Chapter 20: Pineapples and Living Arrangements
The pizza box sat open between them on the rug, a greasy altar to their indecision. Pepperoni and pineapple mingled in a contentious, savory-sweet mess that Jason defended passionately. Simon, who had capitulated to the tropical intrusion after the sensor-suit morning, nibbled at a slice with a distracted air.
The single living room bulb cast a warm, low pool of light, leaving the corners of the room—the exposed brick, the piles of half-assembled prototypes, the whiteboard dense with equations—in soft shadow. The smell of burnt popcorn from a late-night experiment earlier still clung to the air, layered now with oregano and cheese. It was cozy. It was theirs.
Jason licked a strand of cheese from his thumb and leaned back against the sofa. “Your algorithm for optimal topping distribution is flawed. You can’t just cluster the pineapple in one quadrant.”
“It’s a controlled variable group,” Simon argued, his eyes not on the pizza but on Jason’s relaxed posture. “You need a pure sample area for comparison.”
“You’re comparing it to grease. That’s not science, it’s heresy.”
Simon smiled, but it was fleeting. He set his half-eaten slice down and began fiddling with the crust, tearing off tiny pieces. The nervous energy was different from his usual focused intensity. This was jittery, un-channeled.
Jason watched him. “You’re thinking about the glove calibration. The pressure gradients.”
“No,” Simon said quietly. He took a breath, as if steeling himself for a circuit that might short out. “I’m thinking about your sublet. The one with the mold problem and the roommate who steals your socks.”
Jason’s easy smile faded a bit. “It’s temporary. I’ll find something else after the incubator payout. If we win.”
“If we win,” Simon echoed, but his tone suggested he’d already moved past that binary. He looked up, his sharp blue eyes finding Jason’s. The laptop with the sensor data was closed nearby, a silent witness. “I was running a different kind of analysis today. Observational. Logistical.”
“Okay,” Jason said, setting his own slice down.
Simon’s fingers stilled on the crust. He cleared his throat. The words came out measured, as if he was reading them from a script he’d rehearsed in his head. “I was considering your current living and financial situation.” He paused, swallowing. “I believe a valid solution might be for the subject to live with the researcher in his empty house?”
The room got very quiet. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen seemed to grow louder. Jason, mid-chew on a new bite, stopped. His hazel eyes widened. He set the pizza down slowly.
Simon’s face flushed a deep, brilliant red. He looked down at his ruined crust, his earlier confidence evaporating. “It’s a two-story. The upstairs is… empty. Just a bed and some boxes. It’s inefficient. And you’re here most days anyway, for the project. The commute from your place is thirty-five minutes by bus. From here, it’s zero. The financial burden would be reduced significantly. It’s a logical optimization of resources.”
He was spiraling into technicalities, a defensive fortress of logic.
Jason stared at him. A slow, unstoppable grin began to spread across his face, transforming his expression from surprise to a deep, warm amusement. “Simon,” he said, his voice soft. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”
Simon’s blush deepened. He shrugged, a feeble gesture. “In a strictly collaborative, resource-sharing sense.”
Jason reached across the pizza box. His hand closed over Simon’s, stopping the destructive fidgeting. He gently took the mangled crust from Simon’s fingers. “You’re offering me a room. In your house.”
“Yes.”
“Because of mold and sock theft.”
“And thirty-five minute bus commutes. And the inefficient use of space.”
Jason held the crust, a tangible, silly token of the moment. He looked at Simon’s anxious face, the earnest hope hiding behind the technical jargon. He thought about the sensor suit, the harness, the way Simon had mapped his laughter like a precious discovery. He thought about burnt toast and shared coffee and the quiet hum of this house that already felt more like home than his own damp sublet.
“It’s a big ask,” Jason said finally, his tone thoughtful. “Sharing space. It changes the… collaboration parameters.”
Simon nodded vigorously, back in safe territory. “We’d need to establish protocols. Cleaning rotations. Noise boundaries. Although,” he added, his voice dropping, “the sensor data suggests our circadian rhythms are already remarkably synchronized.”
Jason’s grin returned. He took a bite of the stolen crust, chewing slowly. “I’ll think about it,” he said, his voice a low, warm promise.
Simon’s shoulders loosened. The tight anxiety in his frame dissolved into something softer, hopeful. He didn’t push. He simply nodded again, picking up his pizza slice once more, though he didn’t eat it. He just held it, looking at Jason as if he was the solution to a much more complex equation than any on his whiteboard.
Jason leaned back, finishing the crust. The pineapple on his own slice tasted brighter, sweeter. The room felt warmer. The empty upstairs, just a bed and boxes, suddenly held a tangible future in his mind. Not just a room, but a shared life, with all its messy, brilliant, ticklish possibilities.
He reached for another slice. “But my first protocol,” he said, “is that pineapple is never a controlled variable. It’s a mandatory, distributed element.”
Simon finally laughed, a real, unguarded sound that filled the dim room. “Agreed,” he said. “Subject’s dietary preferences override researcher’s flawed sampling methodology.”
They ate the rest of the pizza in comfortable silence, the unspoken offer hanging between them, not as a weight, but as a new, gentle fact of the universe. As solid as the brick walls around them, as certain as the data on the closed laptop, as inevitable as the next breath they took, together, in the warm, dark house.
As solid as the brick walls around them, as certain as the data on the closed laptop, as inevitable as the next breath they took, together, in the warm, dark house.
The fantasy lingered through the night, tangled in sleep and the shared heat of Simon’s bed. Morning, however, arrived with the blunt light of a weekday and the sharp smell of fresh coffee. Jason blinked awake to find Simon already dressed, placing a steaming mug on the nightstand.
“Your alarm’s in seven minutes,” Simon said, his voice scratchy with morning. “I calculated your optimal caffeine intake window.”
Jason groaned, pushing himself up. The memory of the offer—live with the researcher—crashed into him with a pleasant, dizzying force. Then his brain, trained by scarcity, began listing obstacles. “I open at the pub today. Eleven to seven.”
“I know. Your schedule is in my project planner.” Simon sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. “Under ‘Critical Path Dependencies.’”
“Right.” Jason took a gulp of coffee. The burn grounded him. “And I’ve got that thing with my landlord about the leak in the bathroom. The one he says is ‘ambient humidity.’”
“A biological containment breach,” Simon nodded, serious. “It needs addressing.”
“And my lease is month-to-month, but I need to give proper notice. Which means I need boxes. And a plan.” Jason ran a hand through his messy hair. The logistics felt like a wall of static. “It’s a lot of mundane stuff.”
Simon’s fingers tapped a silent rhythm on his knee. He was thinking, his gaze fixed somewhere on Jason’s shoulder. “Mundane things are just un-optimized systems. They can be mapped. Processed.” He looked up, his blue eyes clear and focused. “Do you want to consider the possibility? Truly?”
The question cut through the static. Jason held the warm mug, feeling the ghost of the sensor suit’s traces on his skin, a remembered intimacy. He saw the empty upstairs, the shared chaos, the end of thirty-five minute bus rides in the rain.
“Yeah,” Jason said, the word simple and final. “I do.”
A slow smile broke over Simon’s face, bright and unguarded. “Good. Then we decompose the problem.” He stood up, a new energy in his movements. “Your shift ends at seven thirteen p.m. I will be there at seven twenty. We’ll get food. Then we will draft a project plan for the relocation.”
“A project plan.” Jason couldn’t help but laugh. “For moving my three plates and my weirdly extensive sock collection.”
“For transitioning your primary residence,” Simon corrected, but he was smiling too. “The first step is data gathering. Text your landlord today. Inquire about formal notice procedures. I will source optimal cardboard containers—double-walled for book transport.”
It was absurd. It was incredibly, characteristically Simon. A wave of affection, dense and warm, tightened Jason’s throat. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, deal.”
Later, tying his apron strings behind the bar of The King’s Head, the mundanity felt different. Each wiped surface, each pulled pint, was no longer just a task for rent money. It was a step. A tangible countdown. During a lull, he pulled out his phone, the screen sticky from soda spray.
He stared at his landlord’s contact. Mr. Henderson. The man who called black mold “patina.”
Jason typed, deleted, then typed again, keeping it simple. Hey, need to discuss giving notice for the apartment. What’s the official process?
He hit send. The whoosh sound felt momentous. He slid the phone back into his pocket just as a group of regulars bellied up to the bar, their chatter filling the air. The rest of his shift passed in a blur of clinking glass and familiar faces, but underneath it all was a steady, new hum. A forward momentum.
At seven thirteen exactly, he clocked out. The evening air was cool, sharp with the scent of fried food from the chip shop next door. He saw Simon leaning against the brick wall of the pub, studying something on his phone, his dark hair falling across his forehead.
Simon looked up. His eyes found Jason instantly, and that focused, consuming attention snapped onto him like a guided beam. “You texted him,” Simon said. It wasn’t a question.
“I did.” Jason walked over, the tiredness in his shoulders melting away. “He hasn’t replied yet. Probably consulting a thesaurus for synonyms for ‘penalty fee.’”
Simon pushed off the wall. “Irrelevant. We proceed. I’ve identified three potential sources for free, high-grade moving boxes. The print shop on Elm Street is our primary target. They break down their paper reams on Thursdays.”
He fell into step beside Jason, their shoulders brushing. “We also need to measure your bed frame. My upstairs landing has a ninety-two degree turn. The hypotenuse will be crucial.”
Jason listened, letting the stream of practical, obsessive planning wash over him. It was Simon’s language. His way of saying I want you there. I am making space for you.
“So,” Jason said, nudging Simon’s shoulder with his own as they walked toward the glowing sign of a noodle bar. “What’s the first phase of this project plan called?”
Simon didn’t hesitate. His hand found Jason’s, their fingers lacing together with a natural certainty that still made Jason’s heart stutter. “Phase One,” Simon said, his voice low and sure in the twilight din of the street. “Acquisition.”
The word hung between them, charged and playful, over steaming bowls of dan dan noodles.
When they reached Jason’s apartment building, Simon unbuckled his seatbelt with a sharp click. “ We’re here. We’re assessing what is going to be moved.” He got out, his posture rigid with a new kind of determination. This wasn’t about sensors or data points. This was about Jason.
The hallway of Jason’s building always smelled of overcooked cabbage and mildew. Today, a new note hung in the air: something sour and official. It was a piece of paper, stark white against the chipped green paint of his apartment door, fixed with aggressive strips of clear tape.
Jason stopped, his key halfway to the lock. His stomach dropped.
Simon stepped closer, his shoulder brushing Jason’s as he read the bold, capitalized words aloud, his voice flat. “NOTICE TO VACATE FOR LEASE VIOLATION.” He scanned the dense text. “Failure to attend mandatory unit inspection… continued absence deemed abandonment of premises… seven days to remedy or vacate.” He looked at Jason. “You had an inspection?”
“What? No.” Jason ripped the notice from the door, the paper crinkling in his fist. He fumbled the key into the lock and shoved inside, Simon following. The apartment was cold, the same as ever—his mismatched furniture, the faint, perpetually damp smell. “A mandatory check-in? He never said—I was at your place all weekend. He must have slipped this under the door and called it served.” He let out a shaky breath, a laugh with no humor in it.
“Well. That solves one problem, I guess.” Simon said, but his tone was analytical, not critical. He was already in problem-solving mode, his eyes cataloging the room’s contents. “The timeline is now compressed. Though, significantly. ”
“It’s an eviction, Simon.” Jason sank onto his sagging couch, the notice dangling from his fingers. The reality of it, the sheer finality, began to seep in. The mold, the stolen socks, the thirty-five minute bus ride—it was all being taken off the table by a man who couldn’t be bothered to call.
Simon didn’t offer empty comfort. He walked over and pried the notice from Jason’s grip, laying it carefully on the coffee table. “Then we accelerate Phase One. Immediate asset retrieval. What here is essential? We’ll start there. Before we leave tonight. We photograph everything and record you locking the door when we leave. Given this—” pointing to the notice “—he doesn’t seem to have qualms with playing dirty.”
They worked in a focused, wordless rhythm that felt like an extension of the sensor-suit morning. Simon didn’t just pack; he systematized. Books went into small, manageable boxes to prevent back strain. Kitchenware was wrapped in Jason’s own towels for padding. It was efficient, almost graceful, and it kept the panic at bay.
Jason worked on packing his documents, photographs, bedding, and the remaining clothes
The bed was the last major obstacle. Jason’s full-size frame, a solid thing that his parents helped him purchase when he’d moved into the apartment and found just a twin-sized bed. It dominated the tiny room. “We’ll need tools,” Jason sighed, envisioning stripped screws and splintered wood.
Simon knelt, running his hands along the painted slats of the headboard. “It’s a knock-down design. See these cam locks?” He pointed to plastic fittings where the side rails met the posts. “It’s designed for flat-pack transport. There should be a hex key.”
Jason rummaged in his junk drawer and produced a small, L-shaped piece of metal. “This?”
“Perfect.” Simon took it. His hands moved with a quiet certainty, loosening the fittings with a series of soft clicks. The entire structure sighed, loosening its joints. Within minutes, the headboard detached, then the footboard. The side rails came apart. It was shockingly simple.
“Huh,” Jason said, holding a disassembled post. “I’ve been sleeping on a puzzle this whole time.”
“An inefficiently stored one,” Simon agreed, a faint smile touching his lips. He gestured to the back of Jason’s closet. “That tall, narrow box. Is it empty?”
Jason pulled it out, dust flying. It was long, slender, and sturdy. He looked at the dismantled bed posts, then back at the box. The dimensions were a near-perfect match. “I think this is the box it came in,” he said, wonder in his voice.
Simon’s smile widened, a flash of pure triumph. “See? System recovery. It wants to be packed.” They slotted the pieces into the box, a satisfying, complete fit. The monolithic problem of the bed became a single, manageable container.
They loaded everything they’d packed into the hatchback as the streetlights flickered on. Jason took one final look at the empty, echoing room. The ghost of his old life was just stains on the carpet and a faint smell of neglect.
The ghost of his old life was just stains on the carpet and a faint smell of neglect. Jason pulled the door shut, the click of the lock final and hollow. He didn’t look back.
Simon’s hatchback was packed to the ceiling with boxes, the suspension sagging. They slid into the front seats, the interior smelling of dust and old pizza. For a long moment, Jason just stared at the steering wheel, his keys dangling from his fingers.
“You okay?” Simon’s voice was quiet, a neutral prompt for data.
“Yeah. Just feels weird.” Jason started the car, the engine rattling. “Like I’m escaping a crime scene.”
“You are. The crime was substandard insulation and contractual bad faith.” Simon pulled out his phone, opening a notes app. “The immediate environment is hostile. Extraction was correct.”
The drive through the darkened streets was a blur of neon and shadow. Jason’s mind replayed the notice taped to his door, the impersonal cruelty of it. His knuckles were white on the wheel.
Simon watched him for a few blocks, his analytical gaze missing nothing. He finally broke the silence, his tone shifting into practical planning. “We have secured clothing, critical documents, kitchen essentials, and the bed structure.” He tapped his screen. “A preliminary inventory. We should conduct a final audit of the remaining assets at the location.”
“There’s not much left,” Jason said, turning onto Simon’s street. The familiar brick house was a dark silhouette against the sky. “Just the crappy couch the previous tenant left. The wobbly bookshelf. Though we could technically leave those. Some cleaning supplies under the sink. My mattress probably, though I can ask my dad for some help there —he’s got a pickup… shit i still need to tell them about this.”
Simon nodded
Jason pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. The sudden quiet was heavy. He looked at Simon, who was waiting for an answer, his blue eyes reflecting the dashboard light.
“My bike,” Jason said, counting on his fingers. “The tool kit my dad gave me. Maybe the floor lamp? It’s actually pretty good.” He sighed, the exhaustion hitting him. “That’s maybe… two-four more boxes, incase I’m forgetting something? The bike can come with the mattress.”
“Four boxes,” Simon confirmed, typing it in. “We can source them tomorrow. You can contact your parents about this tomorrow.” He put his phone away and looked at Jason. The clinical focus softened. “You’re here now.”
“I’m here.” Jason let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. The reality of it began to seep in, warmer than the anxiety. “I’m officially a dependent variable.”
“You’re the primary resident,” Simon corrected softly. He reached over, his hand covering Jason’s where it rested on the gear shift. His thumb stroked the knuckle, a simple, grounding pressure. “Let’s get this stuff inside. Then we can sleep.”
They unloaded the car in a quiet, efficient chain. The boxes formed a small fortress in the center of the living room, disrupting the usual chaos. It looked foreign and right. The bed-frame box they left by the stairs, a promise for the morning.
Upstairs, the empty room was cold. Simon flicked on a bare bulb, illuminating the wide-plank floor and the single window looking out over the dark backyard. “We’ll get curtains,” he said, as if reading Jason’s thought.
“It’s big,” Jason said, his voice echoing slightly.
“It’s yours.” Simon leaned in the doorway, watching him explore the space. “Do whatever you want. Paint it. Knock out a wall. Install a hydraulic lift.”
Jason laughed, a real one this time. He walked to the center of the room and turned in a slow circle. The emptiness felt full of potential, not loss. He looked back at Simon, framed in the light from the hall. “I think I’ll start with a bed. And maybe a sock drawer with a lock.”
“Reasonable security protocols,” Simon said, pushing off the doorframe. “I have extra blankets. They’re downstairs.”
They retreated to the familiar territory of Simon’s bedroom, the one that already smelled of both of them. Jason changed into an old t-shirt and sweatpants, the fabric soft against his oversensitive skin. He was buzzing with a tired, wired energy.
Simon was already in bed, the sheets pulled up to his waist. He was staring at the ceiling. “I calculated the square footage ratio between your old apartment and this room,” he said into the dark. “You’re gaining forty-two percent more personal space. For an eighty-nine percent reduction in monthly cost.”
Jason slid in beside him, the warmth a relief. “You’re running numbers in your head right now?”
“Constantly.” Simon turned onto his side, facing him. His expression was serious in the dim light filtering through the window. “Is this going to be okay? Not the math. The… disruption of my systems. My environment is very calibrated.”
Jason knew what he was really asking. He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of Simon’s jaw, a reverse engineering of all the touches Simon’s gloves had mapped on him. “Your system invited the disruption. It wrote the invitation in sensor data and pizza toppings.”
Simon caught his hand, held it. “It did.” He pulled Jason closer, until their foreheads touched. His breath was warm. “Welcome home, subject.”
The words were quiet, but they landed in Jason’s chest with the weight of a finalized equation. He closed his eyes, the last of the day’s chill melting away. Tomorrow there were boxes to get, a bike to move, a room to fill. But here, now, in the steady rhythm of Simon’s breathing, the momentum was finally, peacefully, forward.