Chapter 8: SIMON SAYS... IT'S A SECRET! by MisterInker
Beck padded slowly down the hallway, Simon once more sitting
cross-legged on her soft shoulder. Simon thought for sure he’d be nervous. But
instead, as the lights of the kitchenette grew brighter, a strange kind of calm
washed over him, warming him up from the inside out. Although, he imagined,
that could very well be partly from Beck’s own natural body heat staving off
the chills. Nestled beside her neck under the curtain of her pale brown hair,
he felt her pulse quicken beneath her skin. Even if Simon wasn’t uneasy at the
prospect of facing Milla after what they’d just been through, Beck clearly was.
And why not? Simon mused. Why shouldn’t she feel strange—after
what she’d just done.
After what they’d done together…
He rose to his feet, balancing easily as a sailor on the
deck of a ship, and put his tiny hand against her skin and whispered up into
her ear: “It’s gonna be all right. I’m here. We’re here together.”
“If you say so…” Beck whispered back. Her voice held even,
but there was a tension behind it. She brough her hand up, stroking Simon’s
little body gently before dropping her hand to her side and rounding the corner
into the kitchenette. Milla was posted at the stove, oven mitts on each hand,
stirring a pot of water with a wooden spoon in one mitt and reading from the
back of a box of noodles held in the other. She turned slowly, angling her eyes
at them. Her gaze lingered on Simon, still leaning into the crook of her
roommate’s neck, but didn’t pass comment. Her expression betrayed nothing.
“What took you so long,” she snarked out of the corner of
her lips. “Fall in or something?”
“Something like that,” Simon quipped back without missing a
beat.
Milla narrowed her eyes at him playfully, then shrugged. “Well—did
you say thank you to Beck?”
Simon blinked. “For…?”
“You don’t smell like toilet. I assume she fished you out
and helped you rinse off.”
“Oh—yes. Of course.” From his perch on her shoulder, Simon
turned to face Beck’s cheek and swept downwards into a deep comical bow. “Thank
you for your service, Lady,” he intoned, in mock-polity.
“It was my pleasure, Master Simon,” she replied in a
stuffy British butler’s accent.
Milla raised an eyebrow, but again didn’t make any remark.
Instead she switched off the gas jet flame and carried the boiling water a few
feet away to the sink. “I made an executive decision,” she explained, pouring
the rotini into the strainer. “I was too hungry to wait to make proper lasagna—so
I went with ordinary pasta instead. I figured you all would be pretty famished
too.”
Simon and Beck murmured assent; Simon in particular thought
of how loudly Beck’s stomach had growled when he’d escaped it. It hadn’t been
happy about losing a meal; she must be ravenous now.
“Honestly, it’s probably for the best,” his big sister
continued on without turning back to them. She was getting bowls out of the
cupboard now—two, one for her and one for Beck. “I don’t suppose…” she said, in
an insinuating tone, “…that Si told you our little lasagna story?”
She turned at the waist, her lips kinking up as she searched
their faces for a reaction. Simon managed to remain stone-faced, but Beck had
flushed red all over, straight up to the roots of her brown hair. Simon
shrugged, catching his sister’s attention with a wave. “It, ah… it might have
come up,” he admitted.
“Lucky thing you did too,” came the reply with a
wink. “Or we might not be having this conversation.”
“For sure, we wouldn’t.”
Steadying little Simon with her hand, Beck sat down at the
circular breakfast nook table and folded her hands on the faux-wood surface.
Simon stood and nimbly skipped down the length of one arm, but instead of
finishing the journey on the table’s surface, he stopped short and plopped down
on the back of Beck’s right hand. Beck twitched in surprise at his ticklish
touch, but then smiled down shyly at him and flipped her hand over, catching
him in her palm and cradling him comfortably on the table. Simon smiled back
and ran his fingernails over the corduroy surface of her palm, tracking along
the thick crease of her lifeline and teasing a pleasant little shiver out of
the larger girl.
Milla returned from the sink. She’d doffed her oven mitts
and had two steaming bowls of rotini pasta, slathered with brick-colored sauce
and sprinkled with a snowy dusting of crumbled parmesan cheese. She slid one
towards Beck along with a fork, keeping the second for herself. Simon’s sister
peered down at him, still resting comfortably in the palm of Beck’s right hand—and
he thought he saw a strange secret smile wiggle across her lips.
“Comfy?” was all she said. But before her brother could
respond, she stabbed a big forkful of pasta and raised it to her lips, blowing
the steam off. “You cool to sit at the edge of my bowl, little bro?” she asked.
“I could get you another plate or something but honest to God—I don’t want to
wash another dish.”
She shoveled the pasta into her mouth, staring down the
length of the fork at Simon.
“Unless…” she mumbled through her mouthful. “Unless Si’s
afraid of a repeat performance?”
Simon rolled his eyes, pretending to consider it. “I’ve seen
you eat,” he teased her—and gave a few oinking grunts, pushing up the point of
his nose with two fingers. “Maybe I should be nervous.”
Milla sneered at him, still chewing. “Maybe you think Beck
would be more careful.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Maybe you ought to test that theory.”
Simon folded his arms. “Maybe I oughtta.”
He leaned back, craning his neck to look up into Beck’s eyes
upside-down. Her lips worked back and forth nervously, staring down the length
of her nose at him with bright pale eyes.
“You’re… are you sure about this?” she half-whispered—although
Simon was sure he detected a note of eagerness hidden under her usual
fluttering anxiety.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he replied, kicking his bare heels
against her palm.
“No. I mean… I’m sure I don’t.” She was flushing pink again.
He smiled reassuringly at her. “Just put me on the edge. And
don’t mistake me for a noodle.”
Rather than bite at that bait, Beck swallowed and lifted
Simon up over her steaming pasta bowl, finally holding him level with the rim. He
climbed off her palm carefully, hooking one leg then the other over the lip of
the hard china before dragging a piece of noodle towards himself. The pasta was
warm and pliable under his touch, and soon he was tearing off pieces and
shoving them into his mouth, occasionally dipping them down deeper into the
bowl to swipe up a gob of marinara sauce.
Beck stared down at him, watching in fascination. Simon
caught her eye and gestured grandly to the remaining mounds of noodles in the
bowl. “Go on then,” he called up to her. “You must be starving.” And then, in a
much lower and private voice, he said:
“It’s all right—I trust you.”
It seemed to be enough. Beck nodded and lifted her fork, thrusting
it down into the pasta furthest from where Simon perched. Simon watched her put
the forkful of noodles in her mouth, chew, and swallow—as though he was unable
to look away. After his sister’s accident, he’d been almost afraid to watch
people eat; now the act fascinated him. His eyes tracked along Beck’s towering
body until his gaze landed at the patch of sweater concealing her stomach.
Not ten minutes ago, he thought to himself. Not ten minutes
ago, I was right there—inside her. He wondered if Beck was thinking the same
things. If she was imagining it. Reliving it…
He didn’t understand why the thoughts thrilled him so—but thrill
him they did.
But soon normal dinner conversation resumed. Beck grew more
confident eating around Simon, and hardly seemed to notice his presence at the
edge of her bowl unless he spoke. This he did very little. As Milla and Beck
talked to each other, catching up and reminiscing about the school year, Simon
felt his heart start to glow in his chest. After so much time in his colony, he
had missed talk like this. Real talk, about the real world, not the little fragile
lives of his fellow tinies, the petty squabbles or meaningless political power
grabs others of his size seemed so fascinated with.
This was anything but meaningless. This was real life: loud
and friendly and joyful and large.
Simon never regretted his size. Even at life’s most
dangerous, he appreciated the thrill and utility his condition came packaged
with. But missing this… being deprived of this… was the only thing in the world
that ever made him wish he was as big as his big sister.
The conversation went on. Simon had eaten his fill and was
starting to feel warm and sleepy. As he chewed a last bite of warm noodle, he
worked a kink in his shoulder, surprised at how sore his whole body had
suddenly become. His adventure inside Beck’s stomach, coupled with their
lovemaking, had worn him down completely, exhausting every muscle. But it felt
good, that deep-in-the-muscle hurt. Like he’d spent the evening exercising and
not doing… whatever it was he’d done with Beck.
He blinked sleepily at the bleary kitchenette lights high
above him. He didn’t want to sleep yet. He wanted to stay with Beck and his
sister, continue enjoying the evening with them. But the porcelain bowl under
him was warming him all the way through, relaxing him… and against his will, he
felt his eyelids starting to drift shut, and his mind starting to wheel towards
darkness…
Then Beck said something—a joke, one of the few Simon had
ever heard her tell, and Milla’s fist pounded the table as she laughed hard. Beck’s
pasta bowl shook and clattered on the table; Simon, perched on the lip, felt
himself slipping forward. Any other time, Simon would have been strong and
agile enough to catch himself. But he was too tired now, his belly too full and
his brain too slow… The world spun crazily around him and he slid down into the
bottom of the bowl, landing splat in a last puddle of dark red sauce. He cried
out in alarm, and Beck gave a yelp as well—but Milla only laughed harder,
screwing up her eyes and going completely red in the face.
“Are you all right, Si?” Beck blurted, plucking the tiny boy
out of the sauce.
Dangling between her fingers, Simon looked into Beck’s face.
All at once he burst out laughing as well. The sauce had soaked into his shirt
and his pants and was smeared in his hair and across his face.
“You see now?” he said between giggles. “You see how it
happens?”
“Sorry, little bro…” Milla huffed from across the table,
over her own laughing fit at last. “Come on Beck—give him here and I’ll get him
cleaned up again.”
She put out her hand out, palm up. But Simon twisted toward
her and waved her away. “Oh no, you don’t,” he protested. “You’re benched,
San Andreas. Take a lap. Get your head in the game.”
Milla stuck his tongue out at him—then, her eyes flicked
suspiciously between him and Beck. Simon rubbed his eyes and held her gaze as
best he could manage, giving nothing away.
“Fine,” Milla said, shrugging. “Beck—you’re up again.”
She fished her phone from her back pocket and started
thumbing through her social media, head down and completely engrossed. Beck
rotated her hand so that sauce-sticky Simon rested on her palm once more, giving
him a questioning look. Simon simply shrugged.
“Sorry to ask again,” he said, “but I can’t get to the sink
myself…”
“This better not become a habit,” she murmured, smirking at
him.
But with the stuffy grace of a dutiful manservant, she
turned up her nose and stood, carrying Simon towards the kitchen sink. Simon
ran his fingers through his hair, combing out chunks of sauce that had started
to dry there. Beck switched the faucet on, running her other hand beneath the
stream of water to gauge the temperature. But before she could lower him under
the waterfall, he held up a hand to stop her. Simon leaned over the edge of her
palm, peering across the kitchen at Milla. Her back was turned, still engrossed
in her social feed. Simon looked up at Beck’s expectant eyes, a dangerous idea
twisting around in his brain. He beckoned her closer, and as she raised her
hand level with her face…
He rolled back his sleeve, offering his sauce-covered arm
toward her.
Beck’s eyes rounded; she shook her head hard, her brown hair
fanning out. But Simon only grinned and walked closer to her, standing on the
very heel of her hand, only a few inches from her lips. “I’m still feeling a
little brave,” he whispered to her, holding his arm out once more.
Beck chewed her lip, a pained look crawling across her
pretty face. But she glanced back at Milla—then ducked her head down, pressing
her mouth against Simon’s arm and upper chest. At first it was only a kiss,
like they’d shared before. But after only a moment the suction increased as
Beck slurped his arm into her mouth all the way up to the shoulder, quickly
sucking every last drop of sauce off his skin. For a brief instant Simon
thought he might be drawn inside her mouth completely; instead, she broke the
kiss, red in the face and covering her mouth with her other hand. As if on
marionette strings, they both turned back towards Milla—mercifully, her back
was still turned. Soft tinny music was playing from her phone; she was watching
a music video.
“Fear and delight, all the way through the night, with a
little derring-do…”
Simon stifled a giggle; Beck did too, hissing laughter
behind her cupped hand. There was something wonderful about sharing a secret.
But this went beyond that. Was this how normal-sized teenagers felt, sneaking
around, stealing kisses? It didn’t matter. Whatever the feeling was, it was exhilarating.
“This better not become a habit,” Beck had said—only half-joking.
It was too late for that now. Simon wanted more. He would
always want more.