TFLN OVERFLOW

[fuckingtragedy]

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

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[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.

[fuckingtragedy]

[ How the fuck is Simon meant to keep his cool when he sees that?

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.

[youreflammable]

[Baz supposes this is better than Simon losing his entire cool at once. The emotion seems to come in steps, in bits and pieces until Simon has him by the hips, just above his belt and when Simon's fingers make contact on the left side, Baz hisses.]

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.

[fuckingtragedy]

[ Simon doesn't want to hear about Lamb, but he certainly doesn't want to hear it used to be worse. There's guilt in this -- swirling, nebulous, cutting Simon to the quick -- because Baz wouldn't have been in Vegas in the first place, if Simon got his shit together sooner. He wasn't even there to help nurse Baz through the worst of it. ]

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...?

[youreflammable]

[Baz can almost see the guilt swirling just beneath the surface of Simon's eyes and he was to wash it away. Even if Baz hadn't been in Las Vegas to be nearly set aflame by a drunk cowboy in jean shorts--- jorts, the cowboy had told him, jorts---, the universe would have had something else in store for him.

As Simon flits through his things, Baz breaks off a few more of the egregious lifted sections to leave primarily the smoother, glossy coal-black core wound. At least it hasn't gotten any bigger in the last week.

When Simon comes back, Baz looks at the tub and doesn't see anything wrong with any of the ingredients. Lavender and roses sounds delightful. While it's not his usual faire, it will certainly do, especially since he'll have help.]

I can easily reach up to... [Baz reaches behind him to where there is a section he hasn't debrided yet, closer to his spine. There are sharp edges stacked up and jutting out like burnt pages in a book.] About there.

[fuckingtragedy]

I can see that.

[ Is there a treatment standard for this sort of thing? Shouldn't he wash his hands or clean the wound or something? Then again, it's not like this is a normal injury, and it's not like Baz can get sick, so anything more than what Baz himself has started is probably extraneous. ]

Here, let me--

[ Simon doesn't know where to start. The finer details -- ashen skin like singed parchment, all piled up on itself -- make his stomach turn at first, and that's strange, considering he's seen (done) far worse in his life. Perhaps it's only because it's Baz; because Simon doesn't want him hurt, and feeling helpless comes hand-in-hand with a touch of revulsion. But eventually, he settles on carefully picking away the top layers first, then moves on to the ones beneath, letting the ash fall to the floor as he works until all that remains is the core.

Now the lotion. Baz said it was still painful, so Simon is uncompromisingly gentle when he spreads the lotion over his charred skin. He uses only two fingertips and goes with the angle of the wound. Every ghosting swipe starts from the outer edges and moves in toward the core, mindful of disturbing any more of the edges than necessary. And when he finishes, Simon rests a hand on Baz's ribs -- just above the wound -- when he murmurs: ]

Please don't let it get this bad again.

[youreflammable]

[ Baz remains remarkably still as Simon works, for more than one reason. The primary reason is the pain, the sensation that he's being burned again and again, every time the core wound is touched. He grimaces and keeps himself braced on the dresser with white knuckles.

The second reason, though, is purely due to the fact that Simon is touching him at all. Sure, it's in the setting of a medical function, but the touch doesn't disappear when he finishes. Simon lingers, hand at his ribs, above the wound.]

Promise. [He's got a loofa on a stick for that spot for when Simon's not there to help, but he's not ready to think about when he has to go back to a Simonless existence.] Thank you, Simon.

[fuckingtragedy]

You're welcome.

[ It occurs to Simon -- two seconds too late, as per usual -- that he's managed to get himself in a predicament again. It's barely been a half hour since Baz stepped into his apartment, they've already turned the entirety of both their lives onto their heads, and Baz is-- Fuck. He's shirtless, not two paces from Simon's bed, and Simon's still trying to convince himself this is a wholly innocent endeavor. Or, possibly, not real at all.

Six months ago, Simon would have ripped his hand away and fled the room. Put distance between them. Yielded to the "irritation" and run until he could talk himself out of his feelings. He would have bent to the spike of terror and left Baz to his own devices.

Now? There's fear still, but he can see it for what it is. Take it down and pick it apart and examine the root of it. Touching Baz scares him. Why? Because he's never touched anyone he loves like this. Why is that scary? Because he's afraid that Baz won't like Simon's touch, and if he doesn't like it, he'll never want it again. He might even leave. Change his mind about all this. Decide that Lamb is the better choice after all, that Lamb can touch him better and make him feel whole.

And none of that is fair to Baz, he reminds himself. Baz has the right to be touched by you if he wants to, and only he can decide whether he likes it.

So Simon steps closer, and fits himself right up against Baz, chest to his back and chin on his shoulder. His hand glides forward. It spreads over Baz's stomach and round to his other waist, until Simon's arm is hooked securely around Baz's middle, gingerly mindful of the wound on his back. ]

Can we stay here for a second?

[ Simon presses a soft kiss to Baz's shoulder. ]

Feels unreal. Just want to let it sink in.

[youreflammable]

[Baz expects Simon to flee; that’s the Simon he knows from six months ago. He expects to be pushed back out the door, just far enough for it to be slammed in his face. It’s partially why he wanted to nights to try with Simon, in case this first one was a complete, utter disaster. And a few minutes ago, he’d thought that decision a mistake. Why would Simon give him two nights of his time when he didn’t love him?

Except that isn’t true. Simon doesb love him, has loved him this entire time, and it’s something Baz is still trying to digest. Every touch, though, reminds him of that love, of that quiet promise that he’s at least trying.

What Baz doesn’t expect is for Simon to move in closer, to fit himself into all the spaces where Baz lacks, chest to back, chin on his shoulder, and curling his muscled arms about his waist. They fit perfectly together like this and Baz feels remarkably safe here in Simon’s arms. Simon doesn’t need to ask if they can stay like this, Baz would be begging to do so.]

Please.

[Because being wrapped up in Simon’s arms like this does feel surreal, not just because of what happened six months ago, but also because of what’s been happening since fifth year, since Baz figured out he loved the boy he shared a room with. He imagined scenarios like this when he took showers--- when he was sure Simon was out, possibly with Agatha--- but he never imagined them coming true. Now they’re standing here together, after the most difficult six months of Baz’s life, and he can hardly believe it’s all true.]

I love you, Simon.

[fuckingtragedy]

I love you too.

[ There's only the briefest moment of hesitation before Simon returns the sentiment; just enough room for him to smile wistfully, and to wind his arm a little tighter around Baz's waist. There's so much to say, so much to do, Simon is almost dizzy from the options when there had been only a dearth before. He's overwhelmed (and that, too, would have scared him before), but the last thing he wants is to overwhelm Baz by asking him to hold all of Simon's feelings in addition to his own.

But he doesn't have to. Simon can handle it. He can hold space for them both. Until they're ready to talk about everything with a little more depth, or until they're ready to move to the next earth-shattering thing, Simon can maintain their borders and boundaries both. He just has to believe he's strong enough to do so now.

Doesn't stop his lips from wandering across the smooth curve of Baz's shoulder -- down to his arm, and then back the way they came -- until they're crawling bit by bit up the nape of his neck, nosing into his hair. And there, just beneath his ear, they pause for the slow scrape of teeth; careful, breathy, only deep enough to leave a faint welt in their wake. ]

Tell me, please. If anything isn't on. Or if it really is. I want to learn how to touch you right.

[youreflammable]

Baz still half-expects Simon to turn and run when things get too intense. He remembers too many times where Simon gave him the most fleeting of touchs and then disappeared. Or others where Simon moved too fast, too hot and went offin his hands.

But this is nothing like that. Simon’s lips slide along his shoulder and then back up into his hair. Teeth drag just behind his ear and Baz releases a breathy moan.]

Really on. Circe, Simon. Just about any time you touch me is really on.