Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
an actual dragon—professional, unmistakable—on Charlie’s thigh, and Simon takes the opportunity to give it a squeeze.
This might be the first time he’s seen it in broad daylight at a distance of less than six inches. “Is that the dragon from
Tree of the Gods?”
“Yup.”
The float starts to drift away, so Simon hauls it back. “I didn’t realize you were a fan.”
“I used to watch it every Sunday night, on Dave’s old couch. He always had all the streaming services.”
Simon still isn’t capable of hearing about Dave without wanting to snarl, but Dave is returning Charlie’s texts almost immediately,
which is at least something. Simon can feel at peace with Dave’s continued existence, because there he is, an object lesson
in what happens when you push people away. Dave, Simon’s patron saint of isolation.
“And then a few years later I was on the same show as you,” Charlie goes on.
Simon ducks under the water for a minute, wanting to sink lower, into the bedrock, into the Earth’s molten core. “And I was
an asshole,” he says when he has to come up for air.
“You were queer. It blew my whole mind. I mean, yes, sure, you were a dick.” Charlie sighs happily. “Bitchy and hot and good at your job.
Nothing not to like.”
Simon’s face must be doing something against his will, because Charlie shoves him with his foot. The float goes sailing toward
the other end of the pool. “I mean, I wasn’t in love with you or anything. I wasn’t pining. I have feelings for a lot of people,
fuck off.”
It’s easy to imagine Charlie with half a dozen simultaneous crushes. Charlie’s heart is expansive, generous.
Simon paddles over and drags the float back to the shady half of the pool. “I don’t. I mean, I don’t have feelings for a lot
of people. I try not to. I’ve known for a couple years that I like all this . . .” He gestures at Charlie’s body, his face.
“But anything more? That wasn’t until Phoenix, I think.”
“I call bullshit,” Charlie says, sliding off the raft and landing next to Simon, shoulder deep in the water. “It was before
that.”
Simon should have kept his mouth shut. “Not really.”
“You don’t let anyone drive you anywhere,” Charlie goes on. “Jamie says you only got into his car a year ago. You barely use
rideshares.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Simon asks, baffled. “Jamie’s a terrible driver. I’ve never seen him use a turn
signal. You should see him try to park in the Trader Joe’s lot. Mayhem.”
“You’ve been letting me chauffeur you around for years.”
“You kept kidnapping me!”
“Simon.” Charlie’s hands are on Simon’s hips, so Simon can’t even swim away. “All I’m saying is that even when you didn’t
like me, some part of you knew better.”
It’s sweet, probably, that Charlie thinks there’s a secret part of Simon’s brain that knows what’s going on. Simon’s well aware that his brain is three unreliable narrators stacked in a trench coat.
“But I don’t give a shit, except for how I like when you’re wrong and I’m right,” Charlie goes on. “I don’t care if you figured
it out last month, as long as you did figure it out. So you can stop arguing with me.”
“You’re the only person in this pool arguing.”
“I can see you arguing in your head.”
“That’s called thinking,” Simon says, defaulting to bitchy without even meaning to.
Charlie gets Simon backed up against the side of the pool, kissing him, shutting him up in the most efficient way.
“I did figure it out,” Simon says, his lips moving against Charlie’s.
“I know,” Charlie says. “I know.”
“No sex in my pool,” Simon says a minute later.
“Okay but what about sex on the lounge chair?”
Simon thinks about explaining that the way hills work is that the people higher up can see into the yards of people lower
down, but decides to save his breath. “Jamie could come home anytime. I’m trying not to traumatize him.” Charlie knows that
Simon’s trying to make it so Jamie stays if he wants to.
Charlie reaches for the sunblock on the edge of the pool and slathers some on his own shoulders haphazardly. Simon bats his
hands away and does it himself. It’s not like it’s a hardship. He gets a little distracted at the biceps—who can blame him—and
spends some extra effort rubbing the sunscreen onto Charlie’s most intricate tattoo, the cloud of stars wrapping around his
biceps.
Simon used to think it was such a boring tattoo for an actor on a show set in space, but now he gets it.
Out There was—is—a meaningful experience for Charlie.
He’s done it for most of his adult life, and it’s how he met most of his friends.
There’s meaning in making something other people enjoy, something they look forward to, and talk about, and write their own stories about.
And now Simon can’t look at that tattoo without thinking about Charlie on the couch at a foster home, Simon sneaking into
his father’s living room, Charlie with his shithead stepdad, Simon making Jamie watch the original Star Trek until Jamie started to enjoy it. Simon keeps thinking of the weirdly wholesome TikToks he and Charlie keep getting tagged
in. Simon’s left with the impression that the entire app is nothing but crying queer sci-fi fans. And also eyeliner tutorials.
It’s kind of heartwarming.
Simon figures there are worse legacies.
He hasn’t decided what he’s doing next, but the first script Claire sent him is for the adaptation of A Scorched Land. They’re asking Simon to read for the role of a cape-swishing, Cruella De Vil-esque dragon hunter, so it might be a decent
amount of fun for a few months’ work. Lian’s been hinting that she has some new project up her sleeve. It’s entirely possible
that Simon will spend his career following Lian around, which actually doesn’t sound so bad.
Sure, he wants to do more challenging roles, and he hopes he gets that chance, but he also hopes he gets to work on projects
that mean something to fans, projects that fans have fun with. And maybe he’ll have fun with them too.
“Why are you smiling?” Charlie asks, a little suspicious.
“I think it might be optimism.” Simon has no idea why it feels embarrassing to admit that. “What are you going to do after
this season?”
Nobody’s said out loud that this will be Out There’s last season. But with Alex already gone and Simon only doing half a season, it’s at least the end of Out There as everybody knows it. Eight years is a long time for any show.
Charlie pushes a wet piece of hair off Simon’s forehead. “I’ll stay for as long as there’s a show.” He’s quiet for a moment.
“After that, I don’t know. I, um. Alex thinks I’d be good in romcoms?”
“Yes,” Simon says immediately, because it’s obvious that this is what Charlie wants to do. “You’re funny and you’re good at
smoldering.”
“Not sure I have the range.”
“Don’t say that about yourself,” Simon says, even though he spent years complaining about Charlie’s lack of range. “That might
have been true at first, but it isn’t true now. Also, I just told you that you have the range. Funny. Smoldering.” He ticks
them off on his fingers. “Keep up.”
Charlie rolls his eyes in a way that makes Simon pretty sure he’s heard all this before—maybe from Alex, maybe from his agent.
Good.
That afternoon while Charlie’s swimming laps, Simon curls up on the couch and watches the last few episodes that he and Charlie
never got around to watching.
“It’s a love story,” Simon tells Charlie when he’s finished the final episode. He sits on the edge of the pool, his feet in
the water, Charlie’s hand around his ankle. “From season one onward.”
It isn’t just a collection of throwaway romantic lines. There’s something more than that, and Simon can see the story arc
in a way that he couldn’t when they were filming it. It doesn’t matter whether the writers intended it or whether he and Charlie
intended it: it’s still there, plain as day.
Maybe acting it out for years etched the truth of it into his body, into who he is. Maybe that’s why this thing with Charlie feels right.
Or maybe it feels right because he’s spent those same years at Charlie’s side. Maybe Charlie’s known him better and longer
than anyone else, even the mean parts, even the sad parts, even the things he’s tried to hide. If Charlie wants him anyway,
likes him—probably loves him—then that’s proof of Charlie’s terrible judgment, clearly, but it’s also proof that he isn’t
going anywhere. Proof that this is real.
Charlie splashes Simon’s legs. “Obviously,” he says. “How are you the last person in the world to realize this?”