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Simon’s had a pretty screwed outlook on the notion of ‘home’ since he was seventeen and his dad closed the door on him for the first time. That was his dad trying scare tactics, with his mum’s reluctant acceptance; throw the boy out for a few nights, see if that doesn’t teach him not to mess around with drugs.
It didn’t teach him. He didn’t go back.
He thought he found home in a bedsit with a brown-skinned boy who liked coke and microwave meals; he kissed Simon properly, but only when they were high. He turned out to be better than Simon knew, tried to get them both off it, tried to get them clean and in work and making livings. Simon relapsed hard. The brown-skinned boy left Simon, when Simon left him for needles.
Okay, so then home was sofa-surfing, adventures, home was a fire in an underpass and the older man who liked to inject Simon, liked to watch the rush, the bliss flutter over his face. Home was briefly America, where he bought a leather jacket, looked cool going down the streets with stubble on his jaw, where he sold the leather jacket so he could buy heroin.
Home was the shelter with the addiction meetings, seeing clearly for the first time in years, off-white walls, no touching policy, ignoring the no touching policy. Home was their promise he could always come see them if he needed help and that he had to come to the meetings anyway it’s just they really couldn’t keep him on, other people needed beds too, didn’t he have somewhere to stay?
Home was the relapse that killed him, the satisfaction of knowing he was right that life was a waste and love even more so, the fact that no one was gonna find his body for days, that his family didn’t know where he was, that he’d shed all his friends and lovers like dead skin. In balance with this life, this death.
He cycled through other homes. The grave, the treatment center, each place grimmer than the last, then childhood home again, with his childhood curtains and childhood bedsheets and his angry, devastated father, and Simon hadn’t had a craving for drugs since he died, but he’d wanted to crave them then.
Julian’s flat, that was home. His bed was too, briefly, but Simon grew quickly, knew that they had the makings of a brilliant partnership but not as any kind of lovers, which was fine, because Simon often felt more like he was trying to dredge away his loneliness by doing that, more than anything else.
The commune. His longest, most steadfast home. All his followers, who liked his speeches, his songs, who argued with him over Manchester United and car racing… Simon felt a particular kind of peace there, a singular sort of calm, even when police vans and HVF supporters would come rolling through and they had to go quiet and Simon had to explain that theirs was a peaceful, legal commune, that they had the right to live how they pleased.
The bungalow. Didn’t even really feel like home. Kept his picture of his mum on the dresser to try and make it feel a bit more like that, to remind himself of his mission, of everything.
Kieren Walker. Simon’s mind gets so clear around him, everything coming into focus so sharply that he gets a headache. Funny joke, undead with a headache. Kieren was like a crick in his neck that he couldn’t shake, then Kieren was the beating heart in his chest, skipping sometimes, defiant, unending, brave. His kisses tasted like dying flowers might, dry and fragrant. He was not patient or kind with Simon. He hung on a thread, unforgiving, certain of the ways of things, uncertain of Simon’s mission.
So, of course, Simon fell in love with him completely, found a home by burrowing into his skin, kissing Siken and Yeats and Neruda into the space behind his knees, down his spine, his hips, over scars. Kieren wasn’t the one with words, preferred to paint, and used his fingers for that, marking portraits of affection on his wrists, stomach, over exposed bone, inside Simon, making him breath harder, making him arch his back, fists ruining the pillow.
They’re not anywhere special. It’s the bungalow. They could be in the bedsit, the commune, Julian’s flat, his childhood bedroom; here, Simon has come to the conclusion that it’s not the location that makes the home, it’s this, it’s the boy with the golden hair and the beautiful bone structure and the big, delicate eyes, it’s being on his back, on his front, twisted onto his side, it’s coming with their hands linked, being fucked or doing the fucking. It’s kissing. It’s reading books. It’s Kieren finding a guitar in a charity shop and buying it because he wants to hear Simon play, says, play Nirvana or The Cure or something so Simon plays The Smiths and sings in Kieren’s ear, against the curve of his throat.
It’s forgiveness, for the things Simon has done, for the things he will do. Kieren’s heart never changes, never wavers; only over time he’s much less discerning, letting Simon get away with things he shouldn’t in the name of love, like hiding Blue Oblivion in drawers and preaching words of trouble. Kieren forgives Simon for the knife. Holds his hand at the funerals. Home becomes the person enveloping Simon in care and relief.
Home becomes kissing Kieren in the dark and not thinking about inevitable foreclosure.
Home becomes the fear of losing him.