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simon-x-billy · 1 year ago

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Simon x Billy

Chapter 11: What is my hand doing?

[Gif not mine]

Prompt: Secret relationship reveal

Masterlist || ao3 || start || prev || next wip!

RECAP: When last we left our lovers, Simon was still stuck in Brooklyn for career purposes, but at least he got to tell his besties that he is A. on a panel at Comic Con for reasons; B. moving to Italy; and C. talking to someone there. That would be Billy, but the besties think it’s Billie — so that’s fun. Billy, on the other hand, has not been told about Simon’s decision to move. But at least he finally has been told when Simon is coming back to see him — in two days. Today is not that day. Tomorrow is. Until then, the pair are inventively and intuitively making use of technology to come together again. But before we can get to that, the plot thickens/deepens/moves forward. TW: Phone sex written by someone who has never had it. If this is a hideously awful embarrassment to phone sex-havers everywhere, please leave a comment, DM, whatever. Why should they have bad phone sex when they can have better phone sex? Seriously, I ask you.

Chapter 11: What is my hand doing?

———/Simon/———

Ugh, Brooklyn. (Blasphemer! I’m calling myself out and I am a-shamed.) But it's true. Brooklyn is ugh to me right now. At least the wait is almost over. Kelly finally arranged to have me sent back to Italy tomorrow night. Like a- Well, like whatever kinds of objects get sent back to Italy.

Wait.

I rewind that thought back to where I said ‘tomorrow night,’ and this time think it with a bullhorn. TOMORROW NIGHT! Hallefrickinlujah.

The fear is that she’s probably made all the arrangements necessary to have me air dropped from a moving helicopter to get back at me for announcing I’m abandoning Brooklyn. She is truly angry at me. It became particularly apparent when I asked for help with the real estate stuff. That might have been exactly the wrong thing to ask for her help with. This will require a fitting gesture of my undying admiration, and my amazement at her next level ability to put up with me. She levels up every time I breathe in her general direction.

I’m calling Billy without even realizing it.

“Hey, man,” Billy answers. “Howeyeh?” I can hear him smiling.

“Do you have plans tonight?” I ask. “Beyond sleeping, I mean.”

“Just sleepin,” Billy replies with curiosity. I can hear him yawn at the other end and it feels endearing in my stomach. Which is weird, but pleasant. “What did you have in mind?” I can hear his smile change to a sly smirk all the way from Italy.

“I want to fall asleep listening to you fall asleep,” I admit, and immediately die of cringe. Hello, creeper. It’s too late, and I can’t take it back.

“Now, see, yeh can’t just go round sayin beautiful stuff of that sort. It’s unfair, that’s what it is. Say it again.”

“I want us to fall asleep together,” I repeat. “Even if we can’t exactly be together when we do it.”

Billy makes a noncommittal sound. “Time difference is a heartless bitch, Simon. How early can yeh manage fallin asleep?”

“Well,” I pause in frustration cuz I hadn’t thought about that at all in my internal fantasy of hearing him sleep. (Creepy? Romantic? Romantically creepy? Don’t know, don’t care.)

I offer an alternative. “Wake up just for me, then go back to sleep?”

Billy snorts right about the time I realize that that’s actually kind of a tall ask. And again, possibly creepy. Or romantically creepy. “Am I creepy? Or romantically creepy?”

“It’s more romantically presumptuous, really. But I’m setting my alarm, nonetheless. Now let me alone so I can finish prepping the zeppole. Hot pillows of sweetness sent by the Lord himself.”

“Like my own hot pillows of sweetness?” I giggle. I’m giggling.

“Er,” Billy begins. After a moment’s consideration, he clears his throat. “You bake?”

———/Billy/———

“Will yeh be wantin a tour guide and a driver for Pompeii, then?” I ask the pair before me, tryin not to yawn into the late afternoon sun as I count out the change for their beach chair rental. No less than 70, if they’re a day.

“Why? You think we can’t find our way ourselves without them? We’re more than capable, young man,” says the missus. I can see she’s just windin up for a tongue lashing. Grumpy in the mornings, could be.

Grumpy.

I head her off at the pass, picking up the beach bar’s ancient phone with a finger poised to dial. “Not in the least, not in the least. But I guarantee you’ll get more out of it with a guide to show you all the secret corners, peek inside the archaeologists’ tents, tell yeh the local lore and the wisdom of the ages.”

She relaxes. Guaranteed it was the ‘wisdom of the ages’ bit what did it.

“Ah, go on. Let me call the front desk. They’ll arrange for everything.”

“I can arrange for everything my-” she begins, pugnacious as ever.

“Martha,” the man says softly with his hand on his wife’s back. “Let the boy do his job.”

Bright eyes, big smile, Delaney. Simon would be proud of my Guest Services face, and then demand I’m lying about never attending theatre school. I hmmm inaudibly to myself.

Shocked am I, the whole thing is managed entire without another objection, and the mulish Martha and her man are sat there happily installed on their beach loungers.

Oh, Lord. Here comes trouble. “It’s to be that sort of day, is it?” I grumble.

At the very least, I have fair warnin as I can hear the trouble comin. The soft tinkle of bells at her toes announces her arrival. “Well if it isn’t the lovely and mysterious Sabina. Docked the barge, have yeh.” Land ho.

“It’s Billy, isn’t it.” Not a question. Lovely.

“More a ‘he’ than an ‘it.’” Get your pronouns right, miss.

She doesn’t deign to acknowledge my comment. I’m to be ‘it,’ then. Is she offensive on purpose, or does it just come naturally? Perhaps she’s simply gifted that way.

“To what do I owe the honor, my dear?”

“Instructions,” she says with a coolness that verges on frostbite. “For a party next Saturday night. You will come out to the boat as my guest,” she informs me, and tips her head to the side as she gauges my reaction.

Is she- I mean, she wouldn’t be- askin me out? Never.

“Bring Simon as your +1.”

“He’s the +1?”

“You be the +1 if you like that position better.” Her monstrously oversized sun hat casts shadows across her tip to toe, straw letting through tiny, bright dots of light that shift as she shifts. Just as the day I made her cheerful acquaintance.

Has it really only been two weeks? Really? That can’t be right.

“Greta will text Kelly the details, technicalities, all that,” she informs me. Kelly is Simon’s PA, so I’m assumin Greta’s her own.

“Kelly? You know Kelly.”

“Of course. She’s Kelly. People know this about her.” She waves away the question as if it’s both beneath her and boring.

“Sabina, has anyone ever described you as a piece of work? I’m meaning a work of art, acourse.”

She lowers her sunglasses and without cracking the slightest smile, winks at me. Well fuck me sideways.

“How did you know?” I ask, takin my opportunity where I find it. “It’s been botherin me ever since your show. You well knew the party was at a pan club. Why us? Tellin the two of us to come. What did you see in Simon and me that told you somethin would happen?”

Ignoring my question, she floats onto a barstool and flips her curtain of glossy, black hair behind one tanned shoulder.

I put back on my Guest Services face. “Something to drink? Might enjoy an espresso, biscotti,” I offer.

“No. I will not eat,” she informs me.

“Then what can I do for yeh, my dear?”

“Come next weekend. Another birthday party. They happen every year,” she says, lackadaisically. “The house. The boat. You know how it is.”

“Do I?”

“Maybe you don’t.”

She never answered my question, and I’m of a mind to persist. “We’ll consider it, if yeh answer me. Why did you tell us about your show in Naples? What did you see in the pair of us? How could you have known, when even we didn’t?”

“Billy.” She places her hand over mine. I use wiping down the bar as a reason to casually free it again. Watching my reaction over her absurdly large sunglasses, she gloats almost imperceptibly. “Make me a bellini.”

Sabina taps her fingernails on the bar top and takes the opportunity to study me as I pull out the peach purée. I add the sparkling prosecco and place the drink in front of her, giving her an arched eye caterpillar.

She tips her head toward me and says, “All right. I’ll tell you. Simon, you know he’s from New York.”

I nod.

“We know the same people,” she says as if that explains anything.

“And?”

“And from the cafe I saw Simon Lewis sitting in my marina.”

“Your marina?”

She bats the question away. “Of all the times Simon and I have wound up at the same parties, I’ve never seen him look at anyone else the way he looked at you.”

Fuck me.

She continues, “He wanted me to go away, deeply. Who could make Simon want such a thing? So I thought I’d have a little experiment. Nothing outrageous.” She smirks. “You couldn’t take your eyes off him. But he practically pissed a circle around you.”

“Not at all. He spent the whole time dealin with you, my darlin. And if anything, it was me as was sat there doin the pissing. I didn’t much care for the way you spoke to him.”

She laughs low. “Your expression gave you away, you know. The kiss was a test; a simple one.”

“Then what if we hadn’t been, I don’t know, swept up in the whole thing that night?” I challenge her. “What would have happened then?”

“Does it matter? Were you? Swept away? The right music at the right moment can make anything happen.” She dismounts with the tinkling of tiny bells, bellini untouched.

Before she reaches the hotel elevator, Sabina calls back over her shoulder, “Oh and Billy. Dress for Capri.”

Ah. Understood. I take a deep breath. “I’ll do the best I can.”

She nods, and departs without a word.

“Lovely to see you, too,” I mutter.

———/-/———

It’s Wednesday? I thought yesterday was Wednesday. Fuck me, an extra day. Life drags on at a snail’s pace.

Opening photos, I realize Simon’s face was the last shot I took that wasn’t of my genitals. It’s of him in the tunnel, moments before we entered the club. All bold, confident, and full of excitement, with not a clue of the direction the night would take.

When I look at him, I’ve no idea who I am anymore. I’ve never really been that certain to begin with, in all honesty.

For a man without a rudder, I’ve never needed to know who I am. Just all the whos I’m not. Not a father, not a son, not a brother, not a bother.

Alfie tells me I’m the best of friends. Cheers, mate. Nice to hear, but I’m not sure I believe it overmuch. Not when I’ve never stuck round long enough to be a good friend to anyone.

I’m a nomad. And I hate it.

I’ve only just realized that I hate it. Before Italy, before this glorious place, I’d have described my life as Freedom. Carefree, exciting, mind-broadening, instructive, adventuresome, even a right good time. But as I feel all these words strung together in my mind, I realize they’re all empty and meaningless, when it’s clear I’m the one who’s strung together. Like stringing lights about a Christmas tree. Invariably there are big holes crying out to be filled. Gaps with nothin big enough to fill them. That’s me — gaps big enough for a man to fall through. Never to be heard from again.

For certain, not a sole Delaney has ever noticed I’ve gone. Isn’t that just grand. All the times I’ve lived under one roof or another, time done for what? Some stories told over a pint at Christmas. And not the funny kind.

“Remember that cousin Billy?”

“Oh sure’n let me see now. He was the one as had the curly hair, yeah? Nice fella.”

Or the older generation? They might say, “Oh that Billy, he always was such a helpful young man to have round the house when somethin needed seein to. So helpful. Can’t remember the sound of his voice or the colour of his eyes, but he sure was helpful. Cryin shame we never had a good place to put him when it was our turn.” Sure’n that’s what they’d say.

Oh, shit. Must remember to ring Shazza and wish her a happy birthday.

———/-/———

“Vittorio, buongiorno,” I say as I enter his office.

Rosalina has just been to fetch me from the kitchen, where I’d been losing myself in the mundanity of prep work.

Problem is, I’ve also been gettin lost in too many mental images from the weekend. Just couldn’t clear my head. All good, so good.

It was all so good until Simon’s phone lit up like a christmas tree, and everything hit a wall. Just bam! Face first. A wall. (Shaped like a woman named Kelly, presumably somewhere in New York.)

It’s his career, Delaney. Quit thinkin what yer thinkin. It’s just God punching us in the nads with fate, as Simon would surely say.

Thing is, I do feel as though I’ve been punched in the testicles. I do. And I’m not sure what’s makin me feel worse — the testicles or the fact that we said goodbye immediately after my life was rocked on its foundations.

Am I bi? Never figured I was before. Does that mean I’m not? I love makin love to a woman. So, not gay per se. But not entirely straight, neither. How could I be?

So, bi?

Bein bi would explain Simon’s sudden appearance on the short list of people who’ve ever made me come that hard. Does that make me bi?

“Beelee!” The hearty voice of Vittorio greeting me snaps me out of yet another reverie. With that big-loving smile, kisses to the cheeks, an arm round the shoulder, he makes me feel welcome, and he knows how to make me feel useful. Helpful. Good at what I do. And like I contribute to this little family he’s built in his kitchen.

My smile stretches wide. Not just because I feel like smilin, but more because he deserves all the smiles. “Vittorio, you are a gentleman and a scholar.”

He laughs with a boom. “Si, certo!” Yes, obviously.

“Certo,” I agree, and indeed it is obvious. He’s wise, and kind. I hate getting attached. But I’ll hate saying goodbye to Vittorio. Ah, fuck. I’m attached. It’s too late.

“Come, Beelee. You will sit with me,” he says, opening the doors out to his private garden patio, and motioning me past. He picks up a sweating pitcher of the homemade lemonade they call limonata, made and bottled here in one of the orchard’s outbuildings. If sunlight had a taste it would be Vittorio’s limonata.

“Beelee,” he begins, once we’ve settled in. He looks out at the view and sighs. “The year you are with us is coming near to end,” he says with the most marvelous Northern Italian accent. “You are considering this with much thought, yes?” He leans back comfortably and sips his limonata in a motion he’s likely developed over decades in that chair with this view. Quite a place to talk business and no mistake.

His words finally penetrate my addled brain. “Have I thought of movin on?”

“Si,” he nods.

Movin on.

No, I have not been considering with much thought. But maybe I should. He’s right. It’s only a couple months off, innit. I’ve barely kept an eye on the goings-on in the culinary world since I arrived in Sorrento. And that is curious.

It’s curious, as every other country I’ve been I've always seen as a gig. Workin to live, yes acourse, but livin to expand my ability, my craft, my creativity, along those veins. Finding the joy in learning the tempo of life in each place. I have loved almost all of my gigs, and enjoyed the environs as much as time allowed. And yet I’m always counting down the days, weeks, and months, months, weeks, and days, well before the end for each city. Until now.

I love Vittorio. Adore him. Both as a mentor and as a man. He is a good man. Solid. Steady. Fiercely loyal and protective of the hotel family he’s built. He may have been born in the North well away from the water, but after all this time he has come to be a man of the South. Its cliffs, the sea, the vertical living with stairs to get anywhere. This is his home. Yes, he was born in Siena, but he chose to live his life in Sorrento. He chose this place to plant his roots, and settled in to live his best life.

I long to live that dream somethin awful. Some sort of permanence in this temporary life of mine. A life I could build, myself. A place of choice. A family of choice. Finding my tribe. And holding on to them. Holdin on for as long as I’m allowed to keep ‘em.

Vittorio looks at me with those intuitive eyes of his. “Qua cosa? What thing is so bad to make your face is falling?” He pretends his face has fallen to his lap to illustrate. “You are having sadness?”

“I haven’t thought much about leaving, to be honest,” I admit.

“You fall in love with Italia, I think. In you I see this, each day a little more, a little more. I am thinking the thoughts that you I should send to Firenze. You learn to cook in the North. It is, come se dice, how you say, molto bene very good y diferente with the Campania kitchens of us here.”

“Si, si, I’d like to learn the northern cuisine.” I can barely get my mouth to shape my next words. “Before I leave Italy.”

“Si. O posso Venezia. Pero non sera ristauranti che va bene.”

I laugh at such a sweeping statement of negativity from this man. “There are no good restaurants in Venice?”

“If there was good ristaurante, I send you to there. But Roma.” He rolls his r with gusto and passion for the eternal city. RrrrrrrOmmmmma. “Roma? Si, son ristauranti with the goodness I demand for to send you to there.” He nods thoughtfully. “Stefano, si.”

“Stefano Rossi?” Jaysus, good enough?

“O in Toscana, to Rodolfo.”

“Rodo Molinaro?” For serious?

“Si.”

Before I can bleat about these two utter gods of Italian cuisine, he interrupts me. “Or we take you from Italia and make you in France. Parigi - what you are calling Paris? Provence? You stay on the Mediterraneo you try Nice, la Riviara Franca.”

At least the French Riviera is just down the coast. (And that’s my first thought? How close I’d be to here?)

I try to interject, but he continues. “O in Spagna. I am having the very strong thought of Barcellona. O Siviglia. O to where you are calling Switzerland — Lucerne. You like Lucerne?”

“I’ve never-“

“You think with deeply careful thought of these places. I have thought very strong and with time that is long and full of care. These are the places you consider.”

“Vittorio. You are a dear, dear man and I cannot think of a suitable way to show how very much gratitude I have for you.”

“But your face is not a face of a man is happy,” he observes. “You are disappointing with these choices I give you?”

“No! Never, Vittorio. Not ever. I would joyfully live in every one of these cities! Florence, Rome. Paris, Nice. Barcelona, Seville. Lucerne. All of them.” Or none.

————/Simon/————

“I’d be in the air already, but I have to fit in one last fake fight with Kelly before I go. I promised to take her to brunch so we could fake-fight in person.”

“Let me guess, ‘It’s kind of your thing.’ Seems to me I’ve heard that one before,” Billy snarks into the phone. He sighs in defeat. “I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but I think I’m jealous.”

“Oh yeah? Why? Literally dying to know the answer.”

“How long do I have to wait?” he asks, sounding greedy.

“For what?”

“Before I can have you again,” Billy growls, in a tone he’d surely describe as naughty. Or at least I would describe it as naughty.

“With your moans in my ear, breath hot against my throat,” he continues. See? Naughty.

“Billy.”

“Simon.”

“Billy. What are you doing?”

“Hearing that sound you made when I licked a stripe up your neck, still salty with sweat from the club.” His voice is all gravel, low and rumbly.

“You don’t fight fair,” I whine. But in an appealing, sexy way.

————/Billy/————

I like that impatient sound. “I wish this was your hand,” I say, trying to keep the grin out my voice.

“What? W-what is my hand doing?” I hear Simon swallow at the other end.

“That twist you did — it’s like you read my mind: How to wank Billy Delaney.”

I don’t have my hand anywhere close to my cock. I just love gettin to hear him all flustered.

“Uh, um, Billy? Are you having solo phone sex right now? Is that what you’re doing? Cuz I gotta tell you-“ he breaks off.

“What do you have to tell me, Simon?”

Silence.

“And make it good,” I rumble.

“Jesus Christ, Billy.”

“No, just Billy.”

“Funny,” he responds dryly. Which acourse makes me smile. It’s the combination of exasperation, frustration, and libido all fighting for their turns to spring out his mouth.

“Is it? I thought we were gettin someplace, Simon.” I pitch my voice as low as it will go. “Someplace good.”

He lets out a whimper, then all I hear is rustling. Something clatters on a hard floor. Simon gasps, “Shit!” followed by, “Oh, thank God,” then somethin else falls with a thud. I hear shuffling in the background and angry muttering.

“Simon?”

“Wait, wait, hang on just a-“ I hear a jingling of bells, and then the sound of street traffic. People in conversation getting closer and fading away. Sirens. Loud sirens. I hear the tell-tale sound of his Converse slapping on pavement, accompanied by rapid breathing and some mumbled curses. “Come on come on come on!” I hear him whisper.

“Ey! I’m walkin here!” he says loudly, away from the phone. Followed swiftly by an angry, “Yeah, fuck you too, buddy,” under his breath. I feel as though I’m listening to every film about New York ever made.

“Hang on, just a sec,” he huffs faintly, as if the phone isn’t at his ear. I hear the jingling of keys. Everything he does is suddenly amplified, all with a strange, hollow ambience. A few loud, echoing footsteps later, and again I hear the sound of keys scraping into a lock.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Closer to my bed than I was five minutes ago,” Simon answers. “Not there yet.”

“Where were you five minutes ago?” This is pure gold.

“The bodega on the corner.”

“Serious?” I laugh. “Why’d you turn round?”

“Fuck you, Billy.”

“Not yet.”

I hear him trip over something. The phone clearly just went thud on carpet, and I hear a distant voice, swearing, “Where are you, fucking bastard.” His voice gets closer and closer. “Oh thank fucking Christ. I thought I broke my phone. Oh my sweet baby, an angel at one ear, a devil at the other.” He pauses as he shuffles whatever’s in his hands. “Billy? You still there?”

“Oh, I’m here, Simon.”

“Ok, start talking dirty again.”

I blink.

And we’re both laughing. “I like that you make me laugh,” I tell him.

“I like that you talk dirty. Can we go back to that please?”

“You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine?” I tease.

“What does that even mean?”

“Where are you, Simon?”

“Standing at the base of my bed.”

“Naked yet?”

He chokes, “What?”

“Just wonderin. Set the scene for me, Simon.”

“Theatre school, I’m telling you, theatre school.”

“You’re thinking about theatre school at a time like this.”

“Not even a little, when you sound like this. Jesus, Billy.”

“Where are you now?” I keep my voice fluid.

“Oh! Um, not where I was a minute ago the last time you asked. No, not still there,” he says.

“Naked yet?” It all started out as a gag, but I’ve become increasingly invested in his answers.

“Shoe-less. But I’m working on it.”

“Let me hear you take off your shirt.”

“Okaaay. How?” he asks in confusion. “Shirts aren’t loud. Am I supposed to rip it?”

“You like the shirt? Cos I want to hear all the buttons popping off.”

I didn’t think he’d do it, but I clearly hear the sound of buttons set free, pinging off every surface.

“Button fly again tonight?” I ask, thinking back to how easily his jeans came undone with just a flick of his hand.

“Not tonight.”

“Let me hear the zipper when you pull it down.” I hum as I hear the zzzzzz.

“Did you hear it?” he asks, voice turning gruff.

“I didn’t think I would, but that was hot.” I thought I was teasing, but now I know I’m not. “Let me hear the material slide down your legs. Slowly, Simon. Don’t rush it.”

His phone amplifies the rustle of fabric sliding over skin as though my ear is right there. My eyes slip shut. I can picture the material being pulled slowly over his hips, revealing the V of his muscles there, then catching on the swell of his arse. Sliding over that magnificent arse. Fuck, when he runs, I bet it bounces. And the image makes me groan.

“Mmm, that sounded good,” Simon nearly purrs. He’s gone from 1 to purring in under 3 seconds. “Did it feel good, Billy?”

“Yer man’s got game then, has he?” I challenge him.

“You haven’t answered my question, have you, Billy.”

“Is the secret just to work my name into every sentence? Cos I’ll be honest with yous. It’s doin it for me.” I need more than this. Without preamble I switch us to FaceTime.

“Rude!” he squawks.

“Are you offended, Simon?” I set up the angle for him to watch. He’s gone silent. Turns out I’m clothed enough for some suspenseful stripping of my own. His face is priceless.

————/Simon/————

Merp.

—————/Billy/—————

I watch as his eyes go dark, and his expression turns unselfconscious. Hungry.

I’m more’n likely to show him whatever he wants to see, though it can be hard to actually ask for it. “What and where, Simon?”

“Mmhm that sounds nice,” he says absently.

“Nice.” That’s not what I’ve been goin for. Seems his thoughts are a mite preoccupied. “Do you know what I want to do to you the minute I see you?” I challenge.

“Um. No?”

“I am going to strip you bare after Customs if you stop for any reason except to walk straight to me.”

“You’ll be there at the airport?”

“And I will strip you bare. Right there at Customs. Don’t test me, Simon. After you’ve landed? If I see yeh doing anything?” I prompt him.

“I’ll come straight to you,” he says on a whisper.

“That’s right you will. And the moment we reach the car, I’ll press you against it, undo your jeans, and wrap my hand round you, with just enough firm pressure.”

He whimpers.

“What do you like, Simon? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.”

“What I-“ His eyes go blank. “Merp.”

So I continue. “Then I’ll tell you what I want from you when I get you back to the hotel.”

He whimpers again.

“I want you to strip me slowly, make me impatient. Because I’ll be dying to have you fast. I’ll have been waiting for you, wantin to take you in that tiny car, wanting to feel all of you, and lay you down. But-“

“But she’s too small,” he whispers, getting into it a bit more.

“I’d bend you over the bonnet, but you won’t let me.”

“I won’t?”

“No Simon, you won’t. You’ll tell me the fuckin luggage can wait, and you’ll drag me to your room.”

“I’ll be dragging you?” he asks, sounding confused.

“Just go with it. You’re breaking my flow.”

“Sorry,” he whispers with a grimace.

“Shhh.”

“Ok.”

“Shhh. Hear me. I’ll want to drag you to bed instantly, but you won’t let me. You tell me to slow down. Take my time.”

“Take your time? We’ve gone a whole week without each other. How much more time will we need? Are we even naked yet?”

“Shhh, Simon. See it. See me in agony, desperate for every second I can have with you again. I’ll start at one end of your body and work my way to the other. Those runner’s legs, God. All that skin up, up, following my hands with my lips, lettin the hair slide across my mouth between kisses. Show me where my lips are, Simon.”

His breath catches. “Jesus, Billy.”

“Do you want to see how close my mouth will be? I’ll show you. Watch where I start, Simon, just here. See me.”

He lets out a high puff of air. His breath rate has picked up. So has mine.

“I’ll stop and kiss here.” I circle the spot. “I want my mouth on you, Simon. The soft, warm spot behind your knee you’ve never thought about until I became the first person to tongue you there. Or here,” I whisper, drawing my hand up my inner thigh. I have one thought and one thought only: get this next shot right.

I bring the camera round, laying back to give him the long view up my body.

“Mmmfm, you have a wet spot in your briefs,” he says in a huskier voice. He’s finally getting out of his own way.

“Do you know why, Simon?”

“Why?”

“Because all I can think about is running my lips over all of this skin,” and I draw my fingers slowly up to where my thighs meet. He lets out a high breath. “Show me, Simon. Show me where my lips are.”

The image on the screen swings wildly around, showing bits of lightly furred leg, the color of his sheets, confusing body hair, and the paint on the ceiling. He grunts as he repositions himself. Suddenly, the image is swinging around to show me the path up his knee and I get an eyeful of the long view he’s giving me.

“Mmmmm, do you know what I see, Simon?” All that flesh leadin to the sight of a cock and balls from below, snug in a pair of boxer briefs, lookin monstrous huge from this vantage point.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, I know ex’ex’exactly what that l’looks like.”

“Draw your hand up the inside of your thigh for me. Let me watch it, your phone followin behind the whole way up.” I give him an example to inspire him. “Tell me when to stop, Simon.”

A high moan escapes him. “W’when do you want to stop?”

“Never.”

He groans. “Take off your briefs, Billy,” he instructs me, feeling bolder. “Now.”

I smile to myself. That’s the spirit.

“For you, anything, Simon.” And I realize I actually mean that. I probably would do just about anything he told me to.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” he asks me. “The wet spot just got bigger.” He sounds terribly proud of himself, and continues with more confidence. “Oh shit, your cock just got bigger, too. God, I can see the tip peeking out of your waistband.”

I steadily reveal every millimeter until he can see the full head. “Oh God. Billy.”

“I want you naked and fucking your hand, Simon, now. Let me watch.”

Simon whines.

“Naked, Simon. Then hand.”

Again, his high puffs of breath turn into a whine. But the moment I fist my cock, Simon’s voice drops two registers — as if he knows this is the moment we really get started. He’s saying, “I want to see the tip poke out of your fist, see you drawing the hood back as you stroke.”

“Fuck yes, Simon.”

“Closer,” he demands.

I moan at the thought that he wants to see it up closer. That an eyeful doesn’t send him runnin for covers. But no, he’s enjoying being in control.

“What does your other hand really want to be doing?” Simon rumbles. “When it’s not holding the phone, what’s it holding? Or fondling? Or sliding over. Show me, Billy. Show me what you do when you’re alone.” It’s a command, not a request.

I let out a long stuttering breath. “Simon, I think you might be quite good at this. Given some more practice,” I say, as I try in vain to get my phone under control. I need a place to prop it so I can use both hands. Finally, driven by the agony of frustration, I set the phone against a pillow at the right angle and kneel with knees spread wide.

“Oh fuck shit fuck,” comes straining out of him, and he’s fully stroking himself in earnest. “Nhhhh, Jesus Billy.”

What’s he on about? I look down at myself and visualize the view from that angle. Oh God. “You, too,” I grind out. “Want to see you too.”

He gives me what I want. Lord, that is a filthy fuckin sight from that angle. My hips punch my cock through my fist and I cradle my balls.

“Fuck yes,” he moans. I look down and find just how much precome I’m dripping. I hitch my hips closer to the camera and splay my legs wider. “Oh Jesus Billy fuck,” he gasps at the sight.

“Show me,” I tell him. He takes a screenshot and turns the phone round to show me. “Show me on you, Simon.”

“Oh, right,” he breathes.

“Faster,” I tell him. “Let me hear you.”

“What makes you come, Billy? Mmmmmfffwant to see it up close,” he groans.

I reframe the phone, but the sight from this distance has got to be brutal.

“Oh Jesus, Billy,” he huffs, then “Oh God,” comes out with an urgent tone. I’m flyin in and out my fist, yet somehow he can see it all.

“No, don’t stop,” I complain as his hand stutters to a stand still. He puts the phone down on the bed below him, and squats just over it. It’s an intense view. “Oh God, Simon. That is obscene.”

“Now you,” he instructs. “I want to see both hands better.”

I try to angle more carefully so he can see more cock and less balls.

“Oh fuck,” he says in surprise. “Right there, yes. No, too far, bring it back, bring it back - stop! Perfect. Show me.”

“That’s,” I grate out, “my line.” Oh God, I feel the sensation begin to build. “Simon- Si’ nhhhh, I’m- are you-“ I can’t think.

“Yes,” he grates out, followed by a strained, “Fuuuuuck!” I’m glad he’s as close as I am. I want to see him tip over the edge while he’s watchin me do the same.

I’m fucking panting, every breath I force out comes back in gasps. “Oh God yes,” I whisper. “Simon.”

“Me, too, me, too, oh fuck yes fuck. B’Billy?”

The look on his face is all shock and awe, then all I can see filling the screen is the head of his cock pulsing spurts of come landing somewhere outside the frame.

Ho shit. Fuck fuck fuck, the heat blooms throughout my body in warning. “Oh God, fuck Simon, fuuu, can you see? I want you- watch-“ I call out nonsense. I can only focus on the rush I feel throughout my body. I come in full view of the phone and my knees buckle.

Rolling to my back and still panting, I try to remember my name and country of origin. But “Simon,” is the only word I can find.

————/-/————

Masterlist || ao3 || start || prev || next wip!

————/-/————

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simon-x-billy · 1 year ago

Text

Simon x Billy

Year of the OTP: October

Chapter 10: Attack of the tiny flying human

Prompt: Text messaging

AN: While Billy is sleeping off his drowned sorrows in his time zone, Simon has time traveled back 6 hours, to Brooklyn. He gets to live the same 6 hours twice. That’s just how it works. So sci-fi. He has been summoned (peer pressured) back to Brooklyn by his agent for a terribly important meeting requiring a suit. That’s all he knows about it: Wear a suit. Done. He’s wearing a suit. He’s never even seen Johnny in a suit, let alone wearing one with him. It’s this morning all over again, and it’s official. Italians do coffee better. NSFW TW: Finally back to the sexytimes! But first, lots of talking and saying stuff and things. Fair warning: There’s no Clary irl, but there is a Chase. Masterlist || ao3 || start || prev || next

————/Simon/————

“Simon, I don’t like that Johnny.”

“I know, Ma.”

“He looks like a sheister, that boy. He does not have a trustworthy face. No. He does not.”

“I know, Ma.”

“Well if you know, Simon, why don’t you go find a more trustworthy-looking agent?”

“Ok, Ma. Where are the Eggos?”

“Pish. Why am I stocking Eggos when you’re not living here anymore? Go stock ‘em for yourself over at that schmancy apartment of yours.”

“Ok, Ma. You’re right.”

She’s turned her ‘you don’t have a trustworthy face’ face on me.

“What, Ma. What? Please stop giving me the stink eye. It’s scary looking and definitely unfriendly.”

“You want I should be your friend now.”

I search madly for the right answer to that question.

“You want I should go to Katz’s? Yonah Schimmel? No! Wait! Ma, I will buy you an island if you make your matzoh ball soup.”

I am a genius.

Katz’s. Yonah Schimmel is next door. Pic mine.

That should keep her busy for well over 24 hours. It takes time to boil a chicken down to nothing but golden goodness. As Grandma used to say, “It took a day to build Rome, it takes more than that to make chicken soup.”

That should keep her happy and friendly for at least as many days as the soup lasts, and then some. And it’ll give me some fat to run off. Sometimes I don’t eat enough to sate the running addiction. It is what it is.

From the kitchen I hear Ma shout “But I do like his red hair!”

————/-/————

“Simon!!!” It’s practically a screech. The next thing I know, I’ve been attacked by a tiny flying human. I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a flying hug. Kind of like a cannonball into a pool, but aimed at me and not at a pool. Whatever it is, there are limbs everywhere, long hair in my mouth, and not a fraction of an inch of her touching the ground. I figure I’ll just leave the untangling up to her, for fear of touching places it would not be good to touch. This is all on her to unravel. She slides easily to the ground outside Java Jones.

Lily. That’s who.

“Look at you! Why are you all handsome and fresh-looking?” She looks at me suspiciously. Because apparently this is suspicious. And I now worry that I’ve never been handsome and fresh before.

“Nevermind,” she immediately interrupts herself, holding me at arm’s length. “Look at you! You’re all tanned and weirdly healthy. I’m dazzled by the sun dripping off you.” She sniffs. “Why do you smell so good? Are you wearing cologne?! I’m concerned.” Her eyes narrow. “Who are you and what have you done with my sweet vampire Simon? Why are you like this and what are we doing tonight?”

All of this delivered with coquettish little grins and winks sprinkled here and there.

“Stop flirting with me, vile creature.”

She growls and mock-punches me in the arm. “What the fuck, Simon! Where have you been? Clearly somewhere sunnier than Brooklyn. And this is not a tan you get in the Hamptons.”

I can’t help it, I just can’t be mad at this compact little flying ball of limbs. The girl three years younger than I am, that I think of as my little sister, yeah, her. I can’t be mad. She’s just too excited to see me. Genuinely happy to see me. Ugh, now I’m genuinely happy to see her, too.

“So? Are you going to tell me anything? Why do you look like a golden god, sitting here in this dingy hole of the pallid and caffeine-deprived?”

“Italy.” Am I grinning? I think I might be grinning.

“Grinning like the Cheshire Cat.”

“Did you hear the part about Italy?”

“Italy?!?!” She says with overly dramatized shock

Now this one definitely went to theatre school.

I know this to be true, not only because she’s dramatic — convincingly dramatic — but also because it’s where I met her. So I know from firsthand experience that she has a finely tuned host of expressions, reactions, etc to draw from. It’s called sense-memory. Dude, we’re from NY. Theatre camp might just have been with the Actors Studio, or it might not. We might have been mini Method Actors, we might not.

And this face? This face is pure goofball, all the way. She comes by it naturally.

“No, but seriously, Italy?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m thinking about moving there.”

Lily spews cappuccino froth everywhere.

“Hang on, I got it.” I'm instantly springing for the counter in search of a cloth. Or even a stack of mini napkins? Please? I leave Lily holding her shirt away from her skin. The cappuccino is still hot enough that her shirt is now steaming. Ow.

It’s only as we’re dealing — successfully — with the aftermath, that I finally have a moment to recall what I said, just moments before The Great Cappuccino Incident of 2015.

I’m thinking about moving there.

I didn’t even know that’s how I felt until it flew out of my mouth.

I think I want to move to Italy.

Yep, still true, even after repetition.

“You want to what?” she asks, attention fully on me and not her shirt.

“I think I’m going to move to Italy.” Hm. My mouth just made up my mind for me.

When I’ve had something fly out of my mouth in the past, my mouth has turned out to be trustworthy and wise about 90% of the time. It’s not a perfect science. But what I will say is that my mouth speaking from my gut is not as gross as it sounds. I’ve learned to trust my gut-mouth. It tells me what I don’t realize I already know. And suddenly I have complete clarity. I’m moving to Italy.

!fuckyeahmovingtoitaly!!!!sddssaasblergjkl!

“Why???” she asks. I can hear all the question marks.

“I’m feeling…………things there.”

“You’re feeling things there,” she parrots back at me. “Like what?” she asks with mirth. She’s feeling mirthy.

“Well, for one, I feel more creative than I have since the day I started flogging myself with a blinking cursor on a blank white page, entitled Book 4 pg 1.”

“Writer’s blo-“

“Don’t say it! You’ll jinx me!” Look, Jewish mysticism is alive and kicking in Brooklyn. “Quick, spit on the evil eye!” I order her. It’s the least she could do!

“Don’t worry, Si. You’ll conqu-“

“Stop jinxing me! What, are you trying to ruin my life? Seriously! Anyway, I think Italy might help with that thing we’re not allowed to say out loud, knock on wood.”

Lily is staring at me. Well, no, not staring so much as assessing. “You’re different, Si. And it’s not just the tan. Your eyes are brighter. Sparklier.”

“Ew.”

She smacks my arm.

I look at her and my insides turn to mush. “You, Lily, are a mensch.” Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“What have I done to deserve your highest praise?”

“You haven’t done anything specific, and that’s part of the point. You, Lily, are a good human being. If it was just a one-time thing, I’d find a different compliment. But this is just an observation. You are a good human person.”

To my surprise, her eyes well up. “Hey, you ok?” I take her hand in mine and give it a warm squeeze. “Hey,” I squeeze again.

“Oh, nothing,” she says, rolling her eyes, but I can tell it’s not even remotely ‘nothing’ by the simple fact that she’s sniffling and her eyes look even more watery.

“Nothing’s wrong, Simon, I promise.”

“Happy tears, then? Did you get into Juilliard?”

“I wish! And anyways, I’m at Tisch.”

“Not too shabby!”

“You bet your frickin ass! There is no shab!”

“Mazel tov, Lily. Stand up and hug me,” I order her. And she does. But she’s sniffling and watery again. I have acquired a cappuccino shirt of my own. At least we’ll both smell alike, and cancel each other out.

I look at her appraisingly. (It’s her turn to be appraised.) “Something’s happened.”

She can’t stop the smile from exploding across her face. “Yes, something’s happened. But Chase made me promise that he’d be there when I told you.”

“Oh.”

Look, I know it’s a shitty thing that my monosyllabic response fell like a lead weight at her feet. But seriously, it’s Chase who needs to know what he’s walking into. Lily can either warn him or not. She’s not his babysitter nor his gatekeeper. “Keymaster,” I sigh.

The only reason I’m pissed at him is that he blew me off for a year. He wasn’t there for me. A stranger from Italy is the only person who was there for me. Not Lily. Not even Ma, who decided being jealous of her son’s vacation was top of mind, rather than her son’s mental and emotional state. The more book sales you have, the less support from humans you need? Is that the logic?

Poor little rich boy. Broken by privilege. Ok, the self-loathing has started, and at this moment, it’s not all about me. It’s supposed to be about some big surprise and I need to respect that.

“Where is that melonfucker anyway?” I raise my voice a little louder, as a poetry slam has just begun. At least it’s not as bad as the one in the book.

“Melonfucker?” The way she says it, I can’t tell if she thinks I’m funny or a loser. You’d think those two expressions couldn’t mate on one face.

I probably could have worded that a little better. Anyways, “Don’t ask. It’s a thing now. Soon everyone will be saying it.”

“I like it. Better than motherfucker. I don’t want to think about fuckers of mothers,” she says with a squicked-out expression.

“But fucking melons is ok,” I laugh.

“Fuck melons, not mothers! T-shirt? Mug?” she suggests.

“I fucked melons way before melonfucking was a thing,” I declare.

“You did what now?” It’s that voice with that pretentious accent that I’ve known since we were 10. He moved here from London. Posh London, apparently, cuz I guess that’s a thing that exists. It wasn’t til he met me that he started not-hating living anywhere else. And not only was this not London, it was America of all places. Insults and injuries and all that.

I thought he was cool. He thought I was a dork. But a friendly dork.

I first laid eyes on him as he wrestled with the door of his locker, just a few down from mine. Then he showed up in my English class, and everybody laughed when he pointed out that English class should really be about learning to be English.

It’s a miracle and a mystery why the student body chose to think that was funny. If it’d been me pulling that gag, I’d have been bullied mercilessly. But not Chase. He has something in him that has always drawn people in. I’ve never been able to put my finger on it.

He discovered that I’m the bomb later that day in the lunchroom. (‘Hi, I’m Simon and you will shortly discover that I am the bomb, deal with it.’ That’s how my brain has chosen to remember it.)

I’d been behind him in the lunch line, and watched with fascination as every single thing about the situation confused him. He was bewildered from beginning to end. Only to be spat out the other side into a busy lunchroom social scene. The moment of destiny, when the new kid stands there holding his tray, blinking at the reality of not knowing a single person in an already well established social hierarchy he knew nothing about.

This was it. Do or die time. It’ll make or break a kid.

And this was where I got awesome.

I walked up and stood there next to him, both of us looking out at the room. It was just as he was about to ask what I was doing that I said, “Sit with me.” And then walked up the center aisle without checking to see if he’d followed. Because even at 10 I was painfully cool. I stopped at the usual table, next to the usual cast of characters, and asked Kevin to scooch down so both of us would fit.

Chase had, indeed, followed. So he sat down. I think I said something like, “Hey everybody this is…” and let him fill in the blank. “This is Chase. Chase, this is everybody.”

I always remember that day whenever I’m pissed at him. It sucks cuz then it gets hard to stay pissed at him.

Chase looks at me warily before he grabs my fist and pulls me into a tentative bro hug. “Hey, man.”

”I’m mad at you.”

“Yeah. I kinda got that,” he replies. “Babe, did you tell him yet?”

“Of course not Simon will you be my Man of Honor?” All of this comes out on a single breath and obviously without punctuation.

I can feel myself standing here blinking at them. Everything gets a little slo-mo. I swallow.

Lily flashes her ring, wiggling her fingers at me in excitement.

“Married?”

They both nod yes.

“I do! I mean, yes! I will!” I sweep the tiny human up into my arms and twirl her around once before holding her at arm’s length. “Mazel tov!” I hug her again, and then look to Chase. “I knew this day would come, but a father’s never prepared for the flood of emotions, is he.”

“Father?” asks Lily with an “Ew gross,” following shortly behind.

“You better treat my little girl right,” I adopt a Texan accent, “Or I’mma come after you, son.” I give him a nostril flare, because it feels right. “You hear me, son? That’s my little girl you’re marrying. And Daddy’s got a shotgun, son. Daddy’s got a shotgun alright.” All we’re missing is a spittoon.

“Simon, what are you doing?” Lily asks.

“You know very well what I’m doing.”

Both Chase and I speak at once. “Monologuing.” It’s a thing we do. We went to theatre school.

“I can’t believe you’re monologuing at a time like this!” She practically shouts at me.

“It’s what he does when he’s nervous,” says Chase. The man who’s known me better than anyone else since we were 10.

Ugh, I guess I better man up and give him a real hug. “Mazel tov, man.”

————/-/————

She can’t be serious. “You want me to what now?” She wants me to cosplay Book Simon for Comic Con. I feel sick.

“I just threw up a little in my mouth.”

“No, seriously, hear me out. ‘Simon is Simon!’” she says with finger quotes. “It’s your thing! It’s synergy,” she says with ever more enthusiasm.

Lily, picturing synergy

“You’re joking, right?” It’s Chase.

“Oh thank God,” I blow out a breath of relief. “I was literally about to die a thousand horrified deaths hearing you agree with her. Oh my God. I feel dizzy.”

“Shut up,” Lily grouses. She sticks her tongue out at us because adulting is hard.

“I can’t cosplay my own books, and you know this! That is the- I mean, why would you even-“ She’s shaking her head, indicating that she is stubbornly holding tight to her position. “OK, look,” I say, committed to explaining all the ways she is an insane person. “What would you be thinking if you went to a show, only to find the frontman wearing his own band’s t-shirt, from this year’s merch tables.”

Chase sucks in his breath and pulls back, as if I have particularly noxious farts. Big, juicy, gross ones.

And then Lily busts out with, “I’d think he was wearing an ironic t-shirt.”

Ooooo, well played, Lily. Nice save. But I’m still embarrassed for her. “I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the eye for years after cosplaying myself. I think I might literally throw up. So much.”

“What about the scene when you crawl out of the grave - that Simon,” she persists. “You could be all muddy and unrecognizable.”

“But I AM VAMPIRE HUNTER D! And anyway, I’m on a panel tomorrow. So I can’t show up unrecognizable from being covered in mud from my grave.”

Simon, picturing D

“On a panel?!” Chase exclaims. “You, Simon Lewis, on a panel. Facts? You’re on a panel?”

I nod.

“On a panel,” he reiterates for the purpose of clarity. “Why didn’t you lead with that?!”

“Yes, yes, and yes to however many questions - I lost count.”

“And he’s my Man of Honor. And,” she gets serious, “he’s moving to Italy.”

“What? Simon, what the fuck?” Chase is now pie-eyed.

“And he’s talking to someone.” She finally stops dropping bombs.

I groan, “Lily, I was trying to get to all of that. Just one at a time.”

“Stop right there. Both of you.” Chase is suddenly serious. “Simon?”

“Yes, Chase?”

“Talk. About Comic Con.”

Lily is unimpressed. “That’s where you landed? Of all those options. You want to hear about Comic Con.”

“Ok, Comic Con,” I acquiesce. “I’m on tomorrow at 11am, 1A18. They want me to talk about getting started at a young age. But after this morning’s meeting with Johnny, I’m beginning to think maybe that’s not what they’ll want to hear about at all.” I am internally happy dancing.

“Why - what’s that about?” Chase wants to know.

“Come to the panel and find out,” I challenge, barely concealing my glee.

They both look pained. Chase breaks the awkward with, “It’s a little late for tickets. We didn’t know if you’d want to go.”

“Why wouldn’t I have wanted to go?”

“For exactly the reason we were worried about you being mad at how long it’s been. Simon,” he raises an eyebrow. “You ‘later-bro’d me.”

I can’t decide if I’m feeling guilty for that. At all. Nope. Not feeling guilty.

“Kelly can get VIP Passes. Will you come?”

They look to each other for some silent communication. It appears to go a little like this:

“What do you think?” asks Lily’s raised eyebrows.

Chase’s squint answers, “I dunno.” He’s always had a hard time agreeing to do things without several days notice. It’s one of the things I changed about his character in the book. You can’t be a half-angel warrior without spontaneity.

Lily’s hopeful eyes and dimples scream back, “Please, please, please?”

Chase’s sigh is total capitulation. The tension in his shoulders lets go, telling me he’s in.

“Thanks, guys. I hadn’t realized how much I need you there for the announcement. It’s big, and I’m freaking out.”

Chase goes to speak but I cut him off. “Nope, not telling til tomorrow. Cuz for now, I have even bigger news. You tell him, Lily.”

“Which thing am I telling him? It’s all juicy. Like how you met someone and now you’re moving to Italy. Is that the part you mean?”

Chase is still communicating wordlessly. His eye roll says, “As if.”

“Dude, bro I-“ I begin, but Lily cuts me off.

“Did he just dude-bro you?” she asks Chase in alarm.

“Yes, Lily. Yes he did,” answers Chase, looking askance at me.

“Shut up. Whatever.” I wave the dude-bro away. Just tell them, Lewis. “So, I kinda met someone. Someone in Italy. Which is only partly responsible for me moving there.”

Chase finally seems to get it.

“You’re moving?” he asks, voice losing its bombast.

“To Italy,” Lily confirms.

“Uh, I guess, yeah, kind of? Yes, I’m moving to Italy,” I say with greater conviction and vehemence.

“Name, please.” Lily puts out her hand as if I’m expected to have a pocket full of gold to deposit there. But what she’s actually demanding is a different kind of currency. A name.

“Um, I don’t know. I can’t really- I mean I don’t really know what ‘we’ are, so-“

“Give us a bloody name, you wanker,” Chase pulls out the Britishisms. “Clearly it’s serious.”

Si, certo. “Billy.” It flows out of my mouth so naturally that I know I’m not wrong.

“Where did y-“ Chase begins.

“Sorrento. A hotel. Maybe you guys can come visit sometime?”

Again with the unspoken language of eyebrows and dimples.

“OK, sure, yeah. If we can.” He’s being noncommittal. Maybe they don’t get that I’d be buying the tickets. They’re pretty expensive and Lily and Chase are a few off-Broadway shows away from their big breaks, so they can’t exactly be buying airfare just because I tell them to.

“Good. Let me know when, so I can have Kelly do all the ticket stuff,” I clarify, but I can see Chase is already squirming. “She’s the only one who knows how life actually works. Like I guess that frequent flier miles are an actual thing that exists. Hypothetically speaking.”

“Oh!” Lily exclaims. “Frequent flyer miles? Cuz if that’s the case, I’m saying yes right now. Just to be clear.”

“Yeah, of course! Just let Kelly figure it out, once you know when would work, ok?” Suddenly I’m feeling brilliant. Their honeymoon. Oh my god I am so awesome. “Or, y’know, you could always do your honeymoon-“

“Done! Yes! Our honeymoon! Yes, please. Yes. Exactly! That’s exactly when we’re coming whether Chase likes it or not.” Lily is practically vibrating, and trying hard to keep herself tethered to the earth. She fails. She jumps up and down, clapping and giggling. I might have gotten that from her.

This kind of thing always makes Chase uncomfortable — the money talk. It always seems to make him itch. As if money talk gives him hives.

“Soooo, Billie? Who’s she?” he asks with renewed interest.

“Yeah! I want to know about Billie, Simon, spill,” she echoes.

Well, shit. This is awkward.

I take a deep breath, and wing it. “Um, yeah, so Billy’s a chef at the best hotel I’ve ever seen in my life. And you guys know what a book tour is like. So when I say I’m in love with a hotel…”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, you love the hotel. Next?” Lily dispenses with the superfluous information. “More about Billie. Feed us.”

“Reminds me — let me know as soon as you pick a date, so I can get you a reservation. As much advance notice as y-“

“Blah blah blah restaurant, hotel, blah blah Billie! More Billie!” she demands.

“Are you moving to Italy because of a girl?” Chase isn’t excited about this notion.

“A girl?” I suppose that the following is not technically a lie: “Nope. Not for a girl. And anyway, even if it was partly because I like somebody, it’s just as much about loving Italy. The Mediterranean.” (I don’t misspell it, cuz I don’t want to confuse them.) “The speed of life there. The priorities are different there. And anyway, I already bought a car there. That’s like one step away from applying for citizenship. I like to finish what I’ve started, y’know?”

“Funny,” says Chase without even a hint of a smile.

“Wait. Are you getting-“ I pull back, eyes theatrically squinty. “Lily? What is happening on Chase’s face? This is a new one, and I’m not embarrassed to admit it scares me. A little.”

“I’m not sure, actually,” she says, studying him. “It’s almost the way he looks when some guy is hitting on me.”

“Chase, are you jealous? Please say yes, please say yes,” I tease.

“I am not jealous! Why would I be jealous!” He’s beginning to shut down. Lily and I both know the signs, so we let it go.

“Billy is a chef from Ireland,” I begin, and Lily is already swooning. The accent. Guaranteed. “And I will not deny that the Irish thing does it for me.”

“Is she a redhead?” asks Lily.

“Not a fan of the gingers, me,” Chase reminds us. It was one of the things I enjoyed most about writing up his dream girl — giving her red hair. His face looked pinched from sucking lemons when he first read it.

“Moving on. So I haven’t made any calls or done anything about moving, yet. So I don’t know about timing or anything. But I’ll let you know when I do.”

“Billie, please. Less Italy, more Billie. We’re frickin hungry, so feed us already!” she demands.

“What’s her best quality?” Chase wants to know.

“Beauty, yeah of course, and specifically the insanely green eyes. But really? Billy thinks I’m funny. Like, actual laughing and not just laughing to be nice.”

Their faces tell me everything I need to know.

“You’re making her up,” Chase claims.

“Agreed, she doesn’t exist,” says Lily. “How could you lie to us — right to our faces?!”

“Facts! And actually kinda seems to care about me. Like for real and not just for imagination.”

“Why do you think she’s worth dropping everything to shack up with her?” Lily asks.

“Billy is a lot of things, Lily. And ‘worth it’ is definitely one of them. I’m actually kind of fucked up about it. It’s a connection. A weird and unexpected one. But it’s a connection and it might be the first real one I’ve had since I met you guys. Damn. That’s kinda heavy. Right?”

They both vigorously nod in agreement.

Did I just ask them to come visit me and my very masculine, male ‘friend’ Billy? I might be regretting that already. A lot. This represents the 10% success rate I mentioned earlier that differs from the 90% success rate of my gut-mouth.

————/-/————

“Simon?!” I hear pots and pans clang to the floor in the background.

“Billy? Are you ok?”

“Just-“ His voice sounds strained, like he’s stretching — likely because of the falling objects he’s trying to rescue. “One-“

I hear Italian in the background.

Was that Billy? Holy shit, I thought his Irish accent was hot. Wait. Now an older man’s voice in Italian is doing some kind of scolding.

“Si, normale, normale,” I hear Billy say, and I almost get chills. Then I do get chills cuz he’s saying, “Grazie, Vittorio. Grazie mille.” I want him to say that, but with my name in the middle, and directly into my ear. Low and private, so only I can hear.

At least I know enough to catch that he’s speaking with one of the owners of the hotel. The one who runs the kitchen. Head chef. Michelin stars and all that.

I’ve only gotten a handful of words, but god it’s good to hear Billy’s voice.

What the fuck is up with me? I am so completely beyond my comfort zone. Because only things that I know how to do are in my comfort zone. If I don’t know how to do something, how am I supposed to be comfortable? Whatever. Point is, I miss his-

“Simon? You still on? Simon?”

“Yeah! Yes. Hi. Yeah, here. Hi.”

Billy chuckles on the other end. God what a glorious sound.

“It’s so fuckin good to hear your voice, mate,” rushes out of him. “I can’t even pretend it isn’t.”

“Fuckin hell, I know!” I can’t even pretend either.

“Lord, I think I need to sit my arse down a minute.”

I think he might miss me.

It feels like my digestive system has jazz hands, and I am grinning. I know this because I've just raised my fingertips to my lips to find out. And they are indeed grinning. If I had a mirror I’d be able to tell if it’s a dopey grin. I’ve never tried that kind of grin so I’m ill-prepared for encountering one in the wild.

“Hmmm,” Billy intones, then giggles. Recall how awesome those are. Giggles from Billy are musical, up and down the scale.

Billy tells me, “I love that you have no problem with thinking out loud — especially since, in the moment, you have no idea you’re doing it.” He’s teasing me. I’m feeling teased.

It’s simple. “I gave up caring. It wasn’t worth the energy. And anyone who can’t handle it won’t be able to handle me. So, it’s like a sieve for humans.”

“Weird metaphor, but ok,” he grants me.

It just occurred to me, “She Who Shall Not Be Named never commented on it. Not once. I kinda figured it wasn’t happening anymore. But I guess it is.”

“Simon?”

“Billy?”

“Did you ever feel like she took advantage of knowin what you were thinkin?”

Well, that was dark as one can get. I’ll admit my pride doesn’t love the implication.

“Probably,” I admit with an acrid taste in my mouth.

“Fuck her,” he says, simply. But there’s a vehemence underneath it all that makes my pulse go all irregular. He’s jealous. And protective. Of me! I feel like I just got asked to the prom by the hot exchange student.

“Why do I have to like you so much?” I accuse. “It’s really annoying.”

He doesn’t answer. “Billy? You still there?”

“Yeah.” His voice is weird and rough. “I’m here. I’m glad you called.”

“Me too.”

“No,” he says. “I’m really glad you called. I think I might be ah, em, a little fucked up over this whole thing.”

My heart plummets to my shoes. “Oh.” I don’t know what to do with this new information. I didn’t realize he thought this was fucked up. Ow. My…something hurts. Ow.

“Simon, that’s not even what I said, mate. I said that I’m fucked up, not that the situation is bad. You get the difference, right?” He sounds all wrong.

“Billy, are you ok? I’m a little lost, but I don’t want to be. So tell me, are you ok? Are…are we ok?”

“God yes,” rushes out of him all at once. “Tell me we’re ok, Simon. Are we?”

“Of course! Why would you- No, you know what? Never mind all that. I’m just gonna say it plain. I miss you, Billy Delaney. I miss you and Italy. I plan to see both of you by the end of the week.”

I hear a huge exhalation on the other end, and then I hear movement, as if he’s just slid down the wall to the floor, and landed with a grunt.

“Does that sound ok?” I ask.

“Y-“ He has to clear his throat, and it still sounds gruff. “Yes. Good. Yeah, yes. That- That sounds good.”

“Everything ok, Delaney?”

“Yes, Lewis. All is, as you say, ok.”

“Thank God.”

“Right?” he asks on another gust of breath.

“Why do I miss you so much? It’s weird, right?” I mean, it is. Right?

“Not to my eyes. Not to my ears. Or any other part of me,” he says. “I feel like I haven’t been able to breathe since you left the car. Vittorio is convinced I’ve lost a relation or something. I almost cut myself dicing, Simon. I almost cut myself, dicing!!! That’s beyond the pale, mate. Beyond the pale!”

“Be more careful, Billy, but don’t stop missing me, ok?”

“Ok. Say it back.”

“I promise, Billy. I won’t stop missing you.”

“God! I am so completely shite. Needin to hear that from you. Embarrassing.”

“But-“ One word into my response, Ma busts into my bedroom. It’s after lights-out time, and she’s brandishing her matriarchy at me.

“Simon! What are you doing up so late?” she demands.

I feel just like I did when I was 13 and got caught with my hand in my jammies. “Knock, Ma! I’m on the phone!”

“You are not. You’re on the computer. Don’t lie to me.” Despite the fact that it’s the future, where computers are also phones.

I can do nothing but roll my eyes.

Billy chuckles. “Keep it down, Simon. They’ll be hearin your eyes in Italy.” How can he tell?

“Shh!” I hiss.

“Don’t you shush me, Simon Ira Lewis.”

“She just triple named me,” I whisper to Billy.

“Who are you talking to, young man?”

“‘Young man?’” Billy laughs. “So your mum’s the one as keeps threatening to turn the car round, then.”

“You’re being very rude to your mother. Don’t carry on another conversation while we’re having a conversation.”

“The irony,” observes Billy.

I shoot him a “Pshht!” under my breath, and growl with an actual “grrr.”

“You’re all up in my space, Ma. That’s not ok.”

Ma looks taken aback.

“Who are you to decide what’s ok? Respect your elders, young man.”

“Ma. Stop. And go away. Or I will. I’m serious.”

“Excuse me?!”

“I love you, Ma, but you’re killin me here.”

“Boundaries,” Billy sagely observes.

“Boundaries, Ma. We have some.” Then to Billy, “Shh! I’ll handle this.”

“You’ll handle what? You’ll handle me?! What has gotten into you?!”

“Nothing, yet.”

Billy has just snarfed water out his nose.

I can hear him choking in the background.

“Look, Ma. We’ll talk in the morning, k? But I gotta go give a talk first thing, so it’ll have to be breakfast, not brunch.” And seeing as feeding loved ones is plainly still her kryptonite, I decide to take the food route to her happy place. “Will you make the coffee how I like it? And some of your coffee cake?” Oh my god, the coffee cake. I just made myself salivate. I’m not ashamed.

I see her giving me a thoughtful side-eye. “Alright. I love you, honey.”

“Love you too, Ma. G’night.”

“You want her to leave the door open a crack, and the hall light on?” Billy teases.

“How do you know about that?! I mean, why would you say that?”

“No reason,” Billy answers. “I think I might love your mother,” he says, with that twinkling voice he gets when he’s delighted. Are all Irish people so twinkly everywhere all the time? I gotta find a better word than twinkly.

“Promise me she’s short,” he commands. “In my mind she is a mighty woman, but short.”

“Your mind is right. Jewish mothers are required to be short,” I report. “It’s the law.”

“I knew it,” he laughs. Again, with the twinkling. “Her accent is amazing. Why don’t you sound like her?”

“You mean like this? Soymun. You’re pretty close with your Soim’n, actually. Who knew? Brooklyn and Ireland. Two countries so far apart should not sound so close.”

He chuckles. Such a nice sound. “More. Do the voice, do the voice,” he demands.

“Really? Ok.”

“Ha HA! Yes!” I can hear him grinning maniacally. He should consider happy clapping. When words fail, it’s really the only thing left to do.

“OK. So here’s what she tells me this morning at 6am over coffee:

“Soymun,” I exaggerate her accent. “Did you hear we have new neighbors next door? You remember, where Mrs. Levy died.” (Mrs. Levy died?) “Such a nice young couple. Two men, you know. They get married these days. Such nice Jewish boys.” (Always with the NJBs.) “They got the most beautiful baby girl.” (Got? What, did they go shopping?) “I babysit from time to time, you know. Oy, so spoiled already. A strong head on her, that one. She’ll make a fine Jewish mother someday.” (God help her future sons.)

He stops applauding to inquire, “NJBs?”

“Nice Jewish Boys. Like me. It’s a thing. Just roll with it.”

————/Billy/————

Billy: send me a dick pic

Grumpy: adfsdadfslkjsdjf

Grumpy: you want a what

Billy: ☝️printed right there

Grumpy: rhetorical q

Grumpy: back to the dick pic

Billy: yes please back to that

Grumpy: are you kidding

Grumpy: no dick pic til i know if you’re kidding

Billy: have you ever taken one

Grumpy: NO!

Grumpy: i mean yeah of course

Billy: you’ve never taken one

Grumpy: no

Billy: send me one

Grumpy: why???

Billy: are you feckin jokin me?

Billy: if your hand was doing what mine is

Grumpy:

Billy: just a little somethin to inspire

Grumpy:

Billy: refresh my memory

Grumpy: so how’s Lola?

He’s attempting to distract me with his car.

Billy: send one

Grumpy: you’re bossy

Billy: do you like that

Grumpy: jesus billy!!!

————/-/————

Ten minutes of banter later, I have the dick pic, a full bath, candles in the window, lights off, and almost an entire bottle of Bushmills 12. I swirl the whiskey round the ice til it starts meltin, then let myself into the water, relaxin against a towel folded behind my head.

I like making Simon feel wanted. Desired. But I was also wanting the dick pic currently glowin in my hand.

The hand that’s not currently cupping my balls, giving them some much appreciated attention. I prop the phone up against the window, so both hands are free.

I compare the pic to my own cock. Despite being the same size, they really are quite different. He’s cut — that’s the obvious difference. But he’s also veinier. Different color, too. Mine’s more, I’m not sure, maybe darker? But his looks sort of peachy, with a rosy head. I recall it looking angry red when it’s hard.

Grumpy: I’m waiting

Billy: ?

Grumpy: for yours, you cheat!

Billy: ok

I hold mine in my hand, stroke it and take a couple shots. The second one is best (why? dunno), so I hit send.

Grumpy: glargh *swallows tongue*

Grumpy: no swallowing jokes

Grumpy: unless they’re good jokes

Billy: you don’t want me thinking bout swallowin

Billy: but you’re fine with me thinkin bout your tongue, tonguing?

Billy: that’d be alright then would it?

Billy: i’m so turned on that even textin can’t make my cock go soft

Grumpy: you don’t play fair

Billy: you got no idea

Grumpy: merp

Billy: goodnight simon

Grumpy: no! billy wait!

Billy: my hands are busy

Slippery under water, my cock is almost painfully hard, but the slip and slide is everything good in the world.

Because of a dick pic. That is mental.

But look at it!

I think I just- Did I really just salivate?

Now all I can think about is picturing Simon slipping and sliding in and out of a mouth. Not my mouth, specifically. Sort of a gender neutral mouth. And just thinkin bout Simon gettin sucked off, my brain stutters, my pulse, my stroke, everything stutters as the bright light of pleasure glows throughout me and I’m groaning.

I twist as I pass the head on every stroke. God yes. My breathing picks up.

The imaginary mouth sucks on the crown of his cock. The image sends a lance of pleasure through me. I imagine my hand doin the same to his balls as I’m doin to mine.

In my mind, I’m picturing Simon feelin everything I do to myself, as if I’m doing it to him. I use it to create the fantasy. The fantasy expands to include my cock gettin sucked off. And it’s a pair of lips I’ve never kissed. I can’t believe the strength of wantin Simon’s lips on my cock, and wantin Simon to feel it as if it’s my lips on him. Mmmmmfff.

Oh shit, what’s- Text notification. Simon’s just sent another text.

His cock. Long, thick, rock hard and red. The angle is mmmmf his thighs in the background, and ungh his ssssac against his course shorthairssss.

I get two flashes of pleasure in quick succession. Oh fuck yes. Hhhhhhhhhhmmmyes.

My cock jumps underwater, sending out ripples as electricity courses down my length.

Unnnnhhh, my imagination is still hard at work. I can no longer tell what part belongs to who, where sensation and imagination meld. In my hand. In his mouth.

Mmmmmm in his mouth.

I can see it with such clarity. That mental image makes my balls draw up high and tight, and all they want is release. Oh Jaysus, the image is so clear. His mouth, red and puffy from bein used. Spit-shine on his lips, running to his chin. The vision makes me moan, like a glow from a thousand miles away. And I keep on moanin, as a thrilling feeling of urgency swamps me. I arch my back, the pleasure drawing from every part of me, until I uncontrollably gasp “Fffffffffffffuh!” And suddenly I’m pulsing come into a cloth.

My cock in his mmmmouth. I convulse again, pulsing out even more, and my moan turns into a whine as I encourage one last strained pulse from the head.

My chest is heaving from holdin my breath. Sometimes I forget to breathe when I come. And if I can manage to keep control of my cock long enough to time my climax right, some of my most powerful orgasms have come from holdin my breath longer than a reasonable man would. The gasp of air when I tip over the edge is an orgasm that comes on a head rush and a sudden infusion of oxygen.

I’m not one for choking, though. Even the thought of it makes my cock shrink.

I step out of the bath and rest against the window frame, appreciating the view of the boats in the harbor all lit up like sparks on the water. I let myself air dry in the night breezes, luxuriating nude by the open window lettin in the floral scents of the gardens and the salt off the sea.

It’s a beautiful night, and I am sated.

————/-/————

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