Chapter Text
Simon méi Allen had arrived at camp on June sixteenth exactly, clutching a too-big backpack and blinking like he’d been shoved onto a Broadway stage without a script. Tim had watched from the shadow of the porch, caught between curiosity and a faint ache he couldn’t name—the boy looked as lost as he had his first day, only worse.
His mom–an older hippie-looking woman according to the nymph that had led the little boy to Thalia’s tree, had dropped him at the edge of the road with a quick hug, tearful eyes, and the kind of goodbye that left bystanders mortal and immortal alike questioning her parenting skills.
Tim had watched from a distance, curiosity biting at him as Simon shuffled across the borders into camp life, his curly red hair catching the sun like a fiery halo. He was short—Tim’s height, actually, which wasn’t saying much—and just as skinny. The only thing starker than his pale skin was his eyes: pitch-black in the shade and as shiny as brown cassiterite in the sun, always wide and darting around like they were trying to take in the whole world at once.
The gothmite figured he should feel sorry for Simon, stuck in Hermes cabin like all the other unclaimed kids, even though Simon’s godly parent had claimed him right away–Melinoë, the counselors whispered later–which made sense considering the fact he gave off that same prickly sort of feeling Tim always got walking past the rusty iron gates of one of Gotham’s plentiful graveyards.
Most kids edged away without even realizing why. Tim didn’t; he’d grown up walking past cemeteries on the way to school, half-convinced the statues were watching him back, so Simon’s aura barely even registered as odd. What did register was his mouth—because within five minutes of dropping his hiking bag, Simon had let slip a word that got him smacked on the shoulder by Luke. He only laughed, freckled face scrunching like it was all a joke.
Despite the parentage, Simon didn’t act spooky, not really. If anything, he was pretty extraverted, as in, chatty to the point of exhausting, always tossing out stories about the Appalachian mountains back home in Alabama—how the trees leaned in to whisper to one another when the wind picked up, how his neighbors swore by apple vinegar and brandy for everything from bee stings to bad luck, how he used to wander the ridges by himself for hours until the sky went from blue to pink.
His mouth was almost never closed when he knew he had an audience, even if it was just a toad he’d caught down in the mud or an unlucky satyr he’d unknowingly cornered.
Despite Simon’s desperation to socialize, there were times when the rather isolated Appalachian got overwhelmed by the sheer amount of humans existing around him, the unfamiliar loud noises of volleyball games, and hollering, making his heart jump with panic. It was these times Tim found himself dragging his friend into the woods to calm down, the distress tightening the ginger’s chest leaking into Magpie’s own.
It was annoying and frightening when it happened. Still, Tim found he didn’t mind as long as he got to keep his companion.
Maybe it was because the sheer life Simon held, the genuine joy his permanently sunburned face always held every time they saw each other. Or maybe it was because of the way they always talked. Hours could slip by just with Simon yammering away in that heavy accent of his, coaxing out questions and chirping laughter that Tim would’ve felt stupid releasing to anybody else.
There were, of course, times the gothmite felt the other was way too immature or unserious during a situation, but that annoyance always melted long before it solidified. Like when they argued about superheroes—Tim being firmly on the side of Blue Beetle for his skills and intelligence, while Simon was completely loyal to the Flash and Kid Flash just because he also liked going fast and was a staunch believer in ginger solidarity.
It didn’t take long before Tim was dragging Simon through training sessions, pulling him into games, or nudging him toward campers he thought might stick. It didn’t work most of the time, but Simon didn’t seem to mind. He had Tim, and that seemed to be enough.
And then came the rain.
It was just around June twentieth when the skies decided to open up and never close again. For six straight days, thunder rolled over camp like a cranky stomach, and sheets of rain turned the volleyball court into a swamp. Even the Hermes cabin’s leaky roof couldn’t keep up, and the usual mischief-makers were forced to help tarp up the roof and tidy up the damp corners to keep from growing mold.
Tim didn’t mind the storms so much–Gotham weather was gloomy most months out of the year anyway, and rain made for a good excuse to read or study without being told to take a break. What he minded was the cabin being crammed with restless kids, the sharp aches that sometimes ran down his shoulder where it had once dislocated.
Simon, on the other hand, seemed awfully enamored by the downpour, spending whole afternoons pressed up against the cabin’s foggy windows as if the clouds might eventually explain themselves.
The ginger had tried–more than once to sneak out and splash about in the mud covering the ground for miles around–but had always been stopped before he even got to the door. Bailey had made it clear nobody was to go out while the threat of lightning hung overhead.
Tim didn’t get the appeal. Mud was messy. Mud got you scolded. It was the kind of thing little kids did for fun. Simon had told him he’d get it once he actually tried, but that argument hadn’t been enough to convince him to help the other sneak out.
Don’t get him wrong, it would be laughably easy to sneak out, especially if he got the help of Travis or Luke–both of whom he knew would help him if he asked. It was just that he saw no real reason to, and the fact that there was no way of hiding the crime once it was covering him head to toe, like Simon said it would.
But logic only stretched so far against Simon’s persistence. For the next day and a half, Tim found himself on the receiving end of every trick in Simon’s arsenal: pleading eyes, exaggerated sighs, muttered curses under his breath about stubborn fools ruining his fun.
Eventually, the gothmite cracked—not because he was convinced it was a good idea, but because saying no to Simon was starting to feel like more effort than simply giving in. “Fine,” he hissed one afternoon as the storm softened into a light drizzle, “But when Bailey finds out, you’re taking the blame for this.”
It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Luke to cover for them, and even less for the stolls to distract Bailey for a couple of minutes while they quietly snuck out. Within the hour, the two of them were creeping out of the cabin’s side door, Simon charging into the mud like a soldier storming the front lines while Tim stumbled after him with far less conviction.
The world outside was a mess of gray sky and brown sludge, the grass sagging under the weight of water and puddles spreading like little streams across the pathways.
Simon didn’t hesitate, stomping both boots into the muck until it splashed up his legs, crowing with delight.
Tim grimaced at the cold splash on his shins, but couldn’t help the twitch of a smile when his friend tilted his head up to catch the rain in his mouth.
“See?” Simon shouted over the drizzle, hair plastered in wet curls against his forehead. “Ain’t nothin’ better’n this!”
Tim shook his head, but the next splash caught him full in the face, courtesy of Simon’s boot. That was it—the dam broke.
With a glare that was more playful than mad, he leapt at his friend, sending both of them tumbling into the mud. The squelching was horrible, the wetness even worse, and he didn’t even want to mention the sting of his shoulder, but Simon’s wheezing laughter made it impossible not to join in.
For once, Tim wasn’t the voice of reason or the cautious observer; he was just a six-year-old boy slinging wet sticky dirt and his friend and shouting like a madman as he ran away, having no doubt the ginger would chase him.
They might’ve kept at it until dinner if Bailey hadn’t caught them on the way back, dripping and filthy, looking like two goblins who’d crawled out of the swamp. Bailey pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about headaches and messes before herding them straight to the bathhouse.
Simon had only grinned, laughing as though the lack of real discipline was proof he’d been right all along.
And just this once, Tim would admit he was.