles. “Bon nuit.”
“Ne pas vomiter,” Matt says, and leaves. He can still feel Simon’s lips against his.
When he dreams that night, he dreams of warm hands, a soft mouth, and bright hazel eyes.
--
When he wakes up, he has an intense craving for pancakes, something that he’s learned cannot be ignored. So he begins bustling around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients and frying up sausages (he refuses to eat British bacon because it is not. Fucking. Bacon). He’s so busy he doesn’t even notice Simon is up until the artist wraps his arms around him from behind, murmurs, “Bonjour,” and kisses his cheek.
The bottom drops out of Matt’s stomach and he flushes deeply. “B-bonjour,” he stammers.
“Mmm.” A hand slides under his shirt to press against his stomach and the brunet squeaks. Simon chuckles.
“You kissed me last night,” he says.
Matt swallow thickly. “So I did.”
He hums. “You’re not going to freak out, are you?” he murmurs against Matt’s ear, sending warm shivers through his body.
“That depends,” he says carefully, surprised when his voice doesn’t shake. “Are you... Serious about this?”
A pause.
“Are you?”
Matt sighs.
“If you want me to be.”
He feels Simon grin against his ear.
“I do.”
“Okay then.”
“... Really?”
Matt sighs again, but feels himself smile. “Yeah.”
Simon makes a happy noise and suddenly Matt is bring turned around and assaulted with kisses, moaning as Simon pries his mouth open and ravages it, hands stroking up his back and burying themselves in his hair. Matt shivers and grips his shoulders, body pressing against the artist’s as arousal starts to course through his veins.
Then something occurs to him.
“hey,” he gasps as he breaks off. “How do you not have a massive headache right now?”
Simon blinks. “Oh, I do,” he says. “I just wanted to get this cleared up first.”
“... Oh.”
After Simon’s downed some aspirin, they sit down to breakfast. The atmosphere is light and giddy, and as they talk and joke and laugh and Simon sneaks the occasional touch and kiss, Matt feels kind of like he’s floating.
It’s the happiest he’s been in the long, long time.
--
He has to go to dinner that night, but it’s better than usual because this morning’s events have left him feeling rebellious and defiant. So when the conversation comes around to him, instead of talking about school, he says casually, “I’m seeing someone.”
He relishes in the way Walter’s face tightens; his uncle has never been good at hiding his homophobia. “Who?”
“My neighbor; his name is Simon.”
Walter glares. “So it’s a man,” he grits out.
“Well, obviously,” Matt chirps. “I’m gay, aren’t I?”
“No, you’re just going through some ridiculous-”
“Arrête!” Brigitte snaps. “Matthew, stop antagonizing your uncle! Walter, we’ve already been over this; he’s gay. It’s not a phase, and it’s not going to change. So shut up and just be thankful he’s not a queen!”
Walter goes purple and starts tearing into his food viciously; Matt lifts his wine glass to hide his smirk. When he first came here, his sexuality was the only things he point blank refused to give up, because he’d known he was gay since he was twelve and he sure as hell wasn’t turning straight now. Walter protested vehemently, but because years of working in the fashion industry had made Brigitte grow quite familiar with the gay crowd, she refused to see it as the problem her husband thought it was. His uncle fought tooth and nail to try and force him back in the closet, but Matt held strong and without his wife’s support, he was forced to give up.
It used to be a small consolation prize, because Matt never had a lasting relationship, but tonight, he can feel the confidence thrumming through him.
He may not have his music any longer, but now he has something that almost makes up for it.
He has Simon.
And he’ll die before he lets them take that away.
Part Two