Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So close the door and change the channel
Give me something I can handle
A good lover or someone that's nice to me
Take my money, wreck my Sundays
Love me 'til your next somebody
Oh, but promise me that when it's time to leave
Don't forget me.”

—Don’t Forget Me, Maggie Rogers

Baz didn’t know what he expected when he bribed the address off his step-mother. (At least two Sunday nights of babysitting the twins, possibly three.) Only, he’d heard the ladies at the Club were gathering items for a care package and he felt the urge to ask.

“We’re trying to be uplifting,” Daphne warned Baz.

He frowned. “I know that.”

“This isn’t meant for schoolyard grudges.”

He held firm to the sheet on which she’d written Simon’s address. “I wouldn’t.”

“Okay.” Finally, she released the paper.

Baz wrote his letter that night but took three months to send it. 

By then, he knew if he didn’t send the damn thing he’d have to tease out a new address. Daphne had already squeezed four nights of babysitting plus a violin performance from him. The shame of more familial harassment finally spurred Baz into action. His letter fell into the postbox with a resounding thump.

His heart replied, thumpthump.

“Dear Simon …”

What else he’d written barely mattered. “Hope you’re well.” Some rambling sentences about visiting his half-siblings on break from Uni. Complaining about how his professor somehow managed to turn every lesson about nineteenth century romanticism into a bitch-session about his wife.

It didn’t say anything that Baz really wanted to say. “I didn’t actually hate you at school,” and, “I’m sorry about pushing you down the stairs,” and, “Did they save a lock of your hair when they shaved it and can you send it to me? For … reasons?”

And, also: “About Davy …”

What do you say to the boy who killed his own father? To the boy serving four months in a treatment facility, two weeks of transitional housing, and, then, freedom. Whatever shape it took.

What do you say to that?

Over his summer break, living once more in the Manor back at Hampshire, Baz didn’t expect to open his parents’ front door and find Simon Snow.

“You’re here,” he said, inanely.

Simon shrugged and finally the house felt like home. “You wrote.”

“Do you want to come in?”

Simon peered around Baz’s shoulder. Baz could picture what he saw. Opulence. Greed. That fucking red carpet staircase. A goddamn chandelier.

“Actually, I’ve been cooped inside for what feels like ages. Would you mind if we took a walk?”

Someone really ought to have invented a stronger word for awkward by now. Something that reflected the unholy combination of excruciating monotony with fathomless hope. Add a dash of fear. The cherry on top of attraction.

“You’re in uni, right?” Simon asked.

The question felt like a trap. “… Yes.”

“Uh.” Simon was watching his feet like they might run off without him. “How is it?”

Maybe the trap was mundanity. “Fine,” Baz answered. 

They passed the fountain where two cherubs spit water alongside a rather busty mermaid. Atrocious, really. Mixed metaphors.

They both pretended not to see it.

“Nice weather,” Simon said.

“They say it’ll be a mild summer.” Baz wondered how long it would take to drown in the two feet of water pooled under the fountain.

Simon frowned. “Who’s they?”

“Oh. Um. The news? I suppose?” If one held a gun to Baz’s head, he couldn’t recall who had actually shared the insipid prediction.

(Not that Simon … not that he would …)

(And in any case Simon had used a knife.)

“Huh.” Simon scratched the back of his head.

His hair was starting to get fighting length again. Like the second month of school, when he’d finally stop looking so carved out and start looking for a battle. Baz always made sure to be ready with a match. Strike it, he dared, in lieu of the hug he really wanted to offer. 

Here, at the end of everything, Baz had stopped fighting the truth. Which was: Baz would always give Simon anything he wanted, even if all he ever wanted was a punch.

“Does it rain much here?” Simon asked.

Baz bit back the urge to laugh. What was this whole conversation, besides a waking nightmare? “About as much as it did back at … Watford.” His tongue tripped over the name, the scene of the crime. Fuck. Was he not supposed to mention it?

Keeping his face toward the path in front of them, Baz tried to cut his eyes to the side. He could only just make out Simon chewing his lip. Fucking fuck. 

Why had he thought this a good idea? What was he thinking when he wrote Simon in the first place?

How do you love a boy you never really knew who killed the father who never really cared in order to save the life he now barely gets to live?

“I’m gay,” Baz blurted out, for lack of anything else to ruin their walk.

Simon’s feet slid out on the gravel path. He gripped Baz’s arm to stop from falling and then nearly fell anyway, jolting away from Baz with such violence one almost had to laugh.

(Baz didn’t.)

“Is that new?” Simon asked.

And then, miraculously, Baz did. Laugh. Caught unawares by it. Buckling at the middle, hands braced on his knees. Tears, streaming. Deep, convulsive laughs that strained the abdominal muscles gone to seed from a syear of late night studying and not enough exercise and possibly a lifetime of never having laughed this hard at anything, ever.

Finally, when Baz looked up, wiping the laugh-tears from his eyes and braving a glance at Simon, he found the shyest smile on Simon’s face. 

If only Baz could have spent his whole life making Simon look this way. That was the true crime.

“No,” Baz said, shaking his head. He smiled back. “It’s not new.”

“Huh.” Simon tilted his head. The sun caught the short, blunt hairs still growing and made a few of them gleam bronze. Or amber. Or was it red? Who could tell?

It wasn’t at all a shock to learn how desperately Baz wanted to try color matching each strand. Anything to keep Simon here longer. 

“So,” Baz said, straightening up, dusting non-existent dirt off his shirt and jeans, suddenly needing to do something with his hands, “what would you say to some lunch?”

“Sandwiches?” Simon’s expression brightened another fraction.

“Perhaps we could have a picnic by the lake,” Baz suggested. “Keep enjoying this mild summer of ours.”

Simon tipped his face up to the sun and the sun envied his glow. “Sounds perfect.”

Baz embarrassed himself with the spread. A wicker basket. Actual silverware. Wine glasses to hold the milk Simon insisted upon. (Disgusting, and yet, Baz had packed it, so who was the real fool?)

Three different types of sandwiches. Biscuits. Fruit. A cold serving of last night’s steak, too well done for Baz’s taste but Daphne served what Malcolm liked and Baz supposed he’d seen worse things done in the name of love. 

Case in point: Baz had also grabbed what was left of Vera’s famous garlic butter mashed potatoes because, despite making a promise to Mordelia to save them, Simon had gazed at them with such longing Baz knew he’d suffer anything to satisfy that want.

He even stole Daphne’s favorite cashmere blanket from the living room sofa. The one she never let anyone use if food was nearby.

Worth it all to see Simon’s butter-slick fingers ghost over the fibres. “Soft,” he whispered, like a revelation.

Baz had to turn his face away to hide all the tenderness threatening to spill.

“Do you come here often?”

Baz smiled despite knowing Simon hadn’t meant it like that. “Not as much as I should.”

“Shame.”

Baz hummed. “Sometimes”—he braved looking at Simon to admit—“we don’t appreciate what we have despite knowing how much other people want it.”

Simon frowned. He punched a thumb into a macaroon, leaving behind a crater of crumbs that spilled out onto the blanket. “I don’t know if I’ve ever had something someone else wanted. Well,” his eyes cut to Baz quickly before returning to his cracked dessert, “I guess. Agatha? Not that I would ever really want to claim a person. Or.” The furrow between his brows deepened its crease. “Did you even want her? If you’ve always been …”

Ah, the old farce. Baz pulling at Agatha’s pigtails to get Simon’s attention.

“Gay,” Baz finished for Simon. “No. I never really wanted Agatha like that. Or at all. Instead, I …” The sun must have briefly passed through a cloud because Baz felt a strengthening of its rays. It was just the right push for Baz to admit with confidence: “It wasn’t ever Agatha I wanted, Simon.” 

Simon’s brilliant blue eyes fixed on Baz at the sound of his name.

“I aimed in his direction, but fell short of my true target.” Baz smiled, rueful. “Not everyone’s as brave as you. But. I’m trying to be.”

This time, the confession felt … good. Not so much a weight off his shoulders but a window opened after months of winter. Baz tipped his own face up to the sky. Sunlight streamed in. He felt the warmth down to his bones.

A hand laid itself over Baz’s and he was at once set aflame. He welcomed it.

After all, why else would Baz have spent years looking at Simon if he didn’t want to burn?

Baz turned to once again look at Simon. It hurt, it healed, every time.

“Me?” Simon asked, so incredulous Baz almost had to laugh.

So he did. “Yes. You.”

“That’s why you wrote? Because you …” it wasn’t that the words tasted bad; it was more like trying to speak Latin on a tongue not built for it “… like me?”

Love, but Baz didn’t correct him. “Yes.”

Simon flopped down onto the blanket like someone had cut all his strings. “Wow.”

“You okay there?”

“Just … just give me a minute. The world is spinning into new shapes. I feel dizzy.”

Simon’s hand was still laid across Baz’s. “Take your time.”

Four months. Two weeks. 

Freedom. Baz had found his shape at last.

He could wait until Simon found his.

Who knows.

Maybe theirs matched.

Here, at the start of everything, Baz had stopped fighting the truth. 

He turned up his palm to the sun and, threading his fingers through Simon’s, held onto it.

“And maybe I'm dead wrong
Maybe I was bitter from the winter all along
Maybe there's a stranger standing, holding out
For love, just waiting on the next street
Just for me
Oh, just for me”

Chapter Text

Epilogue

It’s not that Baz’s letter explicitly invited Simon to crash his parent’s mansion. Only …

The letter had smelled like him. Baz. Up until that point, Simon thought he’d never miss Baz. Maybe that was the one upshot of killing his father in self-defense, spending four months in treatment, two weeks transition, and then …

It’s just that Simon couldn’t stop thinking about it. The letter. So he did what he always did when he couldn’t stop thinking: he acted on impulse. Bought a ticket. Two. A taxi. A long walk up a hillside to Baz’s front door where his brain tried to kick in, like an engine sputtering to start. 

What are you doing? 

He doesn’t want you here. 

He sent that letter out of pity. Obligation. Maybe even guilt. 

(Although Simon had broken Baz’s nose after Baz pushed him down the stairs. He thought maybe that made them even.)

Then, Simon pulled the letter out of his pocket. It was barely legible with how many times Simon had folded and unfolded it. If Simon held it up to his nose long enough, he could almost catch a whiff of Baz’s cologne.

Worst case, he’d ask Baz for another spritz before letting himself get turned away. Simon was already a murderer. He could be a nutter, too. It could be worse. Asking for a splash of cologne on a piece of paper’s way better than, say, asking for a lock of hair.

Besides, if there was one thing Simon was good at, it was not thinking. It was pushing want away. It was keeping his hopes down. Stomping them to the floor.

He’d once been something special. Now, what was he? An unwanted stranger, knocking on Baz’s door.

Best to get it over with. He’d come all this way.

His fists against the heavy wood hardly made a sound. No one answered. He wondered. Could anyone hear—

The door flew open, along with a rush of cedar and bergamot.

Baz.

He cocked an eyebrow and Simon no longer felt like a stranger. 

“You’re here,” Baz said, with a smile of all things, and maybe Simon’s special wasn’t past tense. Maybe it could be present, here, with Baz.

All Simon’s life he’d never said a thing that didn’t feel under-dressed for the occasion. Especially when it came to Baz. But when Simon shrugged, when he said, “You wrote,” for once …

He said everything.

“Oh, but every time I try just a little
Promise that I'll meet in the middle
Always find my way back to my feet.”

Chapter Text

Dear Simon,

Hope you’re well. I also hope you don’t mind that I’ve written you, or that I’ve called you Simon. The good thing about letters is, if you’re not interested in them, you can throw them in the bin. I’m sure this one would make a very satisfying thunk if you tossed it. 

Or you could rip it up first. Make confetti. I used a thicker than average cardstock so it should feel extra satisfying to tear.

Or you could read it. The choice is yours.

(If you’d sent me a letter, I would read it. In case you’re wondering.)

I don’t know if you knew this, but I’m taking classes at the London School of Economics. To my father’s chagrin, I haven’t yet settled on a programme. It was his favorite question to ask me over last winter break. I don’t know why he thought it would change from one dinner to the next, but he sure enjoyed testing his hypothesis that frequent annoyance could bend me toward a decision. Obviously he’s never had you as a roommate.

My younger siblings asked way better questions. Mordelia, the oldest, asked if I’d ridden any mattresses down the stairs (she’s on a bit of a Princess Diary kick). The twins, Sophie and Petra, wanted to know my favorite teacher (Dr Richards, who teaches Empires and Resistance in Global History), my favorite snack (still salt and vinegar crisps, though I do try to squeeze in at least one salad at campus cafes every now and again for the appearance of health), and whether or not I have to wear an icky school uniform (I don’t, and, I’ll not lie, it was more stressful than I’d imagine to pick my own clothes daily). Swithin, on the other hand, loved to ask, “Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba?” (He’s two.)

All better questions than, “So, Basil, have you picked a career?”

Although maybe I shouldn’t be complaining about the varied possibilities of my future to you.

I digress.

This might actually shock you but in writing this I am engaging in the ancient scholarly art of procrastination. I’m meant to be reading the works of Byron, he of much-speculated-upon sexuality. Not that such matters should be of interest in class that’s ostensibly about LITERATURE, and yet the professor seems more interested in dissecting his own dissolving marriage than he is discussing the romantic works of the nineteenth century as listed on the syllabus. So instead of reading Byron’s works, I’ve been Pavlov-ed into researching his many affairs as listed on Wikipedia. You’d hardly recognize me.

I assume that’s a good thing.

If you even think of me.

Would you google my sexuality?

Well. I suppose I should get back to it. I’ve wasted enough time. Not that writing this is a waste! Far from it. Even if you do end up tearing it up and throwing it away. Burning it in some pseudo-ritualistic bonfire. Like I said, I wouldn’t blame you.

Even so, I’d be remiss if I didn’t say I sometimes think of our tower back at Mummers. We had such a lovely view, didn’t we? Shame we didn’t take more time to enjoy it.

Yours,

Sincerely,

Until next time,

Baz.