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1.
“Listen, guys, this match is really important, college scouts are visiting, so I have to bring my A-game,” Nick says. Everyone resists rolling their eyes and Abby squeezes his hand reassuringly.
“Nick. You’re obsessing. Relax.”
“It would really mean a lot if you guys would be there,” Nick continues, oblivious. Simon wants to laugh; as if they’d skip Nick’s Big Game.
“We already told you we would,” he says, and flashes a smile towards his friend. “Besides,” he adds, leaning into Bram, who’s next to him, one hand settled comfortably on his thigh, “I have other reasons for showing up.”
Bram grins and steals a kiss; Simon’s heart melts.
“Ew, gross!” Leah swats at Simon. “No PDA at the table, we talked about this!”
“So you’ll —”
“We’re coming,” Simon interrupts Nick, reaching across the table and patting his poofy hair. “Chill.”
Nick’s eyes light up. “Hey, I have an idea!”
There are approximately nine different football jerseys in Nick’s closet. Simon has never really fully acknowledged how dedicated Nick is to his sport.
“Why do you have so many of these?” he asks incredulously.
Nick pulls out a jersey from the Madrid team and tosses it on his bed before turning back to his closet. “Hey, man. You like theatre. I like soccer. Don’t hate.”
“I’m not hating,” Simon says, holding his hands up in defense. “I’m just…” He pulls a hanger off the rack and squints. “When is this even from? Third grade?”
Nick pauses and glances at the shirt. “Fourth,” he says defensively.
Simon snorts and tosses the shirt on the bed with the rest of the load. “Look, man, can’t I just wear a normal shirt? Don’t you have like a soccer hoodie? I’d wear that.”
“Simon!” Nick says, exasperated. “This is important to me.”
“Okay, alright.”
“Abby already has a soccer shirt, she bought it at the game a month ago,” he adds as he lays the different shirts out. “And Leah has one from when we did that soccer camp the summer of sixth grade, and Bram and Garrett — obviously. That leaves you jerseyless, which is just unacceptable.”
Simon sighs. “Okay, fine, just...tell me which one to wear. I’ll wear it, man. For you. Just this one time.”
Nick looks between the nine (yeah, there are actually nine) shirts spread across his comforter and finally picks out a yellow one. He tosses it at Simon’s chest. Simon catches it and holds it out in front of him.
“There are no words on it,” he says. The only thing on the shirt, apart from a logo reading “CBF”, is the number 10 emblazoned across the front and back. Frankly, it’s a little bit proud.
Nick puts a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “This,” he says seriously, “is the jersey of none other than world-famous football pro Neymar Jr. My mom bought it for me for my thirteenth birthday. It’s my lucky jersey. I want you to wear it.”
Simon raises his eyebrows. “That’s a lot of pressure on me.”
“Please?” Nick gives him a puppy-dog look and, well, how’s Simon supposed to refuse that? This is his best friend of thirteen years. If he wants Simon to wear the stupid Neymar whatever jersey, he’s gonna goddamn wear it.
He tugs the jersey over his t-shirt and spins around, arms out. “How do I look?”
“Awesome! Yes! This is great. I feel better now,” Nick says, patting Simon’s arm. “Thanks, Si.”
“Hey, anytime. You can count on me.”
Nick smacks him between the shoulder blades. “Alright, now leave. Abby’s on her way over and we — “
“I don’t wanna know! I can’t hear you!” Simon shouts. He hustles the hell out of there.
“Hey,” Bram says, jogging over to the sidelines to give a quick kiss to his boyfriend. Simon smiles at him.
“Hey,” he says.
“You’re wearing a soccer jersey,” Bram observes, gratuitously raking his eyes over Simon’s chest.
“So are you.”
“Funny. That’s why I like you, because of your remarkable wit.” Bram gives him a wide grin and Simon sticks his tongue out like the mature eleventh-grader he is.
“This is Nick’s,” Simon tells Bram, unnecessarily. “I don’t own any soccer jerseys. So don’t get the wrong idea about me.”
“Not an athlete? Wow, I’ve been severely misled.”
“Yeah, sorry to disappoint.”
Bram leans in and kisses Simon again. “You could never disappoint me,” he says softly. And then (as Simon is preparing a cheesy response), “And you look really good in that jersey.”
Simon chuckles. “So do you. I keep meaning to watch Nick but then I look at you and all bets are off.”
“You guys are being disgusting,” Abby says from a few feet away. “I don’t think it’s fair that Simon gets to say hi to his boyfriend and I don’t get to say hi to mine.”
“Just yell at him,” Simon suggests.
“YOU’RE DOING GREAT, NICK!” Abby shouts, and then wrinkles her nose. “I feel like that’s counterproductive.”
“I’ll yell supportive comments at you, don’t worry,” Simon says, nudging Bram’s shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to be playing right now?”
Bram kisses his cheek. “Yes I am. Love you.” And he jogs back to the field, tossing a thumbs-up at Simon as he goes.
Abby sidles up next to him. “He’s totally into the jersey.”
“I hate this thing,” Simon whines, tugging at the shirt. It’s made of a weird fabric that’s probably really good for people who do sports or, like, ever move at all, but on Simon it feels chafy and uncomfortable.
Then Bram winks at him from the field, mouths “You look hot” , and Simon figures he can manage it a little longer.
2.
Simon is lounging on his bed, alternating between reading a paragraph of his boring AP Chem textbook and texting Bram, when his door creaks open.
It stops partway and then closes again. Simon looks up and sighs.
There’s a knock.
“Yeah?” Simon calls.
“Can I come in?” Nora asks patiently, her voice floating through the door.
They’re doing a thing where they respect each other’s privacy, which means not walking in unannounced, and knocking before entering someone’s room. Nora is still getting the hang of it. At least Simon doesn’t have to remind her anymore, though.
“Yeah,” he says. This time the door opens all the way and Nora comes in holding a plate. The smell hits instantly, and Simon almost faints from the whiff of brownie that taunts him.
“I brought you a brownie,” Nora says, approaching his bed and handing the plate to Simon before jumping onto the mattress. Simon figures she can stay.
He smiles at her. “Thanks.” Sitting up, he picks up the plate and bites into the brownie. “Oh my god,” he mumbles, “this is the most amazing thing that’s ever been baked.”
“Thank you!” Nora says brightly. She glances at his textbook, discarded now. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Chem,” Simon says around a mouthful of heavenly dessert. He swallows with difficulty. “I have a big test tomorrow. Not prepared.”
“Boring,” Nora mutters. “Do something interesting, Si.”
“You think I want to be studying?”
“Wait!” Nora says suddenly, her eyes illuminating with that idea look Simon recognizes. “Hold on. Stay here. Be right back.”
“Stay here in my room?” Simon calls after her. “Oh no, there go my plans.”
Nora returns a moment later, triumphantly holding out a necklace.
Simon waits for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, he provides one.
“I like the brownie better,” he says.
Nora scoffs. “This is my lucky necklace,” she chastises. “I’m giving it to you. To wear. For your test.”
“Nora, I’m not wearing a necklace to school.”
“It’s lucky!” Nora insists. “I know you don’t believe in luck but I swear this is the real thing. I wear it for all my tests and I always get 100.”
“That’s because you’re smart, idiot,” Simon says flatly.
Nora gives Simon a look that reminds him so uncannily of their mom that he almost scrambles backwards. She presses her lips together and raises her eyebrows. “Please?”
God.
“Ugh, fine, ” he concedes, making a big show of groaning and taking the stupid necklace. There’s a cupcake charm on it. Good lord.
He tries to put it on and fails miserably, to which Nora takes an appropriate amount of time to laugh before she clips it around his neck. “There,” she says proudly. “ Now you’ll ace your test. Pinky promise. Scout’s honor.”
“You’re not a scout, Nora.”
“I’m just saying!” She takes the empty plate from his bed and shuffles out the door. “Good luck!”
Bram <3 (4:06): Si?
Simon (4:10): sorry my sister came in to murder me & I had to talk her out of it
Bram <3 (4:11): Terrifying
Bram <3 (4:11): How’s the studying?
Simon (4:11): ...to be determined
Simon (4:12): I’m very bored
Simon (4:12): did you know that ionic bonds give away/take electrons whereas covalent bonds just share electrons
Bram <3 (4:13): Yes I did
Simon (4:13): this feels like verbal harassment
Bram <3 (4:14): <3
It’s like she’s a bloodhound. She notices it the moment he enters the classroom.
“Simon, sweetie,” Leah says, grinning slyly, “what are you wearing?”
Simon glances self-consciously down at his outfit. Normal sneakers, normal jeans, normal t-shirt…
“Clothes?” he tries.
Leah gives him a significant look. “The necklace, genius.”
Simon breathes a laugh. “Oh. Uh...Nora gave it to me for luck. On the test.”
“Oh my god,” Leah says, covering her mouth to hide her giggles. “I mean, it doesn’t look bad on you, actually.”
“Honestly, Leah, that doesn’t make it better. It’s a cupcake necklace.”
“It’s cute,” she says.
“Oh, God. Don’t even talk about it anymore. I’m wearing it because it seemed important to Nora, and that’s it.”
“You’re a softie,” Leah teases. “You’re a cupcake softie now who loves his sister. You have to dye your hair pastel pink and start wearing onesies.”
“I’m going to revoke your Tumblr privileges,” Simon threatens, crossing the room to his desk. Leah’s desk is very unfortunately right behind his.
“I’m kidding, Si. You look the same as always, just...with a cupcake necklace. And I was serious. It’s pretty adorable.” She ruffles his hair. “Softie.”
Simon smiles despite himself. “I’m gonna make you wear a tie to school. See how you like it.”
Leah wrinkles her nose. “Empty threat. I bet you don’t even own a tie.”
“You know for a fact that I do.”
“Everybody please settle down!” the teacher says. Leah sticks her tongue out at Simon; Simon crosses his eyes in return and then turns around in his seat as a test and a scantron land on his desk.
He pulls out a pencil and begins.
“You’re kidding me.”
“Well done,” says the teacher, smiling warmly. “Keep studying and you’ll have As across the board.”
Simon stares down at his paper. “You’re sure this doesn’t belong to someone else? That happened to me once…”
There’s his name across the top, Simon Spier. 100%.
He is never fucking teasing Nora about anything ever again for the rest of his life.
3.
Incoming FaceTime call from: Be-Leah-ber
Simon answers on the first ring. “Hey.”
“I need your help with something,” Leah says. She is very businesslike. Simon takes that as a warning.
“Okay, with what?”
“I need to do a photoshoot for my photography class and I want to shoot you.”
“You want to shoot me? By all means, I’ll provide the gun,” Simon jokes.
“Simon, seriously. Can you just come over here? And like...the theme of the project is stereotypes, like, embracing them or subverting them or whatever, so…”
“You want to gay me up,” Simon finishes, with a dry look.
Leah makes a face. “Kind of. Pretty pretty please? I’ll give you some candy from my stash.”
She’d give him candy from her stash anyway. But Simon isn’t doing anything else, Bram’s on a weekend trip to Florida, and it’s a boring old Saturday otherwise, so what the hell.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll come. Give me five minutes.”
“Dress like yourself,” Leah adds.
“Leah,” Simon deadpans, “the gayest thing I own is that dumb hat Abby gave me. Seriously.”
Leah’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, bring the hat.”
“No, absolutely not.”
“I’m gonna text you what you should wear! Bring the hat!”
“I’ll see you!” He hangs up before she can lobby for the hat anymore.
Simon doesn’t even wear hats. Abby just got it for him as as joke.
It says MAKE AMERICA GAY AGAIN. Bram thinks it’s hilarious.
“Do you even know what ‘angles’ means?” Leah huffs, putting down her camera.
“No!” Simon says, exasperated. He’s trying , but it’s not his fault he’s the least photogenic person on the planet. And he can’t strike a fucking pose to save his life. Model is not on his career path.
Leah pauses and gives him a once-over. They’ve been at it for twenty minutes, but, according to Leah, it’s “just not working”. Or something is just not working. Simon waits, gritting his teeth, for her new assessment.
Then she snaps her fingers. “Got it!”
She whirls around and rummages in her closet for a moment. It’s pointless to ask what she’s “got”. Simon looks down at his outfit, which is, to Leah’s credit, actually pretty interesting. The whole idea for her shoot is to show how people in certain marginalized groups can be both stereotypical and still completely independent from the group. So Simon is wearing a plain pink t-shirt, black jeans, and hi-tops that for some god awful reason he owns. He’s also wearing makeup, which, apart from the school musical, is pretty new. It’s not subtle, either; the stuff is all over his face. He’s terrified to even itch his cheek lest a whole bunch of weird powders and creams come off on his fingers.
Still, he likes the idea of the project. Personally, Simon feels like he’s the farthest away from a stereotypical gay guy he could possibly get. Except, well, except for the Broadway thing, but that’s not even a Thing, it’s just some stuff he likes.
Well, and the having-a-boyfriend thing.
Finally Leah emerges, and in her hands is a light blue scarf. It looks like its purpose is more aesthetic than practical; it’s so light Simon can’t imagine it keeping anyone warm.
“Seriously?” he says.
Leah nods in a very determined way and wraps it a few times around Simon’s neck. “Okay,” she says, looking very proud. “Let’s try again.”
Simon sighs and straightens up.
The photoshoot comes out really well, to Simon’s total shock. Leah must have messed with the settings or something on the photos, because they’re really saturated, but it looks cool. Overdone in a deliberate way.
She texts the pictures to Simon on Tuesday with the additional text message “got an A+!!! thanks for gaying out 4 me bud.”
Simon laughs.
Simon (4:07): in exchange for my services I’m keeping the scarf
Be-Leah-Ber (4:09): FINE but u still owe me oreos
4.
“Abby, I seriously have to go now. I have to go and read my script cover to cover six times in a row.”
“Oh my God,” Abby says bluntly, “you’re being stupid about this. You’re gonna be amazing! This role was written for you to play.”
“I’m hanging up,” says Simon, and then presses the red button to end the call.
The spring musical opens tonight. Simon has to be at the school in an hour, but he has until then to re-memorize all of his lines. The show is Thoroughly Modern Millie, and when he’d auditioned he’d been expecting, like, Club Boy #3 or something.
Of course he’s been cast as Jimmy.
To no one’s surprise, Taylor freaking Metternich is playing Millie, so that’s just dandy. It means Simon has to kiss her three times per show . Swear to god, at the first rehearsal, Taylor had caught up with Simon after rehearsal and taken him aside to talk.
(“So I just want to make sure you’re okay with doing this role,” she says to him. “Because you’re gay, and all.”
Simon grits his teeth. Even when Taylor is trying to be nice, it comes off awful. “I’m sure I can manage.”
Taylor flips her hair. “Good. Because it’s just acting, you know. I don’t even like you like that.”
“I know how to act, Taylor.”
Taylor flashes him a smile.)
Anyway, now it’s opening night and Simon is kind of totally panicking. The Taylor thing isn’t even on his mind. Right now he’s thinking about all the ways he could potentially mess up.
Almost instinctively he pulls out his phone and dials Bram.
“Hey.”
“Is it normal that I feel like I'm gonna puke up my guts?”
“Is this a random feeling, or is it related to the show tonight?”
“The second one.”
“Then yes, it’s completely normal. Si, you’re gonna be amazing. I’m so excited to see you.”
Simon exhales. Then, weakly, he says, “Well you better watch out because there’s some kissing involved. I might leave you for Taylor Metternich.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Bram says lowly, but Simon can hear the grin in his voice.
Already his stomach is settling. He runs a finger over the edge of the script. “I’m really glad you’re coming.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for anything. I have a fantasy of you as a 1920s rich-man-disguised-as-a-street-rat.”
“That’s so specific that I’m not even turned on.”
“Seriously,” Bram says. “I’m so proud of you. You’ll be swell. You’ll be great.”
“Are you quoting Gypsy at me?”
“I turn to musical theatre in my darkest moments. I just want to point out that you were the one who recognized that I was quoting Gypsy , so who’s the real theatre geek?”
Simon rolls his eyes. “I love you,” he says fondly.
“I love you too,” Bram replies. “I’ll see you in a bit. Break a leg!”
He hangs up, and Simon sighs.
He flips open his script.
Backstage, Simon sits nervously at his vanity, muttering his lines and so deeply lost in his mind that he doesn’t notice Abby until she taps him on the shoulder. He jumps.
“Jesus, Abby,” he whisper-shouts. For a moment he’s quiet, waiting for his heart to go back to a vaguely regular pace, and then he says, “What?”
“Two things,” Abby says, with a contagious smile. “First is that you’re gonna do great, so stop stressing, because if you sweat too much your makeup will run and then you’ll be really screwed.”
“Great, that’s really helping, thanks.”
“The second thing is I think you should wear these.” She holds out a pair of blue socks and looks at him expectantly. As if he’s supposed to know what significance they hold.
“I’m already wearing socks,” Simon says, holding up his foot as corroboration.
“They’re my lucky socks,” Abby explains.
Simon rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to wear socks that you’ve probably worn for all the weird events in your life. Why don’t you wear them?”
“They’re lucky, ” Abby presses, throwing them at Simon’s face. “And I think if you wear them it’ll give you more confidence.” Which is fair. Abby doesn’t really need any extra confidence.
Simon glances around and leans in. “Won’t Ms. Albright, like, die?”
“What’s the difference between these socks and those socks?” Abby challenges, pointing to the socks currently occupying Simon’s feet.
Simon can’t come up with a valid answer quick enough. “Okay,” he finally concedes. “I’ll wear the socks.” He pauses. “Thanks, Abby.”
She smiles and kisses his cheek. “Anytime, my love. Okay, I gotta go. Find you after the show! I love you!”
Simon watches her weave between the people, and with a resigned sigh, he kicks off his battered costume shoes and socks and pulls on Abby’s.
Abby grabs Simon’s hand tightly during the bows. Her smile is off the charts. Simon can’t help it; his smile is off the charts too. He feels like he’s glowing. Floating. Flying. The feeling of performing in front of all these people is absolutely freaking terrifying and the most exhilarating thing he’s ever done in his life.
As they disperse, she leans into him and squeals. “That was so amazing! You were so awesome! You kicked ass! I’m so proud of you, Si, oh my God I’m so proud. I love you so much.”
“Hey, you were killer, ” Simon returns. “I’ve never seen a better Muzzy Van Hossmere in all my years as a performer.”
“In all two years,” Abby says, nodding wisely.
“Hey!” Simon glares at her. “ Three. ”
“Oh, excuse me.” She grins. “I can’t even be fake-mad at you right now. I’m just so happy. Hey, did the socks help?”
There is no fucking way Simon is going to admit to the fact that they actually did help, that thinking about how he’d been wearing a non-costume article of clothing had kept him grounded when he’d been nervous onstage.
“They’re just socks,” he says dryly. “They helped keep my feet from stinking up the stage.”
Abby laughs. “You should keep them,” she decides.
“ Please, no. I don’t need them and I don’t want them. They’re yours.”
“Nope, I want you to have them.”
There’s no winning this argument. “Fine,” Simon sighs.
Abby ruffles his sweaty hair and prances off, presumably to find Nick.
Simon doesn’t prance, but he does make his way through the masses. He doesn’t notice Bram for a moment because of the massive bouquet obscuring his face.
“Holy shit,” he says when he sees his boyfriend peeking out from behind it.
“Flowers for my favorite actor?” Bram offers, holding out the bouquet.
Simon almost literally melts right there. He almost fucking proposes.
Instead he pulls Bram into a heated kiss. When he pulls away, Bram is almost laughing, and a blush has spread over his cheeks, along with a fair amount of shimmery makeup.
“I love you,” Simon says breathlessly. “Oh God, so much.”
“I feel the same,” Bram says. “But I’m gonna be honest, I was a little jealous of Taylor Metternich.”
“And who could blame you? After all, she has a thigh gap the size of the Grand Canyon.”
Bram laughs.
5.
They’re in the middle of a very...enlightening makeout session when Simon’s mom calls up.
“Si! Please walk Bieber now!”
Simon pulls away as Bram laughs. “Wow. Cockblocked by a dog. That’s a new one for me.”
Simon groans very loudly and collapses onto his pillow, face-first. “Somehow, that’s not a new one for me.”
Bram, the menace, just laughs at him.
Finally Simon gets up. He glances mournfully at his closet and then down at himself, wearing only a (significantly ruffled) Captain America t-shirt and no sweater. “Fine,” he says dramatically. “Break my heart.”
Outside, winter is only just conceding to spring, which means there’s a definite chill in the air that clings to Simon’s bare arms when he wraps his hands around Bieber’s leash.
Bram doesn’t hold his hand. They pretend it’s because Simon’s hands are busy holding the leash, but that’s not the reason.
This is Atlanta, not RuPaul’s fucking Drag Race.
Still, it’s nice to walk with Bram. Their shoulders brush every couple of seconds, sending shivers down Simon’s arm that have nothing to do with the cold.
“Where do you usually walk him?” asks Bram.
Simon shrugs. “To Nick’s house and back, most of the time.”
“Oh, good. I’ve never been able to figure out how to get to Nick’s house from yours.”
“Seriously? It’s like three blocks away.”
“I have a bad sense of direction.”
“Bram, it’s three blocks .”
“This is a very hostile environment,” says Bram, “and I’m not enjoying it.”
Simon kisses his cheek (quickly). “I mock you because I love you.”
“Really? I think you mock me because you hate me.”
“Well, shit. Caught me red-handed. Guess I’ll have to break up with you and date my other boyfriend.”
“Oh yeah? What other boyfriend?”
“Well, I don’t know his real name, but I call him Blue —”
Bram shoves him lightly, and they both laugh.
It’s natural. It’s ordinary. It’s domestic. Simon could literally fly off of the sidewalk right now. He could create a rainbow and then walk on it and not be remotely surprised. That’s the bursting feeling in his chest.
Suddenly he shivers violently, snapping his freezing cold ass back to reality in one biting wind. Bram looks at him, concerned.
“Are you cold?”
Simon shrugs, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “I mean, I kind of brought this on myself for assuming it would be warm in freaking March.”
“Here,” Bram says, pulling his sweatshirt over his head. Simon indulgently watches his shirt ride up before it’s tugged back down and Bram is holding out his sweater to Simon.
“Seriously? This is so cliché,” says Simon, taking hold of the sweater. “Aren’t you gonna be cold?”
“Eh. I’m used to the cold. The heating in my house is really bad.”
“I feel like I should feel badly about that.” Simon hands off the leash to Bram before pulling the sweatshirt over his head. He’s a couple inches taller than Bram, but the sweater fits perfectly, and instantly Simon feels like he’s being wrapped in a perpetual boyfriend hug. The thought almost makes him swoon. He feels lame for almost swooning, but also, holy mother of God. He’s wearing his boyfriend’s sweater. That’s got to be the most cliché thing ever.
“Cozy,” he admits, pulling the sleeves over his hands and retrieving the leash. Bram stares at him, cheeks reddening. “What?”
“Nothing,” Bram says quickly. “Just — you look really good in my sweater.”
Simon literally almost fucking faints.
“Bram, I’m seriously going to kiss you in like three seconds unless you give me a really good reason not to.”
“Honestly,” Bram says (a little breathless, Simon observes, flushing), “if you don’t kiss me I’ll have to kiss you.”
They manage to resolve their differences in a civil manner.
“By the way,” Simon adds, stealing one more kiss, savoring it before they have to break apart again and Be In Atlanta, “I’m keeping this sweater.”
Bram doesn’t even have it in him to look mad.
+1
Simon knows something’s weird when he walks into the kitchen and Nora’s shirt falls to her knees.
“Breakfast?” she offers, pushing a bowl of something in his direction.
Simon looks warily at her. “Sure.”
She smiles at him and carries on.
It takes Simon a good three minutes of staring at her to figure it out. Finally he slams the island and shouts, “YOU’RE WEARING MY SHIRT!”
Nora jumps and whirls around, putting a hand on her heart. “Jesus, Si. You scared me.”
“Sorry, but — why are you wearing my shirt?”
Nora frowns. “Since when is this yours?”
“Um, since when are you the size of a large boy?”
“If this belonged to you ever,” Nora says, “it doesn’t anymore. It’s been in my closet for like two years.”
Simon reads the text on the shirt. I served time in Azkaban. Approach with extreme caution. Do not attempt to use magic against this person. That’s definitely his. Or at least it was, once upon a time. Nora has apparently laid claim to it. Frankly, Simon hasn’t worn a shirt with so many words on it in a long time, so it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like he’d wear it. It’s just that Nora doesn’t even like Harry Potter. But whatever.
Nora looks kinda cute in it, anyway. It’s crazy long on her. Simon is a full foot taller than she is, and the shirt hangs on her like a short dress.
He allows her this win, and continues eating his oatmeal-cereal-whatever the fuck is in this bowl. He doesn’t want to ask.
Nick is in the middle of telling Simon about his dream that he’d been underwater being rescued by a purple whale when Leah slides into the passenger seat, pulling off her sunglasses as she goes.
“Hey,” she says, tucking the glasses into her collar.
“Hey,” Simon answers, grinning over at her. “Nick had another weird dream.”
“Yeah, right? Okay, so I was, like, underwater, right? And —”
“No, Nick. We have a rule.”
Nick sobers up, muttering about dumb rules and whatever.
“Why the shades?” Simon asks, putting the car back into drive.
Leah shrugs lightly. “Felt like looking like a rockstar today. Is it working?” When Simon stops at a light, he glances over to see Leah wearing the red sunglasses and striking a goofy pose.
“Oh yeah. Total Gaga vibes.” He pauses. “Wait a minute. Hang on. Where did you get those shades?”
“Light,” Nick calls from the backseat.
Simon accelerates through the light, eyes on the road, but he glances back over after a few moments of silence from Leah. “Dude,” he says.
“I...found them…”
“ Where. ”
“On your dresser?”
“Oh my God, you robbed me?”
“That’s so dramatic! I did not rob you. You lent me these shades!”
“No I didn’t!”
“Yeah, you did! Last summer!”
Simon’s argument sputters out as he takes in this new information. “Last summer? You’ve had these for over six months and didn’t bother giving them back?”
“What, like you would’ve worn them? They look good on me!” Leah says defensively. “Come on, Si. I love these shades.”
“I’m seriously being robbed on all sides.” Simon pulls into the drive-through and hands the woman taking orders a twenty. “Five iced coffees, two of them with milk, please.” He looks back over at Leah, who’s giving him the most puppy-dog look she can manage through thick tinted lenses. “I mean, I’m not gonna take them back now.”
“Oh, please. You’re being dramatic. You didn’t even notice they were missing. I bet you’ve never even worn these.”
“I wore them once,” Simon says, taking his change and inching the car forward. “And I know they were mine.”
“I feel like this is the right time to say that I’m wearing your shoes, Si,” Nick pipes up.
Simon hits the brakes and spins around to glare at his best friend. “What does that even mean?”
Nick lifts up a leg. Sure enough, his old New Balance running shoes (running shoes, what a joke) are fitted very nicely to Nick’s feet.
“Jesus motherfucking Christ,” Simon mutters. “Is this seriously the day when everyone collectively decides to steal and wear my clothing?”
A car honks behind them, and Simon presses lightly on the gas to move forward to the pickup window. The lady behind the window passes the tray of coffees to Simon, and he thanks her graciously before distributing the coffees and driving away.
“Technically,” Leah says, “I didn’t steal these today.”
“Nick, why do you even have my shoes?”
“You gave me them for Halloween last year when I couldn’t find my sneakers anywhere and you needed hi-tops because you were dressed like Brandon Urie?”
So that’s where they’d come from. He and Nick must have switched and never switched back.
“ Brendon Urie,” Simon corrects, just to be That Guy. “Fine. I get it. You guys have been pillaging my possessions for ages and I’m only just now realizing it.”
He pulls up to Abby’s place, and as she jogs down the steps and slides into the car, Simon turns and stares at her, fully astounded.
“Totally is officially not happening,” he declares. “I’m rebooting this whole day. This is fucking ridiculous.”
Leah turns around too, and Nick kisses Abby for a second before also examining her.
Abby looks wary. “Is there something on my face?”
“There is something,” Simon says flatly, “on your head. ”
Abby takes a minute. “Oh!” she finally says, and pulls off the baseball cap. Across the front it reads Panic! at the Disco. “Yeah. I borrowed it from you. I guess I forgot to give it back.”
“HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK,” Simon yells, abandoning all hope as he accelerates again and keeps driving.
“Am I missing something?” Abby whispers to Nick.
It’s Leah who answers: “Everyone is wearing Simon’s clothes today.”
Abby frowns. “For example?”
“These are his shades, and Nick’s wearing his shoes, and you’re wearing his hat.”
“AND NORA IS WEARING MY SHIRT,” Simon puts in, very loudly. “I FEEL LIKE I SHOULD MENTION THAT. SHE’S WEARING MY OLD HARRY POTTER SHIRT AND SHE DOESN’T EVEN LIKE HARRY POTTER! SHE’S SLANDERING ITS NAME!”
Abby starts laughing helplessly, and that’s all it takes for Nick and Leah to collapse into giggles too. Soon even Simon can’t help but laugh, and they’re four giggling losers in a car.
“Okay,” Simon acknowledges, calming down. “I may have overreacted. But in my defense, this is the mother of all coincidences.”
“If you want these back —” Leah starts, but Simon waves her off.
“No, keep them. Hell, Abby, you can keep the hat. I don’t wear hats anyway.”
“Except for the —”
“If I am ever caught in public wearing that stupid fucking Trump parody hat, I command you all to kill me. Literally just straight-up murder.”
Abby snorts. “Drama queen.”
Simon has sufficiently relaxed by the time he arrives at Bram’s place, and Nick and Leah are discussing Nick’s weird whale dream when Simon spots Bram descending the steps. He nudges Leah, who obligingly vacates the passenger seat and slides into the back, squashing Abby between herself and Nick.
Bram pulls open the side door and gets in the car, leaning over the dash for a kiss. “Morning.”
“You too. Coffee.” Simon holds out the drink, and Bram takes a long sip, then smacks his lips.
“Just what I needed.”
Simon looks Bram up and down for a moment, and then another. He zeroes in on the hoodie.
Holy shit.
“This cannot be happening,” he murmurs, one hand flying to cover his mouth.
Bram’s face twists into concern very quickly. “Si?”
“Simon…” Abby says carefully.
“Guys,” Simon says hoarsely. “Bram is wearing my motherfucking hoodie. ”
The entire car splits into uproarious laughter, Simon included, and there are genuine tears in his eyes by the time everyone is calmed enough to form real sentences. It’s a solid five minutes of Bram looking increasingly baffled, Abby almost choking, Leah curling over, and Nick hitting his head against the window when he laughs too hard.
“Mother of fuck,” Simon whispers, wiping his eyes. “Oh, God. I think I didn’t get enough sleep. This has to be some insane fever dream. Or an elaborate prank.”
“Wanna tell me what’s going on?” Bram hazards.
Simon dissolves into laughter again, so Abby fortuitously steps up to bat.
“Everyone is wearing Simon’s stuff,” she explains. “Nick has his shoes, Leah’s in his shades, and I’m wearing his hat. Also Nora is wearing his shirt, apparently.”
Bram glances down at the hoodie, and a small smile crosses his face. “Well, if you want it back — ”
“No!” Simon sobers up instantly. “No, Jesus, absolutely not. You’re the only person I am 100% okay with wearing my clothes. You look really good in them. My entire closet is at your command. I’m so serious.”
Bram blushes and ducks his head.
Simon feels another laugh threatening to bubble up, so instead he puts the car back into drive and pulls into the roadway.
“I have to tell the truth here,” he continues. “You look illegally good in that.”
“NO PDA,” Leah shouts.
“I’M LITERALLY DRIVING, EVEN IF I WANTED TO KISS HIM I COULDN’T,” Simon shouts back. “WHICH I DO.”
He slams the brakes on the next red light and then leans over the dashboard and pulls Bram in for a very satisfying kiss.
“Gross gross gross gross gross,” Leah contributes. But Simon doesn’t even fucking care. He loves his dumb friends and he’s in love with his dumb boyfriend. And hey, maybe they steal his clothes, but whatever. He steals theirs. It’s what friends do.
Besides, at this exact moment he’s wearing a belt donated to him by Abby. So really, they’re even.