Chapter Text
Simon
Simon was right. Penny really did piss herself.
“This is brilliant! This is actually brilliant.” She was literally cackling. Like a witch. From the loud noises in the background, it sounded like she was in the kitchen, possibly cooking dinner simultaneously.
“It’s not brilliant! He’s snarky and…and evil and I think he hates my guts-“
“Oh he does not hate your guts,” Penny interrupted.
“How would you know?”
Penny paused. “Well, I’ve talked to him and let’s just say you might have a chance.”
“But what do you say to a boy the day after you realise you were in love with him?”
“Love?” Penny sounded a little taken aback.
“Love, crush, want to snog his face off, whatever. Do you know on that first day we met him I honestly thought I was still dreaming? And then I freaked out and said my full name like a twat? How do you talk to a boy who thinks you’re a twat? How do I even know he’s gay or ...whatever?” Realisation struck him. “Oh shit, Agatha.”
Penny let out one very long sigh, “Yes, the fact that you remember Agatha this late in the conversation is pretty indicative that you should dump her.” She had her Parent Voice on again. “Jesus Christ, you are a horrendous boyfriend.”
“But…” Simon tailed off. He was going to take her to prom. They were going to fucking stay together forever and live in a cute flat with a dog and 2.5 children. “It’s Agatha. We’re … fucking soulmates…aren’t we? Wait, will Baz think I’m a really awful boyfriend too?”
“I’m done dealing with this tonight Simon, I’ve got work to do. All I’m saying is, Agatha deserves better than a boy who’s in love with their local barista.”
She hung up. Simon was fucked. Sitting on the bed at his (current and hopefully final) children’s home, springs digging into him, he decided there was only one solution: watch romcoms and ignore all his problems.
Sadly romcoms did nothing but exacerbate his problems. All the Hugh Grant/Ryan Gosling type people usually suddenly made out with the Julia Roberts/Emma Stone type people, then there’d be some drama and then they would say they loved each other. Simon had gotten it the wrong way around. He was pretty sure it wasn’t usual to fall in love with someone after about three weeks, and especially not when you already had a girlfriend.
Also, how had he not noticed how hot Ryan Gosling was?
Did this mean he was gay?
After a warning that “you’ve been watching Netflix for seven hours, are you okay?” he decided to say “fuck it” and pull an all-nighter. It was five-thirty in the morning. Banking on the café being open for him to get some coffee, Simon grabbed his school bag and headed out of the home, eyes burning from too much screen time. He knew the route to the coffee shop blindfolded by now, his feet automatically taking him over railway bridges, out of the dodgier area of town, through a park and to the door. It then occurred to him he had no idea what he was meant to say to a boy who he’d just realised he was in love with.
The answer was: nothing at all as Simon became lost for words as he beheld the spectacle that was Baz Pitch dancing through the glass door of the café. He alternated singing into a rolling pin like it was a microphone and using it to air drum, hitting the counter in the process. He then began pulling his hair up in a bun. Simon’s laughter dried up in his throat. Baz’s pale neck was now fully exposed, and his jawline became more defined, sharp and dangerous and incredibly hot.
Simon was fucked. So incredibly fucked. He needed to run away as fast as he could or suck it up and see what Baz was so happy about. Deciding on the latter, he snuck in when Baz’s back was turned and was greeted with an earful of the Human League’s Don’t You Want Me and a not too shabby view of Baz from behind as he shook his hips in time to the beat whilst dramatically singing along.
Simon let out a small chuckle, causing Baz to drop an entire bottle of milk onto the floor.
“Fuck!”
“Morning, Baz,” Simon said, trying not to snort, “You seem…happy.”
“I…uh…” Was Simon dreaming or was Baz… frazzled? Hair had come loose from his bun, he had milk all over his feet and his brows were scrunched up. It was unbelievably cute, and “cute” and “Baz Pitch” were not two words said together often.
Simon burst out laughing, clutching his sides and then a table next to him as he doubled over.
(The ten hours of Netflix may have got to him slightly.)
“Don’t You Want Me? Really?” He wheezed incredulously.
“It’s an eighties classic!” Baz replied.
“And you’re eighteen!”
“My mum used to play it the whole time. She’d dance around the kitchen too.”
Simon noticed the subtle “used to,” having used it himself more times than he could count, but, in true Simon fashion, elected to ignore it and blundered further on.
“Yeah, nice moves.” (Was this flirting? If it was, Simon was abysmal at it.)
“Yeah they get all the boys,” Baz said, with a hint of a grin. He looked a bit like a shark, but a friendly shark. God, Simon needed sleep.
Wait, had Baz said “boys”? Simon’s heart rate increased dramatically.
“So,” Baz said. Shit, had Simon been staring? He’d definitely been staring. “You’re here very early for your coffee.”
“I didn’t sleep.”
“Okay,” Baz said, drawing out the word as he began to tidy the milk explosion up, “Any reason?”
Because I was coming to terms with the fact I’m awfully, hopelessly in love with you. And watching Love Actually.
“Ridiculously noisy arguments, uncomfortable bed, a classic night at a children’s home, really,” Simon replied, sitting down and attempting to act casual even though it felt like his stomach was doing acrobatics.
Baz’s eyes widened.
“I know, I act like a posh twat,” Simon replied.
“You don’t act like a posh twat, you go to a school filled with posh twats,” Baz said, “Speaking as one myself.”
“Yeah, my dad pays for me to go. He’s very insistent about putting my education first. Just not, you know, my welfare. Or feeding me.”
“Fuck,” Baz said quietly, and then put the coffee machine on to drown out the silence.
Simon rubbed his face with his hands. He hated talking about the home, and Baz didn’t even know the half of it. Like how the posh twat act was very intentional after some serious bullying when he started Watford. Or how there’d be days when his “anger management issues” had been so bad he’d been locked in a room, cooped up and breaking walls. Or how Agatha had seen him “go off” one time, and she’d never looked or touched him in the same way again, like he was dangerous to her. Because he was.
“I guessed after last night you’d want a double-shot expresso,” Baz said, putting down his coffee and perching on the seat next to him. Simon took a sip and sighed.
“You were right.”
“When am I not?”
“Even,” Simon laughed, “Even after I catch you dancing along to Don’t You Want Me, you’re still a cocky git.”
“It’s part of my charm, Snow,” Baz smiled. God, he looked good with a bun, “And I’d like to see you dance half as well as me.”
“Oh yeah?” Simon asked, downing the rest of his coffee (and wincing, it was way too hot), standing up, and turning the music back on.
“I’m surprised your barrel of a body can move at all,” Baz said, standing up.
“Fight me, stick insect,” Simon laughed.
“Stick insect,” Baz scoffed, pushing back the chair and then they were dancing.
Simon wasn’t sure whether it could be classified as dancing, not when it mostly consisted of jumping up and down, headbanging (that was Baz, with one glorious moment when he took his bun out and shook his head), attempted breakdancing (that was Simon) and a finale which culminated in the two of them standing on the benches, singing their hearts out.
The music stopped and they burst into laughter, attempting to catch their breaths. Baz’s hair fell over his eyes, and Simon leaned a little closer, in one impulsive movement, to push it away. The two froze, eyes locked.
“Baz?” Simon asked, “Do you still hate me?”
Baz’s face broke into a smile, not a mischievous or snarky or brief one like Simon had glimpsed before, but a full-faced, warm, heart-stopping toothy grin which made him look radiant.
“Not in the slightest,” he whispered.
Fuck. Simon jumped down from the chair, shaking his head a little. He had been on the cusp of kissing Baz-fuck. He said something he barely comprehended to Baz, paid for the coffee, and walked out the door. He needed to talk to Agatha.
Baz
Baz sat down suddenly as the door shut, feeling weak at the knees. He could still feel Simon’s breath on his face, like an echo. It was bad enough crushing on Simon from afar but this? This was torture. And it was unfair; Simon didn’t even like him- at least not like that- but Baz did have the sneaking suspicion the two of them were becoming friends. It was weird.
He was mid-way through the morning rush when Fiona came in, practically shoving customers out of the way and vaulting over the counter.
“Morning boyo, I need coffee.” Her hair was even messier than normal and Baz was pretty sure the smudged eyeliner wasn’t intentional.
“Go ahead,” Baz said. It was her café, after all.
“Ian dumped me this morning.”
“Ian?”
“My boyfriend.”
“You had a boyfriend?”
“He just went and fucking dumped me over text. I mean, can you get anymore inconsiderate, Basil? I mean, I know he was common as muck but can you imagine? By text?” Fiona was pacing up and down now, and Baz was just thankful that most of the customers had gone away so she could rant in peace.
“Err…sorry,” Baz replied, rubbing at a spot on the counter in order to avoid looking at her.
“Romance is overrated, Basil. Don’t let any arsehole steal your heart. And your Netflix password – fuck you Ian!”
“Yeah, about that…” Baz said, his concentration on the spot intensifying, “How do you tell if a boy likes you?”
“Oh Jesus fucking Christ. Who is it? Oh shit, it’s that Snow boy, isn’t it?”
“Err, yeah.”
“Basilton.” Bloody hell, all three syllables.
“What?”
“He goes to a care home.”
“I’m not going to fucking marry him! I just want to date him.”
“And fuck him.”
“Fiona!”
“Well there’s no need to look so glum about it. I’d say just grow some balls and fucking ask him, it’s not like you can piss off your father any more.”
“There’s no need to rub it in, I’m perfectly aware my father hates me,” Baz said, the sardonic tone failing slightly as his voice cracked.
“Baz,” Fiona said, her voice softening, “You just need to sort your life out a little; your father has only allowed one lazy drifter in the family and that spot’s been taken by me.”
“But what can I do? I’m not doing medicine, Fiona.”
“Just find a degree course you like, and you’re sorted.”
“That’s not how it works!” Baz exclaimed but was interrupted by Fiona’s phone ringing.
“Hello, Ian, you ineloqent fucker,” she spat, cheerily waving goodbye to Baz as she clomped out of the shop.
Baz released his grip on the sideboard, faced with the momentous task of sorting out his future.
By the end of the day the only thing he’d sorted out was arranging the mugs in colour order. (He’d made a rainbow, hoping Simon would take the hint.) By six there had been no sign of Simon, and Baz was nearly going insane from thinking about courses and university and applications. He wanted to cry.
Head in hands, Baz was about to say fuck it all, buy alcohol and pass out in a heap when the shop door opened. Simon was there, his cheeks red and wearing a mustard coloured beanie that let a few stray curls out the front.
“Hey Baz!” he said, “Rugby practice was a killer, can I get a tea?”
“Okay,” Baz replied, standing up straight, going to the kettle, filling it up and immediately dropping it on the floor.
He couldn’t even fill a fucking kettle. He couldn’t do the job that he’d literally been given without having to apply, he couldn’t pick a degree course, couldn’t think about his feelings and he couldn’t talk to his own fucking father.
“Baz?” Simon asked, sounding concerned. Baz’s hands were shaking.
“Sorry, I-“
“Forget the tea, come and sit.”
Baz complied, collapsing on the sofa and curling up in a ball.
“It’s okay,” Simon said, speaking in a soft tone Baz hadn’t heard since he was a child.
“I’m not crying.”
“I didn’t say you were crying,” Simon chuckled, “Now, what’s going on?”
“I haven’t sorted my uni course out,” And I love you. But, you know, whatever.
“So you’re saying you don’t know what to pick?”
“Yeah.”
“Well it’s fine! The UCAS deadline isn’t for another couple of days.”
“Days, Simon. I’ve got a couple of days to sort my life out.”
“We’ll sort it out tonight.”
“What?” Baz said, raising his head.
“Well, we’re in a coffee shop. I say we pull an all nighter and get you that university application.”
Simon was smiling, and Baz felt his heart warm up a little. “You’re a nutter.”
“A nutter who’s going to get you into uni.”
Baz laughed a little, and then tried not to jump as he felt the press of the boy’s hand against his own. He looked up at Simon, who looked a little like a deer in the headlights, and closed his hand around his.
“Let’s do this.”
It quickly transpired the team needed some more brain cells, so Penny was drafted over. She came with a whiteboard.
“Alright, let’s get this shit done.”
Baz and Simon were still on the sofa, and Baz grasped Simon’s hand again to deal with the pressure. He didn’t seem to mind.
“What A levels did you do?”
“Biology, Chemistry and Maths. Music for AS.”
“Fucking hell, that’s disgusting,” Penny said, writing them up on the board.
“Don’t listen to Penny, she’s a humanities student,” Simon said, dropping Baz a smile.
“Linguistics is not a humanity subject!” Penny snapped. “Anyway, let’s get your opinion for each of your subjects. Music?”
“Alright, more of a hobby really. I could never be arsed with the theory.”
“And I’m guessing theory is a large part of a degree course, so that’s out,” Penny replied, crossing off the word.
“Biology?” Simon asked.
“Shite. I only did it to do medicine.”
“What? It’s the best science!” Penny exclaimed.
“See? Humanities student.”
“Fuck off, Snow. So what do we have left?”
“Chemistry and Maths,” Simon replied, sticking out his tongue.
“Don’t do a Chemistry degree Baz, for the love of God.”
“He won’t, he says he’s a maths whizz, that’s the obvious choice.”
They looked at each other and smiled. Jesus, the two were like a more foul-mouthed Ant and Dec.
“Well, he is sitting right here,” Baz interrupted, “And surely if I’m doing Maths it would make more sense to do something like Economics, since that’s actually useful for getting jobs and shit.”
“Fuck getting jobs!” Penny exclaimed, almost dropping the whiteboard pen in the process, “You’re going to do this degree for three years, please just pick something you’re actually going to enjoy.”
“I might enjoy Economics,” Baz protested.
“Okay, do some research,” Penny declared. Jesus, the girl was bossy.
After a brief bit of research it became clear that Baz did not want to do Economics.
“Oh my God, I never want to read the word ‘market’ again,” Baz groaned. Simon was eating a cherry scone and nearly choked laughing.
“So Maths?” He asked.
“Fuck it – Maths it is,” Baz said, letting out a sigh.
“Thank God,” Penny said, packing up her bags and grabbing a cherry scone (Baz probably shouldn’t have been giving them away for free, but oh well,) “I’m heading home, but text me if you have any troubles drafting your personal statement.”
Personal statement? Oh, shit.
It was eleven at night. Empty coffee cups lay strewn along the table along with piles of notes. Baz’s leg hadn’t stopped jiggling since the third cup but the good thing was it was very unlikely he was going to go to sleep. Maybe ever. The two had struggled for hours over takeaway pizza trying to piece together a valid argument demonstrating Baz’s love for Maths. It hadn’t actually been too hard, as once Baz began professing his love for graphs, Simon rolled his eyes, said “nerd” in an endearing tone and told him he was good to go. The issue now was writing the thing. Across the table from him, Simon lay with his head on a pile of notes, snoring slightly. His hair was a crush of curls against the wood, and his lips were parted slightly. Baz was struggling to concentrate on his writing, and he felt quite bad for creeping on Simon as he slept, but could it be bad when he was just that attractive?
Simon made a light snuffling noise that set Baz’s heart beating far too fast and opened his eyes blearily.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Baz said with a smile.
“Argh, fuck, sorry I didn’t mean to-“
“It’s fine, you sleep.”
“No!” Simon said, pouting a little, “I want to stay up and help you. Gimme coffee.”
“Alright, but only if it’s this one specific coffee,” Baz replied, formulating a recipe in his head.
He stood up, stretched and made his way over to the counter, and tried to replicate the recipe he made for Penny a few days earlier. He gave it to Simon, who took a grateful sip before opening his mouth in shock.
“It’s amazing! It tastes like winter and baking and…it’s so good!”
“Thanks, I made it myself,” Baz said, holding back a huge grin, “It reminds me of my mother.”
“Oh,” Simon said, but not in the sort of way most people did when he talked about her, which made clear that they wanted him to shut up, but an “oh” which encouraged him to continue.
“She died when I was five, stabbed actually. I mean, I don’t remember much of it, but I…I was there.”
“Shit. I’m sorry,” Simon’s eyes were wide, and Baz’s heart was beating out of his chest. Simon rubbed the back of his neck, “I never knew my mum, actually. She disappeared after I was born, she needed to escape my dad, I think. So I lived with just my dad for a bit until social services got involved and I was put into care.”
“How old were you then?”
“Seven.”
“Shit. What was that even like?”
Simon sighed “Well…”
Once that can of worms had been opened, the awkwardness in the room dissipated. The two talked for hours, Simon gesticulating so hard he knocked a coffee cup over. Baz had never felt so relaxed talking about his mum to anyone, because Simon got it. He didn’t ask stupid questions, and he knew how horrible it was to deal with some of the no-mum stuff. He also made Baz thankful that though he had a shitty dad, he was still a dad, who did genuinely care for him. (Somewhere. Quite deep down.)
Midnight came and went, and Baz picked up again on his personal statement, reading out sections to Simon, who responded with facial expressions of varying enthusiasm. It was far from perfect, but good enough to email into school and to his father, with the subject line “Actual Proof Baz is Getting His Life Together.” (That was Simon’s idea.)
It was somewhere in the early hours of the morning, the time when everything seems to fall deadly silent, when Baz finally sent the email from the comfort of the café sofa, shook out his shoulders, and noticed Simon had fallen asleep next to him. He was curled up into a little ball, brows furrowed, and before Baz could even think he was wrapping his arms around him and resting his head against Simon’s back. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but he could feel the other boy’s steady breathing and even smell him (coffee and sweat and baking), meaning Baz fell into the most calming sleep he could remember.
Baz woke up to the ping of his phone, feeling very disorientated. He had a vague memory of a warm chest under his head, and a hand smoothing his hair. He opened his eyes blearily, reaching out for Simon, to find nothing. He was gone.
If Baz had thought he was bad with dealing with his feelings before, then this was a whole new level of awful. Simon hadn’t shown up for days since the all-nighter/personal statement extravaganza, and if it hadn’t been for Penny assuring him the boy was fine, but busy then he would have shown up to Watford in a state of panic looking for him. He spent his days looking through Simon’s pictures on Facebook and Instagram, and when Penny took his phone off him he went in a bit of a huff and only played angsty music in the café. He knew he was pathetic, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Despite the school accepting his application and sending it off, his dad was still angry at him. If this had been a few days earlier, he would be able to complain to Simon, but Simon was ignoring him. Angsty music and Facebook stalking couldn’t fix that.
It had been almost a week (the longest week of Baz’s life) since he had last seen Simon, and Baz was minding the shop alone when the entire school football team barged in through the door. Jesus Christ, Baz did not need this.
“Oi, Basil, hey!” Toby, the loudest and tallest, shouted out.
“Hi,” Baz replied. Basil, wow, how fucking inventive. “What can I get for you?”
“A latte each, except for Ben who’ll probably want a soy mocha or something, the gay shit.”
The boys behind him burst into floods of laughter.
“If you could explain to me what exactly is so ‘gay’ about a soy mocha, then I’ll be happy to make your drinks,” Baz said, his chest tight, knuckles white as he clung onto the shop counter.
“Hey, mate, you’re here to make drinks, not talk shit.”
“Don’t worry Toby,” another boy behind him piped up, “He’s not used to actually working for a job, he usually just has to suck a few cocks and then he can do whatever the fuck he wants.”
“What the fuck did you just say?”
Heads turned around in shock to see the figure standing at the door.
Simon stepped towards them.
Simon.
Simon
He hadn’t really intended on making such a grandiose entrance, but the edges of his vision were now tinged with red and it was using up all his energy not to punch someone in the face.
“What the fuck did you just say?” He repeated, marching towards one of the football players, who really looked like he was regretting his life choices.
“Err, nothing I just…”
Simon picked him up by his shirt collar and slammed him against the nearest wall.
“Get. Out.” Simon was surprised he could speak at all. He dropped the boy unceremoniously and turned to the rest of the team.
“Alright, alright,” Toby said, smirking, “Let’s leave Basil’s boyfriend alo-“
Simon punched him straight in the jaw. It was a little unnecessary, sure, but it felt fucking amazing.
“Find another place to get coffee,” he grunted, and the team shuffled out of the door, muttering a little.
Simon turned back to Baz, panting, still seeing red.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Baz said, walking out from behind the counter to sweep up a broken mug. (Had Simon done that? Apparently.)
“I wasn’t going to sit there and let them … shit on you like that.”
“I was dealing with it,” Baz spat.
“You were just standing there and-“
“Shut up, Snow.”
“But-“
“Shut up.”
“You don’t have to let them get away with that!”
“Yes I do!” Baz stood stock still, but every fibre of him seemed to be shaking. “You haven’t a fucking clue, Snow! Who am I going to tell - my father? Who refuses to even acknowledge I’m gay? And I can’t leave the shop, cause then I would have to spend every hour of every day, sitting at home, reminding myself of how great a failure I am. Or worse, going to family dinners, being set up with nice girls, everyone assuming I’m something that I’m not, putting up this façade because that’s the only way I’m able to survive. And you? You don’t have a fucking clue!”
“Actually, I do.” There was a pause. Simon could hear his heart in his ears. He’d just wanted to shut Baz up, and he’d stepped in it, big time. Well, it was all or nothing now.
“I broke up with Agatha,” he said, rather quickly.
Baz just stood there, his eyes darting around the room as though it would give him an explanation. Simon could see his hands shaking, his lips pressed together, and he wanted to kiss them, but it was like there was some force that was tying him to the ground, and he was so nervous he could hardly breathe.
Baz
Simon lips were parted, shaking slightly, and were the most beautiful things Baz had ever seen. As if pulled by a magnet, he stepped closer, barely thinking, grabbing Simon’s face between his hands. Each tiny point of contact sent fireworks to his brain and he froze, overloaded with feeling. Simon’s eyes kept flicking to Baz’s lips, and slowly, torturously and probably unconsciously, he drew his lower lip through his teeth.
Simon
Baz’s pupils were dark, and his lips dangerously close to Simon’s. He knew, just one tiny lift of the head, just a slight lean forward would be all he needed, but Baz seemed frozen, looking overawed. Simon took another fraction of a step forward. His lips were still quivering.
“Please,” he breathed, and that was all it took.
Baz
It felt like an explosion. Baz was grasping the back of Simon’s head, lips colliding, teeth bashing a little in over excitement. Simon grasped Baz’s back and pulled him in closer, causing Baz to let out a sigh. Simon took this as his cue to slip his tongue into Baz’s mouth, licking at him and Baz could only groan and return the attack. This was much better than fighting. Baz’s hands roamed down Simon’s back, slipping down the back pockets of his jeans and pulling him forward, seeking more contact until Baz’s back hit the counter.
Baz melted into the kiss, tasting only ginger and warmth and something unmistakably Simon (sour cherry scones? Probably.) Simon pulled apart, lips red and swollen, looking down on him with such unreserved awe that Baz couldn’t help but give in to the lump that had been stuck in his throat for the past few hours and sob.
Simon
He really hadn’t meant for his first kiss with Baz to result in crying. Was he really that bad?
As if reading his thoughts, Baz gave a dopey smile and ran his fingers through Simon’s curls.
“Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse.
“It’s fine, are you sure you-“
Baz pulled him back into the kiss before he could finish with such intensity Simon let out a gasp. It was shorter this time, and Baz released him, leaving their foreheads pressed together. Simon couldn’t even open his eyes for a few moments.
Baz
Baz was staring, but then again so was Simon, like he was looking at something beautiful and rare and wonderful that couldn’t possibly be Baz – could it? Strong fingers ran through his hair and Baz shivered.
“Are you blushing?” Simon chuckled.
“Nonsense, Pitches don’t blush.”
“Pitches do blush when confronted with very attractive rugby playing boys called Simon.”
Baz laughed at that, but Simon was staring at his feet like he wanted to escape.
“What?”
“It’s just … aarg!” Jesus, extracting words from him was like getting blood from a stone, “My life is a fucking tragedy, and I don’t know what I’m doing, I literally couldn’t be a bigger mess-“
“Good,” Baz said, lifting Simon’s chin up, “Because we match.”
In the weeks that followed, Penny’s handbook had to include a number of new rules:
- Do not let me catch you and Simon fucking in the store cupboard again, unless you wish to further scar Penny for life and risk her hitting you over the head with a rolling pin.
- The cap on sour cherry scones you can give to Simon is three, and only three.
- If you find any more boys passed out under the tables, for the love of God chuck them out.
- THE WHIPPED CREAM IS FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY OH MY LORD DO NOT TOUCH IT EVER AGAIN
- If that arsehole Toby shows up again, give me a call. I’ll show him he doesn’t mess with my nephew – F
- Make sure you tell your (amazing) boyfriend you love him every day (Also three scones only, Penny – seriously?) – Simon xxx :)