Simon x Billy
The Year of OTP: January
Chapter 1: Where’s Giuseppe WTF?
January prompt: Historical au (because 2015 counts as the past)
Note: Simon x Billy is a slow-burn m/m fic; turns NSFW (male/male, consensual) beginning tamely at Chapter 7.
Meet the OTP: Simon Lewis, author and star of The Mortal Instruments, who keeps writing himself into his novels; and Billy Delaney, Irish handsome devil and international chef of mystery; and also Italy. It’s sort of like a threesome. TMI AU: Instead of Simon Lewis being only a character in the best-selling YA series, he is now also the author of that series. TW: References to having been cheated on, bad language, bad humor, Irish-isms, calling young people criminals, making fun of Americans, LGBTQIA+ themes, having to wait for the NSFW chapters to show up.
Masterlist || ao3 || Next
Chapter 1: Where’s Giuseppe WTF?
———/Simon/———
OK, fine, baggage claim was a little rough. Finding baggage claim was a little rough. Finding Customs was a little rough. Customs was Customs. I mean, what’s to know, they look at you suspiciously, and if you smile excitedly cuz you’re in a new country, they look at you suspiciously some more, and you start wondering if they’ve noticed something you haven’t.
At least that’s how I felt. Like, maybe I have a single very long nose hair or something horrifying like that. I don’t know? They’re Customs. They notice shit like that.
On a positive note, they’re just fine communicating with people who only “have” one language. They asked me if I had Italian, and I kept waiting for them to finish their sentence. You know? Like, do I have Italian… Food? Relatives? Then they were like, “Do you have any other languages?” And I’m thinking, maybe I caught one in-flight. Planes are well known for making people ill. Or I could’ve caught something cool, like Norwegian! In fact, I could’ve had it my whole life and it’s just never had any symptoms. You never know.
Meanwhile, the train ran on time. And the Red Sea parted. Two impossibilities amounting to miracles.
So yeah, sure, I’d done some prepping for the trip. I refuse to reveal my sources as they are completely mortifying. OK fine, it wasn’t even an app. It was a book. With pictures in it. More specifically, the one my parents used when they planned their trip to the Amalfi Coast.
I used it to plan Our Trip. The one that became My Trip. Flying solo. In so, so many ways.
Believe me, and you need to trust me on this one: Never propose to a girl you met in costume. And if you did and it turned out great, shut up. And mazel tov. May all your children have bar and bat mitzvahs with a good dj. And puppies.
Just remember, your first impression of her is while she’s cosplaying someone else. You might find you’re falling for a personality that isn’t really her on the inside. The whole thing is exhausting. Because my beautiful but cruel shiki found somebody else to cosplay with.
She revealed this shortly after breaking up with me.
No, Simon. I do not choose you. No, Simon. I never choose you. Said every girl ever.
She gave me lots of reasons why. Constructive observations for my next relationship, she said. So at least I had something to think about on the plane to Naples that made me feel really good about myself. For 22 hours including two layovers and a bonus train ride from the airport to downtown Naples. (Trust me, just fly into Rome. Why didn’t it occur to me to fly into Rome?)
I once read a book where the most flamboyant, exciting character said something of extreme poetry and wisdom. (Because poetry and wisdom can both be extreme. Whatever.) It went a little something like this: “Unsolicited advice is just criticism.” Ok fine, I’ve read it more like 25-30 times. Alright look, I can’t be coy. I wrote it. And 25-30 is how many revisions my editor tried to convince me to take it out. (I won.)
I like stories that stretch out over like 20 books in a series. You get to stay with the characters you love until you finally stop re-starting the series the minute you close the last page of the last book. Again.
I think I’d be a vampire irl. And I have thought a lot about it. I mean a lot of thinking on this topic. And you can’t convince me that fairies and werewolves are even in the running for best paranormal destiny.
I like stories where choosing to be a vampire is one of the safer bets. Because you’re already dead.
Don’t start. I’ve fought table top duels over this and I refuse to go over that ground again. Take my word for it. You want to be a vamp.
She was a vamp. I was a vamp. (D, because who else?) We thought we were made for each other. Until she didn’t. Think that anymore. I guess she’d been not-thinking that anymore for months and months. And here I am, presenting her with a trip to Italy where I was going to propose. I had it all planned out. I mean I had it all planned out. Because that’s how I roll. (A 20-sided die, obviously.) Ugh. So when she says she doesn’t want to leave the city, I’m like, “But it’s Italy! And me!”
Turns out the trip wasn’t the only thing she didn’t want.
Turns out she was also being quite literal about not leaving the city. And so, like the heartless traitor she is, she abandoned Brooklyn for the Upper West Side and a yoga instructor with a man bun and half a million followers on Twitter.
Half a million? What even is that? I mean, I get 100 followers -- wow, friend, you are on fire! I get a million followers -- wow, somewhat famous person, you are on fire! But, like, what’s halfway between the two?
So the “hot yoga instructor” -- her words, not mine -- is a person that exists. I told her that she didn’t have to be mean about another, hotter guy. And you know what’s coming next. You totally do.
The hot yoga instructor is an instructor of hot yoga.
But since I mentioned it, she laughed and said he is also a hot instructor, of yoga.
Thanks. I don’t feel angry tears at all when I think about that.
Anyways, I was talking about trains in Italy running on time, and somehow I land on vamps. Welcome to the brain of Simon Lewis, enjoy your stay.
Oh my god. There’s a McDonalds here. It’s like a crime against Italian humanity. “That should be illegal,” I announce to no one in particular. Followed by “Shut up, Lewis, that guy over there is staring.” And yes, I do use my last name when I scold myself out loud in public. Because people find that attractive and charismatic.
So the train in Italy running on time is actually my problem. “My driver” isn’t due for another 30 minutes. Which means I get to spend an additional 30 minutes enjoying my own company some more. And also avoiding talking to any strangers. Which is particularly difficult in the Naples train station. And even more unlikely when you’re standing in the same spot forever and ever.
I’m full of my mother’s dire predictions of criminal young people offering their services to help you find your way around the train station. And when that fails, they’re supposed to start begging for money. And when that fails, Oliver and the Artful Dodger pick your pocket. So put your money and your passport down the back of your underwear or something equally unworkable when you’re dealing with Customs.
That little gem was actually written in the margins of the travel book. By my mother. So I wouldn’t forget to keep it in my pants. “Simon, don’t forget about the criminal young people. Keep it all in your underpants.”
So standing here looking like I’m waiting (and waiting and waiting), I’m an easy target. But as my t-shirt says, I’m from Brooklyn. We do not pay people to tell us where we are and which line to stand in. It’s a matter of pride. Unbelievable. Being from Brooklyn, I understand trains. I can find my way around any train station in the world. Hubris! But it’s true. Even in foreign alphabets. It’s in my blood, it’s in the East River, it’s in the soot-flecked air we New Yorkers are born breathing.
So here I am in the Naples train station with my underwear full of credit cards, IDs, and my emergency contacts laminated in both English and Italian. And now I also have that hot tingling in my eyes and the slight burn in my sinuses that threaten angry tears again.
I’m supposed to see a little old man with a big old mercedes, holding up a sign saying “Simon Lewis.” His name is Giuseppe and he came very highly rated on travelbookie.com. Very highly rated.
So, ok, ummm- This guy is definitely not Giuseppe. He doesn’t look that much older than I am. He’s an awfully chatty Irishman named Billy. So I’m like, “What’s Billy in Italian?”
“Fuck if I know,” he laughs. “They just say Beelee. Which puts me off every time, if I’m honest. God bless ‘em, they’re beautiful people, right, but Beelee is so wrong.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Delaney.”
“So in Italian, you’re Beelee Day-la-nay.”
“Y’speak Italian then, do yeh?” he laughs.
“Fluently. This app taught me how to say ‘dog’ and ‘blouse’ and I leveled up really fast — one of my great talents, by the way.”
“Leveling up, is it? Or Italian?”
“Italian. Certo. That means ‘certainly,’ but you use it kind of like you would use ‘obviously.’ Why is it pronounced ‘chair toe?’ No seriously, I’m asking.”
“Obviously,” he snorts, ignoring my lingual curiosity. “Are you mansplainin the language of the place I live to me?”
“Certo.”
Billy rewards me with a low chuckle. It may have been low and just a chuckle, but it was real. Being a connoisseur and collector of bad puns and dad jokes, I have a finely tuned ear for real laughter, as opposed to the usual laughing-just-to-be-nice.
“So I’m better off with Beelee Daylanay. I’ll have a talk with my boss and ask him to use my full name or nothin at all.” That at least gets a snort out of me. Until he says, “What about you? Are you lookin forward to bein Seemon? Sorry, mate. I think yours might be worse than mine.”
———/-/———
We’ve been talking all this time and I forgot to look out the window. As if I’m not on my dream vacation. Runner-up, actually. I’m holding my best dream vacation (Venice) for when Ms. I Do Lewis actually says, “I do.” And I will not book the rooms til after she does.
“Sorry, what was that?” I’ve been staring into space and ignoring Mr. Daylanay, who is now looking at me funny in the rear view mirror.
“Nothin important. Where’d you go, mate?”
“New York to Frankfurt to Milan to Naples. I flew out of JFK.”
“I’ll pretend to know where that is. No,” he says, “I meant just now. You disappeared behind your face.”
Um… “I did what?”
“I’ve been the only one enjoyin the sound of my voice, apparently, since you went quiet about five minutes ago. So where’d you go? Back behind your face,” he prompts.
“That’s an awfully private question, Mr. Daylanay. I’m not sure we’re good enough friends for letting you behind my face.” I kinda stumble on the word friends, cuz, well, we’re not.
“What. Is that like bein let in to visit the little man behind the curtain? That sounds a bit-”
“Yeah, yeah, I know how it sounds.” I make sure to roll my eyes loudly so he can hear. My mother always says she can hear my eyes rolling from the next room.
“Cagey one, aren’t ya?”
“Nosey, intrusive one, aren’t ya?” I counter.
He bobs his head and gives me a simple, “Ok.”
And now it’s gone quiet. I decide to disappear behind my face again for a while. I quite like it there. Maybe one day the whole world will join me. (Obscure movie reference, don’t bother.)
“Does she have a name?” he breaks into my sinking mood.
“What- Why?”
“Well, Seemon, because every story worth tellin about people generally has a name or two in it. Unless yer feelin all avant-garde while you're busy behind your face, contemplatin. Things.”
Ok, now I’m starting to get tired of his persistence. “I like to think of her as She Who Shall Not Be Named.”
“Like Voldemort. In a nighty.”
The bark of a laugh just erupts out of me before I can stop it from encouraging him. “That is the most disturbing image I’ve ever had.” My dull ache of a mood evaporates as quickly as it came, uninvited and unwelcome on this trip.
“You’re off the hook for now, but if I see you again, I’ll want to hear more about Ms. She Who Shall Not Be Named.”
And just like that, I’m annoyed again. “No.”
“Ok,” he says again.
———/-/———
While apparently spending more time behind my face, I realize I’ve ignored over 45 minutes of the view in a foreign country. Again I’m annoyed. Isn’t he supposed to be narrating the countryside or something? Giuseppe would be narrating the countryside. I frickin paid for that narration.
“So what am I looking at?” I lob at him.
“Naples.”
“Funny.” I hope he can hear my eyes rolling.
“Hold up, I haven’t finished! That great U-shape, right, that’s the Bay of Naples. The city herself is over there in the distance, all the way at the far end of the bay. All the wee towns strung out and all bunched up against the sea as tight as can be sketch out the shape of the bay and on along to the Sorrentine Peninsula -- where we’re goin. The big blue bit beyond the bay-”
“Is the Mediterranean. Yeah, I got that much.”
“Nah, mate. You don’t. See, it’s the Tyrrhenian Sea, which is just the part of the Mediterranean between the boot of Italy and Spain.”
“Thanks so much for the oceanography lesson.”
“Bit tetchy, aren’t yeh?” he says, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. “Look, mate. I’m sorry if I rubbed ye up the wrong way with makin conversation. I’m just not used to fillin in on the guest delivery service. That’s a specific kind of hospitality. Mine might be a bit more suited to conversatin across a bar. In that situation, all of this would have been charming.”
I can see him smiling at me in the rearview, trying to reset the mood.
“So you’re a bartender, not a driver. But you do work at the hotel. Right? Or…”
“Yeah sure’n I’ve been known to fill in at the bar when I’m needed.” He clarifies, “Acourse it’s the height of the high season, and all the staff are absolutely inundated with guests. It’s a busy kitchen, and no mistake.”
“So you’re not a bar-”
“Aaaaand, here we are,” he declares, pulling off the road going way too fast into what appears to be open air. But when I don’t feel us driving off a cliff, I open my eyes to see an ornate iron gate, a tile roof, a million flowering bushes, and more than one fountain.
“Allow me to be the first to welcome yeh to the Hotel Terrazze di Limoni. I’ll just fetch your bags, shall I?”
———/Read More/———
Masterlist || ao3 || Next
———/Disclaimer/———
I’ve stolen liberally from Cassandra Clare, TJKlune, and all m|m authors I’ve ever read.