Chapter Text
“Mng,” John manages, Simon kissing him soundly, both of them pressed against another brick wall just outside of the Literary Mug, but neither one of them seems to mind. “You brought me flowers?”
“Yeah baby,” Simon murmurs, kissing him deeper, said flowers still in John’s hand, fingers curled tightly around the stems. He told Simon he’d wait outside the Literary Mug for him, and all he could focus on as Simon approached was the bundle of flowers in his hand. It’s an assortment of chrysanthemums and carnations, secretly his favorite despite Simon not knowing, and John only kisses him harder, because never in all his years of dating has anyone ever brought him flowers.
“Fuck,” Simon tells him, licking into John’s mouth, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip. “If I’d known I’d get this reaction out of flowers.”
“It’s just—” John tries, but his eyes dart down to the bouquet again, emotion surging up too fast, too sharp. He kisses Simon instead of finishing the sentence, because he can’t seem to speak it, can’t seem to get it out without choking around the swell of emotions that he can’t manage to bring a name to. Simon chuckles softly against his mouth, hands warm and firm at John’s waist, drawing him in until they’re flush from chest to knee.
“No one’s ever— I don’t—” John stammers, breath shuddering. “I’ve never —”
“You deserve it, sweet’eart,” Simon murmurs, voice low and sure. He kisses the corner of John’s mouth, his cheek, his jaw — gentle in a way that knocks the air clean out of him. “And if they make you this happy, then I’ll bring you flowers every time I see you —” he pauses, a shy blush creeping up his cheeks. “If you want, that is.”
John can’t stop his laugh, breathless, embarrassingly soft, because he shouldn’t be this worked up over flowers, but he is. It’s a something he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time, and before he can get too emotional he leans forward, burying his face in the side of Simon’s neck. They stay like that for a minute, a quiet space of smoke and tea and something warm underneath it all. “Ye don’t have to do all that.”
“Maybe I want to,” Simon murmurs, and John can only burrow further, letting that comforting smell of tea and spice envelop his nose. He hasn’t known Simon long, but there’s a comfort in his arms, a safety he hasn’t felt with anyone else before.
“Yer gonna make me look stupid,” he grumbles but there’s not heat to it. His voice is heavy, garbled in a way, and Simon only holds him tighter, a kiss to John’s brow. “Acting like an eejit over some flowers.”
Simon huffs a low laugh, sliding one of his hands up into John’s hair, fingers brushing the short, growing-out strands at the back of his head. “You could never look stupid, sweet thing.” He leans down, their lips meeting once more, Simon’s other hand wrapping around the top of John’s own, the hand that still holds the flowers. “Like seeing you happy.”
“Yeah, well,” John says, Simon tutting softly as he wipes the bit of wetness from John’s lashes. “Just coming to see me would have been enough, you didn’t need to do all this.”
Simon cocks a brow, “You say no one’s ever brought you flowers?”
John nods his head, leaning forward to smell them, a soft smile on his face. “No one except you.”
Simon swipes his thumb across John’s wrist, the fluttering pulse just beneath. “Think you need to date better people, Johnny.”
“Well,” John says, leaning into Simon’s palm as the man cradles his jaw. “Think I’m startin’ to, yeah?” And John knows this is new, still in the early stages, but since that very first moment he laid eyes on Simon he knew something was different about him. Something he can’t name.
But all John knows is he wants to spend time with him. He likes him, a lot.
Simon smiles then, soft and warm, something unguarded and raw. And it makes John wonder what has happened in Simon’s life for him to be single, for his eyes to give away the simple fact that he doesn’t know if he deserves this. Simon who is thoughtful, who makes John feel seen.
Simon who checks in on John during the day, asking about his day, not because it benefits him, not because he thinks pretending to be interested will get John in his bed faster. No.
Simon wants to know, is genuinely interested in John. He doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not. He’s who he says he is, laid out and bare, vulnerable in a way that makes John understand that this means more than either of them is willing to say.
And Simon who looks surprised when he’s shown simple acts of affection, who allows John to touch him, and yet — there’s that look about him. A surprise almost, like he expected to be alone.
Like he’s been told he’s not allowed to want this.
John swallows, thumb brushing one of chrysanthemum petals. “You know,” he says softly, “A guy could get used to be treated like this. Most blokes wait at least a month before they’re tryin’ to sweep me off my feet.”
Simon’s lip twitches, “And how did that work out for them?”
John looks around, gesturing to the empty space around them with a cheeky grin, “Lads are lining up around the block, can’t you tell?”
Simon hums low and thoughtful, “Well hopefully I can be first in line then, Johnny.”
John laughs quietly, the sound catching in his throat. “First in line, hm?” he murmurs, Simon’s eyes soft at the corner, nearly a molten amber in the sunlight that filters into the alleyway they’re standing in. “Very ambitious of you.”
“Mm,” Simon says, voice low and steady. “Maybe I just enjoy being honest with you.”
John’s breath hitches, the words settling low and deep in his belly. But Simon doesn’t look away, just meets John’s stare head-on, as if letting John understand the weight of his words.
John rubs absently at his ribs, “Dangerous thing, being honest with me,” he teases lightly. “Might start thinkin’ you like me.”
Simon steps closer, hips brushing together. His thumb brushes across John’s high cheekbones, his other closing around John’s hand, flowers between their fingertips. “I think,” he says slowly, eyes darkening with his words. “That’s becoming painfully obvious.”
John’s breath stutters in his chest. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Simon murmurs, leaning in just enough that John can feel the whisper of his breath against his cheek. “And I’m not exactly trying to hide it, am I?”
John feels something give inside of him, like a door opening on well-oiled hinges. It’s been a long time since anyone showed interest in him without the typical mindfuck that dating seems to bring. It’s been even longer since someone has looked at him the way Simon is now, like he’s worth the trouble, the time.
And John doesn’t stop the pull of gravity between them, when Simon leans down once more, their lips meeting over and over. Like they can’t get enough, will never get enough. This connection, this want — this need.
John admits because he has dated in the past, that a nagging voice had settled in the back of his mind telling him that Simon only wanted a physical relationship with him. But now, as Simon kisses him, as he traces John’s bottom lip with his tongue, he knows that’s not the case.
He wants more.
And John does too.
“Good,” John says, foreheads pressed tight when Simon leans back. “I don’t want ye to hide it, Simon.”
Simon threads their fingers together, a gentle tug as he moves them back toward the direction of the Literary Mug. “Then, if I’m going to be a good date, I should get you fed.”
John nods, fingers curled tightly around the other. He doesn’t know what it is, but he’s done pretending he doesn’t feel something shifting between them. Something he doesn’t want to fight.
Whatever this is, it feels good, right.
And John doesn’t want it to stop.
G: So after all this time, I get to finally meet your snarky little ass on Thursday.
John glances over at the comment thread in his manuscript. He’s several hours deep into work, sitting cross-legged on his couch, his body a bit sore from not moving much, but he’s been at it all day, Ghost right alongside him.
J: Oh, someone sounds excited. Been dreaming about it, aye? Thinkin’ about me non-stop. I’m flattered.
John can’t control his cackle as he leans back, stretching his arms above his head. Henry, who has since settled down, meows softly as John scratches his head, the orange cat perched just at John’s shoulder.
G: Don’t flatter yourself. I’m looking forward to seeing if your face is as irritating as your prose.
John huffs, shifting some on the couch, Henry meowing at him once more, a bit annoyed this time. He glances at the time, nearly midnight and wonders why the fuck Ghost is still working this late at night. But then again, John is too. He’d texted with Simon earlier tonight, telling him as such, and Simon had understood, probably better than most.
He is also swamped with work, telling John he had a lot of last minute shit to get through before a meeting later this week.
They’re both busy, but John pulls his phone out anyway, deciding to send the man a quick goodnight text, just because he misses him.
John:
I hope you’re not overworking yourself, handsome. Although I think I’m doing the same right now. I hope you sleep well x
John lets out a long-suffering sigh, wondering if he should even respond to Ghost’s prompting, knows the man is just trying to rile him up — but then again, John has never listened well to his own advice.
J: My prose is brilliant, you insufferable ass. You’re just allergic to talent, and probably sunshine too. The fuck are you still doing awake at this hour? Don’t gremlins need sleep?
He rubs at his own eyes, knows he could ask the same question to himself. But he wants to get this finished. When he does the book will be about five chapters away from being complete, and that won’t take long at all.
Although, if John is honest with himself, he is a bit nervous that the smut chapter is the next one he and Ghost will be combing through.
Christ forbid.
Simon:
Work is irritating, but seeing your text made my whole night. Are you asking me if I’m overworking myself while you’re doing the same? Naughty boy ;) What am I going to do with you?
John knows lots of things Simon could do with him, but he can’t allow himself to get distracted, wishes his cock would get the message too.
G: Are you literally asking me this when you are also awake this late at night doing the same shit as me?
John doesn’t get a moment to respond before the next message comes through.
G: If I was allergic to talent, I wouldn’t be editing your book, MacTavish.
And then immediately right behind that.
G: That was not a compliment. Don’t get a bigger fucking head about it.
John waggles his brows, are you sure about that? Sounded like a compliment to me. So, you do like me. :)
John stands from the couch, his knee cracking, Henry now officially pissed at him, offering John a long drawn-out hiss. But John doesn’t care, only rolls his eyes as he walks into the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge before texting Simon back.
John:
I can think of a few things you could do right now. ;)
He twists the cap on the bottle, taking a long swig, cracking his neck back and forth. He’s stiff as a fucking rock having been curled up on the couch in that position for hours. It’s a nice flat, but damn it wouldn’t have been that hard to put a damn desk in here.
Simon:
Mmm, you make me want to tell this twat I’m working with to sod off. Think I’d rather make my boy feel good. Are you still working, baby?
John can’t help the smile that spreads across his mouth, warmth pooling low in his belly at the words. He glances at the mess around him, laptop open, two empty mugs on the coffee table, his crumpled blanket beginning to slide off the couch. He’s been hunched over the same sentence for nearly twenty minutes, his brain completely fried, and yet one message from Simon makes him feel more awake than he has in hours.
He knows he has edits and revisions, knows Ghost is practically breathing up his fucking ass.
But he needs this too.
John:
Thinking about shutting down for the night. Why? Have other ideas in mind?
He moves back over to the couch, settling back down, legs curling up beneath him, his blanket half-draped over his lap.
Simon:
I have lots of ideas in mind, Johnny. Mostly involving you and what you’re wearing right now.
John feels his chest tighten, a bit of bravado and decides a picture would work better than words. He flips his phone to camera mode and angles it down. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt, a band he likes, some progressive metal British band that he listens to nearly every day. He takes a few photos, shifting the position, knows exactly what he’s doing when he makes sure to catch the flat of his stomach, the way the bottom of his shirt rides up just so. He also doesn’t shy away from the faint outline of his cock, the way these sweats seem to hug him perfectly right.
And of course his little socks, ones Margo bought him last Christmas. Blue ones with tiny Scottish flags.
He hits send before he can think twice.
John:
IMG - 25690
Won’t keep you guessin’ but I fear I look a bit like a gremlin.
John glowers at his laptop, his screen showing a notification from Ghost, wonders what the fuck the man is doing still messaging him.
But then again — once again, John can say the fucking same.
G: Whatever helps you sleep better at night. Or not, seeing as you’re awake right alongside me.
John rolls his eyes, checking his phone before hammering out another response.
J: Lucky me. Are you this charming in person, too? But right before he can hit send, Henry bumps his arm as he jumps grumpily onto the couch, John’s fingers flying across the keyboard right as he hits enter.
So now his message reads as —
J: Lucky me. Are you this charming in person, too?dasuf-9ffi\asa0=s
Fucking eh.
“Ye menace of a cat,” John complains, picking up Henry, the cat growling before John gently tosses him onto the floor. “It’s not time for bed yet, go bother Margo.”
His phone pings once more, and when John looks back at his laptop screen, he can see Ghost is clearly typing something out.
Simon:
I’ve been told I have gremlin qualities, so naturally I’m attracted to them. But, fuck baby, you look that good for me? Wish I could have that gremlin ass of yours in bed right now.
John can’t help his smirk as he types out —
John:
And what would you do if I was in bed next to you? ;)
John can feel himself getting hard, his cock twitching in his sweats, just the thought of being in bed with Simon, those memories from the other night, from earlier today. He glances over at the flowers sitting in a vase on his kitchen island and can’t help his smile. Simon is so fucking good to him already, and John doesn’t stop himself when he lowers his hand, rubbing his palm over his aching cock.
And then. Of course —
G: Are you stroking right now?
And John thinks his soul might have very well left his body.
He startles so hard that the couch rattles beneath him, eyes frantically darting between both messages, because if he accidentally sent a message meant for Simon to Ghost — he might very well die.
He rubs his eyes, trying to figure out where he strayed wrong, wonders why he ever thought he should go into publishing. Maybe he should have just been a hermit, a cottage by the sea where no one will ever find him and he won’t have to face what he just —
Except before his crisis can escalate, Ghost sends another message.
G: If you’re having a medical emergency, don’t get me involved. But, try not to die. Price would kill me if you had a stroke before publishing.
John reads over that line once, twice — a third time for good measure because who the absolute fuck words a stroke as stroking it?
J: What the fuck is wrong with you?
He knows he’s not giving enough detail, but honestly, what the fuck is wrong with Ghost? He would like to know, seeing as the man is constantly up his ass, and just sent a message that makes John wonder if he needs to change his pants.
G: Oh, here we go. What grievances do you have with me now?
John types furiously against his laptop, so hard that his screen shakes with the effort.
J: For someone who claims to have such a grasp on the English language, you couldn’t come up with ANY OTHER way to ask if you thought I was having a stroke? Stroking it is the best you could do?
John sucks in a shaky breath, wonders if Ghost is having illicit late night conversations with someone the way John is with Simon. He knows he and Simon’s chat is drifting toward more — interesting topics, but he thought he was doing a good job of keeping Ghost and Simon separate.
Maybe Ghost can’t keep his mysterious person, or his right fucking hand separate from his work.
G: MacTavish, I am not at all curious whether you’re wanking it or not. But would prefer you didn’t do such shit while talking to me.
John whines, wonders what he’s done for his life to deserve this. He just wants to publish his book. That’s it.
J: That’s the last fucking thing I would think about while talking to you.
And without missing a beat, Ghost responds.
G: Probably the smartest thing you’ve ever said. Finally for once, we are in agreement.
And John doesn’t know why he feels the need to defend himself, but he does, and he’s pulling up the Sterling app on his phone without a second thought. He opens his comment thread with Ghost, attaching a photo from earlier tonight, one where Henry had been sitting on his lap, his wee paws on either side of the screen.
John at the time, had thought it was hilarious.
He’d initially thought he would send the photo to Simon, but Sterling had been open in the background. John is planning to tell Simon about his job on Friday. He’d received the mock-cover for his book earlier today, his author photo on the inside flap, and wants to show those to Simon, and ask if him he’ll attend the gala with him too.
J: It was my fucking cat. Jumped on my keyboard.
And because Ghost never misses a single beat he writes back, accidental or not, your cat seems to have a better grasp on the English language than you do. Nice sweatpants, going to wear them Thursday, too?
John grumbles for a long moment, the ping of his phone stealing his attention away.
Simon
I’d be taking those fucking sweatpants off with my teeth, for starters.
“Oh fuck,” John grits, another damn whirlwind between what Simon and Ghost are both telling him — Ghost mocking his pants, and Simon wanting to rip them off. It's a constant whiplash between two men who couldn't be more different even if they tried.
But he’s not going to let Ghost ruin his mood, feels that coil of heat low in his belly, his cock twitching to life once more after flagging a moment ago. And John knows he needs to wrap this up. Doesn’t particularly feel like texting Ghost with a fucking rager in his pants.
Definitely doesn’t want to be accused of actually wanking with this stupid fuck.
J: I’d bet you like that wouldn’t you. I’m going to bed you troll. Goodnight.
And before he can look away, Ghost types out —
G: So full of yourself, MacTavish. Also, you missed a comma. Never going to get out of debt with those, are you?
J: 🙄
A beat and then.
G: Stop rolling your eyes at me, you brat. Go to bed.
“Don’t have to tell me twice, you fuckin’ cunt,” John hisses as he picks up his phone, deciding he’s very much done with Ghost’s bullshit for the night. Instead he reads over his last message with Simon, cock now fully hard and aching, and John can’t control his small hiss as he palms himself over his sweats.
John:
Fuccck. I’d let you. Want you on me so bad, Simon.
John sets his laptop down on the coffee table, feet planted on the floor, legs spread wide. He knows he should probably go to his room, knows his sister is likely still awake, especially since she just yelled at John about being loud, but he stays rooted to the spot, eyes roving the screen of his phone, those three damn bubbles at the bottom of his message thread.
Simon:
The things I would do to you, Johnny. Want to take my time with you on Friday.
John doesn’t hesitate as he types out his response.
John:
Tell me what you want to do, please.
John damn near jumps out of his skin when his phone rings, Simon’s name on the screen, his voice rough and desperate when he answers. “Simon.”
“Sweet fucking thing,” Simon grits, John groaning low in his throat, slamming his laptop shut as he bee-lines it to his bedroom, knows where this is headed and he does not want his sister to overhear.
“You look so fucking good in those sweatpants, baby,” Simon tells him as John locks the door behind him, moving onto his bed, queen-sized, enough for him to starfish out. “You’re going to wear them on Friday for me, aren’t you?”
“Like them that much?”
“I’ll like taking them off,” Simon tells him, John’s head falling back against his pillow, legs spread wide, his cock straining against the fabric of his sweats. “So tell me, was work getting you pent up?”
John huffs, shifting on the bed, “A bit,” he tells him, groaning low when he adjusts himself, the barest bit of friction sending a zap of pleasure jolting down his spine. “Not fer the reasons I’d prefer though. Person I work with is a bit of a nightmare, been riding my arse all day.”
“Riding your arse, hm?” Simon growls into the receiver, and John lets out a whine, a cruel, desperate sound, frustration bleeding into every sharp exhale.
“Not like that,” he mutters, swallowing hard. “Christ, Simon, ye know what I mean.”
“I do,” he teases, his voice low and deep. “But maybe I should thank him for winding you up like this. Some fucking prick can’t keep his shit together and he’s taking it out on you.”
“And why do you want to thank him?” John asks, but there’s not really a question there. John knows. Of course he does, and yet he wants to hear Simon say it anyway.
“Because I can help you relieve that tension, can’t I?” Simon murmurs, and John, despite Simon not being able to see him, shakes his head, a desperate sound spilling from his lips. “Where are your hands, baby?”
John looks down, one hand holding the phone, the other pressed flat on his thigh, and tells him as such. “Put the phone on speaker,” Simon tells him softly. “And then I want you to slowly pull down the waistband of those sexy sweatpants of yours.”
John huffs, a surprised laugh, “They are not sexy.”
“Not to you, maybe,” Simon tells him, his voice echoing slightly as John puts his phone on speaker. But he’s not going to keep it there for long, would be mortified if Margo overheard. Quickly he switches over to his Bluetooth headphones and then sets the phone down on the bed.
“Okay,” he says, albeit a bit breathless. “My hands are free.”
“Good boy,” Simon croons, the sound of it making John’s cock twitch further, precome spilling down the length. “Now, do as you’re told.”
“Jesus,” John groans, the sound catching low in his throat, thick with want and something he’s too wound up to name. Heat pulses through him as he drags his sweatpants down, the elastic giving way under trembling fingers. His underwear follows, fabric scraping lightly against oversensitive skin, and he hisses through his teeth at the sudden rush of cool air. His cock arches up, hard and aching, flushed to the point of pain.
“Sound so fucking pretty,” Simon murmurs, his own voice rough, a bit of shuffling that sounds like Simon might be taking off his own pants too. “You hard for me, baby?”
“Yes,” John tells him, slicking his thumb across the weeping head. “Fuck, Simon —”
A low, dark rumble, a pleased sound. “I know sweet thing. Start slow for me, yeah? Put your hand at the base and move your way up. Don’t rush, now.”
John nods, breath stuttering in tight little gasps, letting the sound of Simon’s voice wrap around him, guiding his movements. His fingers settle at the base, curling in a way that makes his thighs tremble, body taut like a bowstring as he begins to move, a whimper spilling past his lips because he’s already so fucking close.
“That’s it,” Simon murmurs, almost like he can see every twitch, every shiver. “Sound beautiful, sweet’eart. Want you to feel what you’re doing to yourself, yeah?”
“Want it to be you,” John gasps, voice wrecked and needy, the admission making Simon chuckle softly.
“I know, but soon Johnny. Promise I’m going to take care of you Friday night.”
“Tell me,” John pants, squeezing his eyes shut at the sensation, rhythm slow and torturous, but he wants to know, needs to hear Simon tell him. “Tell me what you’re going to do.”
There’s a pause, a warm, charged silence, thick enough to pull tight around John’s ribs. He can hear Simon’s breath, steady, but deeper. “Johnny,” he tells him, voice low, the sound of his name causing goosebumps to break out against his skin, like a hand smoothing down the length of his spine. “If I tell you what I want to do to you, I won’t make it to Friday.”
John shudders, a small, helpless sound catching in his throat. He squeezes the base of his cock, Simon’s words spurning him forward, a dangerous, razor thin edge that he knows he’s only moments away from tumbling over. “Please,” John rasps, knives in his throat. “Tell me, Simon.”
A low groan, and John can’t help his thrill of pleasure that Simon is coming undone in just the same way he is. “Gonna take you to dinner, sweet thing. Spoil you, buy you more fucking flowers just to see you smile like that again.”
John’s breath stutters, the raw honesty making his toes curl against the sheets. “And then I’m going to take you back to my flat, lay you out on my bed, and take care of you.”
“How?” John grits, his hand smeared with precome, tacky against his fingertips. “Need to know, Simon — M’ so close.”
“Yeah? You stroking that pretty cock of yours for me?” Another low, rumbling growl, and John can hear more shuffling, clothes being ruffled about. “Do you know how fucking crazy you make me? I’m sitting here in bed thinking about how you’ll look against these sheets in just a few days.”
“Want that,” John rasps, the edge of his nail pressing against his weeping slit, a slow drag that makes him cry out, soft and keening. “Are you touching yourself too?”
The line fills with a soft, heavy exhale, and when Simon speaks again, it’s low enough to scrape dangerously along John’s spine. “Course I am,” Simon admits, a soft laugh. “Just the thought of you naked in my bed, thighs spread for me — drives me insane, Johnny.”
John can’t control his whine, strands of hair falling flat onto his forehead as he throws his head back against the pillows. “Want ye to touch me, Simon. Can’t stop thinking about it —” A thick swallow, “You make me feel good.”
“I want you to feel good,” Simon murmurs, his own voice wrecked, the serrated edge of a knife. “Gonna kiss every inch of your body, baby. Want you to know that when you’re with me, you’re safe, yeah?”
“I know,” John rasps, rolling his hips as he continues to work himself, his sweats falling off the bed in a crumpled pile. “Feel safe with ye, Simon. Don’t know how to explain it — mngh —” A sharp gasp escapes his parted lips as John twirls calloused fingertips around the sensitive head of his cock, his other hand working his aching length in a steady rhythm that sends electric shivers up and down his spine. “Know I’ve only known you for a few days, but —”
“I know,” Simon tells him, a rasping pant that makes John’s head spin in the best of ways. “I feel it too, Johnny.”
And John knows this isn’t some grand declaration, but he also knows how he feels. That he likes Simon, very fucking much. That somehow despite only meeting a few days ago, whatever this is between them feels good and right.
It doesn’t feel like some quick, easy way to relieve tension. It feels like this could be the start of something.
Something new. Something just for them.
“Wish I was there with you now,” John admits softly, spine arching from the bed. “Want your hands on me, Simon. They drive me fuckin’ mad.”
He can hear Simon’s breathing through the line, rougher now. “Tell me then,” Simon says at last, his voice sharp like a blade, cutting through the last of their restraint. “Tell me how you want me to touch you, baby.”
John groans, eyes fluttering closed, “Want yer hands on me, yer mouth. Want you between my legs, want you to make me beg for it, Simon.”
Simon makes a noise on his end, low and wicked, a shuddering breath. “Jesus, Johnny —” And faintly John can make out the sound of skin against skin, Simon stroking his cock right alongside John.
“Let me hear you, sweet’eart. Keep making those pretty sounds for me.”
John only nods, knows Simon can’t see it, but he works himself faster, hand slick around his cock. “Hearing you like this, telling me what you want to do, fuck Simon you have no clue.” He moans, high and desperate. “I know you’ll make me come, ruin me for anyone else.”
“You’re fucking right I would,” Simon promises, a deep, guttural hitch in his breath. “Not going to let you leave this bed, Johnny. Going to fuck you for a week straight.”
John’s eyes roll back, pleasure burning through him in waves. He’s never felt so wanted, so seen. The ache in his chest is matched only by the pressure building at the base of his spine.
“Simon,” he gasps, the word a prayer and curse, an invocation all at once. “I’m close —”
“Me too, sweet thing,” and John can’t stop the way the words burn right through him, the image of Simon fucking him, the rough scrape of stubble, the heat of his tongue. He wants to fucking drown in it.
“Make a mess for me, baby,” Simon growls, their harsh, erratic breathing filling the silence. “Want to hear you scream my fucking name.”
And John breaks.
“Simon.”
His spine bows viciously from the bed, cry muffled by his fist, knows he can’t be too loud or he might very well scar his sister. His legs tremble, and faintly he’s aware of Simon coming apart on the other side of the line, rumbling groans and bitten off curses.
It’s quiet in the comedown, John gasping softly, his entire body sinking into the mattress. With the last of his effort he turns, grabbing some wet wipes he keeps in his drawer for absolutely no reason, and wipes himself down before tossing them into the bin. “You good?”
He hears Simon groan low, not the type of groan from moments ago, but the one of a man who is utterly destroyed. “M’ alive if that’s what you mean.”
John laughs, soft and sweet, “About killed me, Simon.”
“Should be saying the same to you, sweet thing,” Simon tells him, his voice low and rough, like gravel over stone. “Think the last time I did this was when I was a teenager. Fucking phone sex, Christ.”
“You implyin’ yer old then?” John teases, decides he might just very well sleep with no pants or sweats on, especially seeing as his clothes are on the floor and that is entirely too much effort right now. Instead, he wiggles beneath the covers, hand reaching absently to switch off his lamp. “Just how old are you, Simon?”
Simon is quiet for a moment before he responds, that edge of a laugh heavy in his tone. “Probably a bad time to tell you I’m in my fifties, huh? Just a small age gap.”
John snorts, "Oi, ye fuck. I know yer not that old.”
“Forties then?”
“M’ gonna hang up on you,” John tells him, yet his threat is lessened by the yawn he lets loose, his entire body satiated in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time.
“No you’re not,” Simon murmurs, his own voice sounding progressively sleepier as well. “But since I’m feeling so generous —”
“So generous, he says,” John mocks, a teasing tone that makes Simon huff in laughter.
“You really are a brat.”
“Maybe,” John tells him. “But I think you like it, old man.”
“Thirty five is old now?”
John gasps, mock scandal. “Three years older than me, you absolute antique.”
Simon sighs, exasperated fondness that makes John really wish he really was there curled against his side, feeling the man’s fingers ghost gently up and down his spine. “Go to bed you, troll.”
“Funny, I said the —” but John’s words are cut off as his Henry jumps and lands right on his stomach. “Oomph, ya heavy bastart.”
Simon hums, an amused sound in the back of his throat. “Got another man in bed with you, Johnny?”
“My cat,” John tells him softly, words a bit slurred as his eyes begin to drift shut. “Jumped up on the bed. Big fucker.”
“Can’t wait to meet him,” Simon tells him, some ruffling in the background, and it sounds like he’s getting himself beneath the covers too. “So, is thirty five too old for the man you’re dating?”
And John swears he grins so brightly that his face hurts, his sleepy thoughts shifting into that warm, honeyed ache that makes him want nothing more than to kiss the man senseless. “Dating me, huh? And here I was thinkin’ you had to ask.”
He doesn’t actually think that, knows Simon can hear it in his tone. But there’s something fun about teasing him, can hear the smile in Simon’s voice when he responds.
“A demanding thing,” Simon tuts. “First you ask me to take you to dinner —”
“Excuse me —”
“And then you ask if I can spoil you and get you flowers, and now you’re demanding I ask you properly if I can date you.”
“Man has standards,” John chuckles, snuggling further into the sheets.
“Well then, sweet’eart, how about this. On Friday, on our date, I will properly ask you if you’d like to do such a thing.”
And John wishes he could bottle this feeling, such elation and joy. “I like the sound of that.”
John is going to be late. He hoofs it to the 141, dressed in one of his nicest suits, and absolutely furious with himself for working entirely too long that he’d forgotten the time. He’d managed to get a good chunk of his edits done, he and Ghost working late into the night nearly every single night, not at all nicer to one another, so John just hopes this meeting goes well.
He admits he’s curious about him, Ghost very rarely offering up a tidbit of personal information about himself. John still doesn’t know the man’s first name, and suspects Ghost is the most he’s going to get out him.
Which is fine, he guesses. Let him be a secretive bastard, John is going to meet him today regardless. It’s something Price is excited about, telling John that very rarely does Ghost attend these in-person meetings. But apparently, at least, according to Price, Ghost has faith in John’s book, even speaks highly of it.
Which sounds like a load of bullshit to him, because Ghost never says a kind word to him. There’s a random, stray comment every once in a while, a keep this up, or a good prose here. But Ghost doesn’t offer out compliments willingly, and John certainly isn’t fishing for any.
He’s just about at the 141, the building looming up ahead when his phone rings, John digging it out of his inner pocket, a smile stretching across his face when he sees it’s Simon. They’d fallen asleep together after that mutual masturbation session the other night, John’s phone dead in the morning, but his headphones still on.
And ever since, they’ve talked for hours each night. They usually face-time while Simon is cooking, or while John is working on one thing or the other, and will usually chat on the phone while John is walking over to the Mug in the morning.
Simon tends to do a big chunk of his work at night, and when John poked around that topic, Simon had only laughed, telling him that he did a little bit of this and that. But John doesn’t mind, knows both of them plan to share more when they see each other tomorrow.
Tomorrow. John can’t fucking wait.
“Hey handsome,” John says in answer, Simon huffing softly on his side.
“Hey baby, you headed to your meeting?”
“Yeah,” John says, waiting at the crosswalk, big white letters painted on the road that say LOOK LEFT, for the tourists (and for him). “Nearly there, you’re headed to a meeting today, too?”
Simon hums, “About to go in the elevator, but wanted to wish you luck. Text me when you’re done, and maybe I can stop by the Literary Mug. My meeting isn’t too far from it today.”
John feels his heart race in his chest, an eager nod. “I love that idea. Not sure how long it will take, and hopefully my pain in the ass co-worker doesn’t give me too much shit.”
A small laugh, “I hope not either.”
“But,” John continues. “If we do meet for lunch, I’m treating. If you even attempt to pay, I will cut yer fuckin’ hand off.”
“Testy little thing,” Simon rumbles, John moving across the crosswalk as it turns green. “Going to lose reception soon, but kick ass, and I’ll see you soon, sweet thing.”
John laughs, the sound soft and sweet. “See you soon.”
The elevator pings on the 11th floor, the lobby of the 141, a cheery receptionist that Simon’s met a few times greeting him with a smile. “Price is in the conference room.”
“I’m sure he is,” Simon mumbles, moving past her and into the offices in the back, the long stretch of hallway leading to a conference room that has a lovely view of the Thames. At least if Simon has to be here, the view isn’t too bad. Price perks up when he sees him through the glass walls surrounding the room, Gaz, his partner beside him, a small smirk on his lips when he sees Simon.
“You’re looking well,” Price says as Simon enters the room, a clasp against the shoulder, genuine joy in those steel blue eyes. Price might be pushy when it comes to certain things, but Simon knows there’s no one else he’d work for. The man is well respected in their industry for a reason. He could run a business, knew how to get shit done and wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.
Simon loved that about him, and respected the hell out of Price. Even though he didn’t tell him as much as he should.
“Been a bit I suppose,” Simon says with a shrug, running a hand through his tousled blonde curls. It's grown out a bit more since last he saw Price, Simon sporting a way shorter look before.
Simon’s parents always said he looked terrible with longer hair, insisted he keep it short and tidy, something that could be easily styled. So of course he’d buzzed it to piss them off.
His hair isn’t long now, maybe just a bit shaggy, short on the sides, a few pieces falling messily across his forehead. Gaz had once said Simon looked dashing, like one of those stupid fucks from the romance books they’re required to read for their jobs. Simon’s not sure about that, mostly because Gaz had been a few pints to the wind at that point. But he supposes it’s not a terrible descriptor.
Simon glances around, “Where’s this pesky author of mine, thought he’d be here by now.”
“Ah,” Price says, offering Simon a chair around the large table in the center of the room. “Seems like Ghost kept him busy, hm?”
“Psh,” Simon says as he settles down in the chair, his back toward the glass wall. He gazes out over the Thames, the financial district, the London bridge in the distance. It’s beautiful really, but it still doesn’t make him want to work in the office. “Ghost has been busy cleaning up that war zone of a manuscript.”
“You know it’s good,” Gaz chimes in, sitting down opposite Simon, Price sitting at the head. “Beta readers are already raving, have been asking for the next chapters.”
“Those should be ready soon enough," Simon admits, grabbing a pen from the middle of the table before rolling it beneath his palm. “I’ll give it to MacTavish, he’s a hard worker. Has been non-stop with those revisions.”
“And are you being nicer to the lad?” Price asks, an amused twitch of his lip, his mustache shifting just so. “No more arguments in the margins?”
Simon is quiet for a long moment, rolling the pen back and forth over and over. “I wouldn’t suggest you read our comments then,” he tells him, his mouth curving in the semblance of a grin. “MacTavish and I aren’t exactly pleasant with one another.”
“Shame —” Price begins, but his eyes dart to the window, a beaming smile. “Here he comes now, try to be pleasant with him this time.”
Simon smirks, turning in his chair, “I won’t keep any promi—”
His words trail off as MacTavish walks into the room. For a minute his eyes stay trained forward, a beaming smile directed at Price, eyes glancing to Gaz — but Simon knows that smile won’t last for long when they land on him.
And maybe, he should have known. All the signs were there, and yet Simon never once thought.
Never once considered that MacTavish could be —
Fuck.
And the name tumbles out of Simon’s mouth, a ragged whisper that he’s sure no one else can hear.
“Johnny.”
He watches the blood drain from that handsome face, watches the reality set in when those eyes, wide and captivating rove over Simon’s face, confusion in their depths. He watches as a smile tries to form, one that can’t quite catch up to the storm of emotions that Johnny makes no effort to hide.
Because, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Yet somehow, it did.
“This is Ghost,” Price says, completely unaware of what’s happening between them, standing on the other side of table as he gestures between the two. “Or, as you should now officially know him — Simon.”
“Simon —” John chokes out, and Simon can’t help the ache in his chest, the way Johnny said his name less than twenty minutes ago, filled with mirth, with mischief. And now he speaks to him like he’s nothing more than stranger. Simon has always valued his way of hiding his emotions, a literal Ghost, cold and unfeeling, but these feelings are something no mask can hide, knows he’s giving himself away, but he finds he can’t stop.
He wants to tell him he didn’t know. How could he?
He wants to tell him that the person he is when he’s Ghost isn’t Simon. It’s just a part of Simon.
Price looks between the two, seeing so much and knowing so little. “Is everything okay?” He claps Simon on the shoulder, breaking him from his reverie, the moment shattering with an audible snap. He walks over to John, the man still in the frame of the door, frozen, rooted to the spot. “Come on now, he doesn’t bite.”
“R-right,” John manages, letting Price guide him further inside. His steps are stiff, mechanical, like his body’s moving before his mind can catch up. Price ushers him into the chair across from Simon, but neither of them seems to notice the scrape of wood against the floor, the lights dimming as Price pulls up a PowerPoint.
Because through it all, their eyes never leave the other.
Simon sits there, utterly still, like breathing might give him away. Every line of him rigid, contained, but his gaze is locked on John with a kind of stunned intensity he can’t hide even if he wanted to.
And John looks back, those icy blue eyes that had filled with tears of joy just a few days ago from the flowers that Simon had bought him, just because he wanted to see him smile. It’s something he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about, the simple joy because someone had cared enough to bring him flowers.
It’s these very same eyes that Simon has imagined over and over, has dreamt about for days on end, the reason he wanted this week to pass quickly, because he missed his boy. He wanted John in his arms, curled in his bed, to feel the man’s breath on his skin, the warmth of his body pressed tightly against Simon’s own beneath the covers.
He wanted to watch as the golden, morning sun washed over his skin, as John blinked himself awake, lashes fluttering, face relaxing into that beautiful, easy smile of his. He wanted to see the corners of those eyes crinkle softly as they kissed, slow and unhurried, until the world outside didn’t matter.
Until the only thing that did was them.
He had allowed himself that dream. Had believed it, tasted it, held it in the quietest corners of his mind. One where it didn’t matter which mask he wore, John saw him for Simon.
Wanted him for Simon.
But Simon can see John’s face, the hurt in his eyes, the pain he’s trying to hide. Because now there is no hiding. No quips and snarky remarks.
John can see both sides of Simon now, a crack in his carefully polished armor.
A Ghost.
But still just a man.
And Simon knows that dream of his is no longer a reality, not when the truth sits between them sharper than any blade.
The meeting ends in a blur, John unsure of what was said, only that he would be attending a gala in three weeks time to announce his book to the world. It’s a grand event, publishers, authors and agencies from across Europe scheduled to be in attendance. And John is excited, he really is.
He’s one of the authors that will be spotlighted, Price telling him he’ll need to make a short speech — nothing too formal, just enough to get people excited. His cover would be revealed for the first time, the art he’s only seen in digital proofs blown up under soft lights. And the attendees would even get to bring home a sampler — the first six chapters, bound and printed, his actual book in their hands.
It’s everything he’s ever wanted.
Everything he’s bled for this entire fucking time.
A dream he’s chased through every cramped flat, every late-night coffee, every rejection letter that made him question if his writing was even that good. Every thought and notion that he was foolish for even trying, because getting published is hard, and John has been fighting for years to be where he is now.
And John is happy, truly — knows that it will all hit him later, and he’ll probably have a cry over it when he’s in the shower.
But while Price had been speaking, while his author photo had flashed up on the screen, John nearly couldn’t listen. Mostly, because sitting three feet across from him was Ghost.
His hard ass editor, the man who has been giving him hell for months. He’s the same editor who has been on John’s ass, who never gives him an inch to breathe. The man responsible for John’s sleepless nights, the one who has never offered one word of kindness except for a few pieces of praise that John has held onto like a lifeline in a storm.
The man John has wanted to get to know, and yet the man who has never given him an inch. Who has kept himself closed off, never allowing John to peer through through the small cracks in the wall he keeps firmly in place around himself.
But Ghost is more than that. He’s the man who’d stared at him the entire meeting, those honeyed whisky eyes staying locked on John’s own.
Because John knows this man, know the shape of his smile, the sound of his laugh. Knows how his voice sounds when it’s rough with sleep, knows how he sounds when he’s taking John apart, whispering filthy praise that makes him shiver with need.
He knows how Simon tastes, his favorite movies and food.
He knows him, and yet — he doesn’t.
Because Ghost, a man John couldn’t stand, is — Simon. The man he has feelings for, the man who was supposed to take him out on a date tomorrow night, who wanted to take care of John. And now he has no idea what any of this means.
Why any of this is happening.
The meeting ends with laughter from Price, with clipped responses from Ghost, with a forced smile from John. He tells Price he’s just nervous, that he’s excited, that he can’t believe this is happening. Which is true.
He tells Price he’s fine, and he’s not. He lies to him, because he needs to go. Needs to make space.
He needs a moment of quiet, a place to think. Because this can’t be happening — it can’t —
“Johnny.”
John isn’t even to the elevator when he hears his name. Of course Simon came after him, and John doesn’t know why he was attempting to flee. He looks over his shoulder, those same golden eyes locked on his own, and without saying a word they move. They walk silently down the halls of the building they’re in, a conference room at the end of the hallway, empty and dark, and they move into the space, the door clicking shut behind them.
This conference room isn’t like the one they were just in. It’s normal, four walls, a whiteboard, some calculations smeared across the surface that are half-erased. The light flickers on overhead, a bright fluorescent that makes John squint.
For a moment they say nothing, Simon stepping forward, but John doesn’t look at him, can’t meet his gaze. Because he’s not just Simon.
He’s Ghost too.
And John’s chest can’t make sense of the two halves that were never supposed to be the same person.
“How long—” John starts, the words scraping out of a throat that suddenly feels too tight. His fingers curl hard around the folder in his hands, knuckles blanching.
Simon’s brows pull together, soft and pained. “How long, what?”
Another step, slow and deliberate, and John doesn’t step back. He doesn’t step forward either. He just… stands there, caught in the gravity of someone he knows and someone he doesn’t — all in the same breath.
“Have you known it was—” John tries again, voice trembling, and he hates it. “Me?”
Simon stills completely, the silence enveloping them whole.
John swallows, blinking hard, burning heat pricking his eyes. He’s angry at himself for it, for feeling confusion, because something in the back of his mind always knew. He should have listened, he should have seen the signs that were clearly laid out for him.
“Did you know?” John whispers, voice breaking like a fault line. “Did you know it was me the entire time?”
“No,” Simon says immediately. “No, I didn’t know, Johnny. Not until just now.”
John chokes on a breath, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging just to ground himself. The room tilts—not literally, but in that sick, dropping way where everything he thought he understood suddenly doesn’t make sense anymore.
“I feel like such a fucking eejit,” he mutters, voice rough, thick with something he doesn’t want Simon to hear. “It was you this entire time—”
“Johnny—” Simon steps forward, instinctively, like he can fix it with proximity alone.
But John flinches—not because he doesn’t want Simon to touch him, but because he’s lost. Confused. “God, I cannot—” He shakes his head, breath trembling. “You were ripping my book apart. You were — on my phone telling me you missed me—” His voice splinters, his throat tightening. “And I didn’t know you and Ghost —” He pauses, meeting the full brunt of Simon’s stare, those honeyed whiskey eyes pinning him in place.
The same and yet different. “Were the same fucking person.”
Simon doesn’t say anything, and John wishes he would. He wishes they could laugh, hug and kiss and say what a fucking coincidence. But that’s not what’s happening here.
He lets out a shaky, humorless laugh, dragging both hands down his face. “I told you things, Simon.” He swallows, trying to catch his breath. “I don’t understand. Which person are you? Ghost or Simon?”
And John immediately knows it’s the wrong thing to say.
Something in Simon’s face crumples, a flicker of pain he can’t cover fast enough. It hits John like a blow, because he’s only ever seen Simon steady, unshakeable. Never hurt. Simon with his kind smiles, with the way he’s always thinking of John.
With the flowers he bought him just to see him smile.
And what the fuck is he doing. “Simon —”
“Oh, I see,” Simon says quietly, and the hurt under the words makes John’s chest constrict. “Ghost can’t be Simon, can he?” A bitter edge, thin and sharp. “He’s too harsh for you. Too cold. Too much of a bastard to be the man you’ve been seeing.”
The crack in John’s resolve widens, the anger that held him together melting away into something softer, something messier. “That’s not what I—” he starts, stepping forward without thinking, like he’s trying to reach the place where his words landed wrong.
His voice lowers, trembling with the weight of everything he can’t articulate. “Simon, that’s not what I meant.”
“No, Johnny,” Simon tells him, taking a step back, and John watches as the walls around Simon firm up, locking into place. Those eyes, full of honeyed warmth, of joy and mirth, turn cold, indifferent. “You know your way around words, don’t you? I think you said exactly what you meant.”
“That’s not fair,” John breathes, his throat tight with the words he can’t manage to say. “I didn’t say that — I was blindsided Simon. I didn’t know how to —”
“And you think I’m not?” Simon says with a hollow laugh. “You’re not the only person surprised here today, John. But I see you. All of you. And I’m okay with that.”
“Simon, you’re not letting me —”
“I never lied to you. Never pretended to be anything but who I am, you just didn’t like seeing the whole of it.”
John flinches, a tiny, involuntary movement.
No.
No.
And something in Simon cracks, quietly, privately, with devastating restraint. “You have three weeks until the gala,” Simon says, tone flattening into professional distance. “I’ll keep everything above board. Clean and simple. We’ll get the edits and revisions done.”
John’s breath stutters, but he still doesn’t speak. He can’t. Doesn’t know how to put anything into words that won’t break him open. He wants to beg, to plead for him not to go. He knows what he said, doesn’t know how to take the words back, because he didn’t mean it like that.
Never meant it like that.
But Simon is already shutting him out, and John doesn’t know how to open that door again.
“And after the book is announced,” Simon finishes, his voice tight. “You’ll never have to deal with Ghost again.”
On Friday night, Simon sits alone in his flat. He stares at his computer screen, at the mess of comments littering the side, John attempting to speak with him, but he doesn’t want to talk.
Not right now.
Instead he lifts a hand, fingers ghosting over the petals of the flowers sitting in the vase on his table. The flowers he bought for John after asking Gary to quietly figure out what John’s favorites were.
Carnations and chrysanthemums, just like he’d bought the other day, and yet had no clue they were his favorites. They’re arranged just so, Simon telling the florist that it was for someone he was seeing, the man smiling softly the entire while, telling Simon that the person receiving them was lucky indeed.
Only they’re not receiving them. And Simon won’t be able to see that smile. Instead the flowers will sit in this vase, because Simon can’t bring himself to get rid of them.
And he wonders, if this is the way it was meant to be. That maybe a week of happiness was good enough.
Because maybe his parents were right, maybe Simon will always be alone.
And maybe he just has to be okay with that.