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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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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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.
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[ 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...
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[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.]
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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. ]
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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.
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[ 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. ]
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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?
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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.
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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.
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Somehow, Simon never tried to imagine what it would look like if Baz actually caught fire. What it might look like in the moment, sure; nightmares of Baz going up in flames, flaring like a match first lit, engulfed in half a moment, like he were living accelerant. Not like this, not the aftermath of a near-miss, and never imagining he'd carry the mark of it forever. ]
Baz...
[ The name falls from his lips like it can't decide whether to be pitying or cross. Simon's breath shudders, and his hands find Baz's hips before he realizes they've moved. They rest just over his belt, thumbs brushing the bare skin above his waistline. But whatever desire had been strangling Simon moments before is gone with his breath, beckoning another hard swell of grief in the wake of its departure. ]
Does it hurt still? It looks painful.
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Yes. Yes it does. [He breathes through it, as he does when he cares for the months-old injury, but he'd forgotten to mind it the past week and now it's especially sensitive. He takes the edge of the open drawer in one hand, just to steady himself as he carefully twists to look down at Simon.]
Only thing I can do is keep is moisturized, but with midterms and worrying about... knocking on your door.
[He lets out a breath and reaches down to a particularly jagged chunk of what could be jasper for how glossy it appears.] It doesn't normally look this bad. I've got lotions for it.
[He tears free the offending bit of skin and as soon as it separates from his skin, it turns to ash in his fingers. There's some relief in debriding the sharpest edges to the wound, but the best way to care for it is to moisturize, to keep the edges from forming in the first place.]
Not even Lamb is sure it'll ever go away. [He hates to mention Lamb in Simon's presence, but if the King of Vampires isn't sure a wound will ever fully disappear, he's not sure who would know any better.] Used to be a lot worse, too.
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Lotions? Hold on--
[ Simon goes to dig around the end table to the right of the bed, pushing through the more clandestine artifacts until he finds some shea butter lotion Penny left for him when he first started the renovations. 'If you don't keep your hands moisturized, they'll get all scaly; we can't have any more of you all dragonly, she'd said. And it still sees regular use, but Merlin, Simon's never been more grateful to have it than he is right now. ]
Will this work? [ Simon brings the container back to Baz, holding it out for him to see. ] I can help if anything is hard to reach...?
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