In twenty-seven years of walking around unseen — a number Simon tries hir very best not to think about, because there's always the danger that that math (counted out on Allie's fingers, seasons added to siestas, like it wasn't the worst thing Simon'd ever heard) will actually, finally drive hir insane — Simon's accumulated a bit of a collection of stuff.
Not stolen maliciously, of course, just... sweaters taken off the backs of chairs, turning just as invisible the moment they're draped across Simon's shoulders. Ze'd tested that, a bit, a couple years in. Seen if ze could toss a sheet over hir head and walk around all classic halloween ghost, actually be seen — like it'd be that easy. It wasn't. More comfortable clothes than the ones ze'd died in were a good consolation prize.
So there's an ever-growing pile of clothes in the closet of the empty room ze's been crashing in for more than a decade. (Since, ze knows now, its owner — whoever that'd been — had been tugged back to the land of the living to play ball against an evil peanut's army, and subsequently disappeared.) It's only an issue now that ze's not invisible. Ze never thought, before, about who's things ze was grabbing; now, ze can barely go a day without —
"Si, dude, is that my sweatshirt?"
José's voice is light enough that Simon can knock away the instinctive spike of anxiety. It's not an accusation, just a question; José's smiling with his eyebrows raised when Simon turns to look at him.
"Uhhhhh," ze says, eloquently. Fights the urge to shove hir hands in the sweatshirt's pockets and curl into hirself, and the opposite urge to take off the sweatshirt, toss it at José, and run away. Ze might not be the best at socializing yet, but ze's pretty sure either of those would send the wrong message. Instead, ze smiles back at José. "Probably? Sorry, man, should've put your name on it if you didn't want ghosts stealing it."
José laughs. Like, actually laughs, like Simon's telling a joke that ze has somehow managed to entirely miss despite being the one telling it. Ze suddenly feels deeply, horribly lost, but ze just tilts hir head at José, waiting for some kind of explanation.
"Oh, I thought — just, y'know, my name kinda is on it? Was my team jacket, and the Wings thought it was a good idea to, like, do the whole jersey thing with the names and numbers on the back of those, too, you know?"
Ze resists the urge to twist hir entire torso to look at the back of the jacket and confirm that Haley is written there in big capital letters — there's no reason José'd be lying, and ze feels hir face heating up, cheeks almost definitely turning a bright enough red that even the dim lights of the kitchen couldn't hide it.
"Oooookay, I — uh, I did not notice that, sorry, dude — if you want it back, obvi you can have it, that's, like, totally my bad!" Ze's rambling. Ze can feel hirself rambling, and despite hir brain firmly telling hir mouth to shut up, please, holy shit, it just keeps going, until José cuts in.
"Dude. Chill." José's hand lands on Simon's shoulder. Simon finds hir nerves dissipating, even if just for a second — ze'll surely be freaking out about this whole conversation again once ze's back in hir room trying to explain it to Roto, but for now, it's fine. "Seriously, don't even worry about it. You've had it for years at this point, it's yours! No worries!"
The sleeves of the sweatshirt fall way past Simon's hands; ze curls hir fingers up in the fabric, trying to force the smile on hir face to feel natural. (Ze used to be good at this shit. Talking to people. Flirting with them, even. Twenty-seven years taking its fuckin' toll again, turning hir into a total disaster.) "Cool," ze says. Ze means to follow it up with something else, a thank you or a hey Roto says I should just like ask you your intentions or some shit or a I'm gonna make dinner, wanna join, but ze doesn't settle on an option soon enough, and the words stick in hir throat.
"Cool," José echoes, grinning wide. He leaves, presumably continuing on his way to wherever he was going before Simon's sweatshirt theft sidetracked him, and Simon is left standing there, staring into thin air.
