be there for you

five .

"Why do you always ask to take pictures of me and not Tobi or Vikk? It's not that I dislike doing it, I really like helping you, but it confuses me." Harry comments, taking a bite of the toast that Simon left out for him. It's still slightly warm and is toasted exactly how he likes it, he notes.

He watches as Simon stops, turning the water off and placing a mug on the towel next to the sink. "There's multiple reasons," Simon says, looking at Harry and smiling a bit. "Some of which are difficult to explain, so I'll tell you those eventually."

Harry twists the hem of his shirt between his fingers, frowning slightly. He doesn't ask, but he wants to, so instead he just takes another bite of his toast and pouts slightly.

Simon laughs, walking over and ruffling the younger's hair. "I'll tell you one thing, they say the pictures you take of someone you love always turn out better." With those words, Simon walks out of the kitchen, returning to his spot on the couch.

Harry's brain fills with static and his heart constricts painfully. He needs to finish his breakfast, he needs to go shower, he needs to get ready for his first class, but his feet are frozen to the floor and he can't move.

Surely Harry is overreacting. Surely Simon just meant it in a platonic way. That's the only explanation, but his lungs are still being squeezed and his legs are full of lead.

His thoughts wander from there. Thousands of thoughts swirl through his mind at once, ranging from the homework he never finished last night, to his painful feelings for Simon. Random scenarios weigh in on him, pushing back all of his awareness and leaving him grasping for any sense of reality.

He doesn't realize he's completely zoned out until there's a hand on his shoulder, and he jolts. He meets Simon's gaze, who's looking at him with eyes tinted with worry. "You okay? You haven't left the kitchen, it's been fifteen minutes. You didn't answer when I called for you."

Harry blinks a few times, regaining his composure. "Oh," is all he can say, his brain still fuzzy and muddled. Simon takes the blanket from his own shoulders and wraps it around Harry.

"I have to go to class," Harry says, standing still for a few seconds. He turns to go towards the bathroom but Simon stops him, tugging on the blanket.

"I think you should stay home. You didn't finish your breakfast and you didn't sleep well last night. I'll call in sick for you." Simon says, and Harry wants to argue but the words get caught, thorns crawling up his throat and vines curling around his lungs. He complies.