“Simon?” Harlow traced his hands down his thighs, smoothing the creases from the legs of his boxers.
“Y-Yeah?”
“I want to try something with you—an exercise I used to do after I came back from my last deployment.”
“I'm not really the exercising type,” Simon murmured. “You're right to be investing your time on Shep and Evie… I have problems popping the lids off pressure-sealed jars.”
Harlow snorted, then closed his eyes. A grin stretched his lips so far his cheeks ached. “Not that kind of exercise, Kid. You're not even going to have to get up out of bed.”
“Okay…”
“That's not quite the enthusiasm I was looking for, but I'll take it.” Harlow ran his tongue over his teeth, not because he had to search his memory for what the exercise was, but because he understood the importance that silence could have. He wanted to be sure Simon was listening, and that he was aware of how important what Harlow had to say would be. “I want you to tell me what it is about you that you think makes you worthwhile—what aspects of you are the ones that define you? The ones you pride yourself for?”
The answer was not forthcoming. Harlow didn't mind. In the space behind his eyelids, he imagined Simon, pale skin flushed with embarrassment, lips pressed as he struggled to answer the question. Maybe he'd run a hand through his copper hair or look to the side, fixating on a blurry shadow across the room. He'd chew on the inside of his lip, shoulders sunk, and wish that he could be anywhere but there, answering any question but that one.
It wasn't the way Harlow wanted him to feel, but if Simon was stuck in the emotional pitfall Harlow believed he was, it was important that he face his uncomfortable truths. Once upon a time, Harlow had been forced to do the same. But there was no growth without pain, and the only easy day was the one that had just passed—Harlow knew it, had been conditioned by it. It didn’t stop the struggle from being tiring, or from feeling insurmountable. If he could just help Simon out, if he could figure out what to do, what to say…
“I…” A single syllable, and yet it trembled.
“Three things,” Harlow prompted. All he needed to do was break through to the Simon he’d seen earlier that day—the one who'd burned the bacon he was cooking on purpose. “It doesn't matter how small or stupid they sound, as long as they matter to you.”
“I…” Another wobbling word. Harlow waited, hoped. “I'm… a good programmer. I'm fiscally responsible. And…” A shuddering inhalation. “And I take good care of my brothers, even when I feel like I can't. Even when Shep gives me lip, or when Jayne is too stressed and overwhelmed and shuts down completely.”
“Hey, those are three pretty fantastic things.” Harlow's smile softened. His tone did, too. “If you could think of them—if you could find redeeming qualities within yourself—then isn't it possible that someone else could see redeeming qualities in you? That to someone other than yourself, you're worthwhile? Appreciated? Wanted?”
For a long while, Harlow was left to contemplate what he'd said. Was it wrong? Had he botched the delivery and given Simon further reason to doubt himself? Maybe he'd made a mistake—maybe Simon wasn't at the stage of healing he’d thought he was. It was wrong to have assumed his grief. No matter how familiar Harlow was with loss, it wasn't his place to try to pluck Simon from the midst of his mourning. He'd said too much and pushed too hard. It wasn't his battle to fight.
Harlow would pick him up if he fell, and he'd stitch his wounds shut if the fight proved too tough, but he couldn't slay this beast.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
A second before Harlow was about to apologize for overstepping his boundaries, friction swept over the air mattress, the resultingswishindicative of movement. Simon's shape crossed the room, the impact of his bare feet on the wood floor marking his progress, each of them sharper to Harlow's ears than they had any right to be.
Time slowed. The scant distance between the air mattress and the couch stretched as it did, space and time distorting. The spark Harlow had felt not all that long ago was back, more intense than it had ever been before.
And still it thickened.
One step closer. Another.
Simon came to stand at the side of the couch, a featureless silhouette who expressed himself through feeling rather than sound. The air grew charged with meaning.
Harlow was the first who dared speak. “Come here, Kid.”
Movement through the dark. A bare thigh against his own. Simon climbed onto the couch, straddling Harlow's waist. His soft, plump ass made itself comfortable on Harlow's groin, and Harlow's cock betrayed him, stiffening and throbbing in response.
“You want me?” Simon asked in a whisper. The low volume of his voice was nothing new, but its tone had changed—what had only been private before was intimate now. Secret. Forbidden. Its currents sparked in Harlow’s bones and coursed through him, powering the beat of his heart and hardening his shaft.
“Harlow?” Simon asked. His hands met Harlow's chest, supporting his weight as he leaned down, eliminating some of the space between their lips. When he spoke again, Harlow felt his question. “Do you want me?”
If the way Harlow's cock had responded to him wasn't answer enough, the jackhammer beat of his heart was a surefire yes. Simon may have thought that he was unworthy, or too ordinary, or not enough, but to Harlow, he was an inspiration.
“I want you,” Harlow said. Whatever nuance Simon wanted to give those words would be true. Harlow wanted him in ways innocent and sexual alike. “God, do I want you.”
A sound parted from Simon's lips—the kind of desperate, breathy sound that would live forever in Harlow's wet dreams. Then, slowly, Simon started to work his hips. His ass rubbed in circles against Harlow's groin, teasing his erection. The motion was deliberate, meant to titillate. Harlow’s mind started to melt down.
The Kid—the one who, for years, could barely get through a sentence without tripping over his tongue, and who blushed the prettiest shade Harlow had ever seen—was grinding on his lap. Sixteen years divided them. Harlow shouldn’t have allowed it—should have pulled Simon off the couch and firmly told him that he was better off with someone his own age—but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Sweet Simon. Bumbling Simon.
