We'll Be Fireproof

Chapter Eight

It's him. Fuck. It's gotta be him.

I can feel my hands shaking with nerves, and my eyes flick from him to the paper in front of us.

"Simon," I say, my mouth defying my mind. He looks at me with parted lips, his chin resting in sweater covered hands.

"Hmm?" He smiles. He seems more open today. It's refreshing. Just like Oli.

"I- um- who else do you listen to?" I fumble, pulling my hair into a clump on my head and tying it into a bun.

His eyes watch me, his teeth lazily catching his lip. "Some Troye Sivan, Panic! At the disco, too." He says almost like he isn't thinking. I can barely breathe. It has to be him.

"I like Troye," I say, watching him. He's doodling now, on the paper between us. Small roses littering the bottom corner of the page. "I like his song Bite."

This gets his attention. He looks up at me and grins "I love that song. It's so- raw. And honest. I like it a lot."

I smile. It's hard to take my eyes off him. It's hard to not give myself away.

"We should um- get some work done." He sits up and pulls the paper towards himself. "What words would you use to describe Mercutio?"

"Beautiful," I say, my eyes on him.

"I've never really thought of him like that, but I suppose so." He writes it down in sloppy, slanted writing.

I'm not talking about Mercutio.