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