Simon Snow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fuckingtragedy) wrote2021-06-06 04:35 pm
fuckingtragedy) wrote2021-06-06 04:35 pmEntry tags:
TFLN OVERFLOW
[Placeholder for appropriate fanart/meme when I find it]
fuckingtragedy) wrote2021-06-06 04:35 pm
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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.
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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?
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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.
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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.]
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[ 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. ]
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[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.]
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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. ]
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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.
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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?
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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.]
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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?
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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.
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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?
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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.]
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[ 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?
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Everything they talked about always felt so shallow, so surface-level. Passed my exam last Thursday. The one about conduits, yeah. It all seemed like a whole lot of nothing unless Simon was doing the talking about what he'd learned and even then, there were things skipped, things not acknowledged.
Baz feels entirely stupid and foolish, like the first time his father caught him with matches, the first time they were snatched out of his hands, but luckily he's not that well-fed on rats to flush in his embarrassment. Time to pick more at the food on his plate.]
Well, I'd been getting glimpses of all this in the calls, [He tries to gesture to the apartment, the reno, and not feel absolutely bollucksed for asking.] and I never got the full story. When did it start, how long's it still going, that sort of thing.
[This conversation won't take two nights to complete, neither will asking about the gym or Simon's dating life. Why did he come into this, hoping he needed two nights alone with Simon?]
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[ The reno. Simon hadn't mentioned it on their calls, because when it comes right down to it, their conversations since the break up have been incredibly shallow. There was no great way to explain why he'd started it without talking about his therapy, and with Baz halfway around the world, it was all a bit deeper than Simon felt safe opening himself up to. For some reason, he always imagined Baz hanging up and laughing at him, discussing it with Lamb later in varying degrees of pity and jeering. Not that he wanted to believe Baz would mock his progress, but--
With Baz sitting here, admitting that he'd wanted two entire days alone with Simon? It's a bit harder to believe that his intentions are anything but good. And even if they're not? Simon's stronger now than he had been then. ]
Well. [ Simon clears his throat and takes another drink. His glass is empty. He makes a grab for the bottle, refills his own glass, and tops Baz off. ] I started on it shortly after you left. When I started therapy again. It all felt really overwhelming. My therapist is phenomenal, though. No bullshit. She knows how to talk to me. She told me to think of myself like a house. That we had to start from the foundations and build up from there. And I laughed and told her my actual house was a broken mess just like me, and--
[ Simon tips his head back, contemplating the ceiling. ] She told me we'd work on both. Because I should feel safe where I live, and it should feel like my own. Told me I should think of the flat like it's a reflection of me, and that fixing up the flat would be like tangible evidence that I'm fixing up myself as well.
So we started on the floors; the foundations. And that took the longest. It felt like forever before I'd repaired everything. I had to tear everything up, replace the rotten wood, and there were rat nests under all the floorboards. But after that, it got a little easier. Started on repairing the walls; fixing the slats and patching the plaster. Defining the space, deciding what I wanted to have here and what I didn't need. That's around the time I started going to the gym, eating better, got on meds. I bought furniture that felt like it belonged here; all new, nothing second-hand, that was a rule: it all had to feel like mine. I built it all myself. Then the more practical bits.
The bathroom was a fucking mess, and-- I told you, I had to hire someone for the tile work, I'm no good at it, I needed help. Penny and Shep helped me paint, 'cause I wanted color on the walls, but I really don't like doing that bit, and Penny just magicked it all done. Then the kitchen, just got that done last week.
[ That explanation doesn't feel as deep as it actually is. But there's a vulnerability in the notion that every step of the process meant something, psychologically. Repairing his foundations, learning to construct healthy boundaries, finding himself, building his confidence, admitting when he can't do something, asking for help, forgiving himself when he fucks up... It's been an incremental process, but to see it all come together in real-time -- to see his healing reflected all around him -- was too fucking incredible for words. It wouldn't have felt as progressive if Simon hadn't been able to see the results like this, so for whatever it's worth, he can only credit his therapist for having the largest brain on the planet. ]
This place is supposed to be two bedrooms. [ Simon motions with a block of cheese toward a bit of smooth corner on the far wall. ] I found the door all boarded up over there when I was repairing that wall. Someone closed it in at some point. The guy I bought it from didn't know why, but the maintenance lady said I'm welcome to open it up again. So that'll be my next project. Merlin knows what I'll find there, though -- bit scary, actually -- so I don't know how long it'll take. But it'd be nice to have an office or something.
[ Opening the scary unknown. That also feels significant, somehow. ]
What do you think of it so far?
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It's also devilishly attractive to hear Simon actually talk about himself like this, to open up to him in a way he never did, to use his words as Baz would always encourage. Look at him, just look at him. Look at everything he's built.
Baz's tension relaxes the longer he listens, the longer Simon's honesty pours over him, stronger than any drink. In fact, it's been minutes since he touched his wine and he's staring at Simon with much softer eyes. To do all of this in six months instead of moping or trying to set themselves on fire, is miraculous.]
I'm proud of you Simon. [His voice is soft again, but less like it might break if he talks to loud. No, it's warmer now, like a quiet flame that needs just a bit of nurturing to grow stronger.] I really am. You've worked really hard here. And I know I haven't got the right to say that, but I'm proud of you.
[He always knew Simon could do it, but he only wished it hadn't come too late for them, too late for him. But he is at least grateful to be a footnote in the life of Simon Snow. What an honor.]
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It's not the first time he's heard it. His galaxy-brained therapist tells him practically every week. Penny told him. Lady Nan and Jamie told him. Even Agatha told him, the first time she visited his work-in-progress flat with Niamh. It's always made Simon feel warm, supported, loved in a way he never really allowed himself to feel before. But to hear it coming from Baz?
That's so different, somehow. He can't quite put his finger on why, but the grief wells up in him so quickly, he has to laugh and look away to disguise a sob. Another drink down, quickly, the entire glass now. To banish the tightness in his throat, and secure an excuse for why his eyes are watering. ]
Thank you.
[ His voice wavers, unsteady, and he clears his throat again. Why the hell is he close to tears? ]
Really. Thank you. You've got every right to say it. I was terrible to you, and I wish I could take it all back. Treat you better. I could do it now.
[ Not that he expects Baz to believe that, after everything that's happened. Six months of therapy doesn't undo a lifetime of trauma, and there's so much to be undone between them. But he could, he's sure of it. He could be so good to Baz. Love him, finally, without any reservation or fear. Why does it always feel like Simon's too little, too late? ]
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But.
But.
Baz's own fear stands in his way. The Baz that left this apartment burnt from the inside out remains sitting across from a newly remade Simon. The Baz that left everything on the table every day but found himself left hanging by his own rope sits unsure if they can. He wants to, for fuck's sake. He wants to launch himself across this damned island and kiss the life out of Simon Snow, but treat you better is not a promise.
Baz blinks the beginnings of tears out of his own eyes-- when did those get there?-- and decides on some of his own honesty.]
When I left, I left to try and forget you. I thought being thousands of miles away would make it easier to... to heal or...[He lets out a huff of breath.] It didn't. I can't forget you. I can't forget that you never lov... [Circe, no. Stop it.
No. They're being honest. They're being honest and he's going to finally say it out loud.] That you never loved me. You never seemed to want to touch me. I always had to be the one to start it. And just when I thought America was... was helping you, you said all those things.
[And in a quiet voice,] I need a promise. I need a promise that won't happen again.
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What he knows: He can't breathe. He can't move. He can barely even think. He's frozen stiff, staring at Baz with wide eyes, lips parted in a soft o, struggling to put some kind of sense to these words that sound both like a dirge and like a psalm. Holy and damned. How does Baz -- still, always -- do this to him?
What he knows: Baz is ready to try again. Or, at least, that his feelings haven't died with the distance. And all he's asking is for a guarantee that Simon won't self-destruct again, which seems like such a simple request when Simon's promised himself that he would never fall so deeply into depression again. That he couldn't, even if it were bad, now that he has the tools to manage it.
What he knows: Baz thinks that Simon never loved him. And that-- ]
Baz...
[ Simon's hand moves before he can stop it, casting out between them to catch Baz's fingers. And this time, he doesn't look away, eyes heavy and raw when they catch Baz's gaze and refuse to let it go. ]
I love you. I'm sorry I never told you, I'm sorry it never felt like it. But I've always loved you. Even when I thought it was hate, even when I didn't know how, when we were at each other's throats, when we were mortal enemies, I always loved you. Only you. Only ever you.
No one ever loved me before you, Baz. I didn't know how it was supposed to feel. I didn't know how to handle it. It scared me. And I'm sorry you had to love me when I was like that. I can't imagine how much it hurt.
I never want to be like that again. For both of us, I want to be better, I want to stay happy, I want us to be happy. And I can't promise you that I'll never fuck up, Baz. I'm still healing, I'm still sick. But I can promise you I'll keep getting better, I'll keep going to therapy, I'll keep taking my medication, and I'll never let myself sink that low again.
If that's not enough, I understand. If you're still not ready, or if you want to take this slowly, I understand. If you leave here now and never want to speak to me again, I understand. I'll let you set the pace with this, whichever way you want it to go.
But Baz, I need you to know. You have to know that I love you.
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He's spent the past six months telling himself that Simon doesn't love him and since Simon doesn't love him, simply can't love him. It was a tough pill to swallow at first, but then it became a mantra, something sewn beneath his skin that not even Lamb could chase away.
When Simon finishes, Baz's lips dumbly fumble with the question he has been dying to ask for months,] You love me?
[It goes against everything he's written into his bones the past six months, against everything that he's been telling himself in the mirror late at night after Lamb leaves and he's alone with his thoughts.]
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Then Baz speaks, halfway between wonder and incredulity, like he can't believe it in the best and worst way, and Simon can't work out what the fuck that's supposed to mean either. So he does the only thing he can think to do, more instinct than any reasoned action: his hands shift to weave through Baz's fingers, lacing together to lock him into a tighter hold, and Simon's gaze remains unwavering even while his voice is soothing and low. ]
I love you, Baz. I do.
[ No matter where Baz chooses to take them from here, at least now he knows. ]
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Simon Snow loved him, loves him, present tense.]
Simon. [His voice remains low and his brows furrow but a small smile starts to break out across his face. The tears roll over the edges and Baz finds himself licking them just to keep them off his chin. Simon, you love me.
[It's unbelieveable, unfathomable, a wish he made years ago in fifth year that he never thought could ever come true for him, but now---
He squeezes Simon's fingers again, never wants to let go again.] You love me.
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[ The conflict is easy enough to read now. Baz cycles from pain, to disbelief, back to pain, to a smile, and then Simon can finally breathe again. He pulls softly at Baz's hands, lifts them to his lips, kiss after kiss falling over his knuckles, silent praise and gentle gratitude, until he's covered every single joint with his wandering affection. ]
I love you. I'll tell you 'til you're sick of hearing it. I'll show you so well, you'll never doubt it again.
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