TFLN OVERFLOW

[fuckingtragedy]

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

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[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?

[youreflammable]

[Right. As soon as Simon parrots his question back to him, Baz realizes what a stupid decision he's made. He might as well get matches instead of a lighter tonight and be done with this miserable earth. They did talk quite a bit on the phone, over face time, about school, about therapy, about some of the important things, but nothing about the changes to Simon's flat, or if Simon's been dating, if he and Wellbelove got back together, etcetera.

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?]

[fuckingtragedy]

Mm...

[ 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?

[youreflammable]

[Baz listens, he listens, politely takes a bite or a sip of his wine here or there, but primarily he listens. The way Simon talks, the way he describes his work, it's nothing short of miraculous. While Baz was away soaking himself in bourbon, in 9-ball, in Lamb's unending touches, Simon was building something here, literally and figuratively.

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.]

[fuckingtragedy]

[ I'm proud of you, Simon. That's it. Such a simple statement, and Simon is practically undone.

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? ]

[youreflammable]

[Oh Simon. Baz wishes he could wrap Simon up in a proper hug--- to also nudge the glasses of wine away as well--- to hold him tight in his arms and tell him that he still loves him, that there was never any debate that he still loved Simon to all nine hells and back.

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.

[fuckingtragedy]

[ Where is Simon supposed to begin?

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.

[youreflammable]

[It's now Baz's time to be breathless. He stares at Simon and everything seems to move in slow motion. Simon's hands reach out for his, closes around them and Baz doesn't recoil. Instead, he returns the grip, ignoring the tears that roll down his face.

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.]

[fuckingtragedy]

[ The tears are terrifying. For what feels like a slow-burn eternity, Baz gives him nothing. Nothing but tears and staggered breath and an expression like Simon's just crushed him right down to his soul. And Simon is terrified, lips gone numb, fingertips tingling in Baz's grip.

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. ]

[youreflammable]

[For a moment, Baz's mind can only flit through his memories like a microfilm: standing in front of the bathroom sink, practically blood-starved with a match in his fingers as he watches it burn down to his fingers; too many times when he stopped Lamb at the edge of his bed before reminding himself that no matter how hard he wished, Simon would never touch him like this because Simon never loved him; or how one July afternoon, it took Lamb's efforts to get his literally flame-licked shirt off his head when a roman candle hit him at short distance but it didn't matter because Simon Snow didn't love him (that section of skin was still charred black, still flaked like parchment if he didn't moisturize it properly). Tears roll down his cheeks, but Simon's hand is a mooring in the storm Baz tightens his grip. All of that, all of those moments in the deep dark, they weren't true.

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.

[fuckingtragedy]

I love you.

[ 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.

[youreflammable]

[Simon is touching him and kissing his fingers and it's a whirlwind and a half. The tears don't stop but this time they're accompanied by a widening smile as his love language is willingly spoken by the one person he wanted to speak it to him. Baz pulls his chair up closer, staring in awe and wonder.]

Never. Never get tired of hearing it.

[As far as showing? Baz can hardly believe that this is Simon Snow offering to show Baz how much he loves him, somehow understanding at long last that Baz adores being touched, even if just in small ways.

He takes a moment to collect his breath, to allow the revelation to roll through him again before he continues.] I love you too, Simon. Always have.

[fuckingtragedy]

I know you do.

[ But it's still such a relief to hear, Simon's breathing a shuddery sigh over the back of Baz's hands. Fuck's sake, how had he ever been frightened of this? This is incredible. I love you floods him with warmth like he's never felt, and touching Baz feels more like coming home than his own flat ever has. ]

Thank you.

[ Simon's hands slip from Baz's grip to find his face instead, calloused fingers cradling his jaw while thick thumbs drift over either cheek bone. It's all a gentle coaxing, guiding Baz close enough that Simon can chase his tears with ghosting kisses. Careful, and though Simon's kisses have certainly never been hesitant, there's a different quality to them now. Unhurried, undemanding, content to simply be, happy to linger over each wet patch of skin they find before moving on to their next target. Over and over, cheek and chin and other cheek, and in the space between each kiss, Simon murmurs: ]

Thank you. Thank you, Baz. Thank you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for still loving me. Thank you. I love you. Thank you. I love you...

[youreflammable]

I'll always love you, Simon.

[All of it is wonderful, beautiful, and if someone had told Baz before he knocked on the door tonight (or even ten minutes ago) that he would feel so damn cherished at the hands of Simon Snow, Baz would have laughed at them. A sick, self-deprecating laugh, but a laugh all the same.

But Simon is kissing his cheeks, over and over again and it would only take the slightest turn of Baz's head to take those lips in his and re-ignite the smoldering in his heart. He is still seared from the inside, but also still so deeply and utterly flammable in every sense of the word.

Baz cants his head just far enough, barely a tilt of his head, to catch Simon's lips when they move next.]

[fuckingtragedy]

[ Simon is entirely unprepared for the veritable thrall of Baz's lips.

He can't remember the last time he kissed Baz like this, or if he ever has. When they kissed, it always felt like devastation. Fire and brimstone shaking the earth, razing the land. Apocalyptic. Simon never understood the things it made him feel. It wound him up, left his stomach all in knots, and pulled every muscle taut. Agitated him, he thought; the burning anticipation before a fight was the closest thing he'd ever felt to kissing Baz, so Simon was ready for battle every time they kissed.

It's not like that now. No irritation, no tension, no urge to fight or to flee. Baz's lips are soft, and he tastes of wine. His mouth is familiar, but the sensation is alien. It pulls at Simon, like an invisible thread in his core, drawing him in closer and closer; pulls him right out of his seat and deeper into their. There's hardly any distance between them, but Simon has to close it. Has to step closer to fit himself against Baz's side, has to thread his fingers back through Baz's hair, has to cradle his head through every slow pass of their lips, has to drown himself in the pleasure of it until his head is swimming.

New. Different. Beautiful. Like a revelation. Like a revolution. Simon never wants to stop. ]

[youreflammable]

[Baz has never been kissed so gently before. When he and Simon's lips met like this before, it always felt like dancing too close to the fire, like watching the match burn down to the tips of his fingers. They could kiss in America and still every minimal contact be just like that first kiss, surrounded by flame in the forest.

Lamb has been all about force, like a sharp wind in the desert to hold him fast, to conquer. At the time, Baz had needed someone, something, to take control when his life held no certainty.

But now, now they danced in a land devoid of that certainty or control and Baz feels just as secure. They're both on their feet and Simon holds him close, threads fingers through his hair, cradles his head and Baz feels safe in a way he hasn't in six months.

Baz curls his arms about Simon's waist, bracing himself along the strong core of Simon's muscles with one arm while the other clutches the back of Simon's shirt. This is everything, this is every dream he woke up alone from in tears, wishing it could be true. And yet it's real, oh so blissfully real that Baz can't bear to pull back.

But he knows Simon needs to breathe eventually. And it's with great reluctance that Baz parts their lips, just enough to catch his breath, nosing at Simon.]

've never been kissed like that before.

[fuckingtragedy]

Neither have I.

[ Simon smiles faintly and slides his fingers down the back of Baz's neck. They tuck into his collar for a moment, idly playing with the notion of employing his nails, blunted from biting though they may be. The notion passes, dust in the wind, on to finer things when his gaze drifts to Baz's lips, and Simon realizes how good Baz looks when they're all swollen and well-kissed.

And that? That-- Simon has to swallow hard past the swell of something pulling deep in his core. Something that dips sharply while Baz's touches him in novel ways -- hands that he knows, hands that he's never felt before -- pools hot and low, and suddenly Simon's more breathless than he'd been when Baz was stealing the air from his lungs. Oh. Oh. Is this--? ]

Everything feels new. Like I'm kissing you and touching you for the first time, all over again.

[ Simon's hands are drifting. They press flat over Baz's lapels, sorely resenting that he'd put the damn jacket back on in the first place. He's wearing so much when he should be wearing nothing, and that is not what Simon should be focusing on, but peeling away every last layer between them feels tantamount to public service at this point. He can't expect that of Baz. He can't jump right from A to Z. But he's never wanted anything more dearly than he wants Baz right now, and he's absolutely sure of it.

A want is not a need. But that line has never been so blurred before. ]

[youreflammable]

[Baz smiles softly in return, unable to bear moving too far away right now. It all feels like a dream, a bit fuzzy if not a bit too distant to be real, so he's holding on as tight as he can, where he can, to Simon. He's grateful the sentiment is shared, that he's not the only one who feels suddenly new at this. Not that he hasn't been kissed by Simon, or Lamb for that notion, but not like this. Not like he's something precious and wanted.

Though, he does feel a bit of guilt for the sticky lapels that Simon's now putting his hands on. He really should have clean as a whistle'd himself and not been so afraid of using magic right in front of Simon. Yet, there's no reason to leave the jacket on now. Just, the stickier-still silk shirt beneath.

Maybe---]

'm sorry it's still sticky. [And no, he isn't using magic to fix it.] Think I could borrow a shirt?

[Then he would:

a) smell like Simon - win
b) be free to move about without worrying about his nipples poking Simon's eyes out - win
c) be able to stand much, much closer to Simon without transferring all this mess to him - win.]

Then we can clean up and...[Baz leans in to kiss the corner of Simon's mouth.] Do some more of that?

[fuckingtragedy]

[ Borrow--? ]

Yeah. 'course. C'mon, back here.

[ It seems an odd request, but not for the reasons it should. Simon isn't thinking about the fact that Baz could be cleaning himself with magic (and he's not), or that there's an utter dearth of Baz's fashion in Simon's wardrobe. No, rather, he's mystified over the implication that he minds a mess at all, if it means he can touch Baz for a little while longer.

But Simon leads Baz back to the bedroom and over to his bureau. The bedroom is small, but cozy. His bed is made, with a blue plaid blanket and too many pillows, and -- wonder of wonders -- it's on a platform, not the floor. He has two endtables with nice little reading lamps. A dresser and a bureau, the latter of which has a display stand specifically for his blade. The Salisbury Excalibur the only thing resembling decor in the entire flat.

Simon pulls open the top two drawers. One is packed haphazardly with tees, the other with buttoned dress shirts. Simon can't fold worth a damn, but the attempts are admirable, and it's better than living out of a pile on the floor. He motions toward them with raised hands. ]

Take your pick.

[youreflammable]

[Baz easily follows Simon back into the bedroom and the implications that also trail behind them are not unnoticed by Baz. Yet, he's distracted by the clear differences from the last time he stood near Simon's mattress. The bed is made, on a platform, haloed in light from the endtables' reading lamps. There's a dresser and a bureau which holds a sword--- he briefly heard of Excalibur but clearly not enough.

Already, Baz has shucked his jacket to hang on the doorknob--- it needs to be dry cleaned anyway, the collar won't suffer for a few hours (or a night) on a door knob--- and is in the process of unbuttoning his silk shirt when Simon gestures toward the selection of shirts.

Ah, he'd be much more comfortable in a button-down certainly, but he's not sure anything matches. Maybe black. He's got most of the buttons down when he remembers the patch of coal-black skin on his back, when a roman candle got too close to him and nearly caught him on fire. It's not something he ever mentioned on any of the calls.

Well. They are both being honest tonight, might as well keep with the trend.]

Don't lose your mind when you see it.

[And he peels the rest of his silk shirt off, revealing a rather nasty patch of coal-black skin on his left side, between his ribs and hip. At the core, the skin is inky and solid, but as the skin travels away from the initial injury, it flakes in chunks and then turns white in a scar.]

Bloody cowboy accidentally hit me with a roman candle on the 4th of July. Fucking fireworks.