Chapter Text
III.
THREE WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS
BAZ
Seven days of being painfully aware of the new Simon-shaped hole that’s fighting its way into my heart — to take the place of an old Simon-shaped hole that took me years to fill up — and I’m now sure I won’t get out of this alive.
There’s no scenario where I fake break up with him (where I let him break up with me, it would be only fair; karma and all that) and I stay sane after that. Not now that he's no longer just a memory, just a what if from a time when I didn't know how to be myself. From a time when I didn't know what I deserved, and what I needed to give in exchange.
I survived losing Simon when I did that to myself, because letting him go was easier than fighting for him. Convincing him that it was for the best was less painful than making myself believe I was allowed to keep him.
Of course I'd learn how to let people stay in my life only to be faced with a choice that isn't mine to make. (That is no one's to make. There's no choice involved when you're gambling your heart on a house of cards. When you just need a puff of air to tumble down and never get back up again.)
Twist of fate, I suppose. My adolescent idiocy coming back to bite me in the arse in the form of a Simon Snow who won’t try to change my mind, this time.
No why, no but.
Just the clean cut of a Thank you for helping me win this contest. (Because there’s no scenario where we don’t win it, either. I can’t allow it.) Now the door is there, surely you can find it on your own.
Not that he'd actually kick me out of his life, because he's infuriating like that. Kind, courageous, friendly Simon. He'd grin and invite me to the pub for a pint, like good mates do. As if we could ever be good mates, and not just two people who thought they were each other’s endgame when they were eighteen, barely talked for more than a decade, and then were fake engaged for a month.
Maybe we could be good mates, if I were less of a disappointment to all the laws of friendship the one time I really don’t want to be. Because I had fifteen years of perfectly fulfilling platonic and sexual relationships that made me suspect no other kinds of love were for me, and surely I had deluded myself in my teenage fantasies, but no. Trust Simon Salisbury to barge into my life and sweep me off my feet a second time. Erase half a lifetime of silence in three bloody weeks and turn me into the textbook definition of severely affected by butterflies in his stomach.
Christ, I should let Mordelia teach me about all those flavours of queer she's always musing about. There has to be a word that means enthusiastically available for cocks in his arse, incapable of falling for anyone who isn't his teenage sweetheart.
Because my life clearly is a cosmic joke — or at least it’s what I tell myself to justify my presence here, at fucking nine in the morning, on a Sunday, pushing a shopping cart down the aisle of a Wilko as the daughter of my fake fiancé (and very much not fake love of my life) throws worrying amounts of Christmas decorations into it.
I don't think my presence can actually be justified in a way that makes sense to a sensible brain. (So, anyone else's brain. Not mine.) I'm here because a kid I met less than a month ago made puppy eyes at me (and via text, nonetheless! Technology will kill us all) sounds even more desperate if we look at the other side of the coin, where a bright I'm here because I'm pathetically in love with their father is flashing for anyone to see. (Fuck, I hope I'm not so transparent.) I'm collecting evidence to prove a twisted correlation between my ability to get emotionally attached and anyone whose surname is Salisbury, because there is no other explanation. This family will be the death of me.
“Red or silver?” Yaz asks, holding up two bundles of tacky tinsel. I barely need to glance at them to know that I'd leave both of them on the shelf, but this is not my house to decorate. (Another reason why I shouldn't be here, but in my bed.)
“Are you going for a colour scheme?” I ask, refusing to look at the shopping cart. Simon left us in front of the shop before it even opened to go on a quest, and I don't feel responsible for his daughter's uncontrolled purchases. I don't want to feel responsible, which is why I can't look too closely at the chaos of items I'm carrying around and that, I'm sure, follows no colour palette.
Yaz frowns. “Should I? Maybe I should.” They put the tinsel back on the shelf (thank Christ) and turn around to face the aisles we've already browsed. “Maybe you should help me. I want to renovate our Christmas collection and I don't want it to be as bad as our current stuff is.”
Her frown deepens, and I snort. I can't even begin to imagine the mess of Snow's decorations. (I am imagining it. It's endearing.)
“All right,” I sigh, but I'm smiling. (Because I'm weak. A fool. The least coherent man on Earth.) “Let's see what we can do.”
Half an hour later, I feel very much responsible for Yaz's purchases, but the shopping cart looks more like two people with a functioning brain stuffed not-strictly-necessary items into it and less like anarchist elves made Father Christmas's factory explode in its proximity.
“Now, kitchen section,” Yaz announces, purpose and mischief mixing on their face in a way that makes me feel weirdly proud. “I need all the baking supplies.”
I let them guide me to a wall of shelves so full of kitchenware I don't even know where to direct my eyes, but Yaz shoves their hand deep inside the pocket of their jacket and fishes out a creased piece of paper. “Here,” they say, pushing it against my chest.
I frown. “Why do you need all these tools?”
“Have you seen our kitchen?” she snorts, yanking the list away. I literally have to bite my tongue not to jump in Simon's defence. (Pathetic. Did I say I'm pathetic?) It's true that his cooking skills are basic to say the least — he probably learned the bare minimum to give his daughter a healthy diet and called it a day — but he handles himself in the kitchen better than Yaz (and himself) give him credit for. Maybe he's never used the oven if not to reheat leftover pizza, but I truly believe that with a bit of guidance…
I can't deny that his kitchen lacks a lot of supplies I would deem essential, though, I'll grant Yaz this much. Especially if we're talking about baking, and Christmas baking in particular.
Yaz pushes the cart in front of endless lines of pastry cutters. “I always bake at Mum's flat, since she took most of our tools when she moved out.” She throws a cactus shaped one in the cart. “It's not like Dad needed them anyway, I don't think he's ever seen a whisk in his entire life.”
I know for sure that Simon has seen more than one whisk, in his life. Namely, all the ones I used in the neverending afternoons I spent with him and his grandmother in a house that felt safer than mine ever did. When Ruth passed on to me all the tricks bequeathed in her family for generations, and Simon rubbed his nose covered in powdered sugar against mine. When my aunt was too busy drinking herself to unconsciousness to notice that I wasn't going home every night. When my father was too busy ignoring all the ways I had disappointed him to ever ask why I had moved out.
“But I want to get better at cooking, and Mum spends so much time at our house that she'll be happy I'm re-equipping the kitchen,” Yaz adds. I can't even begin to guess what the next cutter she chooses is supposed to be. Is it an egg? With legs? A mutilated rabbit? “And we have to practice.”
“What?” I tear my gaze away from a worrying set of person-shaped cutters to see Yaz move on to the cake moulds.
She weighs in her hands a perfectly dignified mould for Bundt cake and one shaped like Father Christmas, as if there were any competition between them. (Of course both are fundamental tools in any kitchen worthy of its name.) “Baking contest, remember?”
As if I could ever forget the reason why I let myself be roped in this dangerous game of destruction. (My destruction, at the hands of her glorious father.)
“We need to act as a team,” they shrug, reaching for a spatula and frowning at it before putting it back on the shelf. I gesture to one that doesn’t look like it will break the second you touch it, and they grin. “We can't show up that day and let you do all the work.”
“Clearly not,” I say. Because this isn't torture enough, and I'll have to endure teaching Simon how not to make a mess in a highly stressful environment and actually help me if we want to win his daughter this trophy. (I'm not even sure there's a trophy. Maybe it's just a pat on the back.) Fuck, I think he'll resist the pressure way better than I'll resist the casual touches he'll throw around to prove to people that we're passionately in love.
I'm already picturing it, my obituary. Basilton Pitch, 34 years old, cause of death: Simon Salisbury's fingers lingered on his arm a second too long.
Yaz lays a whisk (the damned whisk) on top of our shopping cart — our extremely full, things-are-starting-to-fall-from-it shopping cart — and contemplates it, glancing at her list. “I think I'm done,” she says. “I just want to get the Christmas tree shaped fairy lights we saw earlier and then we can go.”
I start pushing the cart towards the checkout. It's a full work out.
“Good.” I check my phone. Simon texted me five minutes ago. “Your father is waiting outside. Let's pay, so I can leave you two to your day of decorating.”
“Nope, you have to come home with us,” Yaz says. Matter-of-factly. The little tyrant. “You can’t leave me alone to decorate with Dad, I need someone with taste.” She beams at me, and I really do not deserve this. I deserve to be home with a cup of tea and a book, no children dictating how I should spend my time and especially no fathers turning every second of my day into a fight against the primal, animalistic instinct to beg for cuddles and little kisses. “And we're going ice skating tonight.”
“Are we, now?” I ask.
They find the fairy lights and hold the box to their chest. “Yep. I thought Dad had told you.”
As if anyone ever informed me when they decide to dispose of my life to their liking. (As if I would ever deny Simon anything anyway.)
“It must have slipped my mind,” I sigh, even though he told me nothing. (There's no way I could ever forget an invitation to unceremoniously put an end to my existence on that death trap that are skates.) (My arse is still sore at the memory, and I haven't set foot on an ice rink in more than ten years.)
“But you're coming, right?”
I can't bring myself to look at them.
“Of course I am.”
Simon's waiting for us in the car park, leaning against the truck (an actual pickup truck, looking so out of place among all the city cars) he stole from Penelope's American something (she says he's not her boyfriend, but she refuses to elaborate on it) (I want to say she’s just scared of commitment, but she’d have my head if I dared say it to her face).
“Look what I got,” he says, grinning, and Yaz actually squeals when she runs around the vehicle — leaving me to struggle with hundreds of pounds worth of shopping bags — and sees the bed of the truck.
“Is it real?”
“Yes,“ Simon says, not moving a finger to help me. As if I'd bought all this stuff for my house or my daughter. “I think I can manage to keep it alive all year long, so I thought it was time to quit with the fake trees.”
I drop the bags on the ground next to the truck, willing my body not to react too much to the sight of Simon in his plaid red jacket and a beanie flattening his curls, standing proudly in front of an enormous fir. (I hate that this outfit is doing it for me.) (Who am I kidding, anything Simon does it for me.) (But now I can’t escape the thought of him cutting down trees, sweat glistening on his forehead, sleeves pushed up to show off his forearms… Christ.)
I clear my throat, and Simon smiles at me. “Thank you,” he says, his cheeks red from the cold. He bends down to pick up a bag. I don’t look at the way his clothes ride up on his back. “Let's bring this beauty home.”
“Want to do the honours?” I ask Yaz, handing them the last ornaments in the box. Four stars made of modelling clay and painted in reds and blues; a house cut out of cardboard, with three stick figures smiling at the window, snow on the roof, and a shaky Yasmin written on the back; an angel who’s lost a wing and part of its stuffing.
We’re going through the boxes of Christmas decorations Simon brought down from the attic, throwing away an impressing amount of rubbish, fake wreaths and cheap plastic baubles, but I’ve finally stumbled upon ornaments with some emotional value. (With any value at all — even that little star kept together with tape is better than all the shit Simon hoarded over the years, and not only because Yaz made it.)
They scrunch up their nose. “I'm not putting those up.”
I step closer to them, kicking an empty box out of my way. If I ignore the mess on the floor, I can say I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished in the past I don’t know how many hours. (Too many, probably. I’ve lost count. At some point, Simon brought us sandwiches and I ate them. Without commenting on his skills. Without so much as a snarky remark on the bread being soggy.) Decorating anything bigger than a one-bedroom flat should be illegal, but we managed, in a perfect display of team work and chant-yelling at Simon to stay out of our hair.
“I support the colour palette and the choice of consistent decorations,” I say, my eyes roaming around the room, from the imposing tree to the stocking hanging from the mantlepiece. We put up wreaths that don’t look too much like plastic waste, made pretty arrangements of candles and holly, and strategically placed snowmen and elves dolls on the shelves. In all the rooms. I’ve never been more satisfied with anything in my entire life. “But we need some personality. It’s not Christmas if all the ornaments are shop-bought.” I take her hand and put one of the stars on her palm. “Hang these up.”
Yaz huffs, but she finds a place for her childhood masterpieces, without even trying to hide them on the back of the tree. (I wonder if my father kept mine. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d thrown them away, but it’s likely he simply forgot about them the way he forgot about me before Daphne rekindled the light in his eyes.) (I’m glad Yaz can have the memories.)
“Look what I found,” Simon says, resurfacing from wherever he disappeared in his attempt to avoid our screams and stumbling through the boxes on the floor like an oaf. He comes up behind me and stretches his arm to try and reach the top of the tree, pressing his other hand on my shoulder for balance.
My whole body ignites, sparkles shooting through my nerves from the spot where he’s touching me. I’m going to spontaneously combust. Go up like flash paper and rid the world of my embarrassing presence. (How I survived being an angsty teenager and wanting Simon for two years before he put me out of my misery with his lips is now beyond my comprehension. I can’t even resist a week of pining — I’m truly getting old.)
He’s been doing this all day long — his hand lingering against mine when he handed me a mug of hot chocolate, fingers brushing my back when he walked past me in the corridor — and it’s driving me insane. I’m not even sure he notices — I’ve seen him with his friends, and physical affection seems to come as easy as breathing to him, now. Apparently touch doesn’t make him jump out of his skin anymore. He hugs and kisses and touches, close and smiling and oh so lovely. I just wish it didn’t make my heart miss so many beats.
Simon takes a step back, but his hand simply falls from my shoulder to my arm. He squeezes lightly, and I force myself to look up. Another of Yaz’s creations (I assume) stands proudly on top of the tree now, a shooting star made of crepe paper and too much glitter. Yaz unsuccessfully tries to hide a smile.
“I guess we’re done then,” she says, checking her phone, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil I’m experiencing. Of the way her father is taking me apart slowly, without even knowing. It’s taking all my strength not to lean back against his chest and lose myself in him. (I wonder what he’d do if I dared. Where the line between friendly touches and me throwing myself at him stands.) (I wonder what I can stand.) “And it’s late. I’ll go get ready.”
And she’s gone.
Leaving me alone with Simon’s hand on my arm. With my heart pounding in my throat.
I turn to face him, hoping to get rid of his fingers on me without having to shake them off, but what I find is a thousand times worse than a bit of bicep squeezing. Simon’s cheeks are flushed, and he’s looking at the ceiling, his long neck exposed and begging for me to sink my teeth into it.
I follow his surprised gaze up and almost choke on my spit. Precariously hanging from the chandelier, right above our heads, is a twig of the worst plant known to humankind.
“Uh,” Simon says, unhelpfully, his eyes two pools of deep blue searching mine for something I’m not sure it’s not there.
What I’m sure of is that I did not put any mistletoe anywhere. I have some shreds of self-preservation left, very deeply buried beneath lists of things I want Simon to do to me. (Starting with telling me I’m pretty.) (Then kissing my collarbone. Putting his warm hands wherever he wants. Carrying me bride style to his bedroom. Breathing sweet nothings on my skin.) Fuck. I need to get away from this blasted plant.
I take a step back, but Simon’s eyes flicker with an emotion I can’t discern and his hand shoots to my wrist, pulling me back under the cone of shame.
“Wait,” he says, quietly. “You've got tinsel in your hair.”
His hand lingers next to my cheek before brushing something away from the top of my head. He runs his fingers through my hair, stopping to cup the nape of my neck. I close my eyes. I can’t look at him looking at me like this. Like he’s finally solved something.
Then his lips are on mine, my hand finding his waist and taking hold of his jumper as I sigh into him. He tastes like chocolate and cinnamon, and I feel as if I’ve never been kissed before.
I guess I haven’t. Not by this Simon.
Not like this.
I find his skin under the jumper, fingers digging into his soft side, pulling him closer. He nips my bottom lip, gently, and Christ, this is what we should’ve been doing all these years. He runs his thumb along my jaw and down my neck, and he kisses me like he’s drinking me in. He kisses me, and I never want him to stop. I don’t think I could handle it.
But he does. I resist the urge to chase his mouth when he pulls away to breathe only because I want to look at him. At his shiny lips (I did that), at his crimson cheek, at the adoration in his eyes I didn’t think I’d get to see again.
I want to kiss him again, I want to get so lost in him that I don’t know where I end and he begins.
“Dad!” Yaz yells from upstairs, startling me out of my daze. Simon’s eyes widen almost comically, all colour draining from his face. “I can’t find my skates!”
“I'm—” He takes a step back and clears his throat, his eyes darting around the room, landing anywhere but on mine. “I'm coming,” he yells back.
He takes another step away from me, crashes into a box, and almost trips, cursing under his breath. Somehow he finds the door, and I watch him go, frozen, two fingers pressed on my lips.
SIMON
Sunday 4/12, 5:30 PM
Me:
tell me ur still coming
i cant be alone with him
Regina George:
Oh, darling
I won't say I told you so just because you're clearly in distress and I'm incredibly magnanimous, but I remember my lips communicating this exact thought to you before!
fuck off
Nope, you need me too much
sadly i do
😘
5:36 PM
The Powerpuff Queers
Regina George:
pips we need emotional support
Pip-Pip-Hooray:
Did you finally talk to/get railed by Niamh or did Simon fuck up with Baz?
Regina George:
Ouch
Me:
rude and assuming
Pip-Pip-Hooray:
Not my fault you're both such useless gays!!!
Simon?
Me:
i kissed him
Pip-Pip-Hooray:
YAY????
You're making it sound like a bad thing
Wasn't this the goal????
Should I say I'm sorry????
Me:
…
im fake dating him
Pip-Pip-Hooray:
Is this what makes you sleep at night?
Regina George:
🙌🏻🙌🏻
Me:
arent u supposed to be my friends
Pip-Pip-Hooray:
Sorry darling
It's just too easy
So you shouldn't have kissed him! But you wanted to?
Me:
looks like i do
a lot
Pip-Pip-Hooray:
So what's the problem?
He didn't want to kiss you???
Me:
i kind of ran away
pippa?
are u still there?
Pip-Pip-Hooray:
I THOUGHT I'D TAUGHT YOU BETTER
Gareth says you're an idiot
Me:
he doesnt. he wouldnt dare.
Pip-Pip-Hooray:
🙄🙄🙄 OF COURSE HE DOESN'T HES SAYING YOU SURELY HAVE YOUR REASONS
BUT I DARE
Regina George:
I knew I could count on you
Pip-Pip-Hooray:
DON'T PUSH YOUR LUCK, YOURE NOT BETTER THAN HIM
Me:
can we pls focus on the problem here
possibly without insulting me
Pip-Pip-Hooray:
Alright. I'll be the adult here
Why did you run away?
Me:
i 0anicked.
then yaz needed help and now i'm locked in the bathroom
Pip-Pip-Hooray:
In the BATHROOM?
WHAT ARE YOU, THIRTEEN?
The car drive feels like a mine ready to explode if I shift my weight too much. And I’m positively squirming in my seat, so it wouldn’t take much to set off the bomb. The timer is already ticking, slow and unavoidable, drowning out any coherent thought that’s trying to form in my brain.
Yaz is talking Baz's ear off, telling him all about how this new book she’s reading challenges the concept of race in fantasy worlds. (If I didn’t have more pressing problems, I’d be frightened. At twelve my biggest area of expertise was FIFA, I couldn’t have told you the first thing about fantastical racism.) (Though that might’ve been partly due to me not having a half-Pakistani mother.) I’m incredibly grateful for the buffer effect, but it doesn’t erase the fact that everything is going terribly wrong.
Baz is keeping his eyes fixed on the road, which I suppose is just basic road safety, but it makes me want to crawl out of my skin. He’s talking with Yaz, asking questions and acting polite and interested as usual, and even smiling at her in the rearview mirror (I’m not jealous of my own daughter, but I do wish he’d look at me with so much affection) (he was looking at me with more than affection in his eyes, before I fucked up), but I can feel the tension coming off him in waves. He’s holding the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white.
I can’t believe I kissed him.
Well, kissing him was inevitable. Watching him decorate my house for hours, laugh with my daughter, look all soft in his grey polo neck and a chocolate moustache I stared at for five minutes before telling him to wipe it away rearranged something in me that I didn’t think needed rearrangement. It forced me to look the truth in the eye instead of shoving it at the very back of my mind.
The truth being that Agatha was right.
That this Baz isn’t the person who convinced me to break my own heart anymore.
That even though he still hides his insecurities behind layers of sarcasm, it’s gotten easier to peel them away and see that there’s no bite to his bark. That his eyes go soft more often than not. That he’s comfortable in his own skin in a way I’m not used to.
(This is who Baz became, away from me. A man it would be impossible not to love, because this is what I’ve always wanted, for him. To see himself the way I saw him. To find in the mirror all the love that couldn’t reach him from the outside.)
That he’s still devastatingly handsome, but the silver threads in his hair and the day-old stubble on his face make him feel real. (I can still feel the gentle scratch of his chin against mine. I need to get back there. Just me and him, figuring this out.)
It makes him feel less like a fever dream, and more like a concrete presence. Less like the ghost of who we used to be — that ghost I chased for years without even realising, a ghost made of memories and Instagram stories and a man in a suit at a wedding I don’t remember — and more like the promise of who we could still be.
If this was real.
(I think I want it to be.)
I should’ve known there was no way I could welcome Baz back into my life and not be affected by it. Baz always affects me. It’s what Baz does.
It’s what Baz has done since that day my last foster family let me try football, and he sneered at the scrawny kid with no experience if not games played in the backyards of care homes who could stop most of his shots. It’s been almost twenty years, and much has changed, but not this.
So, it’s not hard to believe that I kissed him.
But I can’t believe I let myself panic.
I should’ve kissed him one more time, smiled, and then run back to him after finding Yaz’s skates in a box in my bedroom, instead of locking myself in the bathroom like a twat. Like someone who hasn’t spent the better part of the last decade working on himself exactly to avoid this kind of cowering. This kind of running away from feelings that are so strong I couldn’t hope to hold them all in my chest.
Feelings I tried to ignore because I wasn’t sure I wanted to hand him my heart again, but this isn’t the past knocking back on my door.
It’s not another chance to put back together the pieces that fell apart.
I think this might be something new.
I know I want to find out.
Agatha’s fingers are likely screaming insults at her employees when we get to the ice rink, so the fact that she pauses her typing to welcome us says she’s taking my distress vaguely seriously. She even hugs me, which makes me feel a bit pathetic, like a wet dog getting treats just because it looks sad.
Then she air kisses Baz — the same Baz who hasn’t spoken a word to me nor looked my way since we got in the car (well, since I ran away from his lips) — and the fake smacks make my stomach churn. I catch his eyes when he steps back to let Agatha greet Yaz with their signature handshake (it’s a formal looking thing, I don’t want to know why), but he doesn’t return my tentative smile. I should grab his arm and drag him away from here, from the lights, and the music, and the noise, and I should wipe the cold front away from his face and make him look at me like he was doing this afternoon, like I’d finally answered a question he didn’t dare ask.
But Agatha marches to the ticket booth, and before I know it we’re all equipped with shitty rented skates (except Yaz, because I am a good father and I wouldn’t let them suffer in those evil contraptions) and leaning against the railing next to the entrance. There aren’t many people on the ice, thank God, so Agatha and Yaz start racing each other immediately, laughing and singing along to the songs blaring from the speakers around the rink. (Right now it’s Last Christmas, and I feel mocked.)
I step on the ice, but when I turn to look at Baz I see he hasn’t moved, so I rest my elbows on the railing next to him and bump my arm against his. “Are you coming?” I ask. He ignores me.
I bump his shoulder again, and he huffs, his closed-off glare melting into a frown. “I don’t know how to skate,” he mumbles, and I have to use all my self-control not to laugh.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he huffs again, but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“I can’t believe there’s something you’re bad at,” I grin, but his expression clouds again. Fuck. Why do I keep messing up?
“You know there’s plenty,” he says, and oh. Right.
I want to kiss him and tell him that I don’t care that he’s not perfect.
I used to think I did — I used to think I hated him for it, when he was the captain of our team and we spent two years sniping at each other, and then I used to think I loved him for it, because he was ruthless, and the best student at his school, and our best striker. Maybe I did fall in love with him because he seemed too good to be true. Because I liked that he was better than me — better looking, smarter, sharper with his words, richer, everything I could never hope to be. Some desperate part of me loved that he wanted me anyway.
It’s one of the reasons why it all went wrong. I’d put him on a pedestal, and he thought I couldn’t handle his flaws when he started showing them to me.
(He told me so. I didn’t deny it. Because maybe he was right.) (Maybe that’s why it hurt. Finding out that he was flawed like me. That he could be wrong. That loving him wouldn’t be as easy as I thought, and I needed to give back as much as I was taking.)
But now… now getting to know one of the pieces that make him him, with all of his idiosyncrasies and imperfections, just makes me want to smash his face against his, hold him and make him believe that perfection is a myth I stopped believing in long ago.
I’m thinking I could do it, shove the panic aside and be earnest with him, but Agatha chooses this moment to slam against the railing, breathless, her eyes wild.
“Not to be a lesbian,” she says. “But Jesus fucking Christ.”
Baz and I look at the rink, and fuck, for once I don’t blame Agatha for her exaggerated reaction. Because Niamh bloody Brody is honest-to-God doing an axel in the middle of the mostly empty rink. No, not just an axel — an entire performance, with spins and other jumps and elements I don’t even know what to call. Baz raises an eyebrow, and I let out a low whistle.
“I can’t deal with her. She cannot come here and hog all the space just to show off her abysmal skills,” Agatha hisses, and this time, when I catch Baz’s eyes, he’s smiling. “Stop laughing at my expenses,” she groans.
“Not laughing,” I say, hiding behind my sleeve. Even Baz is struggling to keep his composure, and he’s Baz. The master of poker faces and deceiving looks.
“Maybe you should stop ogling her and skate,” he says. His arm is pressed against mine. I lean into it. “So she wouldn’t have all the rink to herself.”
“Mpff.” She lifts up her nose and glares at Niamh. She’s just gliding in slow circles now. Nothing threatening, unless you’re Agatha. “Maybe you two lovebirds should join me.” Baz tenses up at my side. Agatha just sniffles haughtily and skates away.
“Come on,” I tell Baz. “I’ll teach you.”
“Stop hugging the railing,” I say. It’s been twenty minutes, and the most I managed to accomplish has been getting Baz to walk a complete lap while holding on to the railing for dear life. He almost fell twice anyway, and basically hissed at me when I helped him regain his footing. He’s adorable when he doesn’t immediately master a new skill. Yaz approaches us from time to time, screaming suggestions that make Baz seethe. You have to lift your feet properly, they told him the first time, and I had to bite my lip not to laugh at the outraged look he gave them. They just winked and glided away.
He glowers at me. “Do you want me to plummet to my death?”
“Just give me your hands,” I tell him, tugging at his sleeve. “It’s better if you have a balanced support instead of leaning only on your side.”
Baz looks at me as if I’d just sprouted a second head or suggested he wash his hair with 2-in-1 soap, but he hesitantly lets go of his emotional support railing to take my hand. He’s wearing gloves, which means I can’t feel his skin against mine, but my heart flutters when I pull him a bit closer. One of his feet skids on the ice and it takes all of my balance to keep both of us upright.
“Careful, now,” I say.
“I’m being careful, Snow,” he snaps. “It’s just unnatural for people to move on fucking ice for no reason. This is why people tell you not to tread on thin ice.”
He has a beanie pushed almost to his eyes and a huge scarf around his neck, but his nose is red for the cold anyway. I want to kiss it.
“That’s because the ice is thin, not because it’s ice.” He looks ready to growl, and it shouldn’t be having this effect on me. “You need to keep your body weight centered over your feet, as I told you.” And as Yaz repeated, skating backwards and giggling. “A bit forward is better than back, you’re guaranteed to fall if you lean back.”
“I’m guaranteed to fall if I don’t get back on solid ground,” he huffs, but he adjusts his posture. His grip on my hand is so strong it almost hurts.
“Now, continue the marching exercise we were doing. Small motions, lift your feet properly, and bend your knees.”
He groans. “If you wanted to kill me you could’ve done it elsewhere.”
I start to move backwards, slowly, and Baz follows me. It takes him ten more minutes of sulking and grumbling before his steps are steady enough to move to the next phase. He’s not actually bad at this, just too scared to fall and too full of himself to accept tips without complaining. (It reminds me of when he used to practice German with Gran — he wanted to learn the language but he hated being corrected so much that he stopped trying.)
“Now we’ll try to glide on one blade at a time. Remember to bend your knees and maintain your balance.” The death grip on my hands strengthens. “Apply pressure on the outside edges of the blades and follow me.”
We fall into a more relaxed rhythm after that. Baz feels steadier, clearly, because he loosens his hold on me and he glides more smoothly, faster. Agatha and Yaz are nowhere to be seen — they’re probably hiding in the café down the street stuffing themselves with hot chocolate as Agatha complains about Niamh — and Baz is looking at me with no trace of the coldness that followed my hasty retreat from our kiss.
I like him like this, holding on to me, being a prick just because he’s scared. (I don’t like that he’s scared, but I like that I can be here for him. Take care of him.) (I never want to lose this.) I like his soft gloves in my hands, the way his beanie makes him look younger and cuter. (Not that Baz isn’t cute, just…)
But I think he’s ready for more.
“Keep going like this,” I say. “You’re doing great. I’m letting you go now.”
I tug my hands away as surprise takes over his face and he almost falls immediately. (Okay, maybe I could’ve warned him earlier.) (But he would’ve begged me not to let go, and I can’t deny him anything.)
“Fucking Christ, Snow!” he screams.
“Arms out for balance,” I half-yell. “And put your hands on your knees if you feel like falling.” His eyes scream murder, but he’s doing great. “And don’t look at your feet.” His head threatens to tilt down for a long moment, but then he keeps going, a smile slowly starting to spread on his face.
He’s so pretty it almost hurts to look at him. It definitely hurts to think we could go back to how things used to be, after the contest.
He can have my heart — I trust him with it — but I couldn’t stand losing him again.
He’s always been a part of me, even when I thought I’d moved on. (Even when I had moved on.) But I can’t walk away from him. From this.
“Baz…” I say, but the look of terror on his face as his feet betray him cuts off my words. I surge towards him, extending my arms to wrap them around him. We end up on the ice anyway, but the fall is slow, more like a controlled stumbling than a proper hit. He disentangles himself from our weird hug and sits down awkwardly. He’s going to freeze his arse.
“We should practice falling and getting up,” I say.
“I don’t think I need practice to fall,” he hisses, but he imitates me when I get on all four and then slowly get back on my feet. I hold out a hand and he grabs it.
“Oh, but you do. You could hurt yourself if you fall the wrong way.”
“Maybe I already have.”
Yaz calls out my name from the side of the rink, and Baz yanks his hand away.