Simon knows growing pains. He remembers them from childhood -- a deep ache in his legs, sometimes so intense that it woke him in the night. Looking back on it now, it's clear what was happening and what the pain was doing. But at the time, it felt pointless.
He didn't know that his body was changing. He just knew it hurt.
And it hurts now, in a way, with you. A sweet agony, a shifting of his bones and muscles as they grow and stretch to accommodate something new. It doesn't feel pointless this time, though it does feel pointed. He's old enough to understand the concept that sometimes a thing has to break to change, but jaded enough to resent it.
He wants, so badly, to be ready-made for you. He wants for things to just work, to know the right things to say and do. He wants to know how to love you without second-guessing, and without it reminding of him of why it's all so hard for him. But he's long-since learned that just wanting something doesn't make it yours.
So Simon suffers the aches. With every kiss, every kind word, every time you hold him through the night with a touch so soft it undoes him, he lets himself feel the pain. Because he knows, down to his bones, that the pain will get him to where he's supposed to be.
