Fic: Five People Simon Irving Never Had Sex With
Title: Five People Simon Irving Never Had Sex With
Fandom: Son of Interflux
Rating: For Most Ages
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and am just playing with them. If the Internet is right, fanfiction is several centuries old. It's tradition!
Summary: It didn't feel right...
Wendy Orr
The moment Simon stepped into the cafe, Phil grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into one of the corner booths.
"How did it go?" he demanded. Simon blinked a few times, trying to figure what would elicit such a high degree of excitement from his best friend.
"Um...what?"
"Come on!" Phil nearly shouted, attracting a few curious stares. "You think Sotirios didn't tell me about how you and Wendy left the prom for a New York hotel?" This part was in a lower volume, such that the people whose attention had already been caught had a reason to try and listen in. "So, how'd it go?"
"It, um, didn't." Phil's face fell.
"She's been all over you for months, Simon! You spent months mooning over her; how can you say something like that when you're a boyfriend?"
Simon ducked his head, trying to avoid Phil's gaze. "She dragged me to a hotel and wanted to...well, you know."
"And you said NO?" Phil demanded. "Simon, I've been forced to live vicariously through you, but that doesn't work if you don't live. What in the world made you say no?"
"...It just didn't...feel right."
"You're eighteen, Simon! Sex is all you're supposed to be thinking of."
Simon scowled. "This is why I didn't want to talk with you about this. I knew you'd react this way. At least Sam understands."
"Sam's crazy," Phil replied, dismissing Sam Stavrinidis' opinion with a wave of his hand. "And so are you. I don't even know why I bother."
"Neither do I," Simon muttered.
*
Sotirios Stavrinidis
Phil was drunk. Simon would have known that even if Phil hadn't had an empty six pack next to him, even if Phil's breath didn't smell like an octo, and even if he weren't slurring. Because drunk Phil forgot that he'd sworn off listening to hormones.
"Y'ever think about S't'rios?"
Phil took a careful seat next to Phil, avoiding spilled beer and the wide area that constituted drunk Phil's personal space. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, ev'ry'n thinks he's hot stuff. Girls, B'rb'ra...y'think he's cute?"
"...I guess. I mean, he's obviously got to be attractive."
"I d'n't mean obj't'vly, just, y'know...I knew him longer than any of those girls, y'know," Phil replied sulkily.
"I don't know what to tell you," Simon said.
"Y'ever look at'm? Thought about'm in that way?"
Simon took a deep breath. "I can honestly say I never have."
"Really?" Phil asked, sitting up, startled. "Oh. Guess it's j'st me, then..."
*
Phil Baldwin
Simon had known for several months, objectively, that Phil Baldwin was probably gay. His occasional drunken mooning over Sam, combined with an unwillingness to pursue any woman, made it almost certain that he was at least a little gay, if only for Sotirios.
And then Phil had to go and prove that he wasn't just gay for Sam Satvrinidis.
Simon, panicking, pulled back from the kiss. Almost immediately, he wished he hadn't. Not because he'd enjoyed it, but because Phil looked so devastated.
Shit. Now was not the time for 'I don't know what to tell you.' Now was the time for action.
"Um-"
"No, okay, I get it," Phil muttered. He swiped a hand across his mouth, something Simon wanted to do, if only to get the alcohol taste out of his mouth. "I can't get anyth'ng I want, ev'r. You're j'st a long string of dissap'ntm'nts."
"No, it's not that, Phil." Simon wracked his brain for anything he could say to cheer up Phil, or at least anything he could say that wasn't 'I'll make out with you.' "Look, I...I like you a lot. You're funny, I get along really well with you, and you know me better than anyone."
"So what's the mat'r?" Phil demanded.
"Think about it, Phil. We get along really well. You're about my best friend."
Phil blinked blearily, thought moving slowly through his alcoholic haze, then winced. "I've got potential."
"Sorry. Look, you just need someone who you maybe don't get along with all the time. Maybe someone who thinks you're crazy, or who drives you nuts."
Phil scowled. "I know you're talkin' ab't S't'rios. And it's a stupid ide'. He's n'ver giv'n any indi-sign of-"
"Sotirios is an idiot. Do you remember how much effort it took Barbara to catch his attention? What makes you think he'd notice you silently mooning over him?"
"I k'ssed him," Phil said.
"What? When?"
Phil mumbled something in reply. "I'm sorry, what?"
"We were six."
Simon took a few deep breaths, reminding himself that physical and emotional attraction made idiots out of everyone. Even Querada, he was certain, would lose his cool faced with the...his brain shut down trying to imagine what sort of person could arouse Emile Querada.
"Phil. I'm going to tell you a story. When Querada was a teacher at NYU, he had a student who always assumed Querada remembered who he was. But Querada didn't have time to remember every student he had, so one day, the student got arrested and thought to call Querada from jail, and because Querada didn't remember him, he is still in prison!"
Phil watched Simon with awe as he told the story. At the end, his jaw was hanging open. "I've never noticed. When you tell Querada stories, you sound just like him. Stop it. It's creepy."
"But do you get my point? Sam does not have a photographic memory. Expecting him to remember something that happened when you were six is pretending he is not a moron. Why don't you just kiss him now?"
"B'cause he's visiting his grandparents in Athens."
*
Emile Querada
It had been a surprise when Emile Querada had arrived at NYU. The explanation had been short and typical. "If you do not have Querada to teach you, you will believe you are a good artist, and THIS IS NOT TRUE! You are TERRIBLE, and must be reminded of this fact until you are as old as Querada."
Having Emile Querada as one's faculty adviser was a harrowing experience, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the rumors he heard after it got out that Querada had been his teacher in high school.
It was mortifying, all the more so because Querada seemed completely unaware of the whispers.
Eventually, it drove him to confront the man in his office.
Querada had simply raised one eyebrow, uncharacteristically still. He had thought for a few moments, and then ordered Simon to leave.
The next day, in class, Querada had stood before the class, stretched to his full six foot-eight height.
"I am, perhaps rightfully so, a famous artist," he announced. "Because of this fame, and because of the genius that inspires it, people often abuse Querada. People start rumors about Querada. They say I am mad, and I do not care, because genius is madness. They call me a violent psychopath."
He paused, glanced down, and then hurled his lectern out an open window. "I will not comment on people who say such things. There are even people who say that Querada has deviant tastes. Querada does not listen because what Querada does in his bedroom is not their business, unless Querada frames it and hangs it on a wall!
"But, I have lately heard rumors on this campus that disturb me. I have heard implications that shake me to my very core. I do not care what people believe about my mental state, my violence, or my extra-curricular activities. But I will not tolerate people implying that Querada has such ABOMINABLE TASTE as to be having SEX with SIMON IRVING! IF I EVER HEAR SUCH A THING AGAIN, I WILL FAIL ALL OF YOU! Now, Mr. Kessler! You have a canvas for me! Go!"
It might have embarrassed Simon to be so publicly rejected by any person, man, woman, or professor. But frankly, as much as he respected Emile Querada, it was comforting to know the man harbored no more than platonic, or possibly artistic, affection for him.
*
Johnny Zull
Up until the moment he agreed to it, Simon would have never believed he would agree to live in a slum apartment with Johnny Zull. He never really understood why he'd agreed to it, but by the next semester, he was in love with the place.
Johnny was half-right; the people he found in and around the depths of the city made for really interesting imagery. He couldn't understand the allure of failing utilities, and Johnny, by the middle of February, agreed.
And whether he practiced as Jonathan Zulanovitch or Johnny Zull, Johnny filled the apartment with the constant sounds of the guitar. Surprisingly, even the underground rock music was soothing.
The third day into spring break, Simon looked up from his art history reading after the fifteenth time he'd read the same paragraph. Why couldn't he concentrate? Yes, he was annoyed that his plans had fallen through, but it wasn't like sitting in the middle of New York City was any worse than getting drunk and being mauled by crowds of college students in Florida.
He grabbed his cell phone and dialed. If he wasn't going to be getting work done, he might as well not be bored out of his mind.
"Hello?"
"Sam? What are you doing on Phil's-oh."
"Hm? I thought this was my phone. Hey, Simon. You're not dragging Phil off on some hare-brained scheme, are you? I know you've got an abundance of free time, but some of us have plans for this week."
"No. I'm just bored."
"That's how most hare-brained schemes start."
"Can I just talk to Phil?"
"What if I told you he was...indisposed?" Simon could almost hear Sam raising his eyebrows.
"Just put him on, please."
"Phil!"
After a moment, Simon heard shifting, and then Phil, a little breathless, was on. "Hey. What's up? Querada finally decide to settle?"
Simon scowled, even though he knew Phil couldn't see it. He shouldn't have let the two of them hear about the Querada debacle.
"I'm just bored."
"Weren't you going to Tampa with Johnny?"
"Yes, but then Querada insisted we all produce something over the break. I think he's feeling insecure about his relevance in the modern art world."
"Why do you think that?"
"He broke a lectern with his face."
There was a short pause. "I don't know how you sit in a room with that man without fearing for your life."
"Things are a lot calmer now that he doesn't have a student riling him up by painting camels all the time."
"That man is a maniac; he just liked using my camels as an excuse" Simon heard Sam shout in the background.
"So, how's the art coming?"
"It isn't, really," Simon sighed. "Any time I try to get work done, I find myself getting distracted. There's too much noise around here."
"Simon, your roommate is an underground rocker. He practically defines 'too much noise'."
"Then maybe it's too quiet! I don't know what to-oh."
"What was that 'oh'?"
"Nothing. Look, I got to go. Querada told us a story about a student who put off painting so he could drink and party in Florida, so he was suffocated by a woman's breast implants."
"Sam's told me no one's ever found proof that people who don't listen to Querada die."
"I gotta get to work anyway." Simon hung up before Phil could protest, and then dove into his dresser. It took him twenty minutes to find what he was looking for, but when he did, it insured that he would be productive, or at least as productive as he normally was.
On Saturday, when Johnny, loaded down with his guitar and duffel, nudged open the door to the apartment, it was to the sounds of Jonathan Zulanovitvh's senior recital.
"Man, if you'd told me you didn't have any tapes with real music on them, I totally would have fixed you up!" Johnny dropped his duffel, carefully laid down his guitar, and knocked the stereo to turn off the classical music filling the apartment. "How'd you even get this?"
"Nathan Kruppman. He owed me for nearly killing me that one time."
"If I weren't opposed to diluting my essential sound by recording it, I'd totally get you a tape of me playing real music."
"No, it's all right," Simon replied. "I just needed something to keep my mind occupied when you-during the week."
Johnny shrugged. "Cool, man. But I can get you some better music than me playing this classical stuff."
"No! I like you playing that classical stuff." Simon turned away from Johnny, ostensibly to put his palette down, but largely to hide the flush that had started building the moment Johnny had walked into the room. "I'm just used to hearing you play while I'm working here."
"Really?" At the sight of the surprised, ecstatic grin on Johnny's face, Simon's heart beat just a little faster. "I always thought it was pretty cool how you'd start a fight for me, but that's...wow."
"I guess it's a lab partner thing."
Johnny shook his head. "No, man. Lab partners listen to your music even if you suck. Lab partners support you because that's what they do. You, man, are a fan. My first real fan, too."
"Yeah. I guess I am." Simon grinned in response, uncaring if he happened to look foolish. "Anyway, I was about to start dinner. What do you want?"
"You've been here a week by yourself. That's not cool. I'll make it."
"So...macaroni and cheese?"
Johnny laughed. "Exactly. You just relax."
Simon watched Johnny until he disappeared into the kitchen, then glanced back at his painting. He wondered what Querada would say if Simon told him he had a muse.
Fandom: Son of Interflux
Rating: For Most Ages
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and am just playing with them. If the Internet is right, fanfiction is several centuries old. It's tradition!
Summary: It didn't feel right...
Wendy Orr
The moment Simon stepped into the cafe, Phil grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into one of the corner booths.
"How did it go?" he demanded. Simon blinked a few times, trying to figure what would elicit such a high degree of excitement from his best friend.
"Um...what?"
"Come on!" Phil nearly shouted, attracting a few curious stares. "You think Sotirios didn't tell me about how you and Wendy left the prom for a New York hotel?" This part was in a lower volume, such that the people whose attention had already been caught had a reason to try and listen in. "So, how'd it go?"
"It, um, didn't." Phil's face fell.
"She's been all over you for months, Simon! You spent months mooning over her; how can you say something like that when you're a boyfriend?"
Simon ducked his head, trying to avoid Phil's gaze. "She dragged me to a hotel and wanted to...well, you know."
"And you said NO?" Phil demanded. "Simon, I've been forced to live vicariously through you, but that doesn't work if you don't live. What in the world made you say no?"
"...It just didn't...feel right."
"You're eighteen, Simon! Sex is all you're supposed to be thinking of."
Simon scowled. "This is why I didn't want to talk with you about this. I knew you'd react this way. At least Sam understands."
"Sam's crazy," Phil replied, dismissing Sam Stavrinidis' opinion with a wave of his hand. "And so are you. I don't even know why I bother."
"Neither do I," Simon muttered.
*
Sotirios Stavrinidis
Phil was drunk. Simon would have known that even if Phil hadn't had an empty six pack next to him, even if Phil's breath didn't smell like an octo, and even if he weren't slurring. Because drunk Phil forgot that he'd sworn off listening to hormones.
"Y'ever think about S't'rios?"
Phil took a careful seat next to Phil, avoiding spilled beer and the wide area that constituted drunk Phil's personal space. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, ev'ry'n thinks he's hot stuff. Girls, B'rb'ra...y'think he's cute?"
"...I guess. I mean, he's obviously got to be attractive."
"I d'n't mean obj't'vly, just, y'know...I knew him longer than any of those girls, y'know," Phil replied sulkily.
"I don't know what to tell you," Simon said.
"Y'ever look at'm? Thought about'm in that way?"
Simon took a deep breath. "I can honestly say I never have."
"Really?" Phil asked, sitting up, startled. "Oh. Guess it's j'st me, then..."
*
Phil Baldwin
Simon had known for several months, objectively, that Phil Baldwin was probably gay. His occasional drunken mooning over Sam, combined with an unwillingness to pursue any woman, made it almost certain that he was at least a little gay, if only for Sotirios.
And then Phil had to go and prove that he wasn't just gay for Sam Satvrinidis.
Simon, panicking, pulled back from the kiss. Almost immediately, he wished he hadn't. Not because he'd enjoyed it, but because Phil looked so devastated.
Shit. Now was not the time for 'I don't know what to tell you.' Now was the time for action.
"Um-"
"No, okay, I get it," Phil muttered. He swiped a hand across his mouth, something Simon wanted to do, if only to get the alcohol taste out of his mouth. "I can't get anyth'ng I want, ev'r. You're j'st a long string of dissap'ntm'nts."
"No, it's not that, Phil." Simon wracked his brain for anything he could say to cheer up Phil, or at least anything he could say that wasn't 'I'll make out with you.' "Look, I...I like you a lot. You're funny, I get along really well with you, and you know me better than anyone."
"So what's the mat'r?" Phil demanded.
"Think about it, Phil. We get along really well. You're about my best friend."
Phil blinked blearily, thought moving slowly through his alcoholic haze, then winced. "I've got potential."
"Sorry. Look, you just need someone who you maybe don't get along with all the time. Maybe someone who thinks you're crazy, or who drives you nuts."
Phil scowled. "I know you're talkin' ab't S't'rios. And it's a stupid ide'. He's n'ver giv'n any indi-sign of-"
"Sotirios is an idiot. Do you remember how much effort it took Barbara to catch his attention? What makes you think he'd notice you silently mooning over him?"
"I k'ssed him," Phil said.
"What? When?"
Phil mumbled something in reply. "I'm sorry, what?"
"We were six."
Simon took a few deep breaths, reminding himself that physical and emotional attraction made idiots out of everyone. Even Querada, he was certain, would lose his cool faced with the...his brain shut down trying to imagine what sort of person could arouse Emile Querada.
"Phil. I'm going to tell you a story. When Querada was a teacher at NYU, he had a student who always assumed Querada remembered who he was. But Querada didn't have time to remember every student he had, so one day, the student got arrested and thought to call Querada from jail, and because Querada didn't remember him, he is still in prison!"
Phil watched Simon with awe as he told the story. At the end, his jaw was hanging open. "I've never noticed. When you tell Querada stories, you sound just like him. Stop it. It's creepy."
"But do you get my point? Sam does not have a photographic memory. Expecting him to remember something that happened when you were six is pretending he is not a moron. Why don't you just kiss him now?"
"B'cause he's visiting his grandparents in Athens."
*
Emile Querada
It had been a surprise when Emile Querada had arrived at NYU. The explanation had been short and typical. "If you do not have Querada to teach you, you will believe you are a good artist, and THIS IS NOT TRUE! You are TERRIBLE, and must be reminded of this fact until you are as old as Querada."
Having Emile Querada as one's faculty adviser was a harrowing experience, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the rumors he heard after it got out that Querada had been his teacher in high school.
It was mortifying, all the more so because Querada seemed completely unaware of the whispers.
Eventually, it drove him to confront the man in his office.
Querada had simply raised one eyebrow, uncharacteristically still. He had thought for a few moments, and then ordered Simon to leave.
The next day, in class, Querada had stood before the class, stretched to his full six foot-eight height.
"I am, perhaps rightfully so, a famous artist," he announced. "Because of this fame, and because of the genius that inspires it, people often abuse Querada. People start rumors about Querada. They say I am mad, and I do not care, because genius is madness. They call me a violent psychopath."
He paused, glanced down, and then hurled his lectern out an open window. "I will not comment on people who say such things. There are even people who say that Querada has deviant tastes. Querada does not listen because what Querada does in his bedroom is not their business, unless Querada frames it and hangs it on a wall!
"But, I have lately heard rumors on this campus that disturb me. I have heard implications that shake me to my very core. I do not care what people believe about my mental state, my violence, or my extra-curricular activities. But I will not tolerate people implying that Querada has such ABOMINABLE TASTE as to be having SEX with SIMON IRVING! IF I EVER HEAR SUCH A THING AGAIN, I WILL FAIL ALL OF YOU! Now, Mr. Kessler! You have a canvas for me! Go!"
It might have embarrassed Simon to be so publicly rejected by any person, man, woman, or professor. But frankly, as much as he respected Emile Querada, it was comforting to know the man harbored no more than platonic, or possibly artistic, affection for him.
*
Johnny Zull
Up until the moment he agreed to it, Simon would have never believed he would agree to live in a slum apartment with Johnny Zull. He never really understood why he'd agreed to it, but by the next semester, he was in love with the place.
Johnny was half-right; the people he found in and around the depths of the city made for really interesting imagery. He couldn't understand the allure of failing utilities, and Johnny, by the middle of February, agreed.
And whether he practiced as Jonathan Zulanovitch or Johnny Zull, Johnny filled the apartment with the constant sounds of the guitar. Surprisingly, even the underground rock music was soothing.
The third day into spring break, Simon looked up from his art history reading after the fifteenth time he'd read the same paragraph. Why couldn't he concentrate? Yes, he was annoyed that his plans had fallen through, but it wasn't like sitting in the middle of New York City was any worse than getting drunk and being mauled by crowds of college students in Florida.
He grabbed his cell phone and dialed. If he wasn't going to be getting work done, he might as well not be bored out of his mind.
"Hello?"
"Sam? What are you doing on Phil's-oh."
"Hm? I thought this was my phone. Hey, Simon. You're not dragging Phil off on some hare-brained scheme, are you? I know you've got an abundance of free time, but some of us have plans for this week."
"No. I'm just bored."
"That's how most hare-brained schemes start."
"Can I just talk to Phil?"
"What if I told you he was...indisposed?" Simon could almost hear Sam raising his eyebrows.
"Just put him on, please."
"Phil!"
After a moment, Simon heard shifting, and then Phil, a little breathless, was on. "Hey. What's up? Querada finally decide to settle?"
Simon scowled, even though he knew Phil couldn't see it. He shouldn't have let the two of them hear about the Querada debacle.
"I'm just bored."
"Weren't you going to Tampa with Johnny?"
"Yes, but then Querada insisted we all produce something over the break. I think he's feeling insecure about his relevance in the modern art world."
"Why do you think that?"
"He broke a lectern with his face."
There was a short pause. "I don't know how you sit in a room with that man without fearing for your life."
"Things are a lot calmer now that he doesn't have a student riling him up by painting camels all the time."
"That man is a maniac; he just liked using my camels as an excuse" Simon heard Sam shout in the background.
"So, how's the art coming?"
"It isn't, really," Simon sighed. "Any time I try to get work done, I find myself getting distracted. There's too much noise around here."
"Simon, your roommate is an underground rocker. He practically defines 'too much noise'."
"Then maybe it's too quiet! I don't know what to-oh."
"What was that 'oh'?"
"Nothing. Look, I got to go. Querada told us a story about a student who put off painting so he could drink and party in Florida, so he was suffocated by a woman's breast implants."
"Sam's told me no one's ever found proof that people who don't listen to Querada die."
"I gotta get to work anyway." Simon hung up before Phil could protest, and then dove into his dresser. It took him twenty minutes to find what he was looking for, but when he did, it insured that he would be productive, or at least as productive as he normally was.
On Saturday, when Johnny, loaded down with his guitar and duffel, nudged open the door to the apartment, it was to the sounds of Jonathan Zulanovitvh's senior recital.
"Man, if you'd told me you didn't have any tapes with real music on them, I totally would have fixed you up!" Johnny dropped his duffel, carefully laid down his guitar, and knocked the stereo to turn off the classical music filling the apartment. "How'd you even get this?"
"Nathan Kruppman. He owed me for nearly killing me that one time."
"If I weren't opposed to diluting my essential sound by recording it, I'd totally get you a tape of me playing real music."
"No, it's all right," Simon replied. "I just needed something to keep my mind occupied when you-during the week."
Johnny shrugged. "Cool, man. But I can get you some better music than me playing this classical stuff."
"No! I like you playing that classical stuff." Simon turned away from Johnny, ostensibly to put his palette down, but largely to hide the flush that had started building the moment Johnny had walked into the room. "I'm just used to hearing you play while I'm working here."
"Really?" At the sight of the surprised, ecstatic grin on Johnny's face, Simon's heart beat just a little faster. "I always thought it was pretty cool how you'd start a fight for me, but that's...wow."
"I guess it's a lab partner thing."
Johnny shook his head. "No, man. Lab partners listen to your music even if you suck. Lab partners support you because that's what they do. You, man, are a fan. My first real fan, too."
"Yeah. I guess I am." Simon grinned in response, uncaring if he happened to look foolish. "Anyway, I was about to start dinner. What do you want?"
"You've been here a week by yourself. That's not cool. I'll make it."
"So...macaroni and cheese?"
Johnny laughed. "Exactly. You just relax."
Simon watched Johnny until he disappeared into the kitchen, then glanced back at his painting. He wondered what Querada would say if Simon told him he had a muse.