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It started with a dropped glass. Or maybe it started before that, in the quiet way Johnny’s fingers had locked up around the kitchen cabinet handle, his one side stubborn and unresponsive in the evening heat.
By the time the glass hit the floor, shattering into a mess of sharp fragments, Johnny was already white-knuckled.
"Leave it," Simon said from the doorway. He was already moving forward, just out of the shower, water still dripping from his hair and soaking into his collar. "I'll get it, Johnny."
Johnny had said nothing then, just standing there for a bit, watching Simon on his knees making quick work of the glass. He refused when Simon tried to hand him another, just reminding Simon they were going to be late.
Price was waiting for them down the road. Just a pint at the local pub, a decent stab at normalcy after months of sterile corridors and hospital food. Price wanted to check on them, surely, but mostly he wanted to get Johnny out of the flat.
By the time they reached the hallway, Simon was waiting by the door, the black cloth mask already pulled high over his nose. The lights were already off, leaving only the yellow glow of the motion-sensor light outside their door flickering on and off through the frame. In the dimness, Johnny fumbled with the heavy canvas of his boot, his stiff fingers working until the knot slipped apart for the fourth time.
"Johnny," Simon started. His voice was muffled slightly by the cloth, without any particular tone. At least, he didn't think it had one. He started to sink down to one knee, reaching out. "Let me."
"Dinnae," Johnny snapped, pulling his foot back, his face flushing a violent, hot red. "I'm doing it. Just fucking wait, will ye?"
Simon waited.
The lace looped again, slipping through Johnny’s numb fingers.
He swore under his breath.
“Just -stop hovering.”
Simon didn’t move.
Johnny exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tight, working the knot again, one loop slipping through his fingers over and over again.
It didn’t hold.
"For fuck's sake, Simon."
With a sudden, furious curse, Johnny tore the boot off his foot and hurled it blindly down the hall. It hit the side table by the shoe rack, toppling the vase. For a second, they both watched the white clay explode across the floor. Simon moved to grab the boot, but Johnny lunged, shoving him hard.
“Stop it!” Johnny shouted, his voice echoing too loudly in the small apartment. He scrambled backward, away from Simon, blindly retreating right toward the sharp fragments of clay. His balance dipped. He started to reel toward the floor, and Simon reacted on pure instinct, slamming the front door closed to cut off the street and turning the hallway pitch black as he lunged to catch him.
A heavy palm caught Johnny's shoulder, but Johnny shoved him again, hard enough that Simon’s spine thudded against the solid wood.
“Johnny, bloody hell—enough,” Simon snapped, his voice a sharp, dangerous whip in the dark. He reached out and clicked the hall lights back on, the sudden glare rendering them both blind for a second. He kept a firm, heavy grip on Johnny’s good shoulder, forcing him to stay in place so he couldn't stumble back into the mess. “Stand still.”
“Get away from me,” Johnny choked out, shrugging him off. “I’m no' a fucking invalid.”
Johnny stood under the dim overhead bulb, chest heaving, his shoulders rounded as if trying to hide the uneven slope of his own posture. He braced himself, jaw tight, waiting for the rest of the lecture, waiting for Simon to finally lose his temper.
But Simon just stood there with him, unblinking, his voice dropping off as quickly as it had come. The hot, heavy dampness of his own rushed breath stuck the fabric to his lips and cheeks.
The sudden quiet was worse. The anger boiled right over. Johnny made a frustrated, choked sound, grabbed his other boot, and chucked it straight at Simon.
It missed by a mile, striking the door frame with a dull thud before dropping uselessly to the floor.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Johnny stood panting, his good hand trembling, his eyes wide and wild as he waited for the retaliation that was never going to come.
Simon was still pressed to the door. He never knew what to say when it came to this. Not when Johnny couldn’t get out of bed without help, or couldn’t remember a word, and hated Simon for saying it instead.
What was Simon supposed to do if he wasn't allowed to fill in the blanks?
All at once, the heat seemed to drain right out of Johnny. He stared at the boot lying crooked on the floor. He didn't say another word. He just turned, his right foot dragging a heavy, uneven line against the floorboards as he retreated down the hall.
Simon stared after him when their bedroom door shut heavily, squeaking all the way. He should lubricate the hinges, Simon thought abruptly, then felt stupid about it. He was already on his knees, gathering the broken clay, when he heard the small, distinct sound of the lock turning from the inside of their bedroom.
He'd text Price; Johnny wasn't up for it tonight.
Simon finished sweeping up the broken clay and carried the bag out to the chute. By the time he came back, the flat was quiet. Simon sat on the couch and yanked the mask down past his chin, letting the cool air of the flat finally hit his damp neck. He sat staring at the late-night telly as the clock bled past two in the morning. He didn’t bother lying down or trying to pick the lock of the bedroom; it would be easy enough, the old mechanism would crumble under his hands, but Simon just waited.
Johnny’s anger was a quick thing, burning bright and fast. It was a dance Simon had memorized by now, whether it was triggered by shoelaces, bathing, or sometimes nothing at all.
Sure enough, the click of the lock echoed down the hall just before three. Simon didn't say anything either when he walked into the bedroom. He just stripped to his boxers, climbed into the space Johnny had left for him under the duvet, and pressed his chest against the other man’s tense back.
The next morning was cold for late May.
And some days were harder than others. But that was just life, the way Simon saw it, anyway.
He had always been an early riser. Up before the sun, lighting a cigarette on the balcony and watching the day break.
He couldn't smoke inside anymore. The smell bothered Johnny, and it wasn't a habit worth defending.
His bare feet were cold against the stone. The late spring warmth hadn't quite reached the morning yet, dew still clinging to the railing and the flower boxes their neighbour kept below.
He thought about brewing some tea, maybe, to stay a bit longer to listen to birds chirp in the distance.
Simon took another drag, bitterness settling comfortably at the back of his throat as he leaned against the railing.
The balcony could fit two chairs.
Not big ones. Just enough room for a pair of folding chairs and a small table between them. Somewhere, Johnny could leave a coffee mug. Or one of those plants he kept buying despite forgetting to water half of them.
Simon flicked ash over the side and watched it disappear into the wind. The sun was climbing up lazily, making Simon feel equally sluggish. He felt weary, bone- deep tired, like he’d been awake for days suddenly. He felt that if the wind was a bit stronger, he'd have flown right off, following the trail of the ashes he flicked off.
As he said, some days were harder than others.
Simon crushed the cigarette against the railing, adding another burn mark to the rusting metal before dropping it into the ashtray balanced on the windowsill. It was shaped like a bathtub. A little ceramic dog sat inside it.
Gaz had brought it as a housewarming gift. Last-minute present for a last-minute invitation. He had also brought some cake too.
Johnny had slept through dessert that night.
He’d complained about missing the cake for a week after; a loop in his memory that Simon didn't bother to correct, just went out and bought another one to quiet him down. He wanted to buy some flowers too, but they reminded him too much of the ones next to his hospital bed. Simon couldn't even see his face properly from the way they had wrapped Johnny's head.
Simon could get another cake today.
Or maybe he'd leave the house altogether for a few hours.
The thought didn't last long.
He gave himself another minute to listen to the birds, leaning against the railing. The sun had climbed high enough to chase away some of the cold, warming the stone beneath his feet.
Johnny would be awake soon.
He'd need his painkillers.
Coffee too.
Simon should head back inside.
If he were lucky, Johnny would still be asleep. He could slip back into bed before the other man woke, steal another half hour beneath the covers.
Simon liked him best when he was like this, muddled, slow, and entirely dependent. To watch Johnny open his eyes, blinking through the fog until his gaze finally anchored on Simon. Johnny was confused most mornings, reaching blindly for Simon's body heat like an animal that hadn't learned how to survive on its own yet. Simon liked keeping him tucked into the hollow of his neck, heavy and trapped beneath his limbs, where he couldn't run off.
Confused most mornings. Stubborn by the afternoon.
Simon had grown fond of the in-between.
Simon stayed there a lot longer than necessary most mornings, pinning Johnny down with his arms, his eyes fixed on the concave scar at his temple. It was a hideous thing, a brutal reminder of how close he’d come to losing him. But it was also the thing that kept Johnny here, in this flat, locked away from the rest of the world. It was the price paid to keep him.
Simon jumped slightly when he heard the balcony door slide open.
He straightened from the railing and turned. Johnny was standing by the frame, leaning his weight against it. He was holding a steaming mug with both hands, his face still soft and rumpled with sleep.
“Made you tea,” Johnny said like a greeting, his voice raspy.
Simon didn't care about the English blend with a splash of milk; he just cared about the way Johnny's right side was dipping. He stepped forward, taking the hot mug and setting it blindly on the windowsill next to Gaz's silly ashtray, before reaching back out.
Johnny let himself be pulled out onto the cold stone of the balcony.
Simon tucked him against his chest, one massive arm wrapping securely under Johnny's shoulders to take his weight. His right side gave him trouble most days. Today was apparently one of the harder ones.
“You’re early,” Simon murmured into his hair, breathing in the scent of their sheets. “I was gonna come back to bed.”
Johnny leaned heavily into him, but there was a lingering stiffness there, an awkwardness that didn't belong between them, leftover from the shouting of the night before.
“I was a right cunt last night,” Johnny said eventually.
Simon looked down. Johnny's mouth was pulled unevenly into a pout. He looked small and defensive, waiting for Simon’s temper to flare after the long, endless patience, maybe.
Simon didn’t tell him it was fine.
So many things weren't fine, but Simon didn't need them to be. Instead, his large hand moved up the back of Johnny’s neck, his rough fingers tangling into the short hair, holding him steady.
"You were," Simon said eventually, his mouth brushing Johnny's temple. His eyes stayed on the neighbor's flower boxes below, completely unbothered by the venom from the night before. "Let's get some food into you."
He didn't wait for an answer, shifting his grip to Johnny’s good side to steer his uneven weight back toward the sliding door. But he only got half a step before he met resistance. Johnny went heavy, anchoring his heels into the stone, his blue eyes suddenly pinning Simon in place.
In reality, Johnny could yell until he was blue, put his foot down, and refuse to move an inch, and it wouldn't matter. He could throw things, even with his aim ruined now, because in the end, it was Simon's things he was smashing, and it was Simon he'd have to face when he ran out of breath. Simon didn't mind the anger. He preferred the friction of it to the quiet, hollow days. He liked it when Johnny had enough fight in him to try to twist out of his grip, because it meant Simon got to drag him back. It meant he got to take all that useless, screaming frustration and press it flat into the mattress later, show him none of it mattered between their salt sweat slick bodies.
"Have you taken your meds?" Simon asked, cutting off whatever argument Johnny was brewing.
"Yeah, yeah. Took a painkiller, too," Johnny muttered, a twinge of lingering annoyance clipping his words. But the fight was already leaving him, he was still leaning into Simon's side, avoiding his eyes to track the skyline ahead.
Simon slid his hand up and down Johnny's arm, a heavy, deliberate pressure meant to keep the warmth of sleep lingering just a bit longer. To smooth down the jagged edges.
"I hate it," Johnny said once the silence settled between them. His voice was low, flat against the morning air. "I hate ye tying my shoes."
Simon kept his gaze down at him. An off chance Johnny would look back. He didn’t offer the kind of gentle pity Johnny would have hated him for anyway. He just kept his hand heavy against Johnny’s arm, rubbing that slow, deliberate line over his sleeve.
"We'll get the ones without laces then," Simon said. "The slip-ons from the telly."
Johnny blinked, his brooding glare faltering for a fraction of a second as he finally looked up at the side of Simon's jaw. "Are you taking the piss?"
"No," Simon murmured. "It's nearly summer anyway. I'll get you those slides Price has. You can wear your stupid socks with them."
"I'm no' wearing fucking sandals, Simon," Johnny scoffed, voice thin with annoyance, but the tight, defensive line of his shoulders was already beginning to drop.
"You'll wear them if I buy them," Simon said, his grip tightening on Johnny's good side as he finally steered his uneven weight through the sliding door and into the kitchen. "Sit. I'll make your coffee." He grabbed his lukewarm tea from the windowsill as the door slid shut behind them. When he turned around, Johnny was already sitting at the small table, waiting for him.
“You’re such a dick,” Johnny said, a bit petulant, hands fiddling with the salt shaker.
Simon probably was. He turned on the coffee machine, and the sound of beans grinding filled the small kitchen.
“I can do a fry-up,” Simon said, eyes on Johnny again, who was looking back. The morning sun was filling the space by then, bright on his face. “I'll go down to the shops.” He poured a cup of coffee, setting the fresh mug down right in front of Johnny. “We’re out of eggs, I think.”
Standing in front of the window, Simon’s massive shape cut off the morning sun, casting Johnny in his shadow. He kept his hands flat on the table, looming over the space between them, his bare face fully exposed in the bright daylight, scars harsh against the shadows. Johnny worried his lip between his teeth, eyes down to his hands, hiding his blues under his eyelashes before his gaze flicked up, tracing the jagged line of Simon's exposed jaw as if looking for a flaw in the patience.
“I will come with you,” Johnny’s mouth was bitten spit slick, pulling Simon’s attention to it when he finally spoke out.
“Okay,” he just said, taking Johnny’s hand in his, feeling the tremors under his fingers. The hand was warmed from the mug he was holding as he brought it to his mouth, pulling through the slight, half-hearted resistance, kissing the other man’s fingertips. “I’ll get ready.”
When Simon came out after throwing some trousers on, he stopped at the edge of the hallway. He didn't comment on the wooden chair that had been dragged all the way over to the front door. Or on Johnny, perched on the edge of it, head bowed, his fingers still awkwardly fumbling with the heavy canvas of his left boot, yet cooperating somewhat better than before.
Simon stepped back quietly into the bedroom. He took his time folding Johnny’s discarded pajamas, draping them over the foot of the bed, and pulling the sheets tighter on the already made mattress.
When he stepped back out into the hallway, Johnny was already standing by the door, both boots tied, although a little skewed. He looked steady on his feet, his good hand resting flat against the wood of the doorframe as he waited. But the patience was clearly wearing thin.
“Simon,” Johnny called out, that familiar, impatient edge clipping his voice and making something in Simon’s chest pull tight, then release. “I’m starvin, come ben.”
Simon didn't answer right away. He just grabbed the keys from the intact stained-glass bowl, pocketed them, and reached out to close the distance between them. He took Johnny’s hand in his, linking their fingers and pulling a mask over his nose, rendering his face to a pair of eyes fixed on Johnny.
“Price said he’s free this Wednesday, too,” Simon said casually as they stepped out, walking together down the sun-warmed street. The cold of the early morning was entirely gone by then, burned away by a late May sun that finally felt like summer.