TFLN OVERFLOW

[fuckingtragedy]

[Placeholder for appropriate fanart/meme when I find it]

Comments

[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. ]

[youreflammable]

[Baz hardly notices as he continues too dab his jacket in his other hand, chest muscles flexing here and there with the effort of attempting to clean up his mess. Only when Simon suggests they go sit does Baz properly get a good look at himself.

Aleister fucking Crowley. Siegfried and fucking Roy. He's just given Simon a mix of a peep show and a one-man wet t-shirt contest. His nipples are practically waving hello at Simon through the thin silk.

As soon as Simon turns his back, Baz slides his sticky jacket back on, and buttons it up high enough to hide the offenders behind much thicker fabric. He'd love to clean as a whistle himself right now, but not while Simon is here, not while there's a chance to show Simon how serious he is about leaving magic behind, if that's what it took.]

You don't like magic.

[Very plainly, from a man in a very sticky suit.]

And we don't have too talk about it either. Magic, I mean. 's not all I do any more.

[Just because he still has his and Simon gave his up to save the entire magic world, he doesn't say. He glances down at the meaty rose on the charcuterie board and smiles.]

On Monday nights, I watch the Bachelor, like every other Normal I know.

[fuckingtragedy]

[ You don't like magic. There's so much to unpack from that statement, and Simon can't help feeling it'll sour the mood if he so much as unlatches the luggage. But this isn't as simple as a momentary stab of jealousy. This could be a foundation for resentment, and -- even if they only forge forward as friends -- that's not the foot he wants to re-launch this from. ]

Baz, look, I um-- [ Stop. Think about how you want to say this. ] I appreciate you being mindful of my feelings, but I don't want you to not use magic just because of me. It's part of you, and I want you to be who you are. You shouldn't have to stifle yourself for anyone.

[ It's not only part of him, it's a huge part of him. Baz is magic. All Simon can think of is staring up at Baz from behind their cover, watching with stars in his eyes as Baz practically sang spells at a chimera. To expect he should give that up? It hurts Simon to imagine it. ]

I wasn't well when we broke up. I said things I shouldn't have because I was hurting, but it was nothing to do with you, or with magic. And now, I'm-- Mm. I'm not well, but I'm better. And I know none of that was fair of me. I'm very sorry, for making you feel you couldn't be yourself, and for pushing you away.

[ That understanding (and ensuing apology) is the culmination of tireless work. Weekly (sometimes twice-weekly) therapy. Pills that Simon keeps buried in his bedside table drawer, but swallows religiously every morning. Vigorous self- and home improvement. Hours sitting quietly with himself and trying new things; finding who he is as a person divorced from his trauma. And Baz doesn't need to know the lurid details of it all, but he can see it. It's plain, stark, and honest in every detail around them. ]

The Bachelor, though? [ Simon asks, quirked brow while he snatches up his glass. ] Is that more or less tedious to watch than my soaps?

[youreflammable]

[Baz looks up from the charcuterie board when Simon begins to talk. I want you to be who you are. A part of Baz—a part of Baz that has not been processed with a therapist because Baz has not seen a therapist like Simon has—grows angry. Does he? Does Simon want him to be himself when their last argument consisted entirely of Simon shouting at him that he can’t stand to look at him? That he hates looking at him? That burned Baz so deep in his bones he doubted coming back to British soil all the way up to the day of his arrival? That made him doubt wanting to knock on the door again? That’s made him so gun shy that he’s fooling around with Lamb, the Vampire King, of all people because Lamb takes charge and that’s what Baz needs right now?

Sure he can prop himself up with bravado, with a fancy trick with a knife, but he’s still hollowed out on the inside, still burned down to his bones.

I wasn’t well. I said things I shouldn’t have, but it was nothing to do with you.

Well it still feels very much like it did have something to do with him, after eighteen months of trying to just hold on, after eighteen months of waiting to hear three words and finding nothing but empty air when he took a leap of faith. Baz kept telling himself that in time, with patience, Simon would eventually heal.

He'd been wrong those six months ago, but something has obviously changed. Simon has changed.

However one thing, one fact, has not changed: Simon Snow does not love him.

Baz takes a moment to swallow down the insecurities Simon’s words bring up—maybe he’ll call Lamb tonight—and nods.]

You’ve clearly done great things. [He replies, soft, as if he were to speak too loud, his voice might run out. ] You didn’t need magic for that.

[He’s still not magicking himself clean in front of Simon. Not now. He focuses more on the easy topic,] Right, so there’s this bloke and he’s dating twenty women, right? And each week he goes out on a load of dates, then has to choose who he wants to keep. Apparently there’s a girl version, with one girl and twenty blokes. Think that one’d be more fun to watch. At the end of each episode, he has this rose ceremony, and he hands out roses in this stupidly dramatic way, all ‘Caroline G, will you accept this rose?’ And if she accepts it, she stays on the show and they keep dating.

[Baz uses air quotes around the word date.]

Or as much as you can “date” twenty people at once.

[Baz looks back down at the rose in the middle of the charcuterie board. It really does look almost like the roses they use on the show.]

[fuckingtragedy]

[ They could discuss it further. Perhaps they should. Simon almost wants to push for A Discussion, because there's a silent hurt lurking behind Baz's eyes that Simon can't quite find the reason for. Is it nebulous? Is there a particular pain point he's hit on? How is Simon to know if Baz won't tell him?

But Baz moves on before Simon can press for more, and Simon swallows the faint worry that comes with this abrupt subject change. Right. Fine. If Baz doesn't want to talk about it, that's... fine. ]

Wow. That sounds like a fucking nightmare.

[ Dating twenty people at once, that is. Simon wouldn't exactly call it dating, but whatever he'd had with Smith was such a perfectly complete disaster, it doesn't bear repeating. It could be argued that Simon simply doesn't have the best track history with dating, but nevertheless, he raises his glass for a toast. ]

To... never dating twenty people at the same time?

[youreflammable]

[Baz is still looking at the rose, a question sticking to his tongue, about to rush out of his mouth, but then Simon is there. Simon Snow, will you accept this rose? dies in his mouth like a rat and he swallows it down like stale blood. Maybe he's not meant to date Simon. Ever. Maybe he's meant to suffer unrequited love his entire life, like a repeat of fifth through seventh years over and over again, look but never touch.

Never, ever touch. He'll get burned again, worse, and then he might find himself in another forest fire without Simon there to rescue him. This fire's not meant for you. He's definitely visiting the corner store for cigarettes and a lighter before calling Lamb tonight. Maybe catching himself on fire will hurt less than this conversation.

Baz props up his expression on the nonsense talk about this hideous show and raises his glass.] To never dating twenty people at the same time.

[fuckingtragedy]

[ Simon is used to pounding liquor out of these glasses, not sipping wine. Maybe that's to blame for half the glass disappearing the moment he taps them together. Clink, down. It's not bad wine, either; he specifically asked the sommelier what would pair best with the cheeses he had in the fridge. A random whim that's working out well enough in his favor. Or would have, if not for the cork debacle.

Speaking of dating... Simon almost wants to segue. But where is he going with something like that? How's Lamb? Simon doesn't want to fucking know that. Fancy trying again? Lead fucking balloon, that. Hell's spells, it's a good thing he's gotten a better handle on this impulsivity shit, or he'd be stumbling through this conversation like a bull in a china shop. Just like old times. How the fuck did Baz ever put up with that?

Instead, he starts in on the pile of cheese nearest to him on the board. ]

What's on your mind? You seem distracted. [ All right, maybe a bit depressively direct, but not accusatory. ] Is it strange to be back? Or... here?

[youreflammable]

[What's on your mind? You. Baz wants to say. You and setting myself on fire. Baz realizes they're about the same in terms of pain and intensity. Lethality is a different story, but he's not here to discuss either of those things with Snow right here in his kitchen.

He sips on his wine, not meaning to be Snow's foil in the moment. More importantly, he doesn't want to leave any embarrassing voicemeails once he gets back to the hotel. Once he sets down his glass, Baz starts in on the rose first, dismantling it on purpose so he doesn't have to think about that stupid question for any longer.

To escape answering right away, Baz fills his mouth with a bite of meat and cheese, not needing to hesitate as his fangs remain right where they should be. Lamb has been working really hard with him on that one.]

Suppose I am a little distracted. [He admits once he's swallowed.] Lot of memories coming back.

[Most of them not good. Leaving Snow's apartment in tears, packing whatever could fit in two suitcases, the loneliest plane ride of his life, the drunkest plane ride of his life, practically falling into Lamb who held him just right, held him so firm and fast.]

Oh. Forgot to mention. Told my family I'd be in on Tuesday. [Today is Sunday evening.] So we could... catch up. If you want.

[Everything sounds like a question falling out of his mouth, he's so unsure, and he hates that the man across the island from him has taken that cocksure certainty away from him.]

[fuckingtragedy]

Yeah.

[ Yeah. Memories. That seems like such a polite word for it. Like Baz is skirting around what he actually wants to say, something that Simon might be able to read all over Baz's face, were he gifted with just a touch more social awareness. He's not always the most observant person in the room, but he's getting better at reading cues, and he's not ignorant of what those memories would be.

Wasn't that his entire reason for rushing to finish the renovations before Baz's arrival? So his flat wouldn't resemble the broken place -- the broken person -- Baz left behind? So he wouldn't be walking into an entirely new brand of destruction that he doesn't even recognize? So Simon had some tangible evidence of getting his shit at least partially together upon Baz's return?

So he'd have somewhere safe -- somewhere his -- to fall apart when Baz eventually left again?

Maybe those memories would ache a little more keenly if it was still a bare mattress in a broken home. They'd certainly be worse if Simon were the same fractured person he'd been a half-year ago. So even if it still feels awkward with that far-off look in Baz's eyes, Simon can't arrive at the notion that it's all been for naught. Even if it's small, even if it's slow, they can build on this.

At least, that's the notion Simon lingers on until Baz mentions Tuesday. The Pitches don't even think he's back yet? He'd wanted two entire days just to-- ]

Catch up?

[ Is that what he meant? You don't need two solid days alone to catch up with your ex, do you? Why else would he-- Stop fretting over it and ask, stupid. ]

What would you like to catch up on? I thought we kept up well enough, on the important things.

[ Simon might have neglected to mention Smith, or the flat reno, or the gym (...right, maybe that's a lot to leave out). But surely there are some topics Baz neglected to mention as well. ]

Unless you meant something else?