“I don’t see any normal adults in this relationship,” Charlie says, and he has a point.
“Fucking sunlight,” Simon mumbles into the worn cotton of Charlie’s shorts.
“How does that work? In the car, you didn’t have a headache yet, but you knew it was about to happen.”
“That’s the aura. My vision gets weird fifteen or so minutes before the headache starts. But sometimes I feel off for a couple hours even before that. That’s the prodrome.”
“Huh. It’s kind of cool that your brain lets you know ahead of time.”
Simon needs a minute to process that. The aura and other assorted bullshit aren’t actually his brain’s early warning system,they’re just part of the trash can of neurological symptoms that make up a migraine. And yet—the image of his brain, a poor dumb lump of cells, trying to warn him the only way it can? That does something to Simon. He’s picturing his brain like a wounded animal, trying its best. He shuts his eyes and sniffles as discreetly as possible.
“Hey, hey,” Charlie says, “I didn’t mean—obviously there’s nothinggoodabout your headaches—”
“No, I like it,” Simon says. “I like it.” He shuts his eyes, threads his fingers through Charlie’s, and lets himself drift for a minute. “You like taking care of me,” he says, as quiet as he can. And what he means is something like, I’m trusting you with all the parts of myself I don’t even like.
“What if,” Simon says, “hypothetically, someone were to throw you a birthday party?” Charlie’s birthday is just over a month away.
“Hypothetically, who’s asking? You?” They’re walking Edie, who’s dedicated to her project of memorizing the unique smell of every blade of grass between Simon’s and Charlie’s houses.
“Yes?” Alex had texted Simon, “so are you doing C’s birthday this year or what.” Simon promptly had a crisis about it.
“I like birthday parties,” Charlie says. “I like all parties.” Simon already knew this. Charlie is being the opposite of helpful.
They run into one of Simon’s neighbors. When they got back from New York, every neighbor he ran into stopped and said hi. Well, they said hi to Edie. For years, he’s been exchanging low-effort small talk with them—mostly about dogs, but that’s still talking. Simon is, somehow, a person who knows his neighbors. Hekeeps coming back to Charlie’s notion that Edie is similar to an emotional support animal.It’s like a wheelchair, Charlie and Jamie keep saying.Wheelchairs are good.
After the neighbor drags her dog away from Edie, Simon says, “So do you want me to throw you a party?”
“Do you want to throw me a party?”
Simon doesn’t want to throw anyone any kind of party. The idea of it—who to invite, where to find a caterer, how do parties even work—is enough to make his heart race. But he wants to do right by Charlie, and if that means a birthday party, then he’s going to throw a fucking birthday party.
“I don’t want anyone else to throw you a birthday party,” Simon says.
“I usually do it myself. Because I like to. If you really wanted to take over, I’d say sure, but you don’t—no, shutup, Simon, you should see your face—so I’ll keep doing it.”
“Okay,” Simon says, unconvinced. He’d sort of thought that he’d go out of his way to make sure Charlie had the birthday he wanted, and then Charlie would know Simon—well, he’d know that Simon means it, that Simon’s disgustingly invested in this. It seems like the sort of grand gesture that would appeal to Charlie.
“What I want,” Charlie says, and Simon’s ready to agree to anything, “is just for you to come.”
“Obviously I’m coming,” Simon says, a little offended.
“I know, but you never did before.”
Simon’s stupid face goes hot with shame.
“No, I mean, shit. I’m getting this wrong.” Charlie gets a thumb under Simon’s chin, which shouldn’t even work, since they’re the same height, but somehow Simon’s looking up at him now. “I justalways kind of thought it would be cool if you showed up and it meant—I don’t know—that we could stop fighting and just be normal. But also I kind of wanted to keep fighting with you because it’s fun.”
“Fun,” Simon repeats. He wouldn’t say that quarreling with Charlie was fun, but it was easy in a way talking to people rarely was. He never had to plan, never had to pretend.
“Anyway, now you’ll be there, and you fight with me all the time, so there’s nothing left for me to want. You can just get me a present. Expensive clothing, since that’s your love language.”
“Love languages are fake,” Simon says, because he heard that on a podcast, and also because if Charlie wants fighting, Simon can do that.
“That doesn’t change the fact that buying people expensive clothing is your love language,” Charlie says, and he’s right, but whatever.
“I’ll get you more sweaters.” Simon means it to sound likeand then you’ll be sorrybut instead it comes out a little breathless, maybe because Simon’s looking forward to both buying the sweaters and seeing Charlie in them. Maybe because Charlie’s hand has moved so he’s cupping Simon’s cheek.
“Yeah, you will,” Charlie says, low and about an inch from Simon’s mouth. He pushes Simon’s hair off his face.
