Not exactly what I had in mind, but isn't that what catharsis is, anyway?
I initially wanted to give them a happy, schmoopy sort of thing that made people go squee, but then I realized I wasn't that person today, so angst happened. My apologies to my girls dahlia94 nd ireena. Maybe next time.
Also, people in my home town are selling their land and preparing for the end of the world. It's ridiculous and tragic and stupidly funny. So yeah, there go my doubts as to whether I belong here or not. My brother's overjoyed about the new laptop he bought dirt cheap from one of the doomsday fanatics.
Also: SIMON I REALLY FUCKING HOPE YOU WEREN'T KIDDING WHEN YOU SAID YOU DIDN'T GOOGLE YOURSELF ANYMORE.
Pour a little salt (we were never here), PG 13, 700 words, Simon Amstell/Ben Whishaw
There are cracks on the wood of the table and he runs his fingers along them, long, pale, skinny fingers that could break like twigs, snap with all the music in the world. Splinters under his fingernails, an evening to be spent picking them out with tweezers with a thin sheen of blood over everything.
He almost looks forward to it.
Simon arrives fifteen minutes later, screech of brakes and tires on asphalt; he’s still so caught up in the movie in his head, the one where he’s the main actor and Ben’s on a balcony just waiting to be saved. When he’s tired, Ben pretends he’s in Simon’s head.
Simon gets out of the car and even that’s loud; Ben curls a little bit more around himself, draws himself up tighter. Small, small, small enough, and maybe they wouldn’t notice you.
That’s never worked with Simon, though. He’s as skinny as Ben is, and where Ben folds in upon himself, Simon reaches out, all swagger and big talk and big blue eyes widened and arms spread wide in an attempt to let the world flow into him. Ben sometimes wants to hit him till his face is bloody and his eyes are blackened, screamin too much light, don’t you know any better?
He doesn’t, though.
“Oh gosh, am I late?” Sunlight bouncing off a generic wristwatch, and Ben squints to make out the familiar crop of curly fair hair, golden in the sun, blazing and halo-like. “I didn’t mean to, Dan was being a bloody wanker about his car and then it was out of petrol and then Mum said something about picking up eggs and the whole thing got bloody blown out of proportion.”
The bench creaks under the added weight, and there’s a sudden warmth against Ben’s side. Simon bumps their shoulders together experimentally. It’s awkward and it hurts a little; they’re both so bony. “You alright?” he asks, quiet now, not loud enough to make Ben’s ears bleed.
Ben shakes his head, but it’s not in answer to his question. He slants a look at Simon, side eyed like when he was driving, and Ben’s got one foot out the door already. Simon’s humming a little to himself, looking around, his mouth set in a soft shape.
Simon, as a concept; long and gangly and with too many jagged edges and that vicious sharp bite of his humor that he’s still learning to wield properly. Simon, who has a habit of looking at Ben and saying exactly the right thing at the worst possible time.
Ben gets in the car, and watches his fingers grip the dashboard. His skin is translucent, like he’s about to vanish away entirely. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth when he looks at Simon, so he looks away at the road, the shops and houses passing by like scenes of a dream.
“Your Mum’s worried about you,” Simon says, filling the silence with words that don’t fit quite right. “You’ve got us all worried, to be honest.”
Ben nods, a quick sharp jerk of his head. Ben doesn’t tell Simon that he sees his face on every bully he takes on, and that every teacher he mouths off to, he hears his mother’s worried pitch of voice.
“Well then,” Simon says, uncertain.
He slides into a smooth stop in front of Ben’s house. Simon only drives properly when Ben’s in the car. Ben doesn’t invite him in.
“How’s the eye?” Simon asks.
Ben stays where he is, hands crossed on his lap. He feels Simon reaching over, hesitant, unsure where Ben would’ve thought he would be cocky and confident.
Fingers touch his bruised right eye. Long and slender, like his own. They gently nudge at his face, making him turn.
“You’ll be alright?” it comes out as a question.
Ben says nothing.
Simon’s lips, when they cover his own, are slightly chapped, and taste faintly of blueberries. He kisses sweet and tentative, and it’s almost a minute until Ben kisses him back, a slight shift in his muscles, leaning in a little, and letting Simon read the rest from what he’s doing.
And for almost three whole minutes, Ben forgets