TFLN OVERFLOW

[fuckingtragedy]

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[fuckingtragedy]

[ Baz's name flashes on his phone screen. Simon still hasn't changed his custom ringing from Sexbomb, so Tom Jones is echoing full-throated through the shambles of the flat. Fuck. Hell's fucking spells. All right. Simon pounds the last of his current drink (straight bourbon rocks, because why should he even try to fuck around tonight?), and--

He doesn't mean to come off sounding so utterly exhausted, but he is. Between demolishing his kitchen, listen to Baz's voicemail (over and over), and the liquor? Simon's just fucking tired. ]

Yeah?

[ Almost disturbingly neutral, given how his stomach is revolting. ]

[youreflammable]

[Baz meets Simon’s exhaustion with his own. He’s only listened to his voicemail once and that’s quite enough, thank you. This time, though, he’s sober, and his cigarettes and lighter have been confiscated by Lamb.

He debates for a moment before going with a soft,] Simon.

[He swallows; how does he explain everything he dumped on Simon without outright admitting that he’s still in love, like an idiot.]

I meant it, y’know. I know I said it all wrong, but I meant it.

[He sucks in another breath.] I do miss you. And you sound like you want to punch me and that’s fine. I’ve been a right cock.

[fuckingtragedy]

I don't want to punch you.

[ Simon sighs, and rolls off the couch to pour himself another drink. He's swaying while he navigates the mess of his kitchen, and he's not content to stop drinking until he can't walk anymore. Maybe that's why the words come before he can think to stop them. ]

I miss you too. Wish you were here. You're... far. You shouldn't be that far.

[youreflammable]

[Okay that’s some small progress, Baz thinks as he desperately clutches his phone. He hopes Simon will remember this conversation tomorrow or else what he’s about to say will make for a deeply awkward surprise for Simon.]

I’ve got a break in a week, got the whole week off. I could come back.

[Baz pauses before putting his heart out on the line.] If you want.

[Because really? His family has become experts at facetime, his stepmum came back from wherever she disappeared to, and even Penny and Shep didn’t seem to mind the distance between them.

But him and Simon? The distance wasn’t making it easier to forget his ex, just harder. Every time Lamb touched him, Baz found himself wishing those hands could belong to Simon.

He feels pathetic for even asking in the first place, but this is the tipping point; if he doesn’t visit now, he might not ever come home.]

[fuckingtragedy]

A week? Oh f--

[ Simon's hands fail him. The bourbon and his phone both go flying. His bottle shatters, the glass breaks in two, and thank snakes for the cover on his phone, or his screen would've suffered the same fate as it skids across the floor and directly under a pile of rubbish cabinet pieces. Simon's cussing quietly while he digs under the broken wood to retrieve it. ]

Sorry. [ He accidentally hits the camera on when he finally rescues his mobile, flush beneath his freckles and mouth agape. ] A week? Seven days?

[youreflammable]

[Oh shit. Baz can only listen as glass breaks and it sounds like the phone is tumbling onto the floor. His heart clenches painfully at the non-response to his question. Maybe this isn't the right time after all, maybe it won't ever be the right time.

But then there Simon is, freckles and all and Baz's phone activate his camera as well. It's dark in Vegas and Baz is silhouetted by the skyline as usual.]

Yeah. 's what a week is. [Baz shakes his head. No, stop, be nice.] 've got my midterms this week, then I'm off for a week.

[Does he dare ask again? Would Simon shut him down?] Could spend it back home.

[With you, goes unsaid.]

[fuckingtragedy]

Please do. Please come home.

[ Does that come across as desperate as it feels? Why does it feel desperate in the first place? Because he's asking for something? Coming close to expressing some kind of emotion? You're just not used to feeling vulnerable. But vulnerability is all right with your safe people, is what his therapist would say. Open up a bit, and be patient with yourself.

Well then. Say what you mean, Snow. Don't leave it vague. Simon draws a slow breath, and leans back to sit tailor-style among the rubbish. ]

I'd like to see you.

[youreflammable]

[Baz never thought he'd hear Simon ask him to come home, much less use the word please in the process. He eyes the mess behind Simon, but doesn't comment on it. Clearly Simon's been working on something, though Baz has no idea what.]

I do too. [Baz agrees, his voice soft and warm and he hopes again that Simon will remember this conversation in the morning.]

So, I'll fly into London a week from tomorrow. Text you when I've got the tickets, yeah?

[Just in case Simon does forget, just in case this is all just a bad dream for the Chosen One.]

And. I stopped smoking. Didn't get a vape either.

[Not that Simon asked about either of those, but it feels important to tell him that Baz has walked away from the edge.]

[fuckingtragedy]

Yeah. Week from tomorrow. Got it.

[ Simon's two remaining brain cells are absolutely suffering under the deluge of to-do list items he's mentally tallying for the next week. ]

I, umm... [ Is this too much? Who the fuck cares? ] I'm looking forward to it.

[youreflammable]

[Alright, they're doing this. Baz is about to smile when Simon looks a bit like he's suffering. Is this... is this too much, too soon? Maybe Baz should wait after all, maybe he shouldn't be putting so much hope into this one trip.

With a touch of hesitation, Baz nods,] Yeah, me too. Been too long.

[Far too long without being able to touch Simon in the flesh, but what if Simon doesn't want Baz to touch him any more, what if that chapter is closed, nailed shut. Maybe that's what he's reading on Simon's face.]

Glad I caught you.

[fuckingtragedy]

So am I.

[ Don't worry, Baz. Simon is just trying to figure out how to finish his kitchen update in half the planned time. ]

I've gotta get going, but Baz? Thank you. Really. I mean it.

[youreflammable]

[It physically pains Baz to hang up, but he's got tasks to do himself. The first thing he does is order airline tickets to London and then train tickets to Simon's area of town. He doesn't want to force Simon to go too far out of his comfort zone just for a visit. At least, not yet. He sends the information: the flight and train numbers, the times to Simon, just to keep them on the same page. No surprises.

And then he knows he has to get to studying. With four midterms, Baz has some down-time during the week, but he keeps Lamb at arms length. The bite marks already on him need to heal faster if he's to regain Simon's trust and the cigarettes sitting on his desk really need to be thrown away. Each day, Baz makes sure to send a countdown text, if just for his own sanity. D-7, D-6... all the way to D-0 when he's packing up his carry-on and stumbling once more into Lamb in the elevator at the Luxor.]

Be back in a week. Visiting home.

[He keeps it cryptic and dodges a kiss before he climbs into a taxi bound for the airport. Hunting did him much better this time because he can manage the pond-hopping and baby-screeching. Or maybe it's because his mind is so solely focuse on seeing Simon Snow again after six months away.

Six months. That's longer than any of the summers at Watford, it's longer than the nupties kept him in that magic-forsaken coffin. Six months is too long without Simon Snow in his life, he decides as the plane comes in and he boards the train. Six months without those freckles, those moles, that tail.

He checks into the hotel down the street from Simon's flat without issue. After all, he's still not entirely sure he's welcome in Simon's flat. He'll simply have to see. In the mean time, he has a place to stay until he tells his family he's back on English soil.

Walking up the stairs to Simon's flat causes Baz's chest to tighten in painful deja vu. The last time he stood here, they were splitting into too many pieces to hold together. Baz swallows as he stands at the door, knuckles raised as he shakes his head. Just knock. Just knock.

He does, miracle of miracles, rap his knuckles against the door to Simon's flat, and then step back, ready to give Simon as much or as little space as he needs.]

[fuckingtragedy]

[ Six months is both an eternity and no time at all.

It's been a lifetime since Simon last touched Baz, but they only just broke up yesterday. They've gone eons separated by an ocean, and hours since Baz was standing here with tears in his eyes. There's a new calendar inside Simon's newer pantry, days marked with red marker and blood and sweat and the heaviest weight Simon's ever carried. Oblivion opened in another life and swallowed Simon along with all the words he should've said, and he clawed his way out into a place he didn't recognize, draped in skin unlike any he'd worn, with a voice that spoke unwavering truth in uncertain tones. And now, in this new life, Baz is knocking on his door again.

Simon's been harried for the last week. Every countdown message has him reeling, and if Baz could see what he's doing to Simon with every reminder, he'd never doubt anything between them again. He's getting his hopes up, he knows. There's absolutely nothing hinting at a reconciliation between them, and Simon can't put that expectation on this. He could come away crushed by disappointment. He probably will. But what if, he thinks, again and again. What if Baz is pleased with his progress? (Simon is pleased with his progress.) What if they touch? What if they kiss? What if he tells Baz, finally, the only thing he ever should have said from the moment they fell together?

What if Baz is disgusted with this new version of Simon? What if mentally stable isn't a good look for him?

An hour to Baz's projected arrival, Simon knows he's back on British soil, can practically feel his imperious steps on the London streets. Simon's nerves are rattling him. He elects to make food. He can't focus for shit. His head is buzzing and his heart is trying to rabbit out of his chest, so he decides on charcuterie instead. He's crap at making it aesthetic, but there's only so much to be done with piles of fruit and cheese and biscuits and--

Baz knocks, and Simon realizes he's been trying to figure out how to fold salami into a rose for the past ten fucking minutes. He swears quietly, and tosses his apron on the counter, sucking the grease off his fingers, wings fidgeting while he rushes to the door. And then--

One breath. Bigger breath. One nervous pass of his hands over his jeans, smoothing over the front of his tee (should he have dressed better for this?), before Simon throws open the door. And he can't fucking breathe after that. ]

Baz.

[ Six months of long hours in the gym and longer hours of therapy. Six months of renovating his flat, of fixing the cracks in the walls and overhauling everything from the plumbing to the furniture. Six months of learning to take care of himself, forgive himself, and understand himself. There's nothing not to like about all this, but Simon's breath is still frozen in his chest, waiting on pins and needles for Baz's reaction. ]

[youreflammable]

[Baz realizes far too late that he's buttoned his floral shirt too high because seeing Simon again is so suddenly suffocating he loses his breath. Simon looks good, Simon looks so good (not that Simon looked bad before) and Baz can't breathe as he looks his ex up and down. When did he start going to the gym? When did he start taking care of himself? Is he taller? No, no that's absurd. Maybe he just seems taller with all that muscle stacked up on him.

And he realizes too late that he's staring, open-mouthed, and he clears his throat.]

Snow.

[Circe, Simon looks like something out of a magazine and if Baz could see the room behind him, he'd think he's still asleep on the plane, half-drunk on champagne.]

You... you look good.

[Baz knows he must look exactly the same, dressed in his usual (this time a combination of aubergine silk and daisies beneath.

But more rumpled. He didn't change at the hotel; he'd been in too much of a rush to get to Simon to bother freshening up.]

[fuckingtragedy]

And you.

[ It wouldn't matter if Baz had just rolled around in the mud, he'd still be the most brilliant sight in the world for Simon's sore eyes. For a moment, only if in his mind, Simon is rushing Baz just as quickly as he'd rushed the door. Hands on his lapels, yanking him close, crushing their lips together and losing himself in the distantly-familiar taste. Pulling him in, shoving him down, breath hot, bodies hotter, all twisting and shivering limbs in the wake of an achingly sick need. He can feel it, he can taste it, he can practically see Baz losing his mind and his breath with Simon between his legs.

Stop. Breathe. A reminder, just as Simon's hands start to twitch, one frayed impulse from giving in to that momentary fantasy. Give him space. This is his choice to make. I can't make it for him.

Easily said, until a lock clicks somewhere behind Baz. Simon's neighbor is rattling their doorknob -- about to emerge -- and Simon's wings and tail are very much out for all to see. ]

Oh, fuck. C'mon--

[ It's just instinct, grabbing Baz by his upper arm and tugging him into the flat. At least, enough that Simon can quickly shut the door behind him, just as the one across the hall swings open just as little old Ms. Rose totters out. From there? Well-- Simon's gripping Baz's arm just a touch longer than necessary, softly tracing the seam beneath that fine sleeve all the way down to Baz's wrist before he finally drops his hand. ]

Sorry. Come in. Take your shoes off by the door, will you? In the shoe cupboard. And I made some--

[ Simon still can't pronounce charcuterie to save his life, according to Penny. He simply motions vaguely at the kitchen as he heads back toward it. ]

How was the flight?

[youreflammable]

[There is a microsecond after Simon speaks when Baz wonders if he’s well and truly cocked this up, if all they can do now is exchange pleasantries, if all they will ever be is friends. Maybe this entire trip was a mistake, maybe he shouldn’t be here at all, maybe he should have stayed back in Las Vegas with only memories of what could have been. Simon seems distracted by something behind him and Baz turns to see an older lady.

Before he can comment on anything, give a proper hello of any kind, Simon reaches for him, grabs him by the arm and pulls him inside. Once inside, though, Simon’s hand lingers on the seam of his aubergine suit, tracing it down to his eternally-cold wrist before releasing him. It seems a bit unfair, that Simon gets to touch him like this, gets to walk right up to the line of friends and lovers then step right back. Baz’s chest tightens, crushes his hope a little further, but he’s here as a friend and he shouldn’t have packed so much extra hope in his suitcases.

Talk of a charcuterie board seems entirely banal he toes off his Italian leather shoes at the door and takes a good look around. Not only has Simon made progress on his physical body, but on his surroundings as well. There’s a proper kitchen now, a table, no cracks in the walls, and the mattress that used to sit in the middle of the floor of the living room has disappeared. Is that—Is that actual drywall? Is that marble in the bathroom? Did Simon do all this himself?]

Lousy. [Baz tries to sound normal, like he didn’t just get a little more of soul crushed under the wheel of the pretense of friendship. ] Had two stops before London.

[And then he can’t help his curiosity,] Did you do all this yourself?

[fuckingtragedy]

[ For what it's worth -- for whatever it's ever been worth -- Baz is more than welcome to toe that same line. He could press up against the boundary between them, easy as you please, and Simon would only facilitate the bending. He always could, but he never has. It's always been Simon taking the first step, Simon chasing him into fiery trees, Simon kissing him breathless, Simon leaving him with nothing but a note, and Simon breaking his heart. So perhaps it's not fair to expect Baz will take that manner of an initiative, to re-engage this, but it feels important for him to choose how this should go when he was the wronged party in the first place.

Maybe they should clarify all that, but-- Later. After Baz gets his bearings. There's a time and a place, and this doesn't feel like it just yet. ]

Mm, most of it. [ Simon gives the flat a cursory glance, then places the mess of a board on his island. ] I hired someone for the tiles in the bathroom. And for the electrical. Shep and Penny helped with the painting, but I did the rest.

[ Lousy. That's sticking with Simon. He huffs a little laugh, and goes digging in the fridge for some wine. ]

Here. Sounds like you could use this. I don't have any wine glasses yet, but--

[ A rocks glass will do, right? ]

[youreflammable]

[The problem is that since the brutal breakup, Baz has become more than a little gunshy when it comes to even approaching that line. He's afraid of getting to close, afraid that Simon will run away if his heart beats too loud in his chest. Which it is and Baz swears Simon must be able to hear it in the relative quiet of the apartment, the way his borrowed blood thrums in his veins.

Baz listens and nods along, but his eyes never quiet leave Simon. He looks so good, like he's been taking proper care of himself and Baz can't help but be proud, even if he has no place, no right, to be so. This was all Simon.

He wonders, in the back of his mind, if Simon has found someone else, if it was this other person who inspired Simon to get fit, to rennovate his apartment. If Baz goes to the bathroom, will he find a second toothbrush?]

Looks great. It really does. It's amazing, Snow. [Baz still isn't looking away from Simon, not until the bottle of wine is brought out from the fridge.]

Yeah, whatever cups you have.

[He finally breaks his gaze from Simon, forces himself to keep quashing that hope in his heart down, down, down as he makes his way to the table.

Except, he has one painful, burning question he needs to answer for himself first.]

Mind if I use the loo, first? [He has to check, has to see if this is all worth it or not.]

[fuckingtragedy]

[ Simon nods in the proper direction as he works on uncorking the bottle. ]

Back there; on the left, just before the bedroom. Mind the door. It sticks a bit, I still have to sand it.

[ And not that Simon has suspicions as to any ulterior motives, but Baz won't find what he's looking for there. No extra toothbrush. No spare robe or razor. No product that isn't painfully Simon in origin (hadn't Baz been leading a crusade to steer him away from all-in-one soaps before they split?). No sign that anyone but Simon has been occupying this flat. Only smooth marble tile, brass fixtures to match the kitchen, and a lamentable set of threadbare towels that Simon hasn't gotten around to replacing yet.

Simon's nearly gotten the corkscrew figured out when Baz returns. Except... ]

...I think I broke the cork.

[youreflammable]

[Baz heads off to the bathroom and as soon as the door closes behind him, he casts his gaze around for any sign of another person, but there's nothing. Everything in the bathroom is so painfully Simon in every way that Baz releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. It's easy to piss out the remainder of his in-flight champagne and when he comes out more relaxed than before.]

What?

[Baz makes his way over to Simon, watching Simon struggle. No longer is there the impulse to reach into his sleeve for his wand, not after six months with Lamb. This situation can easily be fixed without magic, though, this can be fixed with Vegasmagic.]

Oh, let me show you a trick from the Strip. [Baz moves over to the knife block and then returns to Simon to hold out a hand for the bottle.] May I?

[fuckingtragedy]

[ Simon's brow rises, almost imperceptibly. From the strip, is it? Strange (comfortimg) as it is to have Baz back in his flat, there's still something -- some hissing little unfair something -- deep in Simon's chest that doesn't want to hear about the things Baz has learned in Vegas. He almost leans into it, almost imagines Lamb's hands all over Baz, almost lets it sour his mood. But--

Deep breath. And he does. Don't do that to yourself. Baz was entitled to comfort, and so were you.

Simon offers the bottle over -- cork practically disintigrating in the neck -- with an apologetic grin. Their hands brush, and rather than lingering on the bitter, Simon leans into the sweet. Enjoys the touch, however brief, and stays close even when his palms smooth over the countertop again. ]

Please.

[youreflammable]

[Baz pauses, just ever so slightly, when their fingers brush. He can't help but compare to Lamb. Where Lamb would grab the bottle from him or force it into his hands, make his powerful presence known, Simon is gentle, smooth, and when their fingers part Baz quietly wishes for more.

No, don't do this. Don't get your hopes up. Don't chase something you can't have.

He swallows and nods, setting the bottle on the counter before them. He taps the bottle with the knife, twice above the cork, twice below, and then makes a sweeping motion to take off the entire top of the bottle with a spray of white wine. Oh snakes, he's not quite done it right, but the bottle is open, and the remains of the top of the bottle bounce off the counter and onto the floor.

All without magic.]

Cork's not a problem any more.

[Baz's hands and suit are sticky from the initial burst of white wine (and Simon's cabinets will need to also be wiped down), but there's still plenty in the bottle to share between them. With a smirk, he offers the bottle back to Simon.]

[fuckingtragedy]

Wow.

[ All right, that-- Simon can't even pretend he's not impressed. Not that he would, but his grin can't be helped, and he nods through a slow clap. ]

Going to need you to teach me that trick. This wine key doesn't work worth a-- Oh, bollocks. Your jacket. Here...

[ Simon grabs a clean dishcloth and wets it at the sink. It should do. And Simon nearly catches Baz's sleeve. Just to help scrub the wine away, of course; nothing to do with the fact he's itching for that touch again as soon as it's gone. Nearly, almost. But that's too familiar, and Simon's not about to reinstate the awkwardness now that it's finally starting to ebb.

So he hands the cloth over, then gets back to work pouring their wine. ]

[youreflammable]

Promise.

[It's really nice to see Simon smile, almost soul-healing good. For a moment, Baz can forget about everything that's ever happened between them and when Simon leans toward him, Baz leans right back, meets him halfway, about to close his hands around Simon's.

But then Simon's disappear. And it's only the damp cloth that meets his hands, leaving Baz feeling rather stupid for losing himself to a surge of feelings. He wipes down his hands easily enough, but his suit jacket is... there's no salvaging it without dry cleaning. Lucky for him, he knows a place, but he's not about to leave Simon's place for the sake of a jacket.

Instead, he tugs his jacket off to hang on the back of one of the chairs, unaware for the time being, that his white silk shirt-- decorated with daisies here and there-- has also soaked through and now sticks to the skin of his chest. Without prompting, Baz's nipples are also now on full display (rosy from his fresh hunt) as he tries to towel down his pants, just in case they, too, have become victims of Baz's botched Vegas magic.]

[fuckingtragedy]

[ Silk is a hell of a fabric, Simon decides. Bless it. Bless water. Bless the rats Baz just ate. What a wonderful night!

Simon just spilled some of the wine. He might have been more careful, except that his eyes are damned near popping out of his head, and it's hell to refocus his attention on such a menial task when Baz's extremely noticeable nipples seem to be of paramount importance. Simon's mouth is watering. Merlin and fucking Morgana, this wine was simultaneously the best and worst idea Simon's ever had. ]

Here, fuck's sake let's go sit before we drench the kitchen. This wine bottle is perilous.

[ Yes, the wine bottle is to blame. Certainly not the walking, distracted, desperately touch-starved menace that is Simon Snow. There are two tall chairs on the other side of the island; Simon weaves around to place their glasses at each, pulls one of the chairs out for Baz, and then takes a seat at the other while he drags the charcuterie over. ]

Bit surprised. All this mess, and you haven't used a single spell since you got here.

[ It's not an accusatory sort of tone. Simply observational. ]