Chapter Text
Written February 23, 2023
Heathrow Airport, Terminal 2
England, United Kingdom
Hand delivered
February 23, 2023
Simon,
I know that writing this letter may seem a bit redundant, considering that I’m coming to see you.
...I’m coming to see you...
I’m coming to see you.
I think I’m still processing.
It took me a several days to discover the letters were missing. You were correct when assuming it wasn't me who sent them. It was Bunce.
Of course it was.
Malicious little demon, that woman, and a fierce magician, I don't mind saying. Once the mortification and the fury subsided (prodigious, that fury), there was no denying her cleverness. Mages have been looking for a reliable tracking spell for generations. Of course it was Bunce who found a way; of course it was done in the service of you.
I'll confess, I did not handle this discovery well—certainly not with the grace expected of a Pitch.
(If she tells you anything about a ladle, it is a blatant mischaracterization. I did not whack her. I gesticulated. There’s a difference).
(Yes, I know I’m deflecting. I can hear you chastising me through the paper.)
I wasn’t sure what to do with your letters, when they arrived. My outrage and humiliation were eased significantly. (It may be the first time you’ve soothed my temper). Did you know about the return address, written right there at the top of the envelope? It was in your own hand; I’d recognize that disastrous penmanship anywhere. Did you mean to tell me where you were?
Do you want me to come and find you?
I think I’m writing this to try and calm my nerves. The terminal is all bright lights and bustle and I might vomit. The anxiety is writhing in my guts. I do not like airports. Airports are vile receptacles of messy tears and horrible public displays. They are the slush fund for broken hearts. A perilous finger trap for grand romantic gestures and words that should be left poetically unsaid.
I hate airports, Simon.
Crowley, I’m nervous.
I never should have confided in stupid stupid Helen. What a catastrophic strategic error. She was just inconveniently there, at our terrible weekly lunch, and Dev was stuck at work and I had no one else to talk to my interpersonal relationships are a bit sparse at the moment.
“He said he missed you,” Helen kept reminding me.
It feels like a mistake, a typo, words someone else wrote.
You. Missing me.
She is the bane of my existence and the reason that I’m in this mess to begin with. This is all her fault, you know. She told me to book the ticket.
“You’ve waited long enough,” she said.
“He told you where to find him,” she said.
“He misses you,” she said.
Ridiculous. You, missing me.
The horrible woman forced me to buy the ticket, right there and then, took my mobile and entered the credit card information herself.
And now here I am, waiting for the plane to board, armed with a passport and a prayer.
The windows span the entire wall, floor to ceiling. I can see the airplanes taking off. It would be beautiful if I weren’t so…afraid.
I’m going to stop writing now. This will be my last letter. For better or for worse, I will see you in 14 hours.
(You do know that it’s ships in the night? You ridiculous perfect impossible—
I love you. I love you, Simon.)
Baz
Written February 24, 2028
Whitney, Nebraska, United States
Hand delivered
February 24, 2028
Happy birthday, Baz.
Do you remember that time you showed up on my doorstep? That time you showed up on your birthday? You looked tired, probably jet-lagged. You looked scared.
Told me you were.
Do you remember? How you just started spitting out words rapid fire about letters and Penny and how you shouldn’t have come and how much you hated Helen. Which is super weird now that I think about it, cause Helen is fucking great, actually. Dev’s lucky to have her.
Anyways!
You were such a mess Baz. And even though I’d just come off a night shift and it was nine in the morning and I was so tired I couldn’t see straight, it was kinda perfect. That morning you showed up for me. I knew you would come, you know. Knew it the minute I sent the letters.
Wouldn’t change it.
Because you were standing there, all wrinkled with airport, talking a mile a minute, and all I wanted to do was kiss you. Fuck, I wanted to kiss you. Never want to kiss anyone like that.
So I did.
Sorry for being all sentimental and shit. It’s hard to say this stuff sometimes, you know? Sometimes, writing it in a letter or a birthday card or whatever is just easier. I love you, Baz. Probably have done for a long time.
I’m still messed up. So are you, if we’re being honest.
Sometimes, the damage really is done and there's nothing you can do. Tree's dead, fire's lit, and there's no coming back from it.
But sometimes…
Sometimes the sun rises and we try again. Sometimes Baz Pitch shows up on your doorstep and kisses you back. Sometimes he agrees to stay, and then keeps staying, and it's five years later and he's still here.
Sometimes things turn out alright.
Happy birthday, Baz.
Simon