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Simon and Jack sat side by side, shoulders brushing with every minor shift, every quiet breath. The stone beneath them was cold even through their uniforms, damp with the lingering bite of winter, but neither of them moved away.
From somewhere deeper in the school, the choir carried on.
Voices rose and fell in careful harmony, muffled by walls and distance, but still unmistakable they were structured, disciplined, reverent. It drifted down the corridor like something alive, like it was searching for them.
Like it knew.
Jack’s jaw tightened. They should be there. He should be there.
Head boy. Head chorister. The one who set the pitch, who kept them in line, who made sure no one slipped. His absence would be noticed. It would matter, he knew of it for sure. Hell he prided himself on the fact he could sing C#.
And yet—
A soft, stifled laugh broke through his thoughts that made making him glance sideways.
Simon had his hand half over his mouth, shoulders shaking, eyes bright in a way that felt almost dangerous. Not loud— Simon was never loud— but warm. Alive. Like he carried his own light, tucked just beneath his ribs.
“How did we not get caught?” Simon whispered, leaning closer like the walls themselves might be listening.
Jack huffed, leaning back against the stone, forcing an easy sort of arrogance into his voice. “Cause I’m awesome.”
Simon snorted immediately, the sound slipping out before he could stop it. “Sureeee,” he said, dragging the word out, eyebrows lifting in mock disbelief.
Jack shot him a look, trying for stern and landing somewhere closer to flustered. “You sayin’ I’m not?”
Simon tilted his head, considering him with exaggerated seriousness, like this was a question of great importance.
“I’m saying,” he began slowly, “that maybe, just maybe, you’re not quite as intimidating as you think you are when you’re hiding behind a wall skipping.”
Jack scoffed, but there was no bite to it. “Oi! I’m not hiding.”
“No?” Simon’s lips twitched. “Then what would you call this? Strategic relocation?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to justify myself to you.”
Simon grinned, soft and crooked. “Right. Of course. Head boy privileges.”
There it was again—that feeling. Something in Jack’s chest pulled tight, then looser, then tight again, like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Annoyance, maybe. That’s what it should be.
Simon was always like this. Always saying things just a little too close to the truth, like he didn’t realize— or didn’t care— how much he saw.
Jack looked away.
The choir swelled faintly in the distance, a higher passage now, something clean and bright and painfully familiar. He could almost hear his own voice threaded through it, steady and commanding. He should be there.
Instead, he was here.
With Simon.
Batty Simon. Quiet, strange, off in his own world half the time. Not someone Jack should be spending his afternoons with, let alone skipping responsibilities for.
And yet—
Simon bumped his shoulder lightly. “You’re thinking too loud again.”
Jack frowned. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is when you look like that.”
“Like what?”
Simon hesitated, just for a second, like he was choosing his words carefully. “Like you’re about to tell yourself off.”
Jack’s stomach twisted. “That’s bonkers.”
Simon just hummed, unconvinced.
Silence settled between them for a moment, not uncomfortable—just… full.
Jack could hear Simon humming along with the faint melody. Soft. Steady. Too close.
“You’re going to get us in trouble, you know,” Simon said eventually, quieter now.
Jack shrugged, though it felt stiff. “Doubt it.”
“They’ll notice you’re gone.”
“Let them.”
Simon turned to look at him properly then, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
Jack’s throat tightened. “Well, maybe I don’t feel like being me all the time.” The words came out sharper than he intended.
Simon didn’t flinch. He never did. Instead, he just… watched him.
And that was worse.
Because it felt like Simon was looking through him. Like he could see all the things Jack tried very hard not to think about— the cracks, the hesitation, the way his chest felt too tight and too light all at once when Simon laughed or leaned in too close.
Jack shifted, suddenly restless. “You drive me mad, you know that?”
Simon blinked, surprised, and then smiled, softer this time. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been told.”
Jack let out a short, humorless laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “I mean it.”
“I know.”
That only made it worse.
Jack turned to him, something sharp and tangled rising in his chest.
“You just—” he stopped, frustrated, words slipping out of reach. “You don’t act right.”
Simon raised an eyebrow, not offended— just curious. “Act right?”
“Yeah. You don’t care about things you should. You say whatever you want. You—” Jack gestured vaguely, like that might somehow explain it. “You look at people like you know them.”
Simon was quiet for a moment, studying him in that same unsettling way.
“Maybe I just listen,” he said.
Jack let out a short, disbelieving breath. “That’s not it.”
“No?” Simon tilted his head. “Then what is it?”
Jack didn’t answer immediately. He couldn’t, not properly at least. Because anything he said would circle too close to something he didn’t want named. To something he didn’t even dare to think.
“You’re… different,” he said finally, the word coming out flatter than he intended.
Simon hummed softly, like he’d heard that before. “I know.”
“Bloody hell, that’s not—” Jack dragged a hand over his face, irritated with himself now. “That’s not a good thing.”
Simon’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Not hurt exactly. Not surprise either. Just… understanding?
“Says who?” Simon asked quietly.
Jack blinked at him. “What?”
“Says who it’s not a good thing?”
Jack stared, thrown off balance by how simple Simon made it sound. “Everyone,” he said, almost immediately. “The school. Parents. The church. It’s—” he faltered, searching for something solid, something unquestionable. “It’s how things are.”
Simon’s gaze softened, but he didn’t look away. “That doesn’t mean it’s right.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. Jack felt something twist sharply in his chest.
“You can’t just decide that,” he said, voice tightening. “There are rules.”
“Rules made by people.”
“Guided by God.” Jack snapped
Simon didn’t flinch, though his expression shifted into something far too close to pity. “And what if people got it wrong?” He asked gently.
Jack’s stomach dropped. “They didn’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” But it came out too fast. Too sharp.
Simon noticed. He always noticed.
Jack pushed himself upright, restless energy building under his skin.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “You don’t feel it. That weight. Like— like someone’s always watching, like everything you do matters. Like if you step out of line even once—”
He cut himself off.
Simon was watching him more carefully now. “Like you’ll be punished?” Simon finished softly.
Jack swallowed hard. “Yes.” The word barely made it out.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The choir’s voices drifted faintly through the walls again, distant and echoing— pure and ordered, untouched by the mess sitting here in the cold corridor.
Both boy’s eyes locked, and Jack felt suddenly exposed, like he’d said too much. Simon shifted slightly, turning toward him more fully.
“I don’t think God works like that,” he said.
Jack let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah? Since when?”
“Since… always, I think.” Simon’s voice was quiet, thoughtful. “I mean—if God made everything, right? Then He made people as they are. Not just the parts that are easy.”
Jack’s chest tightened again, sharper this time. “That’s not—” he shook his head. “That’s not how it works.”
“Then how does it work?”
Jack hesitated. He knew the answer he was supposed to give.
Sin. Temptation. Weakness. Correction. He’d heard it all before. Memorized it, even.
But when he tried to repeat the mantra it was as if he were choking on the words, because saying it now— here, with Simon looking at him like that— felt different.
Wrong, somehow.
“It’s about… discipline,” Jack said instead, though it sounded less certain than he wanted. “About resisting things you shouldn’t want.”
Simon’s gaze didn’t waver. “And if you don’t?”
Jack’s throat went dry. “Then you’re… failing.”
The word hung there between them.
Simon looked down for a moment, like he was considering something carefully, then back up again.
“Do you feel like you’re failing?” Simon asked, his voice low enough that it barely seemed to disturb the air between them, like he was offering the question rather than pressing it, like he already knew it might land somewhere tender.
Jack’s breath caught in his throat before he could stop it, sharp and sudden, betraying him in a way he hated, and the answer came out on instinct, immediate and unguarded.
“Yes,” before he even had time to think about it, before he could dress it up into something more acceptable, something cleaner, something that sounded like him.
But the word hung there, too heavy, too honest, and Jack felt it settle in his chest like something misplaced.
Because that wasn’t right.
Or maybe it was.
His jaw tightened, and he looked away quickly, as if the corridor wall might offer him something solid to hold onto, something that didn’t feel like it was shifting beneath his feet. “I don’t know,” he muttered instead, the words quieter now, less certain, like he was trying to take the first answer back without actually admitting it.
The truth pressed uncomfortably against his ribs, insistent and unwelcome. Because he didn’t feel like he was failing when he was with Simon.
That was the problem.
That was the entire problem.
Jack swallowed hard, his fingers curling slightly against the stone beside him as he trying to anchor himself to it. He feltlighter, somehow, like something that had been wound tight inside him for years had loosened without asking permission, like the constant pressure in his chest had eased just enough for him to notice it had been there at all, and quieter too, like all the noise in his head— the expectations, the rules, the endless litany of what he should be—just… faded when Simon was near
Like he could breathe. And that, that couldn’t be right.
It didn’t fit. It didn’t line up with anything he’d been taught, anything he knew.
Simon was—
Jack’s thoughts stuttered, then shifted, almost defensively, like his mind was scrambling to correct itself.
Simon was batty, for one. Everyone said so, himself included. Quiet in that odd, distant way, like he was always half somewhere else, prone to wandering off, prone to fainting at the worst possible moments, like his body couldn’t quite keep up with the world around him. Not strong, not commanding, not anything like what Jack was supposed to respect.
He was strange.
Too soft.
Too—
Jack’s gaze flickered back to him despite himself.
Simon was laughing earlier— Jack could still hear it, soft and breathy, like he tried to keep it contained but couldn’t quite manage it— and there had been something warm about it, something that had settled under Jack’s skin in a way that didn’t fade even now.
And he was kind.
That was the worst part.
Not in the showy way, not in the way that earned praise or attention, but in the quiet, unthinking way, like it was simply how he existed, like he didn’t know how not to be gentle, even with people who didn’t deserve it.
Jack swallowed again, harder this time.
And funny, too, in that understated way, the kind that caught you off guard because you weren’t expecting it, because it slipped out between his quieter moments and made something in Jack’s chest lift before he could stop it.
And when Simon did talk— when he chose to— it wasn’t empty, wasn’t just noise to fill the silence like most of the other boys. It meant something. He meant it. He spoke like he was thinking while he did it, like he cared about the words he let out into the world.
He understood things.
Not in the rigid, memorized way Jack did, not in the way of rules and right answers, but in a way that felt… deeper. Softer, maybe. Like he could see through things instead of just looking at them.
Like he could see Jack.
Jack’s chest tightened sharply at that, and his gaze dropped for a moment before lifting again, drawn back despite himself.
Simon’s hair was dark— black, really, not the dull sort but something softer, catching what little light filtered into the corridor in a way that made it look almost warm at the edges, slightly tousled like he’d run his hands through it without thinking. His complexion was not pale and untouched but something warmer, olive-toned, like it held onto sunlight even in the middle of winter.
There was a faint flush across his cheeks now, Jack noticed, probably from the cold, he told himself. The other boy’s eyes were mesmerizing, a hazel swirl casted in shadows as his long lashes fluttered, still his eyes remained steady in a way that felt far too knowing.
And his mouth—
Jack’s breath hitched, just slightly.
He looked away, because Simon was—
He was—
Jack’s thoughts stumbled again, tripping over something he didn’t want to name.
Beautiful.
The word came uninvited, immediate and undeniable, and Jack felt something twist hard in his chest at the realization, at the wrongness of it, at how easily it had slipped into place like it had been waiting there all along.
That wasn’t right.
That couldn’t be right.
Simon wasn’t—
Jack’s jaw clenched, frustration flaring, but it didn’t change anything. Didn’t undo the way his chest felt too tight, too full, didn’t stop the way his eyes kept finding their way back to him.
Didn’t stop the way it felt.
“Stop it,” Jack muttered under his breath, though he wasn’t entirely sure who he was saying it to.
Simon’s head tilted slightly. “What?”
Jack didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted closer without really meaning to, like something in him was pulling forward even as the rest of him resisted, his shoulder pressing more firmly against Simon’s, the contact sending a sharp, immediate awareness through him that made his pulse jump.
He should move away.
He didn’t.
“I hate this,” Jack said suddenly, his voice lower now, rougher around the edges like something was fraying beneath it.
Simon didn’t pull back. “Hate what?”
Jack turned toward him fully then, the movement quicker than he intended, and suddenly they were close— too close, closer than two boys had any right to be, the space between them narrowed down to something fragile and charged.
“This,” Jack said, though it came out uneven, his breath catching again as he tried to steady it. “You— just—”
The words failed him again, slipping through his grasp like they always seemed to when it came to Simon, and frustration flared, hot and sharp.
“I hate how you make me feel,” he said instead, the confession dragged out of him like it had weight, like it cost something to say, like he was forcing it past something tight and unyielding in his chest that didn’t want to let it go.
Simon went still— not recoiling, not startled, just… still, like the moment had settled around them and he didn’t want to disturb it.
Jack could hear his own heartbeat, loud and insistent, pounding in his ears in a way that made everything else seem distant, muffled, like the world had been pushed a step back; even the choir, even the echo of hymns drifting through the corridor, seemed dim compared to the rush of blood and breath and the unbearable awareness of how close Simon was.
“You drive me mad,” Jack sad once more, quieter this time but no less intense, like the words had settled deeper now, like they meant more than he wanted them to.
Neither of them moved away.
If anything, they drifted closer, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first— like neither of them had quite decided to do it, like it was just happening, drawn by something neither of them was naming aloud; Jack could feel the warmth of Simon’s breath now, soft against his skin, could see the way his lashes lowered just slightly, the faint rise and fall of his chest.
Jack’s throat went dry.
This was wrong.
It had to be.
The thought came sharp and immediate, cutting through everything else, and suddenly it was all he could hear— wrong, wrong, wrong— louder than the choir, louder than his heartbeat, louder than the quiet pull that kept him from stepping back.
He should stop this.
He should pull away, stand up, go back to the chapel, find a priest, get down on bruised knees and confess— say it out loud, every twisted, shameful thought, beg for forgiveness before it went any further, before it became something real, something that couldn’t be undone.
He could already picture it: bowed head, clasped hands, whispered apologies, the weight of it pressed down into something manageable, something that could be absolved.
That was what he was supposed to do.
That was what a good boy would do.
Jack didn’t move.
Because Simon hadn’t moved.
Because Simon was still there, still close, still looking at him like he wasn’t something to fix or correct or confess away, like he wasn’t broken for feeling this, like there wasn’t anything wrong with him at all.
Jack’s breath stuttered, uneven, caught somewhere between panic and something softer, something he didn’t have a name for.
Their foreheads brushed.
It was the lightest contact, barely there, but it sent something sharp and electric down Jack’s spine, made his fingers clench, as if he needed something solid to hold onto, something that wasn’t slipping out from under him.
This is a sin, his mind whispered, harsh and unrelenting. You know this is a sin.
He squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, like that might steady him, like that might push Simon away without him having to do it himself.
It didn’t.
If anything, it made everything else clearer— the warmth, the closeness, the way his chest felt too tight and too open all at once.
He should stop.
He should—
Simon moved first.
It was small, hesitant, like he was giving Jack time to pull away, like he wasn’t sure if he should, but then he leaned in that last fraction, closing the space between them in a way that felt both impossibly brief and unbearably long.
And then their lips brushed.
Jack’s mind went silent.
Not quieter. Not calmer.
Silent.
Like someone had reached in and cut the thread of every thought he’d been holding onto, like all the noise— every rule, every warning, every echo of sermons and expectations— had simply... vanished.
There was only this.
The warmth of Simon’s mouth, soft and uncertain against his own, the faint hitch in Simon’s breath that mirrored his own, the way the contact felt so startlingly gentle that it almost didn’t register as something forbidden at all.
Jack didn’t pull away.
He couldn’t.
Because for the first time since this had started, since the confusion, the guilt, the constant churning in his chest, everything felt… still.
It felt right.
The thought slipped in uninvited, quiet but undeniable.
Right.
And that was the most terrifying part of all.
Because it didn’t feel like corruption, didn’t feel like something dark or twisted or wrong in the way he’d been taught to expect; it felt soft, and warm, and frighteningly good, like something that had been missing settling into place without asking permission.
Jack’s hand twitched at his side, not quite knowing what to do, not quite daring to move, like any shift might break the moment, might shatter it into something harsher, something he couldn’t pretend was anything but sin, something that would force him to name it properly and ruin whatever fragile, impossible thing this was.
But Simon didn’t pull away either.
The kiss lingered, light and unsure, more a question than an answer, like they were both testing the reality of it, like neither of them quite believed it was happening, like if they held still enough it might remain untouched by everything waiting outside this narrow, hidden space.
And then, all at once, it was too much— too close, too overwhelming— and they both pulled back, not far, not enough to break whatever thread had formed between them, just enough for air, for breath, for the space to look at each other properly.
Jack’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his breath catching somewhere between his lungs and his throat.
Their foreheads brushed again as the space between them returned, thin and fragile, and found himself staring, as if seeing Simon for the first time and the hundredth all at once, like he couldn’t quite reconcile the boy in front of him with everything he’d been told to believe. Simon’s lips were slightly parted, his breathing uneven in a way that mirrored Jack’s own, his eyes searching Jack’s face like he was waiting. Waiting for him to pull away, to recoil, to say something that would undo it.
Jack didn’t.
The silence stretched, thick and fragile, and Jack could feel it pressing in around them, could feel the weight of everything he’d ever been taught rising back up, trying to reclaim its place in his mind.
This is wrong.
This is sin.
You need to stop.
The words came fast, sharp, familiar, echoing with voices that weren’t his own, with sermons and scripture and every warning he’d ever been given, and for a moment it felt like it might swallow him whole, like it might drag him back into something rigid and certain and safe.
He should pull away.
He should stand up, walk back into that chapel, take his place at the front like nothing had happened, let his voice rise clean and steady above the others like it always did, like it was supposed to.
He should confess.
He should beg for forgiveness.
He should—
Jack didn’t move.
Because Simon was still there, still close enough that their breath mingled in the narrow space between them, still looking at him like he wasn’t something to fix, that same warmth in his expression that hadn’t disappeared, even now, even after crossing something they couldn’t uncross.
And somewhere, distantly, Jack became aware of the light filtering into the corridor, pale winter sunlight slipping through the high windows, catching in Simon’s dark hair and softening it, turning the edges almost gold, warming his skin in a way that made him look softer, almost angelic, like something painted rather than real.
Jack’s breath stuttered as something in his chest tipped.
Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he leaned in again.
This time it wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t hesitant in the same way.
It was still unsure, still careful, but there was something deliberate in it now, something chosen and filled with passion, like he was stepping over a line he could already feel burning behind him.
Their lips met again, a little firmer this time, still soft but no longer just a question, and Jack felt something unravel inside him the moment it happened, something he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding onto so tightly.
The world seemed to tilt, just slightly, just enough that everything he’d been taught no longer sat quite right, like the axis he’d built himself around had shifted without warning.
And in that strange, suspended moment, Jack’s mind reached for something, anything to make sense of it, some way to reconcile what he knew with what he felt, and unexpectedly he found his answer, a vision.
One in which God turned away.
Not absent, nor gone, but deliberately looking elsewhere, like He had chosen, just for this moment, not to see.
Like He had decided this wasn’t something to strike down or correct or condemn.
And Jesus—
Jack’s chest tightened, the image coming unbidden but refusing to leave.
Jesus, who had seen everything, who had walked among people and known their cruelty, their violence, their sins laid bare in ways Jack could barely comprehend, who had suffered for it, who had died for all of it—
He would know. He would understand exactly what this was, exactly what it meant and smite the two of them where they stand. Their bodies would be found, as their souls were condemned to eternal damnation.
But somehow, impossibly, Jack couldn’t imagine Jesus looking at this— at them— and feeling anger.
Not judgment.
Nor even disgust.
Just… knowing.
Divine knowledge that whatever this was, however wrong it was supposed to be, it still wasn’t the worst thing humanity had to offer.
Wasn’t something that needed to be crushed out of existence.
The thought settled in his chest, quiet but steady, and for the first time since this had begun, the guilt didn’t hit quite as hard.
Didn’t bite quite as deep.
Jack’s lips moved more surely against Simon’s, the tension in him easing just slightly, just enough for something warmer to take its place, something softer that he didn’t try to fight as hard this time.
A faint, almost disbelieving smile tugged at the corner of his mouth into the kiss.
And then, without thinking too hard about it, without giving himself the chance to second-guess, Jack lifted his hand, slow and uncertain at first, before letting it settle against the other boy’s cheek, cupping it gently.
Simon’s skin was warm beneath his palm, warmer than the cold air around them, and the contact sent another quiet shock through him, less sharp this time, more grounding, like it anchored him to the moment instead of pulling him apart.
His thumb brushed slightly, almost without intention, tracing the curve of Simon’s cheekbone in a motion so soft it was nearly hesitant, like he was still learning what he was allowed to do, what this was, what they were in this space where none of the usual rules seemed to reach.
And Simon— Simon leaned into it.
It was barely there, just the smallest shift, but Jack felt it all the same, felt the way Simon gave into the touch instead of pulling away from it, like he trusted it, like he trusted him, and that— more than anything else— made something in Jack’s chest ache in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, something fuller, heavier, like it was stretching to hold more than it was used to.
Jack’s breath faltered against Simon’s mouth, not enough to break the kiss but enough to make him aware of it again, of how close they were, of how real this was becoming with every passing second.
He didn’t pull away.
Not this time.
Not when he knew he should.
Not when every lesson he’d ever been taught whispered that this was the moment to stop, to step back, to put distance between them before it went too far, before it became something he couldn’t pretend hadn’t happened.
Because it already had.
And more than that—
he didn’t want to stop.
The realization settled slowly, rooting itself deep.
He didn’t want to let go of this warmth, this quiet, this strange, fragile rightness that only seemed to exist when Simon was this close, when the world shrank down to breath and touch and the steady presence of someone who didn’t demand he be anything other than what he was in that exact moment.
Jack’s fingers tightened just slightly against Simon’s cheek, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep him there, to keep the moment from slipping away, and he leaned in a fraction more, deepening the kiss in a way that was still gentle, still hesitancy at the edges.
For now, at least, he let himself exist here, in this suspended moment where nothing else seemed to matter, where the weight of expectation and judgment had fallen silent, where the boy in front of him felt more real than anything else.
And he didn’t pull away.