Summary: When Leylan goes up in flames, it gives Simon Krit the mental fortitude to cut ties with his abusive father, seemingly for good. However, when they reunite some time later it goes about as well as you’d expect.
Warnings: Emotional manipulation, mental abuse, some mentions of self-harm/suicide.
A/N: Simon is the other side of the Kip/Basil coin that I’m keen to explore. He’s my favourite of this little cluster of my cast and I felt inspired to write something proper for him first!
Simon slides his closet door closed before huddling in its darkest corner. He’s a large man, six foot three and lined with a flattering layer of muscle, but he feels as small as a mouse as he hides amongst his coats and dress pants, a kitchen knife clutched tightly in one trembling hand.
He’s never been a particularly patient man. Waiting for a radio broadcast to provide him with further guidance is as painful as waiting in traffic when he’s already running late. Still, he isn’t about to take his chances in the chaos that’s unfolding in the streets. In a twisted way, he’s lucky that this entire debacle started on a Saturday, when he and the children he teaches are at home. Some of them may be little snot-nosed brats as far as he’s concerned, but he hopes that they’re all safe and sound; that he’ll see them all on Monday when this unprecedented mayhem blows over. He’ll even forgive Marcel for forgetting his homework for the thirteenth time. This might be about the only valid excuse he’s ever had to skip an assignment.
Something crashes outside, cutting the thought clean in two. It takes Simon a moment to realise that it’s the sound of a rowboat hitting the pavement, wood splintering upon impact. He doesn’t want to think about the wet splat sound that accompanied it. He refuses to believe that there was a person in there.
The radio on his bedside table crackles so suddenly that it prompts the grip on his weapon to tighten, black knuckles turning white with strain. His pulse flits across his tongue like lightning, temples thrumming with the dull ache of adrenaline as he tunes in, desperate for advice. Even through the door, the crackled demand is clear - and disappointing.
This is a public service announcement for the civilians of Leylan.
Do not leave your homes.
Barricade yourself in the most secure place available and await further instructions.
That’s it? The thought starts small but it echoes. It bounces off the walls of his skull and grows five times its size with every timed ricochet, until it’s the only thing he can hear. It feels as if nettles are growing inside of his heart, chest prickling with anxiety. He’s always known that he’s alone in the world, but this time it feels different - as if he’s truly its only occupant. A helpless thing in a crumbling timeline; a tiny ember of light in a world that’s quickly drowning.
From deep within his memory, he hears his old university counsellor speak.
And what do you do when you feel helpless, Mr. Krit?
Drink a lot?
No.
Make jokes until I feel better?
No, Simon.
…I guess I garden, doc.
Something tells him that gardening won’t be an option in the foreseeable future. If they haven’t already been trampled by the beasts unleashing havoc outside, he can see his loyal plants’ health taking an impromptu nosedive. A shame, too, for he’s been cultivating these same flowerbeds for decades now.
He’s jolted from his thoughts by a steady vibration. It takes longer than it should for him to realise that it’s his phone. The idea of someone calling now is ridiculous, borderline comical, and he raises the device with what can only be described as an annoyed smile.
The name on the display makes it fade.
INCOMING CALL ➡ DAD.
Simon groans audibly. He’s been dodging this man’s calls as often as he can ever since he made his way to university - and that was three-hundred-and-something years ago. The decline button has never looked quite so big and blue before. Pretty.
It wasn't as if avoiding him was a joyful endeavour, either. Simon remembers the attempts to pull away from his father like most do their first brush with public speaking, or a really bad dentist appointment. Despite the way the man had belittled him for his entire childhood, he still felt intense remorse for leaving the cantankerous bastard behind. Guilt had followed him around like a greedy shadow. In the end, it had chewed him up and spit him out directly into the university counsellor's office. He still doesn’t dare to think what might have become of him had she not been there to help him work through his murky childhood.
His thumb hovers over the decline button, his lower lip drawn pensively beneath a sharp canine. It’s astounding what a mind can tune out when faced with a greater threat. He tries not to think about what it means to be more afraid of a phone call from his father than he is impending doom.
Just press it, his mind urges. Just press it and be done with it.
But he can’t. Even now, even when he’s been told by friends and doctors and past lovers that it’s okay to let go of the people that hurt him, he can’t help but sympathise with his old man. He’s all alone. It may very well be his own fault, but it doesn’t change it.
With a frustrated huff, Simon clicks ‘ACCEPT’ just before the tone dies.
“Dad?”
“Oh, thank Florence.” He actually sounds a little relieved to hear his voice. “I thought you might be–”
“I’m okay,” he assures, uncertain why he feels such a responsibility to do so. It isn't as if he's ever taken that much interest in him before. "Are you?"
"Of course."
There's an awkward silence. It's something that Simon is all too accustomed to, for his dad has never had much to say to him unless he's criticising his life choices. Whatever he’d wanted to do, it was never enough to satisfy him. The line crackles ominously. There's a muffled scream on the other end that chills Simon to his core.
"Son."
Simon grits his teeth. Here it comes.
"Please come home."
“Uh... huh?“
Well… that was unexpected. It shows in his prolonged silence, words evading him. It’s all he wanted to hear, four hundred years ago. Now, he’s torn between bittersweet relief and haughty chagrin.
A large hand strokes through his beard thoughtfully, the bristled texture providing some comfort. It’s always been a way to ground himself in the moment. There’s always time to think. It doesn’t pay to be reckless or unwise.
“I don't think that’s a good idea,” he admits belatedly. “The radio said–”
“I’m alone out here, damn it. You abandoned me.” That all too familiar venom rears its ugly head and Simon can’t stop himself from flinching. He abhors that such a reaction is still ingrained into him. He’ll probably take it with him to the grave. “Don’t you care about that? At least act as if you do, you rotten child.”
Simon bites back a sharp retort, his tongue pressed flat against the roof of his mouth until he feels it’s safe to try again. He’s over six-hundred years old and has long since outgrown the ‘child’ title, but his father enjoys spitting it at him all the same. It never fails to get under his skin.
“It’s not that I don’t care, dad,” he attempts, hating the way his voice quavers with a vengeance. It makes him feel as if all the progress he’s made is for nothing-- as if the Universe is indifferent to the good habits he’s fostered. He should be mad, should be scathing and harsh, but something stops him every time. His temper is ugly; the last thing he needs to do is to stoke that fire, even if it’s righteous. “It’s that it’s not safe out there. I don’t want to get myself killed trying to reach you. It’s safer to wait. I can come see you when all this settles down, okay?”
It’s a sensible response. At least, that’s what he thinks - but Senior Krit thinks otherwise. He hears that notorious tch, the one he pushes out between his teeth with enough force to spit, and knows then and there that attempting to reason with him further is out of the question. He’s angry now, and he’s about to suffer the ramifications of his temper regardless of whether it’s deserved or not.
Why don’t you just hang up?
I don’t know. I guess I’m too weak.
“So what you’re saying is I’m not worth the hassle.” He pauses to scoff bitterly. Simon pinches the space between his eyes, the beginnings of a headache forming. He already knows that refuting what he’d said would only make him angrier. I should’ve hit decline. Why didn’t I just hit decline? “Damn it, Simon! I hope I DIE in this mess! Then you’ll realise you’ve squandered me.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Oh, I mean it, boy. I mean it. Maybe I’ll go outside right now! Maybe I’ll–”
“Dad, don’t.”
He resents the knot his stomach has become. His heart is back to pounding, fresh fear flooding his veins like oil in a bay. It’s hard to breathe. The closet walls seem closer than before. All he can think about is this stupid, bitter old man trundling spitefully outside, waiting for death to barrel into him with the force of a train. The more gruesome his demise, the better a lesson it serves. He’s quite certain that even his tombstone will spit vitriol at him. Here lies Cyrus Krit, the spoiled and the squandered.
Simon tunes in and out of his detestable tirade, a black void consuming his thoughts whole. He’s heard it all before, but it still hurts; it hurts even more to realise that, even after everything, he’d still held out hope that his father would change.
It’s a pointless affair, Mr. Krit. Your father will never alter his ways. He does not care to.
Never sounds a little harsh, eh doc?
“... ungrateful, that’s what you are… a spoilt child… abandoning your father… useless, worthless idiot… if your mother heard about this… ”
Simon’s jaw squares with visible frustration, his head hitting the back of the closet with a quiet thunk. The phone is lowered from his ear. Instead, he listens to the carnage outside. Things are growing worse. People are hysterical; stalls are being torn up and knocked over; neighbours are beating down one another’s doors in an attempt to gain entry to somewhere safe. How perverse is it that such tragedy is favourable to listening to his father talk?
This is a public service announcement for the civilians of Leylan.
Do not leave your homes.
Barricade yourself in the most secure place available and await further instructions.
His head spins. His mind reels. Everything’s so loud, yet it’s fading out, as if he’s floating further and further from his body. Nobody’s coming to help. That thought replaces everything, casting panic and heartbreak out like house guests that have overstayed their welcome. This is a fruitless fight, his mind states calmly. Your frustration is purposeless.
Gently, Simon retrieves his phone and holds it close to his ear again. In a cold, monotonous voice: “I’m hanging up now.”
It’s satisfying to hear Cyrus’ insipid little rant suddenly stagger to a halt. It’s as if his words trip over themselves. The image of him babbling helplessly to himself would fill Simon with righteous pleasure, if he had the capacity to feel anything over the cloying numbness that’s overtaken his him body. Maybe it’s better this way; better to be made of unfeeling brick when the world around you is imploding.
“No, d-don’t–”
“Bye, Cyrus.”
Click.
For just a moment, the world is silent. The bedlam outside fizzles out, and the sound of his phone being slid gently to the other end of the closet is the only noise that fills the space. Then CRACK it goes as he suddenly lifts his foot and digs the heel of his boot into the screen. It splinters immediately, tiny shards of glass leaping free. They remind him very much of himself: shattered but still accounted for.
By the time he stops stamping on it, his phone is little more than dust; slabs of plastic and mismatched wires scattered haphazardly across the floor, screen ground down to a fine powder. With renewed focus, Simon pushes open the door and stands up, turning his radio off and laying it face down on the dresser. The updates he’s been holding out for aren’t going to help him, and he’s surprisingly okay with that. Just like everything he’s had to do in his adult life, he’ll have to face this mess alone.
With purpose, he draws his curtains closed before perching on the end of his bed. Scrick scrick scrick goes his beard, fingers rubbing thoughtfully as he considers what to do next with a clarity he’s never experienced before. It hits him like a train, that he’s never needed Cyrus to do anything for him. He’s on his own, the same as he’s always been - and that is a liberty, not a curse.
I have enough food for about three weeks if I’m sensible. Power’s not an issue, especially not with the lights being off. I should go downstairs and collect all my knives from the kitchen. That thin, fibreglass fishing rod from the cupboard, too. I can snap it in half and sharpen its point.
Something thumps against the glass of his bedroom window, and Simon stiffens. It persists for a few moments before it slides down its length, the sound squeaky and slow. Whatever is out there squeals with displeasure and scuttles away on all fours, its clumsy footfalls harsh against the solar panels on his roof before they grow distant. The man lets out a short exhale of relief, hands raising until he can dig the heels of them into his eyes.
The windows won’t be a problem so long as they’re closed. The reinforcements have held firm for generations. There’s no way they can suddenly be broken now.
He decides then and there that his first point of call is weaponry. He doubts he can do much to an iju when push comes to shove. All he knows of them, he knows from campfire tales and little comments Cyrus made in order to scare him into behaving when he was young, nothing concrete. Still, he gets the impression that hurting-- or even slaying-- one is going to require something with a little more edge than his knuckles have.
He glances over them with a deep breath, eyes following the white tattooed letters on each knuckle loyally. A N G E R, they spell. ANGER, he’ll likely always feel. There’s always been a lot for him to be angry about: never knowing his mother; his father’s abuse; having to babysit some truly rotten kids throughout his teaching career; his girlfriend of four years cheating on him; the loneliness that inevitably came with age. The end of the world is just the cherry on top of his already-smouldering cake. Why not, right? The thing’s already singed to hell!
“... fuck me,” he mutters numbly, standing up and dragging himself to the kitchen.
[ 2:53 am ] i dont know if i can ever get over you. its so funny bc you know how hard it is being in love with your best friend. theyre amazing and perfect and how can you ever get over being in love with your best friend when you live to see them smile? its so hard bc i never want to lose you.
Send “⁇” for a DRUNK text.
[ 12:48 am ] SIMONN ♥♥♥ help zcome find me i think im lost in my closeyt[ 12:48 am ] im lonely and i misvs you. i jusht wish yozu knew how silcpae you werre to me[ 12:49 am ] youvre like specialer than pigtunia
Send “ø” for a LATE NIGHT text
[ 2:14 am ] hey[ 2:14 am ] dont forget to close your curtains before you go to sleep[ 2:15 am ] i figure you want to avoid that massive sunburn [ 2:15 am ] also we should play torchlight ♥
Send “@” for a SCARED text.
[ 1:21 am ] i cant sleep [ 1:22 am ] every time i close my eyes i think im stuck in a horror film[ 1:24 am ] but im even more terrified that when i wake up im going to find out somethings happened to you or eliza, or clary, or just anyone.
