Chapter Twenty #2
“Yeah. I should probably just stick to kids’ books.”
“Nothing wrong with kids’ books.”
“I mean, I can get through this without the audiobook.”
“Nothing wrong with audiobooks either. I like audiobooks.”
“And you aren’t stupid.” There’s an edge to Charlie’s voice.
A few years ago, they were doing press at a hotel—probably something to do with Comic-Con, if Simon’s Xanax-filtered memories
are anything to go by—when they wound up on the same elevator. Charlie looked him dead in the eye and pressed the button for
every single floor, just smearing his palm along the panel until all the buttons were lit up, never breaking eye contact.
Simon had simply gotten off at the next floor and taken another elevator, but he’d felt unsettled the rest of the day, like
he’d missed a cue.
The look Charlie had on his face when he pressed all those buttons is the same look he has now. This is some blatant shit-stirring,
maybe even picking a fight. Simon shouldn’t be humoring him.
But he remembers that awkward moment this morning on the sofa and figures he can either deal with this now or Charlie’s going
to keep poking at it.
“Maybe I spent seven years treating you like you were dumb and talentless,” Simon says, “but in my defense that was because I didn’t like you.
” It was also because Charlie has these alarming gaps in his knowledge that have more to do with a total lack of education than they do with anything else.
He seems to have switched schools often, and, ultimately, just stopped going.
Charlie gives him an incredulous look. “In your defense you didn’t like me,” he repeats.
Simon rolls his eyes. “Are you going to tell me it wasn’t mutual?”
“A little,” Charlie says, not meeting Simon’s eyes. “At first.”
“I was there. It was more than a little, and longer than at first.”
“In my defense, you were really mean.”
“I’m not going to apologize for my personality.”
Charlie’s sitting up now. “But it isn’t. You aren’t like that with anybody else. You singled me out.”
“It was mutual!” Simon says, in case Charlie missed it the first time, or during the seven years it was happening.
“And now?”
Simon’s too stunned by the honesty of Charlie’s question to come up with an answer, so Charlie’s words hang in the air while
they stare at one another.
“Oh my God, shut up,” Charlie says, even though Simon hasn’t said anything. He flops backward and throws an arm over his eyes.
“This is so embarrassing. Can you forget that happened?”
“Embarrassing?” Simon asks, trying to keep up.
“Stop.”
“Can you help me out here?”
Charlie does not remove his arm from his face. “I thought I didn’t care what you thought as long as you were nice or whatever,
but it turns out I do, and now you know.”
It truly is mortifying to care about someone’s opinion of you, and even more mortifying if they find out. This maybe isn’t the healthiest attitude, but at least he and Charlie are on the same page here.
“God, I know,” Simon says.
“Thanks,” Charlie says, his voice full of venom.
“No, I mean—” Simon doesn’t know how to show someone he cares about them and how to let them know he hopes they care about
him. He shut down that part of himself years ago. Decades ago.
He wonders if Charlie would notice if Simon took a little break from this conversation to google how to convince someone you
like them, or maybe to consult with Jamie. Simon wants to cross the room and kiss Charlie, but that might just cement whatever
absolute bullshit is going through Charlie’s head about Simon’s real reasons for wanting to spend time with him.
This is where, in a script, Simon’s supposed to say something decisively affectionate. I like and respect you. Being mean is my only reliable coping mechanism; sorry about that!
Simon tried compliments earlier, when he was praising Charlie’s work on Out There, and Charlie hadn’t believed him, so that’s out.
There’s only one thing Simon can do here. He grits his teeth. “Me too. I’m ready to die of embarrassment about it.”
Charlie lowers his arm and looks at him. “Yeah?”
“God. Yes. How can you not tell? Are your eyes broken?” Edie makes a discontented sound. This quarrel, or whatever it is,
is interrupting her nap. Which reminds Simon—“Do I really seem like I’d trust my dog to someone I didn’t like and respect?”
Charlie doesn’t look totally convinced.
“Look,” Simon says. “I’ve fucked plenty of people I don’t like.”
“You are so good at this,” Charlie says. “Wow.”
“Shut up. What I mean is that’s not what this is. For me, at least. I’m, like—” He makes a vague gesture between their bodies, a Rorschach blot of a gesture that he’s hoping Charlie will figure out how to interpret. “So you can just deal with that. Fuck off.”
He feels like he’s taken a few internal organs and tossed them on the floor for Charlie to step on. He feels like Charlie’s
now the proud owner of a functional MRI scan of Simon’s brain showing all kinds of terrible truths, the active parts of his
brain lit up like a Valentine’s heart.
Charlie’s face is unreadable. “Yeah?”
Simon thinks he might throw up. There are sirens going off. Red flags. Flashing lights. “Yes, you nightmare.”
“Sorry for being like this.” Charlie doesn’t look sorry at all. He looks a little smug.
“You should be. Now I’m all sweaty. I’m dying, here.” Simon runs a finger under the collar of his shirt. “I’m not built for
this.”
“Alex says I’m needy.”
“Pfft. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Simon is a global market leader in nuclear-grade neediness and Charlie’s
running an adorable little lemonade stand. “Is that why you broke up?”
“Yep.”
The surge of irritation Simon feels toward Alex makes no sense at all. If they hadn’t broken up, Charlie wouldn’t even be
here.
He takes a few steps toward Charlie. Charlie holds out a hand and Simon takes another few steps.
“I really am sorry for, you know. My personality.”
Charlie wraps a hand around Simon’s wrist and tugs. Simon goes alarmingly easily. “I like your personality.”
“Nobody likes my personality. I don’t like my personality.”
Charlie lets go of Simon’s wrist long enough to put Edie on the floor, which is animal abuse, but whatever; Simon’s okay with it because he knows what’s coming next. Charlie tugs Simon onto his lap. “Is it my turn to say nice things about you?”
“I will literally gag you and lock you in the bathroom.”
“That’s what I thought.” Charlie pulls Simon down for a kiss, then just rearranges him until Simon’s sprawled across Charlie’s
chest.
“You like the book?” Simon asks into the skin of Charlie’s neck.
“Yeah, Simon. I like it.” One of Charlie’s hands is on Simon’s neck, the other big and heavy on his lower back.
“You should read Howl’s Moving Castle next. There aren’t any dragons, but there’s dragon energy. Bitchy wizard plus his extremely competent housekeeper, basically.”
“I saw the movie.”
“He’s bitchier in the book, trust me.”
Charlie’s fingertips drift under the hem of Simon’s shirt. It’s been a while since Simon had a make-out-on-the-couch kind
of relationship, but apparently that’s what they’re doing, and Simon doesn’t hate it. He just sort of lies on top of Charlie,
not even bothering to hold himself up, and kisses the hinge of Charlie’s jaw, the place where his neck meets his shoulder.
He smells like Simon’s bath soap mixed with whatever laundry detergent Charlie uses at home. Simon breathes in the scent like
he’s chasing a high.
Charlie’s hands skim over Simon’s back, his fingers slipping under the waistband of Simon’s pants, but without any real intent.
His hands are big and warm and a little callused, presumably from whatever he does at the gym and also a catastrophic failure
to use moisturizer.
Simon’s coming to accept that he has a full-blown thing for Charlie’s hands.
“Is this how weighted blankets work?” Charlie asks, his mouth moving against Simon’s ear.
“I mean, my blankets don’t usually try to rub off on me but I’m not an expert.”
Charlie groans. “Let me see.”
For a minute Simon thinks Charlie wants to see his weighted blanket. Then—“Oh.”
“Or not,” Charlie says, because he’s slept with Simon three times, which is more than enough to have gathered that Simon’s
comfort zone for sex (and also everything else) is not exactly broad and expansive.
Simon thinks about it, thinks about Charlie’s eyes on him, and nothing about that image doesn’t work for him. Simon sits back
enough to undo his belt, to shove his pants down. Charlie does the same thing, scrambling a little, then tugs Simon back down
so he face-plants into Charlie’s neck.
Then Simon just . . . does what he was doing before, except he pushes himself up on one elbow to give Charlie room to watch.
He’s lazy about it—in this instance, that’s absolutely the right word—letting his pleasure build slowly, feeling up Charlie’s
chest with his free hand.
The whole situation is completely no frills, utterly basic, two people getting one another off in the least creative way possible.
When they came back home, Charlie turned on every light in the apartment, so they don’t even have the lighting working for
them. Most of their clothes are still on, and not even in a sexy way.
Simon can’t think of a single reason why it should feel like more than all that. It might have something to do with the fact that Charlie’s running his mouth, telling Simon what he looks like. But even that’s pretty standard, as far as dirty talk goes, nothing Simon hasn’t heard before.
But it feels . . . safe? Simon has never, not once in his life, felt unsafe during sex, so he has no idea why this is new or surprising.
When Charlie says, “Come on, show me,” it shouldn’t feel like a fuse has been lit. When Charlie says, “All right, there you
go, just like that,” Simon’s sure he should feel condescended to but instead he comes almost immediately.
Simon drifts, lets himself be moved around while Charlie picks his dumb free T-shirt off the floor and uses it to clean them
up.
“Can I,” Simon mumbles, his eyes still shut, making a gesture in the direction of Charlie’s crotch.
Charlie snorts. “In a minute. Are you always like this?”
Simon’s face is smashed into Charlie’s shoulder, but he can open one eye, so that’s what he does. “Like what?”
Charlie laughs, low and rumbly. Simon can feel it against his skin, so he presses closer, burrows a little deeper, and stays
there until Charlie drags him to bed.