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simon-x-billy · 2 years ago

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Simon x Billy

Year of the OTP: March

March prompt: Acceptance

Meet my OTP: Simon Lewis, author of a best-selling paranormal book series, who keeps writing himself into his novels; and Billy Delaney, Irish handsome devil and nomadic man of mystery, who chefs internationally. AN: Simon x Billy is a slow-burn m/m first-time-bi fic (nsfw at ch. 7). TW: References to the pain of being cheated on, language, Irish-isms, massive rewrites. Event details || ao3: Full Event || @yearoftheotpevent

Masterlist || ao3 || Start: Jan Ch. 1 || Prev: Feb Ch. 2 || Here: Mar Ch. 3 || Next: April Ch. 4

————/-/—————

March Chapter 3: My red stripe of pain

———/Simon/———

Ooh, my ass is sunburnt. In a slightly-but-mostly-not sexy way. Look at that. I’ve taken on a rather tomatoesque appearance after four hours in the meaty embrace of the sun at midday without sunblock. But even pain can’t spoil this utter relaxation and bliss I feel.

Huh. I’ve just realized I’ve never done this before — traveling to another country alone. Maybe it’ll turn lonely again later. But right now, watching a boat streaking across my view, I feel free.

And slightly dehydrated.

————/-/—————

“You have a stripe on your arse. That’s what yer tellin me, is it.”

“Yes.”

“A stripe of pain. Have you been naughty, Simon?” Billy asks with the most obscenely good looking smirk. Ew. How dare he.

“Don’t grin at me like that, you barbarian. My red stripe of pain isn’t worthy of that kind of interest, trust me.”

“Why not?” He’s pouring me his favorite wine at the hotel bar, while I wait for my table at the very-big-deal restaurant outside.

“Why n- Are you- My red stripe of pain is a boring kind of red stripe of pain, I assure you.” After a second’s very deep reflection, I’ve realized I want to know, “Why are you so focused on my red stripe of pain, anyway? Never mind. I’ve changed my mind about wanting to know that. Ugh, look at this place. I have no words,” I sigh as the sun dips toward the horizon.

“Finally noticed you’re in Italy, did you,” he chuckles. He’s chuckling. Great.

“Even I had to notice sooner or later. And though it was a little, ok fine, quite a bit later, it’s ok. I’m good with that. Look, the point is…” What was my point? (I am the essence of cool rn.)

Now he’s raising one of his eye caterpillars at me.

He squawks out a laugh and then ducks, as a few of the other patrons look up at the bar.

“Tell me I didn’t say that out loud,” I ask weakly.

“You didn’t say that out loud. But the truth is, yeh said that out loud, mate. And I’ve never heard quite that arrangement of words, ever. Eye caterpillars,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I bet they keep your face warm come winter. But don’t worry, I was once described as having eye caterpillars, too.” By whom I can’t remember. But am I admitting to furry eyebrows? Fuck no. His are far furrier than mine.

“Mate, looks like your seating is ready.” He inclines his head to the side to indicate the host coming to claim me.

“Oh. Ok. Have a good night Beelee.” I waive as I say, “Ciao,” then cringe. “Oh kill me now, I said ciao.” All I can think every time I hear it is puppy chow. Or puppy ciao.

“Keep using it, til you don’t think about it anymore,” is Billy’s random advice. ”Ciao, Seemon.”

“Does he talk dirty to all the guests?” I mumble as I’m seated.

“The list of the wines, signore.” The host hands me a binder so freakin big it requires tabs. Oh look, there’s another one for their selection of olive oils, too.

I never was any good at languages. I’m thinking maybe I should have spent some time on important things, like “Where’s the bathroom? Right and left. Do you have a cell phone charger?” The essentials.

I was too focused on setting everything up for the proposal. The one I’d planned for tonight.

…Fuck, man, I miss her. Why? Why the fuck do I miss her? Why does she get that from me, karmically? It’s so unfair.

I mean, at least I finally feel buzzed. But it’s not cheering me up. It’s just making me all moony.

…I’ve never seen a lavender sky before. Have you? This would be an impossible place to contemplate suicide. Not when you get this sky every day.

…Why does she get to have me miss her? That’s just not cool. “What did I ever do to you?” Maybe I really shouldn’t shake my fist at the sky in the middle of a Michelin-starred restaurant. Even when there isn’t somebody here to get embarrassed by me. So I’m hereby mentally shaking my fist at the sky. Screw y-

Whoa. Look at that.

Is that a freakin schooner? I mean that looks like the Pirates of the Caribbean came to the Mediterranean. I just- I can’t- It’s- It’s a freaking cruise ship. A sailboat version of a cruise ship. My god.

That is simultaneously brilliant and an unholy alliance of two things that should not exist in the same paragraph on a travel brochure. I dunno. I’m just jealous. I’ve always wanted to be in Pirates of the Caribbean.

…You ever wonder what he or she saw when they looked at you standing there at the end? I can’t stop thinking about it. What had I turned into in her mind, right before she finally got the balls to say and do what she wanted to? How long? Why didn’t I notice the change? How much of this can I blame on myself? Because I will find the things I can blame on myself and then I’ll chew on them like an old piece of beef jerky. And my whole head will ache after, because of all the chewing.

…Towns lit up, like a diamond necklace draped aaaaaaaaaaall along the bay. I would have bought her a diamond necklace. I totally would have. I already bought the ring. Would have felt obligated to keep it in my underwear, so, at least there’s an upside to her dumping me. Oh hey look, that must be Vesuvius. Why would you want to live near Mount Vesuvius? It’s alive.

…I shake my head back to consciousness as someone steps in the way of my view and leans toward me over the back of Elijah’s seat. (That’s a joke. An empty chair for Elijah. If you’re Jewish you get it.)

“How you doin there, mate?” It’s Billy.

I don’t much like that careful, quiet tone he’s using.

“Yeah, totally. Amazing restaurant.”

“Em,” he looks back over to the kitchen and says quietly, “Mate, you didn’t eat.”

“What? I ate!”

“You ordered olives. At a Michelin-starred restaurant that people can only reserve a year to the day ahead of time. Everything ok?"

Or you call and bribe them. That can get you a table, too.

“Yeah, the olives were good.” And are still largely untouched, I see as I glance down at my plate. Yet I’m certain I’ve ordered something. Beyond the wines, I mean.

“Shit.” I now realize that the staff of the restaurant are waiting for me. “This outdoor patio is a patio all day. Doesn’t it just turn back into a patio at night? Like when the clock tolls midnight?”

“Sure but midnight’ll still be two hours away.” He pauses to look behind him and motions to someone that he’s going to sit down with me.

“Um…” I don’t know what to say. Cuz I really don’t want to talk to him rn. It’s not that I don’t - I just - I don’t want to have to try so hard to speak in complete sentences.

“You’d rather that I didn’t join you. Well, if you can put up with my less than ideal company for the next half hour, then the kitchen will be locked down and you can sit out here staring at Naples all night by yerself. Or is it me specifically?”

I snort.

Billy shifts in his seat. “Simon? You didn’t actually answer the question. You just sort of breathed loudly at it.”

I shake my head, not sure what he’s talking about.

“Leave by yourself, or sit for 25 more minutes with me.”

I feel like he’s speaking a different language and frown at him. Why is he looking at me like that?

“Mate, you’re thinkin out loud again. And for your information, I’m speaking English, with an Irish accent, which really isn’t that different to all other versions of English. Because it’s English. And I’m lookin at yeh like this cos you’re startin to scare me, yeah?”

“Is that a rhetorical question? I’m not sure that was a question at all.”

He slides his chair back looking kinda pissy.

“What did I say?! Don’t look at me like that,” I finish in a mumble.

He stands. “Em.” It’s Billy, who is annoying the fuck out of me rn. “You’re not looking too-”

“Fuck it. Where can I sit?”

Billy takes a step back, definitely looking pissed off now, and raises his hands in an “I give up” kinda gesture. “Enjoy your solitude. I’ll just tell the owner to turn the lights off on yeh, then.” He turns and starts to walk away toward the kitchen again.

“Yes! Thank you. I’ll be able to see the view better,” I say, tapering off at the end. I hear the kitchen door close.

I go to take another sip of wine, but my glass is gone. All that’s left is the last bottle I ordered, already uncorked, thank god.

The lights go out. Finally.

————/Billy/————

“Well if it isn’t the lovely Rosalina. What brings you my way this early in the day, love?” She always blushes when I greet her this way. If she didn’t work here at the hotel, I’d be finding all the places I could make her blush. Christ, she’s beautiful. They grow ‘em like that here. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“It is the American on the roof. You come, please.”

That can’t be good. “On the roof?”

“Or maybe I do not speak it well. He is on the floor of his room, on the floor next to his room. He sleeps there. Maybe he drops his key in the sea? Or the window?”

“He’s asleep on the floor?”

“Si.”

“But not in his room?”

She shakes her head. So do I. What now, Seemon.

Haven’t laid eyes on him in a coupla days. Hoped he’d be doin better.

She looks very serious now. “And I do not like to see the other girls also seeing him when they go to clean. You speak English to him and you are tell him to go to his room for the sleep.”

That’s really very sweet -- she doesn’t want to embarrass him. “I do not like them seeing him like that, either, Rosalina. Thank you. You are very kind.”

“Kind?”

“You have a beautiful heart,” I say, tapping my chest. No use listing everything else beautiful about her. “And your English is improving.” She smiles, and twists away so I can’t see her blushing. Why do women do that? When are they more lovely?

She’s a coworker, Billy, she’s a coworker. I already regret my feckin principles.

She shoos me toward the stairs to the top floor, and all but flees down the hallway when I aim a smile her way. She’s sweet.

————/-/—————

Even before I top the stairs, I can already hear him snoring.

Actually, that sounds more like choking.

Aw, mate, this isn’t good. He snores until his head lolls too far to the side, then he chokes, making his head roll back against the wall, where he starts up with the snoring again. Jesus Christ, has he been choking like this all night?

He’s sat propped up next to the door to his suite. The closer I get, the more I smell fumes. It’s sickly sweet, and oof, he’s got sticky-looking drool migrating in a slow stream from his mouth down the side of his chin.

The label on the half-empty bottle says Limoncello. “Aw, mate. The pain you’re about to feel is a unique suffering.” I hate to get in his face to wake him up. Something tells me Simon’ll be mortified, but there’s nothin for it.

The hall is dim with the storm shutters bolted tight from the inside. Maybe if I shed some light on the situation… Result!

Simon choke-snorts, then groans as he attempts to shift away from the source of light. So the – oof, they stick – shutters at the far end of the hall are open. Result again.

He mumble-whines. “Mmmfm mmmmbnnnaway.” Then there’s groaning, as if the sound of his own voice is too offensive to bear. Then growling and groaning. Until I finally hear some English I recognize. “Ow? Owwwwwwww. Nooooooo. Make it ugly again. n’Go away.”

“Make it ugly?”

“Dark. Too pretty. Hate it.” Followed by whimpering.

“How can something be too pretty?” I mumble under my breath.

“Just can.” Then he tries to roll his head toward the sound of my voice and fails. “Owwwwww?”

Probably needs a hand up. Leaning down, I can see his pulse pounding in his temple. I’d take the pain away if I could, mate. I would if I could. “Let’s get ye to bed, get ye down for a kip, mate. It’ll make you feel better, promise.”

“s’Too pretty in there. Don’t want pretty. You’re too pretty, go’way.”

I can’t help snorting.

“Said go’way.”

“Sorry, mate. Not happenin. Anyway, I can shutter the windows in there to keep it dark. The bed’ll be more comfortable for yeh to sleep it off than this floor, at any rate.”

“Don’t wanna be comfortable.”

Hm. “Here, man. Take my arm. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Go’way!” he shouts, then clutches his head and whimpers. “n’Stop being so nice. s’Disgusting. Don’like it. Don’like you. Go’way.”

“Yer lucky I’m pretendin to be hard of hearin, or I’d go ahead and leave ye here. Now take my arm and-”

“Stop it!” He tries slapping my hands away. And misses.

Shaking my head. Just shaking my head.

“Can do it myself,” he demands. But no, he really can’t. He gives standing a go, and all he manages is a high pitched sob.

“Aw, man. Go on, lemme help yeh.”

Apparently there is a threshold of stupidity with Simon Lewis, thank Christ. He holds out his arm.

But before he takes my hand, he squints up at me. “Never speak of this,” he says with deadly seriousness. “Never happened.”

As I shutter the windows and draw the curtains, he shuffles into bed, fully clothed. “Gross. Why am I sticky?”

“Aw, mate. Ye don’t want to be sleepin in those clothes. I promise yeh, mate. You get your kit off, and I’ll fetch you a wet cloth.” I hold up my hand to stop the inevitable complaints and refusals. “Enough whingeing, man, just do it.”

I come back from the bathroom to find a pile of clothes on the floor, and Simon snoring away with the sheet stuck to his face. It would be endearing if he wasn’t such a feckin pain in my arse.

————/-/————

Simon’s been silently staring out the window for 45 minutes. But not out the window with the gorgeous view. He’s staring at the rock cliff face blurring past too fast to see much of anything.

I want to reassure him that everything will be alright. But it’s not my place, and he’s not for hearin it, anyway.

And what if it isn’t alright.

I try to just leave it be, but I can’t help myself. “You alright man?”

“Why.”

“You’re usually a lot gobbier than this. I’m worried about yeh.”

“Italy was a bad idea.”

“Italy is never a bad idea.”

“Says the man not living my life.”

He’s got me there. “Ok.

As I’m pulling his bags out the boot, I feel like I can’t leave it like this. I don’t know why. It’s just unsettling seeing someone in pain like this, and not bein able to help. I wasn’t lyin -- I’m worried about him.

“Thanks, Beelee,” he says, holding out his hand.

We shake, and before I give him his hand back, I find myself saying, “Text me in 6 months and let me know you’re alive, yeah?”

He huffs out a breath and looks at me. After a moment he shifts uncomfortably, and finally says, “Yeah.”

I’ve no idea why I feel so relieved. “What’s yer number, I’ll text yeh.” Shocked be fuckin I when he gives it to me.

“Thanks, Billy. You’re a good guy. Appreciate you.” And then he’s gone.

————/-/—————

Start: January Ch. 1 || Prev: February Ch. 2 || Next: April Ch. 4

————/-/—————

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wankerwatch · 1 month ago

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Commons Vote

On: Opposition Day: Farming and food security

Ayes: 187 (55.9% Con, 34.9% LD, 2.7% DUP, 2.7% Ind, 2.2% PC, 0.5% RUK, 0.5% UUP, 0.5% TUV) Noes: 359 (98.6% Lab, 1.4% Ind) Absent: ~104

Day's business papers: 2024-10-08

Individual Votes:

Ayes

Conservative (104 votes)

Alan Mak Alberto Costa Alec Shelbrooke Alex Burghart Alicia Kearns Alison Griffiths Andrew Bowie Andrew Griffith Andrew Mitchell Andrew Murrison Andrew Snowden Aphra Brandreth Ashley Fox Ben Obese-Jecty Ben Spencer Bernard Jenkin Blake Stephenson Bob Blackman Bradley Thomas Caroline Johnson Charlie Dewhirst Chris Philp Christopher Chope Claire Coutinho Damian Hinds Danny Kruger David Davis David Reed David Simmonds Desmond Swayne Edward Argar Edward Leigh Gagan Mohindra Gareth Bacon Gavin Williamson Geoffrey Clifton-Brown Geoffrey Cox George Freeman Graham Stuart Greg Smith Gregory Stafford Harriet Cross Harriett Baldwin Helen Grant Helen Whately Iain Duncan Smith Jack Rankin James Cartlidge James Cleverly James Wild Jeremy Hunt Jeremy Wright Jerome Mayhew Jesse Norman Joe Robertson John Cooper John Glen John Hayes John Lamont John Whittingdale Joy Morrissey Julia Lopez Julian Lewis Katie Lam Kemi Badenoch Kevin Hollinrake Kit Malthouse Laura Trott Lewis Cocking Lincoln Jopp Luke Evans Mark Garnier Martin Vickers Matt Vickers Mel Stride Mims Davies Neil Hudson Neil O'Brien Neil Shastri-Hurst Nick Timothy Nigel Huddleston Oliver Dowden Patrick Spencer Paul Holmes Peter Bedford Peter Fortune Rebecca Harris Rebecca Paul Rebecca Smith Richard Fuller Richard Holden Robbie Moore Robert Jenrick Roger Gale Saqib Bhatti Sarah Bool Shivani Raja Simon Hoare Steve Barclay Stuart Anderson Stuart Andrew Suella Braverman Victoria Atkins Wendy Morton

Liberal Democrat (65 votes)

Adam Dance Al Pinkerton Alison Bennett Andrew George Angus MacDonald Anna Sabine Ben Maguire Bobby Dean Brian Mathew Calum Miller Cameron Thomas Caroline Voaden Charlie Maynard Charlotte Cane Chris Coghlan Christine Jardine Claire Young Clive Jones Daisy Cooper Danny Chambers David Chadwick Ed Davey Edward Morello Freddie van Mierlo Gideon Amos Helen Maguire Helen Morgan Ian Roome Ian Sollom James MacCleary John Milne Josh Babarinde Joshua Reynolds Layla Moran Lee Dillon Lisa Smart Liz Jarvis Luke Taylor Manuela Perteghella Marie Goldman Martin Wrigley Max Wilkinson Mike Martin Monica Harding Munira Wilson Olly Glover Paul Kohler Pippa Heylings Rachel Gilmour Richard Foord Sarah Gibson Sarah Green Sarah Olney Steve Darling Susan Murray Tessa Munt Tim Farron Tom Gordon Tom Morrison Victoria Collins Vikki Slade Wendy Chamberlain Wera Hobhouse Will Forster Zöe Franklin

Democratic Unionist Party (5 votes)

Carla Lockhart Gavin Robinson Gregory Campbell Jim Shannon Sammy Wilson

Independent (5 votes)

Adnan Hussain Alex Easton Ayoub Khan Iqbal Mohamed Shockat Adam

Plaid Cymru (4 votes)

Ann Davies Ben Lake Liz Saville Roberts Llinos Medi

Reform UK (1 vote)

Richard Tice

Ulster Unionist Party (1 vote)

Robin Swann

Traditional Unionist Voice (1 vote)

Jim Allister

Noes

Labour (351 votes)

Abena Oppong-Asare Abtisam Mohamed Adam Jogee Adam Thompson Afzal Khan Al Carns Alan Campbell Alan Gemmell Alan Strickland Alex Baker Alex Ballinger Alex Barros-Curtis Alex Davies-Jones Alex Mayer Alex McIntyre Alex Norris Alice Macdonald Alison Hume Alison Taylor Alistair Strathern Allison Gardner Amanda Hack Amanda Martin Andrew Cooper Andrew Gwynne Andrew Lewin Andrew Pakes Andrew Ranger Andy MacNae Andy McDonald Andy Slaughter Angela Eagle Angela Rayner Anna Dixon Anna Gelderd Anna McMorrin Anna Turley Anneliese Midgley Antonia Bance Ashley Dalton Baggy Shanker Bambos Charalambous Barry Gardiner Bayo Alaba Beccy Cooper Becky Gittins Ben Coleman Ben Goldsborough Bill Esterson Blair McDougall Brian Leishman Callum Anderson Calvin Bailey Cat Eccles Cat Smith Catherine Atkinson Catherine Fookes Catherine McKinnell Catherine West Charlotte Nichols Chris Bloore Chris Bryant Chris Curtis Chris Elmore Chris Hinchliff Chris Kane Chris McDonald Chris Murray Chris Vince Chris Ward Chris Webb Christian Wakeford Claire Hazelgrove Claire Hughes Clive Efford Clive Lewis Connor Naismith Connor Rand Damien Egan Dan Carden Dan Jarvis Dan Norris Daniel Francis Daniel Zeichner Danny Beales Darren Jones Darren Paffey Dave Robertson David Baines David Burton-Sampson David Pinto-Duschinsky David Smith David Taylor David Williams Debbie Abrahams Deirdre Costigan Derek Twigg Diana Johnson Douglas Alexander Douglas McAllister Elaine Stewart Ellie Reeves Elsie Blundell Emily Darlington Emily Thornberry Emma Foody Emma Hardy Emma Lewell-Buck Euan Stainbank Fabian Hamilton Feryal Clark Fleur Anderson Florence Eshalomi Frank McNally Fred Thomas Gareth Snell Gareth Thomas Georgia Gould Gerald Jones Gill Furniss Gill German Gordon McKee Graham Stringer Grahame Morris Gregor Poynton Gurinder Singh Josan Hamish Falconer Harpreet Uppal Heidi Alexander Helen Hayes Helena Dollimore Henry Tufnell Hilary Benn Ian Lavery Imogen Walker Irene Campbell Jack Abbott Jacob Collier Jade Botterill Jake Richards James Frith James Murray James Naish Janet Daby Jas Athwal Jayne Kirkham Jeevun Sandher Jeff Smith Jen Craft Jenny Riddell-Carpenter Jess Asato Jess Phillips Jessica Morden Jessica Toale Jim Dickson Jim McMahon Jo Platt Jo Stevens Jo White Joani Reid Jodie Gosling Joe Morris Joe Powell Johanna Baxter John Grady John Slinger John Whitby Jon Pearce Jonathan Brash Jonathan Davies Jonathan Hinder Josh Dean Josh Fenton-Glynn Josh MacAlister Josh Newbury Josh Simons Julia Buckley Julie Minns Juliet Campbell Kanishka Narayan Karin Smyth Karl Turner Kate Dearden Kate Osamor Kate Osborne Katie White Katrina Murray Kenneth Stevenson Kevin Bonavia Kevin McKenna Kim Johnson Kim Leadbeater Kirith Entwistle Kirsteen Sullivan Kirsty McNeill Laura Kyrke-Smith Lauren Edwards Laurence Turner Lee Barron Lee Pitcher Leigh Ingham Lewis Atkinson Liam Conlon Lilian Greenwood Lillian Jones Linsey Farnsworth Liz Twist Lizzi Collinge Lloyd Hatton Lola McEvoy Lorraine Beavers Louise Jones Lucy Powell Lucy Rigby Luke Akehurst Luke Charters Luke Murphy Luke Myer Luke Pollard Margaret Mullane Marie Rimmer Marie Tidball Mark Ferguson Mark Hendrick Mark Sewards Mark Tami Markus Campbell-Savours Marsha De Cordova Martin McCluskey Martin Rhodes Mary Creagh Mary Glindon Mary Kelly Foy Matt Bishop Matt Rodda Matt Turmaine Matt Western Matthew Patrick Matthew Pennycook Maureen Burke Maya Ellis Meg Hillier Melanie Onn Melanie Ward Michael Payne Michael Shanks Michael Wheeler Michelle Welsh Mike Amesbury Mike Kane Mike Reader Mike Tapp Mohammad Yasin Nadia Whittome Natalie Fleet Natasha Irons Naushabah Khan Navendu Mishra Naz Shah Neil Coyle Neil Duncan-Jordan Nesil Caliskan Nia Griffith Nicholas Dakin Nick Smith Nick Thomas-Symonds Noah Law Oliver Ryan Olivia Bailey Olivia Blake Pam Cox Pamela Nash Pat McFadden Patricia Ferguson Patrick Hurley Paul Davies Paul Foster Paul Waugh Paula Barker Paulette Hamilton Perran Moon Peter Dowd Peter Lamb Peter Prinsley Peter Swallow Phil Brickell Preet Kaur Gill Rachael Maskell Rachel Blake Rachel Hopkins Rachel Taylor Richard Baker Richard Quigley

Rosie Wrighting Rupa Huq Ruth Cadbury Ruth Jones Sadik Al-Hassan Sally Jameson Sam Carling Sam Rushworth Samantha Niblett Sarah Coombes Sarah Edwards Sarah Hall Sarah Owen Sarah Russell Sarah Sackman Sarah Smith Satvir Kaur Scott Arthur Sean Woodcock Seema Malhotra Sharon Hodgson Shaun Davies Simon Opher Siobhain McDonagh Sojan Joseph Sonia Kumar Stella Creasy Stephanie Peacock Stephen Doughty Stephen Kinnock Stephen Morgan Stephen Timms Steve Race Steve Reed Steve Witherden Steve Yemm Sureena Brackenridge Tahir Ali Taiwo Owatemi Tanmanjeet Singh Dhesi Terry Jermy Tim Roca Toby Perkins Tom Hayes Tom Rutland Tonia Antoniazzi Tony Vaughan Torsten Bell Tracy Gilbert Tristan Osborne Tulip Siddiq Uma Kumaran Valerie Vaz Vicky Foxcroft Warinder Juss Will Stone Yuan Yang Zubir Ahmed

Independent (5 votes)

Apsana Begum Imran Hussain John McDonnell Richard Burgon Zarah Sultana

#uk gov #uk politics #uk parliament #politics #vote #wankerwatch

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herestoimagination · 5 years ago

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A sliver of happiness.

#shadowhuntersedit #clace #p: helen x aline #ch: clary fairchild #ch: jace herondale #ch: rapheal santiago #sizzy #ch: simon lewis #ch: isabelle lightwood #ch: maryse lightwood

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herestotheunknown · 6 years ago

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How precious was this moment?

#shadowhuntersedit #shadowhunters spoilers #jimon #jimonedit #p: simon x jace #tv: shadowhunters #ch: simon lewis #ch: jace herondale #gifset

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aesofmifavs · 6 years ago

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Romantic Ships: Simon Lewis x Isabelle Lightwood

#ch: simon lewis #ch: izzy lightwood #ship: sizzy #aes: romantic ships #tv: shadowhunters #aes: red #aes: black #aes: white

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28onlythebrave · 2 years ago

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my clarissa adele fairchild now and forever

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christopherlightwood · 4 years ago

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Your opinion on Sizzy?

Hello, Anon! It’s been 300 years since I read The Mortal Instruments and I haven’t read The Dark Artifices to know how is their dynamics working! I recall liking the ship very much, I think they fit well even though they are a little bit of opposites sides of the coin! Of course, that are things I disliked, like Simon kinda being with Maia and Izzy at the same time! It was really disappointing.

However, I was kinda proud of his decision to be away from Izzy for a while after he lost his memory! After all, memory is indeed something that molds our personality and he was living a different reality and molding himself again. So it was a wise decision that I appreciated!

I don’t remember much more than that, I’m really sorry! maybe it’s time to reread TMI so I can give you a more detailed opinion!

#misc: answered #m: anon #ch: isabelle lightwood #c: simon lewis #sh: sizzy #s: the mortal instruments

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simon-x-billy · 2 years ago

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Simon x Billy

Year of the OTP: April

April Ch. 4: Are you alive?

April prompt: Seemingly unrequited love

Guest starring, Alfie Jones

AN: Fast-forward two months, and Billy’s still worrying about that American bloke he bundled off back to Brooklyn. Btw, he is also a man whore. No tea no shade, he just loves women (a lot and frequently). This chapter is part of a massive rewrite of Simon x Billy in honor of the Year of the OTP event on ao3. TW: This chapter includes trans themes, which I have hopefully treated with genuine feeling and respect. If you do feel triggered and there is something I can do to be better, please let me know. Gratitude and love.

ao3 Masterlist || tumblr Masterlist || Start || Prev || Next

-----/Billy/-----

I’ve barely made it two months.

Billy: Are you alive?

Simon: Who is this?

Billy: You know who this is - are you alive?

Simon: Yes

-----/-/-----

Here I am just leavin to fetch Anna Lucia and my text notification sounds out. Last time I saw this name on my screen, reckon it’d be about a month past.

First dates. That’s a great feelin, isn’t it? You know you’re gonna kiss, but you don’t know when. Your heart’s poundin. And then the cell buzzes. Hope she’s not begging off. Took her ages to even sustain eye contact with me. To be honest, you know you’re bein flirted with when I come at yeh. Not that I’ve been pesterin her. Her eyes just couldn’t bear lookin straight into the sun. Ah, I’m only jokin.

Right, give m’self one last lookover. “Teeth, check. Hair, check. Cock in, check. Smell good, check. Phone, check. Text check…

Simon: Are you alive?

Billy: What’s up, man? All right? You well?

Time, check. Tick tock tick tock. Come on, man, I can’t be sat here waitin on yeh to decide whether yer textin back. Anna Lucia’s-

Simon: There was an earthquake in Northern Italy

Billy: Yes, that is correct - there was an earthquake in Northern Italy

Simon: You ok?

Billy: Yeah man, did you worry? That’s so sweet

Simon: Shut up

Billy: Then you wouldn’t know whether I survived the earthquake in Northern Italy

Billy: Don’t be losin sleep on my account, man - I’m well to the south

Billy: Big landmass, we’re not fallin into the sea

Billy: That sorta thing only happens in America

I pause, thinkin that he might take the bait, but it’s been a minute without a response and I’ve got a stunner waitin on me.

Condoms? Definitely. Check.

-----/Simon/-----

Billy: Simon

Simon: What

Billy: …

The little typing-in-progress dots start and stop, and start and stop again.

Billy: Nevermind.

Nevermind. Nevermind? Nevermind?! What the fuck?! You can’t just - grrrrrr. Sometimes I hate that guy.

Shit. What if something’s wrong.

What if he’s lost fingers and can’t thumb in a text. Besides “Simon” and “nevermind.” Yeah, no, that’s ludicrous, Lewis. Obviously. Certo.

Two hours later, and I’m still distracted. ‘Nevermind?’ Rude.

Annoying.

Fucking obnoxious, is what it is.

I do not need this kind of thing in my life. And I don’t even know the guy. So I delete him from my contacts.

I already kinda regret it.

Fuck.

——-/-/——-

So yeah. Fuck. I still regret it.

For a whole week. Shit.

Did I put it under Terrazze……. Or di Limoni? Ah, ok. The phone ringing in Italian sounds weird and wrong. Sorta like me in Italian.

“Ciao, Terrazze di Limoni, parlando Rosalina. Come posso aitutarti?”

“Um, si, I’m good, thank you…um, I don’t parlo Italiano.”

“Si, signore. How can I help you?”

“Thanks. I’m looking for Billy Delaney. Or, actually, I just need his phone number. I lost it.”

Nothing.

“Billy from the restaurant?” I clarify.

Again, nothing. “Yes?” I ask.

“Yes? Is this a question? I do not understand you, Signore Laywees.”

Ok, redirect. “Do you know his cell phone number? Please?”

“I can not, no.”

“Is there someone who does know his number? Maybe the computer?”

“No. Non signore. I am not permiso. Emmm, how you say, permit to give to you the informazione that is personal to him.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I can understand that. Makes sense. But since I know him?” Please please please.

She is silent, again. Until, “Is this a question? I still do not understand you, Signore Laywees.”

“I’d really like to talk to him. Via text, I mean. Send a text - to him.”

“Sí, signore.”

“Yes? You’ll give it to me?”

“No.” She makes it sound so final and permanent.

“Do you remember that he and I are friends? I stayed in the suite up on the top floor?”

“Si. You are the American on the roof.”

“I what? No, nevermind. He is still at the hotel, though, right?” Maybe I can just ask to speak to the mana-

“No.”

“Wait, what?”

“No. He is no longer at the hotel,” she informs me.

“But he’s still in Sorrento, right?”

“No.” It sounds so final and permanent.

Panic. “But-“

“He is in London,” she adds.

“Wait, what?”

“He is in London.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say quietly to myself.

“Certo.” Obviously? She thinks I’m obvious.

So now it’s even more important that she give me his number. Cuz if I ever need to get in touch with him, they wouldn’t give it to me. Not a chance.

“No.”

Goddammit, Lewis. “Did I say that out loud?”

“It was quiet, Signore.”

“Pardon?”

“Si. I perdonna you.”

Help? Confused. “Please, I need to talk- to text him. Even more now that he isn’t in Italy anymore. If you don’t share his number,” I say, kinda more to myself than to her, “then that’s it.”

“What is it?”

“I mean-” Shit, I suppose that really is it, then. I won’t get to tell him I’m over Voldemort and her nighty. I was kinda looking forward to that. “I guess it’s just that that will be it. In terms of knowing him. Friends. So, yeah. I guess I just won’t know him anymore.” This is the single most embarrassing experience I have ever had. Since my trip to Italy.

“Ah, si. Ssssssi.” She stretches out the last word, so it sounds like she’s mulling something over.

“Signore Laywees,” she says in a muffled whisper. “His numero is-“

——-/-/——-

Simon: Billy

That Irishman:

——-/-/——-

Rude!

——-/-/——-

Three days later it’s even ruder. More rude. (I’m allowed to think with bad grammar.)

I shouldn’t have bothered getting the number. That’s an hour of my life I’ll never get back. I mean, how many more days is he… You know what? Fuck it. I don’t even care.

This is me not caring.

At all.

—--/Billy/—--

Fucksake, Simon. I was with a girl. Lucrezia with the long legs, and what, you want me to pull out to answer your text?

Y’ know what - I’m done with this. He’s alive. That’s fine. All I needed to know.

Deleted.

—--/Simon/—--

Simon: Where are you?

That Irishman: New phone, who dis?

I - wow. That kind of - stung.

Stings.

—--/-/—--

It’s been a week and it’s still stinging.

Simon: Are you alive?

I couldn’t go a week without texting. What the fuck is wrong with me.

That Irishman: New phone, who dis?

Ow.

He ghosted me. Actually, like, in reality, intentionally ghosted me.

Simon: You know who this is.

You know what? I’m done.

I do not need this in my life right now. My book placing Simon out front as main character is due in two months, but Me Simon, the author? I’m still stuck. I still suck. I’ve scrapped everything I’ve written about him.

So of course I start writing an entirely different story. Which then turns into an idea for a Warlock spinoff series for my most flamboyant and interesting character.

It’s a love story between boys. It’s been building over the course of all three books, and I just can’t shove it out of my head. And the fans want that just as much as they want a Simon book. Easiest way to avoid doing something you need to do? Do something else you need to do.

Shit. I need to do some research.

That Irishman: Why?

Huh. Interesting point. I-

Simon: I don’t know

—--/Billy/—--

I think we’ve gotten past our - whatever it was a few weeks ago. That was weird. Yeah, weird. We were up each other’s arses about - what? Nothing at all. Immature and grating, and yet, we’re still texting. A little more often now. But usually it’s of the “are you alive?” variety, with single word, single syllable answers from Simon. “Are you over her?” “Yes,” that sort of thing. I can’t tell whether he’s pissed, or just wants to know I’m alive. I thought I was supposed to be knowing that he was alive.

Billy: Are you alive?

Grumpy: I guess

Billy: Two words! We’re making progress

Grumpy: Shut up

I laugh.

Billy: I’m not talking, I’m texting. If you want me to stfu, just put the phone down

Billy: Try it - now

Billy: See? Silence. Wasn’t that nice?

Grumpy: You really can’t can you

Billy: Can’t what

Grumpy: Shut up

Billy: Jaysus, Simon. Put the phone back down. I don’t need to be hearing you being mean

Grumpy: Funny

Billy: You know man, you’re like the Hemingway of texting

Grumpy: So literary

Well, he’s not biting. Much. Why do I bother? Have a better conversation with the cat.

Of course my friend Rachel’s a cat person. I like that about her. And her cat.

So I feed the cat. And Rachel, before she’s back to her pub downstairs. I potter about the kitchen, tidying up while I wait to hear back from my best mate, Alfie.

I feel my cell buzz in my back pocket, just as I’m puttin the several thank-you meals I’ve made Rachel into the fridge.

Alfie: We still on mate?

Billy: Do you really have to ask?

Alfie: Yes!

Alfie: I mean no

Alfie: I mean I know - just looking forward to seeing you mate

Alfie: Worried you wouldn’t want to see everyone - you know what I’m trying to say

Billy: I think what you’re trying to say is you’re leaving the house now

—--/-/—--

Is this… I think this is shot #3. She gave us two, and then… so that’s 4? I think.

Oooh, my arse is vibrating. But not for the fun reason.

“Whoa-what Alfie?!” has just grabbed me - bodily - and pulled me up against him.

“Alfie, I love you, mate. You’re a mostly good friend and I guess you’re kinda cute, but-”

He flips us around, drops his arse onto a bar stool, and makes himself very small.

“Tired, mate?” I’m frowning down at him when Rachel sets up another pair of shots.

“For the birthday boy. Where’d he get off to?” she asks, pretendin to survey the room.

I snort. “Here’s yer man. This tiny human here in front of me who appears to find my Vegas belt buckle fascinating. Alfie, mate, what’re yeh-”

“I’m hiding,” he hisses.

“But why?”

And of course it’s just as I’m throwin back shot #5 (4?) when the great eejit grabs me about the waist, yanks me to him, and buries his face in my navel.

So now I’m chokin on vodka and he’s hissing at me to shut up and stand still. “The fuck? What’re you doin?! Stop it,” I wheeze.

“Shhh!”

Still tryin to see past the blindin fire in my sinuses. “Fucksake, Alfie! You know I just blew a shot of clear alcohol out my nose. And I know you do cos you’ve vodka snot in your hair, and runnin down the side of yer face, mate. What the fuck?”

“I don’t care, shhhh!”

So I stand very still and speak very quietly. “Alfie, mate. Why don’t you care that you’ve vodka snot – my snot – runnin down yer face?”

That’s when he grabs both my arms and slaps them on the bartop, caging himself in.

This once again catches Rachel’s eye at the other end of the bar. As it should do. And she shoots me a quick look. I answer with a shrug.

“Do I even want to know?” she asks, headin back our way.

“Would both of you shut up? Hide me!”

Rachel rolls her eyes and leaves me with the child in my arms.

“I’d say I’m flattered, mate,” I whisper. “But you’re freakin me out now. I’m assumin it’s a girl, yeah? Which one is she?”

I’m looking into the bar mirror and spot a face from a lifetime ago.

“Alfie, is that-”

“It’s that fit Thai bird from Bangkok.”

“Alfie, is that Ken?”

Guest starring, Ken

Alfie buries his face in my navel again.

“Yes?” he says in a guilty squeak.

“Why is she here?” I ask very slowly, as if I’m speakin to someone not so bright. Because I am speakin to someone not so bright.

“Erm, well… Because I live here? Probably?”

I need another pint. And vodka’s put me off, as that’s a pain that’s gonna linger in my nasal passages. I signal the lovely Rachel, who nods as she begins to pull me a pint.

“Alfie. Why are yeh hidin? From Ken. Who is now where yeh live. And not in Bangkok.”

“I sort of…”

I give him the ol’ eyebrow encouragement.

“I’ve kind of been sending her sexy pokes…erm, sexy poking with her.”

“For a year?! Wait, no. How long has it been since Thailand? Have you been sexy poking her all this time?”

“Shhhh!” And back to my navel he goes. “I didn’t invite her! She’s just here! Over there,” he says with a muffled rumble into my belly.

“I have a feelin that’s just the beginning of a very long, very embarrassing story. Don’t let me stop yeh. But yer steamin up my stomach and my vodka snot has now migrated back to me. On my shirt. And you know how I feel about laundry.”

Sighing and shaking my head. “Mate, stop it. Yer actin like a baby. Face yer fears or face responsibility or buy her a drink. Those are yer options.”

“How about we buy me a drink instead?” He looks up hopefully, his hands loosening the vice grip he’s got on me.

“And by we, you mean me,” I state the obvious.

“It is my birthday.”

“And we have a history of phenomenally fucked up birthdays here. Are you plannin to make a regular habit of it?”

Rachel places the perfect pint in front of me. I sigh. “Sure’n I suppose you’ll be wantin my pint then.”

He grins sweetly up at me. “Birthday?”

“Thank yeh, Rachel, love. That’ll be one more. But I’ll be takin this one.”

Alfie whines unintelligibly.

“Alfie!” rings out the voice of a high tenor.

I move aside like the terrible friend that I am.

“Judas!” Alfie cries.

“Ken!” I cry.

“Billy. I like seeing you again. I don’t like seeing this one with his face in another man’s chest!”

“Another man’s-”

“Pickles!” Alfie cries.

Guest starring, Pickles

“Lord Jaysus, Pickles!” I cry. I’m over the moon to see our old mate Cheese & Pickles. Another one Alfie made a hash of a start with, leadin him on. But at least in that case, it had been an honest mistake with a cheese and pickle baguette, and quickly sorted. And we made a solid mate out of the mess. I’d hoped I’d get to see him again this year.

Ken, on the other hand, I never had much interaction with her. Nice girl if memory serves, but she is a bit of a wild card. Certo.

I round on Alfie. “Alfie, why is Ken here? How long has this been going on?”

“Two years!” Ken shouts.

Oh Alfie, you feckin brainless eejit, look at the state of yeh.

“He said he wanted me. Me. He never said anything about you.”

I watch as Pickles’ jaw drops open at the implication, and his eyes slide from side to side like it’s Wimbledon.

“I say it again, Billy. He told me he wants me. So I came.” Ken is trying to keep a lid on her emotions, but they’re right there at the surface ridin her.

“Erm,” Alfie begins, looking like things are starting to fall into place in that thick skull of his.

“What was that? Squeak up,” I press. “Today’d be grand.”

“Erm, well,” Alfie begins again. “I-” And his face turns cherry red starting from his collar, ending at the very tips of his little mouse ears. “I may have said-”

“I want you so much. You told me over and over. I want you. I want you so much. Come with me. So I came.”

Pickles zips his mouth shut.

Simon would have relished this moment.

“I am beautiful. You told me! How could you be with him? He is not beautiful.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Pickles mutters again.

“Thanks, mate,” I say. No harm in hearin it, if I’m honest.

“And just where were you when you were telling Ken how much you wanted her? How beautiful she is?” Spit it out, man.

“Erm…” says Alfie, eloquent as ever.

“He was on the computer. Where else would he be? He was not in bed with you!” Ken turns on Alfie. “Were you?”

“Erm…” repeats Alfie.

“Have you no sense, you great eejit? You’re makin it worse.” All skull, no brain. Don’t know why I bother.

We need to get her calm, get her some privacy in a nice, cozy snug in the corner, sit down and sort this out. This is too personal for the floor of a pub. Not fair to Ken.

Guest starring, a snug

Looking disgusted with Alfie, Pickles steps in and picks up Ken’s hand. “You deserve better,” he says softly but with honest conviction. Good man.

Ken’s eyes are welling. “Yes. I do.”

“Oi!” Alfie exclaims in indignation.

I cut him off with an elbow to the ribs and a glare. “Not helping!” I grit out.

“Oh. Oh!” Alfie takes in a deep breath and gives her a sincere apology. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says, and once again buries his face in my navel.

“Alfie!” Ken looks like she’s about to cry quite a lot of tears. “You said-”

And right before my eyes, Pickles’ face goes all soft. I watch it happen right in front of me. That moment you see in films when the boy looks at a duckling like he’s never seen one before, and suddenly she’s the loveliest water fowl he’s ever met. “Ken, is it?” he says softly. “Come sit down. I’ll get you something to drink, and we can figure it out.”

I incline my head toward the snug at the back part of the room. I can see it’s empty.

Ken raises her head high, and pins Alfie with a deadly glare. “You are not worth my tears. Or my frequent flying kilometers.”

Alfie looks ashamed, as he should do, and wisely keeps his fat trap shut. Wise - for Alfie, that is. Pickles leads Ken across the floor as far from Alfie and me as he can be. “Do you have luggage?” I hear him ask as they walk away. Good man. Damn good man.

“You owe Pickles, mate.”

“All my birthday beer is his.”

“That’s right,” I agree.

“That’s right,” Alfie whispers as he downs his two forgotten shots. “That’s right.”

“Alfie. What’s really goin on here, mate?” I ask him. “You realize you’ll be needin to have an honest talk with Ken, don’t yeh? Pickles may have put the situation on pause for the moment. But she does deserve better, man.”

He looks a bit lost.

“What were yeh thinkin?”

He starts to fidget. “Look, man.” I reassure him. “I’m here for yeh, thick, thin, wide, narrow, tall, short. Female. Male?”

“Or maybe somewhere undefined in-between?” he asks.

“Alfie. I love yeh, mate.” I’m bendin down gettin in his face, bein that the man is avoidin eye contact with his head down. “Nothin else matters, yeh see that, don’t yeh?”

Alfie peeks up and looks at me, barely. He’s unsure and deeply unsettled. Ken, in person, has him rattled — profoundly rattled. And can I blame him? Somethin private – and very likely somethin he thought was just for fun with no consequences – just became public and hit home in a very, very she’s at my home kind of way. So much for no consequences.

“Life is real, Alfie. Life happens. Life has consequences. Life is full of good people, in with the bad. Ken’s one of the good ones, mate. If yeh don’t want anything to do with her-”

“I didn’t say that!” busts out of his mouth, before he can think on it. Which, if I’m honest, describes everything that comes out of Alfie’s mouth. He squeezes his lips together, willing them not to speak.

I let it float for a minute, not wanting to give him any outs, but also not wanting to make him afraid to speak. But I break. “No judgement, mate. Do you want Ken?”

He finally lifts his head, and gives me frightened eyes I’ve never seen him wear. “I don’t know?”

“No reason to panic like this. No need to have it all worked out of a sudden, all at once. But you do need to be honest with her. And you need to walk over to that snug with me, sit yerself down across from Ken, and talk to her. Tonight. Let her know how yer feelin, that you might be conflicted, questioning. She’s got to know what that feels like, mate. Hasn’t she?”

He gives me a one-shoulder shrug, lettin me know he’s heard me.

“Go take a piss, do a shot, smoke somethin, whatever. But you’ve got 5 minutes before you have to act like a grown man. I’ll make your excuses til then. And I’m lettin her know you’ll be joinin us in that snug. No runnin from this, mate. She knows where yeh live. Because I’ll give her the street number and drive her there m’self if ye run.”

—--/-/—--

When I finally arrive back up at Rachel’s flat, I’m drunk enough to bump into every wall between the entry and the stairs, which I manage to fall up, and then “Ow!” as I knock my hip against the railing at the top.

I’m tripping as I try to walk out of my jeans and open the bedroom door at the same time. Seems like something that should be possible, walking out of a pair of jeans. It isn’t.

As I fall on my arse with a loud thud and grunt, my guest for the evenin begins laughin at me. I can’t really blame her. I’m drunk. She’s drunk. Neither one of us remembers each others’ names. Doesn’t matter. Except-

Guest starring, Guest

“Oh, Saints preserve us! Jaysus no!”

“What are you on about?” Somethin-somethin-somethin, “on me.”

I’ve no idea what she’s sayin, and couldna care, because I’ve fallen on my phone. “Mary and the sweet baby Jesus, oh thank you. Ohhhh thank you. Oh lord.”

I caress it lovingly – which is really what I should be doing with the bird crawling across the bed in a relatively alluring way. The screen lights up revealing a text notification, and I vaguely remember it buzzing in my pocket at the start of the night. I’d sort of forgotten it, what with Alfie’s nose in my navel. And my nose shortly due to be well below her navel.

Grumpy: Why

“What? Oh no, not you love. Don’t move a finger. I want yeh just like that.”

Billy: Why what?

He replies almost instantly.

Grumpy: Why are my texts like Hemingway

Billy: Brief.

I turn off my phone, and drop it on the crumpled and growing mass of clothing on the floor. After all, it’s important I focus all my attention on my guest’s needs. And I’ve a feelin she’ll have many.

—--/Simon/—--

Fuuuuuuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Again.

I have no idea how to write the Simon book and it’s seriously sucking my will to live. Which, you know, vampire Simon and all that.

OK, so here’s the thing. I can’t just suddenly claim I’m totally different from the character, when the fans know I’ve based him on me. And they know I’m a nerd. A huge nerd. I can’t turn him into some super, supernatural, sleek, and sexy vampire. Nope. He has to be confused half the time. And show periodic feats of great courage, followed by moping and pining and loyalty. The fans love it. They eat that shit up. On paper – not in my actual life. Me Simon, I mean. Other Simon gets to mope all he wants and they still think he’s worth reading about. Fuck if I know why.

I can’t turn him into an amalgam of like, hipster-bass-player-shoegazer-vampire. We’ve all already read the one about the rockstar vampire.

So what kind of person would Other Simon wish he could be?

Ugh, well, 15 year old Me Simon just wanted to be cool and get the girl. 15 year old Other Simon is… a vampire, and will get the girl. Maybe two. Eventually.

I think he needs confidence. Other Simon, I mean. That’s what being a vampire gives him. That and killer abs. (Vamp abs are killer. I crack myself up. This is me cracking up.)

I think that’s his real growth arc – the confidence, not the abs. Wayyy back at the beginning I started him from a place already lagging behind his peers, saving himself for his crush. So becoming a vampire boosts his confidence immeasurably. That’s why we can more easily believe it when he finally gets the girl. For like five minutes.

I dunno. Now maybe he’ll go be a rockstar at being a super-supernatural superhero, rather than an actual rockstar of music. Nobody cares that I play bass.

You, self in mirror. Nobody cares that you play the bass. Just let it go.

Ok fine, me. You win. As usual. Nobody wants to hear the stats on my vintage Marshall stacks. Or about my priceless Rickenbacker, played by Sir Paul himself. Oh my god, why? Whyyyyyy? This should be exciting to everyone, everywhere.

I wonder if Billy would say I’m whingeing. How do you even spell that. Winging? Winjing? Whinging?

Actually, wait. Billy’s a confident person. He’s gregarious. Everybody fuckin loves that guy. Sometimes I hate him, just to prove to the universe that it is possible. Sometimes he deserves it, too. Wanker. Twat. Neither of those sound good in American.

Maybe Ma’s right and I should get out more.

Nah.

What would I even do? I’m supposed to be writing. I’m supposed to be writing. Writing.

Writing.

I can’t believe I went to Italy and didn’t take one picture. Not one. I had a couple good conversations. All with an Irishman – no one Italian. That would be stupid, Simon. (Me Simon, not Other Simon.)

Fuuuuuck.

——-/-/——-

Simon: I was in the seat of the Roman Empire, on possibly the sexiest sea in the world, and I didn’t fucking notice

That Irishman: Yeah, I noticed

Simon: Where are you?

That Irishman: Sorrento, dinner rush, can’t talk

Simon: Pick me up tomorrow

That Irishman: Wait what?

That Irishman: ???

That Irishman: Simon

That Irishman: Simon!