Sidemen Shots

Parcels ~ Minishaw

"Again, really." Simon muttered to himself, staring down at the brown cardboard box in his hands. He didn't expect anyone to answer his rhetoric, not right now, but if he was honest some sort of answer (eventually) would be greatly appreciated.

"What have you got there?" His flatmate, JJ, asked of him the moment he was through the front door, gazing at him curiously from his spot on their sofa.

"Another one of number 12's stupid parcels. Why buzz the postman in if you're not even gonna answer the door for him?"

Shaking his head, Simon tossed the parcel onto their dinner table, throwing himself onto the sofa with an exasperated sigh.

JJ laughed at him - earning himself a glare from Simon - but he at least had the decency to look sheepish after doing so. "Mate, stop accepting them. He's just gonna start depending on you to be there every time. Next thing you know he'll be ordering his deliveries to come specifically when he knows you're in."

Simon didn't reply to him, only snatched the remote from his friend's lap and switched the channel over. His stare was intense; if possible, he would have burned a hole straight through their TV. His lips stayed downturned in a frown, perfectly displaying his displeasure.

~~~

"Thank you so much, for this, Simon," Number 12's voice was grateful, but it was the soft, slightly high, tone to it that really got to Simon. More than the overwhelming gratitude in his eyes, even more than the visual appraisal written across his features as he looked at Simon (up and down, several times, as if Simon wouldn't notice him doing so).

"It was nothing, really," Simon waved off the gratitude, as he did every time this happened. Which, honestly, was far too often. Simon could admit that much, despite the benefits he selfishly reaped from such situations.

Number 12 (Simon felt that referring to the other man purely as his flat number helped him separate his interest in him from his annoyance at his actions) giggled hushly. As if Simon had just told him a funny secret.

"I honestly don't know what I'd do without you, man. Seriously," Harry - Number 12 - looked so suddenly mature Simon feared his heart might just stop working, "Thank you, Simon. For everything you've been doing for me. This move would have been a lot harder for me if I didn't have you across the hall from me."

"It's nothing." It was not nothing. And said not nothing had an infinite number of selfish reasons behind it - most importantly, the fact that Simon was painfully attracted to number 12. Simon hadn't yet worked out if the man was handsome or pretty, he only knew that he was overwhelmingly good-looking, that was for sure. "I'm sure you'd do the same for me."

Instead of responding verbally, number 12 nodded emphatically, his head bobbing wildly: it left Simon with a small, secretly fond smile. Simon delighted in Harry's smile back.

~~~

"H-hey, S-Simon." Simon didn't startle at the sound of his neighbour's voice, but his concentration was (unfortunately) rattled by it.

"Harry." Simon spun to face his neighbour, nodded in greeting towards the nervous-looking man as his eyes landed on his fidgeting form. "How have you been?"

Harry had just spent the week back home with his parents, in Guernsey, and had only returned to England late afternoon, yesterday. This was the first time Simon was seeing him since before he left, having been busy with work when Harry first got in.

With Harry's agitated smile, Simon found himself smiling too, his own with a comforting edge to it. The contrast was visible.

"I've been g-good, yeah! ... I've missed you, though." As if as an afterthought, Harry awkwardly added, "I had no one to collect my parcels for me."

Without a smirk but with a twinkle of mirth in his eyes, Simon fabricated the story JJ had inspired during Harry's week away. "... about that... I sent away your parcel that came on Thursday. I almost forwarded all my work to my flatmate for him to complete so I could have the day off to watch out for it like you asked me to, but this is getting ridiculous. I'm not your personal post box, Harry."

Number twelve stared at Simon, the distance between them having increased after Harry subconsciously retreated towards the lobby doorway. His eyes were wide open, comically so, as the visible emotion washed over his features. He looked - as JJ would likely say - rightfully guilty.

"I-I didn't m-mean to-" Harry's head lowered, his eyes dropping from Simon to the floor as he sighed and muttered. "I like you, okay."

Simon blinked once, twice, in hopeless enchantment; he once again (unconsciously this time) cursed romance as he waited for Harry to finally look up at him. Having this man look at him had quickly become one of the only things Simon looked forward to regularly, though for a while he had tried to hide that revelation from people - especially Harry and even himself. (Specifically himself but including Harry, more like.)

"Is that a question or a statement?"

Despite there being so much more than just that thought on his mind, Simon ignored the - his - whirlwind of affections in favour of settling the other man's discernible despair.

Just by the look his neighbour sent him, Simon could answer his own question himself: clearly, it was a statement, only voiced with a questioning tone due to the shorter man's insecurity.

Simon didn't reference said look when he next spoke, however, completely ignoring the fact that he had technically received an answer. "I do hope it's meant to be a statement, if I'm honest. I would be rather embarrassed if the person I was interested in wasn't so sure if they liked me back. My flatmate would have a field day, and all. I can already hear his stupid laugh. His smug face. Ugh."

Simon smiled at Harry. When Harry smiled back shyly, Simon's own smile grew bigger, happier, more true to himself and how he was feeling.

"I-it was a st-statement."