TFLN OVERFLOW

[fuckingtragedy]

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[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.

[fuckingtragedy]

Good.

[ Simon's constantly at odds with himself, caught between warring notions that only exist in the battlefield of his own mind. It's always been too much or not enough with nary a degree of separation between, and that's what they're really battling with all this. That's why he needs Baz's confirmation, his blessing; he's fucked it all up so much in the past, and he can't rightfully expect Baz to know the right way to navigate all this either.

But maybe together -- if they're diligent about it, if they talk -- they can figure out which way to go.

Baz moans, and Simon's arm almost tightens around him, almost crushes their bodies tight, almost smothers him. Too much, Simon reminds himself. His arm trembles against the urge, and to compensate, his hand wanders instead. Drags across Baz's ribs and over his stomach, a soft touch spidering up his sternum, his collarbone, spread across his throat, until his fingers sink into Baz's hair and coax his head to the side. Cradled, while Simon's lips and teeth carry on, picking little love bites along Baz's neck and shoulder. ]

Keep telling me what you want, all right?

[youreflammable]

[At first every thing is good, so good, as Simon’s hands wander up his chest. Like soft spiders maneuvering up him, resisting the urge to be too much as they go. Simon is balancing, Baz realizes and he hums out his appreciation for the care shown to him. However, those fingers dance higher, into his hair, and pull it to the side.

For a moment, Baz stops breathing. From this angle, he’s almost certain the Simon can see the two purpled puncture wounds on either side of his spine, the evidence of his turn, in full view. But Simon doesn’t stop, must not see the scars and moves in to nibble one and that is more than enough for Baz to handle.]

Stop, Simon.

[The scars are still exposed—- he can feel Simon’s breath on them—- but he can’t bring himself to pull away.]

[fuckingtragedy]

[ Simon freezes.

It's as metaphorical as it is physical. He stops kissing, his hands stop meandering, every part of him winding tense as his breath halts. But more than that, his blood runs cold, a numbness that creeps down to his very fingertips, frosting over the walls that had been melting so quickly. Stop, Baz says, and it almost sounds like panic. Stop why?

He's oblivious. He doesn't know what he's done. The scars never even occur to him. It was going so well until it suddenly wasn't. And he's so used to running too hot too fast, he can only imagine this is more of the same. That he's pushed the boundaries too much, and it's unwelcome. Which is fair, really; Baz is only turning the tables, and he's well within his rights. ]

Sorry...

[ Simon's arms fall away, and cross over his own chest while he takes a step back. ]

Too much?

[youreflammable]

[Baz sighs in relief when the pressure of Simon’s teeth leaves his scars, but is short-lived when Simon steps back away from him. No that’s not what he wanted. He wants to reach out and re-take Simon’s hands, to welcome him back to an embrace.]

No, my scars are back there. From when I was turned.

He sucks in a breath and draws up the long hair at the base of his neck to reveal the two dark purple puncture marks.

[fuckingtragedy]

Oh! Baz, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--

[ Obviously he didn't mean to upset Baz. That probably doesn't warrant the breath it wastes to state it, and there's no point defending something he couldn't have known about. He won't insult Baz's intelligence like that either. Actionable words, he firmly reminds himself, and settles at last on: ]

I wasn't thinking. I'll be more careful around your neck from now on.

[ But Baz isn't giving much indication that he cares to be touched again. So Simon takes another step back, eyes fixed on the floor. ]

I'll let you dress. [ It's an apologetic tone while he's hovering at the door. ] Take your time. I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready.

[youreflammable]

Simon, you didn’t know. [Baz is crossing the distance between them, tentatively reaching out for Simon, but then Simon is hovering at the door and Baz can feel the space between them grow again.

He steps back from Simon, just enough to carry him to the dresser . He pulls out a black cotton shirt to cover the burn as he turns back around, hoping Simon is still there, hoping he can undo what he has broken. When Simon is in the kitchen again, Baz moves to help clean up. He places a hand at the small of Simon’s back.]

Simon?

[fuckingtragedy]

[ All told, it doesn't take long for Baz to rejoin him (because really, how long does it take to don a shirt?), so Simon hasn't gotten far. He's only managed to bring the sadly-neglected charcuterie and their glasses over to the sink before Baz is behind him, hand on his low back, and--

Well. Simon hasn't exactly made a secret of the fact that he's a stranger to touch lately. Maybe that has something to do with it. Or maybe that Baz's hand is so close to the terribly-sensitive base of Simon's tail. Or that they'd never allowed themselves the simple pleasure of these casual touches before. Or that no one's ever touched Simon like this, right there, like Baz is now. Whatever the reason, Simon's not expecting his bodily reaction to it.

Namely, the hard shiver it immediately sends up his spine, one that even a roll of his shoulders and a shake of his head can't disguise. He braces his hands against the countertop, huffing out a quietly humorless laugh while he struggles to restart all the thought processes recently deceased from mortification. ]

Baz?