Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Simon

Baz's fingers are twined through my hair, lacquered nails twirling my curls. My nose is pressed against his collarbone, his cold skin stealing the warmth from mine.

"Baz," I murmur finally. We've been like this for an hour, I think, if not more. Legs twisted together, chest to chest, just breathing as the couch cradles us. And it's nice- don't get me wrong, it's so nice, things have been so hectic this week - but I can't help but worry.

He hums his response, fingers steady moving. "Yeah?"

My eyebrows pinch inward as I search for the words. "Are you- do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he replies simply, not maliciously. "I don't think I even know what to say right now."

"That's fine." I hope he knows I mean it.

"Si, it's been so long since I've seen either of them, I don't-" his voice catches in his throat, rocking his Adam's apple. "I'm terrified I won't recognize them. It used to be, when they were babies, that I was the only one who could tell them apart, just by their smiles. What if I don't know them anymore? What if they don't know me?"

His voice is so impossibly small, so heartachingly broken, that I tighten the arm I have around his waist involuntarily. "Love, that's not going to happen."

"What if it does, Simon? How do I live with myself?"

Though I can't see it, I can feel his face pinching up, can feel the emotion swelling in his chest, and all I want to do is make it better, to take the pain away. It's a split decision.

I press a kiss to the free space of skin closest to my lips around the collar of his shirt and ask, "Do you want to know a secret?"

He hums again, and I exhale.

"One time when I was seventeen, or so, I guess? Phee and I went to get lunch, I don't think it was for anything special, just some sibling bonding time- she was such a good kid that when we were all living at home she got put on the backburner a lot so we all tried to give her the attention she'd never ask for, y'know? But anyway, we go to lunch, and she's gonna get us a table while I get our food.

"So I come back from the queue with all our food in hand, and I sit down across from her, and I dig in because I'm starved. I'm doing the usual annoying older brother tactic of like, half-eating, half-talking, not quite fully listening, so I don't realize what's happened. Mind you I am chatting away at her, looking up every few minutes for confirmation that I never get.

"Finally I feel someone tap my shoulder, so I turn to look, and there. Is Phee. And she's trying not to laugh because she's just naturally a good sport, and I turn and look at this poor girl across from me who's fighting back her own laughter, and I'm just so mortified because I'd looked this other girl in the eyes.

"So I start to apologize just all around, but Phee keeps assuring me it's okay. I felt horrible, though, and ended up doing her chores for a week out of like, shame and everything. But I think you get where I'm going with this, yeah?

"That didn't make me any less of a brother, didn't mean that I cared any less about my sister. Mistakes happen, and you live and you learn. You're going to be fine, okay? Everything's gonna work out because you love them, and they love you."

I finally pull back, bracing my elbow so I can push up far enough to see his face. For the first time all week, I see that he's smiling, a genuine thing, and it feels me with so much unchecked joy I can't even begin to explain.

"Simon, you're a mess," he says instead of anything else.

"I have been told that a time or two."

He leans forward to press our lips together, his hand curling into my hair, and I honestly think I could stay like that all day. Or forever. Forever is a concept I've considered a lot since I met Baz, even moreso since we started dating. I don't tell him that yet since it's only been about four months, but I'm not sure how much longer I can hold off, really.

We break apart of our own accord and I find myself thumbing at the line of his jaw. I am so in love with him.

"Thank you," he mumbles, his words more in his chest than my ears, but I understand, and reach up to kiss the skin between his jaw and neck softly.

"We never told Ila, so if you could keep that on the downlow-" I start to explain, but I feel the rumble of a laugh shoot up him.

"Of course."

We settle back in, the quiet warming back over pleasantly. I can tell he's not done speaking, but I know not to push him any further. It's not right to, and he'll just shut down. Still, I wish I could help him find his words.

"I called Fiona," he says finally, maybe ten or so minutes later.

"Oh?"

"I almost hung up on her when she answered, because I realized how stupid it was to burden her with Grimm problems, but I knew she wouldn't let me go that easily. She's been off doing god only knows what, god only knows where, so we haven't talked in a while." He purses his lips slightly. "I tried to get out of the call without telling her what'd happened, but as long as I've been alive I've always been able to trust Fiona to tell it to me like it is, and I guess I needed that."

"What'd she say?"

"I think she did a jig when I told her Anaïs was divorcing my father," he starts with a rasping laugh. "I'm serious! There was this terrible thunking, and when she finally came back to the phone, she was out of breath."

I snort before I think better of it, at least having the capacity to hold my laughter in. I shouldn't laugh, it's not funny, but-

But Baz is laughing breathlessly, laughing so hard he's shaking us a bit. "Go ahead," he instructs. "It was hilarious- go ahead."

So we divert for a moment into mindless laughter, the kind that it feels so good to get out that you almost forget why you're even laughing in the first place.

"Okay," I say shakily, trying to reel us back in. "Okay- what did she say?"

He lets out another laugh that pulls his lips back against his teeth and scrunches his eyes at the corners, but he finally settles. "She was so out of breath I had to talk about us for five minutes until she got herself back in order."

"Oh my god," I mutter, free hand coming up to block my face.

"It got her to breathe, so it worked. The adjectives she used thereafter were both encouraging and, ah, Fiona-like, so win-kinda win?"

"I'll take a half win."

"Three quarters win because she's not going to be in town any time soon." He says it off-handedly, quickly, either he's thought a lot about it or not at all, I'm not quite sure. My face must be doing something because he smooths his thumb down my forehead, ridding me of wrinkles I didn't even know were there. Before I can ask if there's something we need to talk about concerning his aunt and I, he's explaining.

"Fiona's- I'll never tell her this as long as I live, but I adore her, and have looked up to her since I was a kid. That being said, she's a lot, and I think I'd like to have spent more than four months with you before she puts her particular brand of tough love on you."

I tell him I get it, and I hope he knows I'm not saying it as simple placations, I mean it. It's his choice whenever I meet his family, and if he's not ready for that particular overlap, than who am I to ask for it? We've already given one another so much, things I don't regret and I don't think he does either, but there's merit in waiting, too.

I lean against him, into him, and slot myself back into the crook of his neck. My nose is somewhere near his throat, and my lips graze the sensitive skin just below it. "Just so you know," I murmur, closer to mouthing it against his steadily goosebumping skin rather than saying it, "I'm not planning on going anywhere."

He makes a small hmph-ing sound at the back of his mouth - not displeasure, that's for sure - reaching over himself in the process to flick my ear. "That tickles," he informs me, shoulder scrunching up. And though that's what he says, I see the goosebumps on his skin, see the way he leans into the brush of my mouth.

Any other day, any other week, I'd follow that path until we're both cheek-achingly laughing again, mouths over one another, and hands on skin. I'm an avid learner at the school of Baz Grimm-Pitch as it is, I love to know about him what he lets me, especially the trivial. But today is a day for hushed silence and just being there for him, and I know that. So I settle back, hand curved around his side, and we just exist for awhile.

* * *

I wonder if it's weirder to ask your boyfriend what kind of fabric softener he uses or just peep in on his and his roommate's laundry supplies next time you spot them.

To be fair, that thought occurs at 1:38 in the morning, so maybe it'll look a bit better in the light of day. After years of experience I doubt it, but I'm not really in the habit of putting myself down this early in the morning.

I can't sleep, and it's buzzing through me like electricity, or something more than electricity that does a lot of buzzing. I've also hit the time of the night where nothing I think quite makes sense.

I've been trying desperately for sleep since I pulled Baz against my chest somewhere around eleven, but it has yet to come. He'd dozed off fairly quickly, anxious for tomorrow and craving the escape sleep would bring. I can't say I fault him on that.

This isn't the first time we've stayed over with one another, this isn't the first time I've stayed in his bed, but I still can't seem to find a comfortable spot. Everything feels uncharacteristically foreign in a way I can't exactly pinpoint. Still, the rise and fall of Baz's chest, his steady breathing, it's all familiar, and I've been trying my damndest to lean into that familiarity with no luck. I don't even know why I'm so nervous, so stressed.

I think, if I get down to it, it's less about me being stressed for me, and more me being stressed for Baz. We talked for a bit longer earlier, and even now in his sleep I can feel his earlier tension.

Sighing through my nose as quietly as possible, I press a small kiss to the back of his shoulder, just because. Or, I think it's just because, but then my legs are swinging out of bed and I'm navigating his comfortably cluttered room by nothing but moonlight.

I pull my sweatpants from earlier back on, and nab one of Baz's sweatshirts to tug on over my head before I pad through the living room and to the kitchen.

I realize what I'm doing before I even do it and really, I have to laugh. It's not even my house, but my hands are steady and sure as I comb silently through the cupboards, gathering up ingredients for what, I'm not even sure.

I can't find any embarrassment in me, not when I know it's the only thing that'll calm me down enough to get to sleep, but I do kind of find myself hoping that Baz doesn't wake up and find me at 2am baking cookies in his kitchen.

Because that's what I'm making, apparently. I only realize it once the items are in front of me and I'm rooting around hoping they've got a baking sheet.

They do. It's weirdly bent at the corner, and the center's a bit rusty, but it's more than usable, nowhere near the worst I've ever had to use. It makes me smile, just a bit, thinking about what I used to work with at Lucy's discretion.

I set to work as quietly as I possibly can while still adrift in old memories. The cookie recipe is one I know well, and I can follow it by heart while letting my mind wander. Usually, it goes far enough that it untangles all the problems keeping me awake on its own.

It's as I'm stirring the last bit of flour into the wet mixture with a teaspoon that I hear something padding through the living room. At first I think it's Lucy - she'd been seen around a bit, but mostly stayed in Agatha's unoccupied-because-she-was-off-with-Hannah room by herself - but then I recognize Baz's gait. I'd like to say that not making eye contact is a calculated decision, but it's mostly borne from years of "you can't see me if I don't look at you."

"What are you doing, love?"

His voice is somehow softer and more gravelly than normal, and affection lurches in my chest.

"I can't sleep," I admit, though I belatedly realize that's probably more than obvious. "Sorry- did I wake you up?"

"No, I can't sleep all that much either. What're you making?" He slips his arms around my middle and rests his cheek against my back, waiting for my answer, and I find myself muffling another smile.

"Peanut butter cookies- simplest thing I could think of, I guess."

He hums soundly, presses a kiss to one of my vertebrae, and asks, "What can I do to help?"

"You can help roll and hatch them."

"Hatch?"

"You'll see."

I nab the bowl of sugar I'd already set to the side, and put everything in an assembly line. Dough, bowl, tray, fork.

"Here, watch the first one."

"Let me wash my hands first." He comes back a moment later, drying soft hands off on the checkered towel kept for such occassions before throwing it over his shoulder. I almost bite through my tongue.

"Go for it," he instructs, looking over at me with a simple kind of earnestness that makes me want to wrap my arms around him and not let go for a good long while.

I scoop up a bit of the dough and roll it between my hands, holding it out so as to let him inspect the realtive size of it. Dropping it in the sugar bowl, I give it a fine coating before transferring it to the lined pan.

Before I can even pick up the fork he asks, "Can I do that part?"

Grinning, I acquiesce, letting him grab up the fork and press the markings into it.

"I always thought it looked a bit like hatch marks, but I'm not sure if that's what it's actually called," I admit, and he smiles.

"Works for me."

We go through the rest of them silently, making an even dozen from the dough. While they're in the oven, we work together to clean up the few dishes. We finish before the timer, so I lean back against the counter, one hand grabbing at my elbow to hold my arm upright. Sleep is already starting to toy with me now.

Baz leans against my side, resting his head on my shoulder comfortably. "Thank you," he mumbles, but I almost don't hear it.

Curiously, I ask, "For what?"

"Dunno- just, thank you."

I lean over and press a kiss amidst his mussed hair as the timer goes off. We shuffle expertly around one another, him heading for milk, and me for the oven.

We reconvene at the island where I use an old spatula to place cookies on a napkin for each of us. I hover over the second row, and my hesitation must be palpable because he asks, "What is it?"

Pressing my lips together, I debate with myself for just a second before asking, "Would it be all right if we took some to your sisters?"

His responding smile is damn near blinding.

"They'd love that."

So when we lean against the countertop, eating cookies and milk at 2:30am, doing that dumb thing where we smile at one another while the other isn't looking, there's half a dozen set to the side, ready to be boxed up and delivered to the Grimm sisters tomorrow evening.

We crawl back into his bed just before three, and sleep finds the both of us not even twenty minutes later.

* * *

The Instagram of Simon Snow

[Description: Half a dozen tawny-colored cookies, each with precise little hatch marks in them, posed against a crisp, pale countertop. The lighting in bright and obviously that of daylight.]

simonsnoway: it's official, 2am cookies look way better in the daylight. and what do you guys think of these hatchmarks? i think i'm being given a run for my money :p

-

Comments

alexis1999: okay but WHO is he making 2am cookies with

benny_garcia2: is it just me or is tht not the usual countertop??? like it's similar for sure but it looks different

redwingedbaker: @benny_garcia2 okay but LITERALLY that's what i was thinking too, i swear ive seen the countertop somewhere else though??

grimmlovelies: hold up wait a minute [eye emoji x2]

sunnnoon: aw i love this!! whoever did the hatching did such a good job :)!!!

damnetjanet: yeah can i uhhh get someone to bake cookies with me in the dead of the night???

* * *

"They're what, eleven and twelve? They're not going to care if your tie's straight- hell, they're not going to care about your tie at all," I say, smoothing a hand over the shoulder of his suit jacket.

"You've met me, yes?" he asks our reflections, eyebrow half-cocked. "I didn't just get like this on my own. Grimms have the most absurd childhoods known to man, and then we grow up to be half-functioning adults who tie a really good Windsor and need a team of therapists."

"I don't know, Mordelia seems like she's got herself together. Very well-adjusted."

"That's what she wants you to think, but she can do a better Eldredge than I can."

My reflection grins cheekily at him as I smooth his shoulder again, both hands this time for maximum comfort.

He softens a little as he does the final adjustment on his tie - a simple black thing he'd hauled from the very back of his closet. "I hope they never have to learn how to tie a tie."

Sadly, I get what he means.

"Me too."

Shifting gears before he can dwell too terribly much, I pat his shoulders one last time before extracting my phone from my pocket and flipping it around so he can see the time.

Our train - because we get to take the train, not a bus this time - leaves at a quarter after six, and hopefully gets us there by seven. We'll only have half an hour to get ourselves the rest of the way to the school's auditorium, and then find Anaïs who has our tickets, and then get in and seated.

Baz seems to think this is some sort of high value production, and that we need to be five minutes ahead of the game. As someone that has been to his fair share of middle school recitals - Pen, and Jay, and Ila, and Phee's, to be excruciatingly exact - I've been trying to explain that this is the farthest possible thing from that.

I've already pretty much mapped out how the night will go, and hell, I've got a bit of a bet with myself. There'll be shoe scuffing, kids swapping seats when they realize they've sat in the wrong space. Someone is gonna lose their sheet music, and someone is gonna start playing before they're fully ready. One kid is going to be a full-on over achiever, and play louder (though not necessarily better) than the rest. But it's going to be fun because it's a lot of twelve year olds making music - they haven't lost their spirit yet.

Overall, I'm excited enough for the both of us, as Baz is a bit of a wreck.

"We need to leave here in five minutes tops," he says, tapping at the clock on my phone screen for emphasis.

"I know," I reply easily, leaning around to kiss his cheek. "Just take a breath, yeah?"

He at least does stop for a minute to take the breath, dragging it in through his nose, before pushing it past his lips.

"That's the spirit- you ready to go?"

"Simon, you don't have any shoes on."

"Shit."

* * *

I don't know how we manage to make it out of his flat on time, but we do, and we're headed toward whatever prestigious school the two youngest of the Grimm sisters attend in no time.

Still, I don't hold my breath because I remember the shit hand of luck my boyfriend always seems to have when it comes to public transportation. When we arrive at our stop on the dot, I take it for the three miracles it is.

As we walk up the sidewalk - which cuts over half a hill, if we're being honest - he takes my moonlit hand in a firm grip. I smile, but don't say anything, just give his fingers a quick, reassuring squeeze before settling back against the familiar weight of his palm. I'm letting him take the lead on our PDA tonight, given everything, but it makes something in my chest swell, the fact that he takes my hand.

We crest the hill and on the other side we find swaths of parents and younger/older siblings milling about, waiting for the doors to open. I realize with a start I have no idea what Anaïs looks like, so I leave the leading to Baz, who does just that.

He doesn't make any noise of recognition, doesn't give me any sort of warrning, just starts steering us down the path and toward a surprisingly tall woman. (I only say surprisingly because I've met Mordelia in all of her tiny glory.)

I must have said something out loud, because Baz interjects, "Malcolm's a regular Napoleon Bonaparte," between each of my thoughts. The comparison has me hiding a laugh in the pocket of my cheek as we finally approach his (ex-)step mother.

At first, her eyes land on me, and I'm surprised to see a spark of recognition there. Next they go to Baz, and they immediately water.

"Basilton," she greets, her voice strained in an emotional sort of way, rather than that of repressed negativity. "It's so good to see you- you look so handsome, the both of you."

Anaïs Grimm (I assume she's still Grimm, at least,) is even taller than expected. I'd suspect she's Baz's height out of the three inch heel she's got on, so she she effectively towers over the two of us in them. Her smile is achingly honest and kind, marked by red lips and slightly protruding teeth.

Her hair is the color of Mordelia's, swept back in a chignon to expose her dark shoulders under her simple, scoop-necked black dress. Her eyes - a charming hazel - flick between the two of us happily, mascara already threatening to leak, it seems.

"It's good to see you too, Anaïs," Baz says, and I can tell he well and truly means it.

"May I?" she asks, arms doing and odd dance as she near wordlessly asks for a hug. He nods, and soon they're embraced. Her eyes close, eyelashes sweeping her high, round cheeks, and I can tell she's genuine in her emotion just from that, nevermind the way she silently rocks them back and forth with the force of her hug.

It looks like a damn good hug, if I'm being honest.

"And you, Simon, I'm so glad you could make it."

I blink owlishly at her for a second, whiplash setting in from their embrace to her addressing me.

"Oh, it's very nice to meet you Miss…?"

"Anaïs is perfectly fine," she tells me before pulling me in for a hug as well. I was right- it's a damn good hug.

I catch Baz's eye over her shoulder, and can see him fighting the largest smile and the biggest tears as I wrap my arms back around her. I wink at him, and he cracks a little in the lips. I know, just from that, that everything will be okay.

"All right, well," Anaïs begins. "I'd love to talk, but I believe they're about to begin seating. Would you like to see the girls before the program begins?"

"No, no, let them do what they came here to do first," Baz says, as if he's making the sacrifice for them, but I know it's just as much the fact that he'll be a blubbering mess when he sees them that keeps him from bursting through the doors here and now.

"You're probably right," she says with a dainty laugh. "Come on, then."

We follow her closely up the walkway, not wanting to get lost in the fray given that she's got our tickets. It's an easy enough entrance, and as we pad our way through the carpeted, surprisingly ornate entryway, Baz takes up my hand again.

* * *

If I'd put money into my bet, I think I'd've cleaned myself out by now.

That's what I realize as I'm watching some poor kid chase down his sheet music for the second time. It's not even his fault - there's a draft from the side exit that keeps getting opened for god knows what.

For as prestigious an establishment as this place is claiming to be, they're incredibly disorganized. We're situated farther to the back of the rows of uncomfortable chairs, in the first row just after the stocky railing that lines the walkway, so it's easier to see. And hear.

Someone's mother is just behind us, a large video camera set up that she's incessantly cursing at - which would be funny, well no, is actually kind of funny, since she keeps catching herself before she can finish them, and switching the words into whatever she can find at the last minute.

I'd faked a bathroom need once already - before the program had started - to pop in and give her a quick pointer. She'd explained, in quick, hushed breaths, that she wasn't the usual woman who took care of this kind of thing.

After that, the half-cursing is mostly been for Candy - who I can only assume is the woman that usually handles all of it.

But even with that, even with the lighting that randomly brightens or dampens, even with the people in front of us that won't get off their phones, it's kind of magical.

They're playing pieces I don't think I could pronounce the names of, even with the program in front of me. You can tell they're trying so hard, though, from the scrunch of their faces to the determined way they all hold their various instruments, and it's beautiful.

The music rises around us in cascades, sweet and light and childish in a still-believing in everything kind of way. It's impossible not to smile, impossible not to laugh with the child plucking out deep notes from large stringed instrumemt that stands a head taller than her.

It's over all too quickly, but I swear I clap the loudest. I've been to dozens of these things, but they were all admittedly things I was forced to attend by my parents. Choosing to be hear really tints it all differently.

Baz and Anaïs chat quietly while people file out of their seats around us, though he keeps our pinkies linked on the armrest between us, so I can't say I feel all that left out.

The room's nearly empty, just a few people left mingling about, when we finally stand.

"The girls should be out any second," Anaïs tells us, hands linked in front of her. "They usually stay as long as they can - they were so excited to join orchestra, it's all I can do to get them to focus on anything else," she explains with a small laugh. "But I remember that you were like that too. Do you still play, Basil?"

He ducks his head, and I know without even having to look he's blushing. "When I have the time," he admits. "Which isn't all that often anymore between work and the channel, but I manage."

She smiles fondly over at him, and I can almost see the few bright spots of his childhood reflected in her eyes. "Good. I always loved to listen to you play, you took to it so naturally."

He returns her smile in earnest. "Thank you."

"And what about you, Simon- do you play anything?"

All night she's found these spots, the perfect place to slide little get to know yous into the conversation without forcing it. Every time she does, Baz's shoulders do this little scrunching thing, eyebrows following suit, but I can tell he's pleased, so I make sure to oblige her.

"Oh, no, that was always my siblings. I preferred to stay in the kitchen and listen to them practice," I reply, going for that sort of smile I know makes my dimples pop. It's part of my charm, I've been told.

"And you said there's how many- five, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am-" but before I can think of anything to add, there's the thunder of small feet and two voices choking out, "Basil?"

His head snaps in their direction, and before even their mother can greet them, he's down on one knee with one girl in each arm.

Baz didn't have any current pictures to show me, so I'm not sure which one it is that's addressing him next. "What are you doing here?" It comes in between heaving breaths, her face already ruddied to redness, eyes scrunched up as tears wobble down her face.

"I came to see you two play," he starts, not letting them far from his reach. His lips are pressed hard together in between his words, a futile barrier for his tears. "You were both magnificent."

The shorter of the two, I think I saw her in the woodwind section, rubs her palms over her face, matting her thick, baby-doll curls to her tear-stained face, neverminding the small starter frames over her eyes. She can barely even get words out, the poor thing.

"Oh, Emmy," he says with a small, fond laugh that could just as easily be a tearful hiccup as he brushes his thumbs over her face to help clear her tears. She rests her hands over his, the size difference striking, and just holds them there as she cries.

To my right, I hear a small snuffle, and I look over to see Anaïs with brimming tears, her thumb pressed against her lips. Hoping it's not overstepping, I rest my hand against her shoulder, and she gives me a grateful smile.

"Do you have to go, since it's over?" the taller asks, and I connect that she must be Cassandra, if the other is Emilia. She was the girl at the bass - or maybe it was a cello? I never really paid too much attention to the difference - I realize.

"No, we're going to stay for dinner, if that's all right?"

Emilia nods vigorously as she tosses her arms back around his neck, and her sister pats gentle circles on her back. "I really missed you, Basil," she tells him, and I swear I feel my heart shatter.

"I missed you too, the both of you, okay? So much."

Cassandra puts her free arm back around his shoulders and smiles grandly at him. She looks just like her sister, the same brown hair in perfect curls, the same eyes and skin tone as their mother, so alike that I'd think they were twins if I didn't know better. The family resemblance between them and Mordelia is even more striking, though, the perfect mix of Anaïs and their father, I assume from the subtleties in all their features that remind me of Baz.

Anaïs finally swipes her tears away and pipes in, "Okay, girls, let's get cleaned up, and then we'll head to dinner, yeah?"

Cassandra is the first to spot me, which I can only tell because of the little sharp intake of breath she inhales. Her eyebrows scrunch together, and she leans down to ask Baz something while keeping her curious eyes on me.

He laughs at whatever she asks, which seems to startle Emilia enough to get her to look up. Through her great inhales, she sees me too, and it shocks her into silence, it seems.

"Hi," I say, lifting my free hand to wave awkwardly at the tangle of siblings in front of me.

Cassandra furiously hisses something else under her breath, which has Baz turning to throw a beaming grin at me and motion me over with the tilt of his head.

I take quick steps, crouching down to where they're all close to the ground, and wait to be addressed. I'd told Baz he could introduce me however he wanted, that I understood and supported him to do however he seemed fit.

"You okay, Emmy?" he whispers, and she nods, her wide eyes on me.

"All right, then. Emilia, Cassandra, this's-"

"We know who he is," Emilia explains to him in a poor stage whisper.

"He's my boyfriend, Emmy, that's what I was getting to," he explains, a tilt of teasing to his voice.

"Oh," she mumbles, seemingly embarrassed by the fact that she'd interrupted before he could get to that bit. "Good job?"

I can't help but laugh, just a little. "Thanks," I tell her.

"Wait, so how long have you two been dating?" Cassandra asks, and I can practically hear the gears going in her head. I'm reminded, in that moment, that I've been told on multiple occassions that they're fans.

"Well what is it, love, four months?" he asks me, brow quirked, waiting on confirmation.

I make a show of counting it out on my fingers, giving Emilia time to recover if anything, before nodding my agreement. "Yeah, four."

"There you go," Baz says, and it's amazing, really. All these years apart, and they slide back into being siblings just like that, suspicious looks and cheeky quips to boot.

"Huh. Cool." Cassandra turns to her mother. "Can we go to dinner now? I'm starving, Brit knocked my snack over before we went on."

"Walk your sister ahead so she can wash her face and then we'll go."

"C'mon, 'milia," Cassandra instructs, heaving her up from where she's all but fallen into a sitting position on the diamond-patterned carpet below us. "We'll be right back," she adds to no one in particular before they scamper off.

I extend a hand to Baz, helping him back up against the protesting from his joints. He brushes microscopic dust from his pants as he pulls himself together, before giving me one final, quelling smile.

* * *

It's a short walk over to the little hole in the wall diner - not the kind of establishment I was expecting from what Baz's told me of his family, but still welcome - and Baz and the girls make the most of it. I'm mostly left to stand beside Anaïs as the three link hands ahead of us, quizzing one another on the most trivial of things they've all missed the past few years.

While we're waiting to hit the crosswalk - the three of them ahead discussing Lucy, it sounds like - Anaïs looks over to me.

"I'm not sure what he's told you, but you're a very bright man, Simon, so I assume if nothing else you've picked up on a lot of things. And as big as it is for him to be here tonight, it is for you too. I'm glad he's found someone that will follow him, who will stand beside him when he needs it the most, because I'll admit he hasn't always had that. What I'm trying to say is I'm glad he's found you, Simon."

It hits me harder than I'd thought it would. I look over at him, though, see him grinning at Cassandra who already looks like a little sister scorned, and I can't help but smile. I can't help but do anything but smile everytime I see him, it just swells too high in my chest. He goes to brush his hair back from his eyes, catches me looking and gives a wink, and I reply, "I'm glad I get to be here."

* * *

Baz

We stumble through my front door some time far too late. Obviously not late enough because the Chimera rushes up to us - or, more aptly, Simon - with light still in her eyes. I can hear a voice from behind Agatha's door, and Simon and I raise our eyebrows at one another in tandem.

"Aggie?" Simon calls out.

"Beloved?" she returns.

I snort as I toe my shoes off, nudging them against the wall as Simon shrugs out of his jacket. I'm working my way out of my tie when she comes stomping around the corner just like Lucy had, her loose hair swaying around her shoulders.

"How were Em and Cassie?" she asks immediately.

Agatha had always had a place in our home, even at times when it felt like I didn't or couldn't. Though I've always suspected her welcome on my father's part was mostly him hoping we'd end up together. Considering our current relationship statuses, I think it's easy to see why that wouldn't work out. That, and Agatha might as well be my fourth sister.

Still, I'd had her over as much as I could, and she'd loved all my younger sisters as much as I had. When I left home, I'd say my loss of contact with the little ones wrecked her just as bad as it had me. She rejoiced with me when I was able to truly maintain contact with Mordelia, and we'd cried together last week after I'd listened to Anaïs's voicemails.

"They're brilliant, Ags," I say, my fingers fumbling against my tie, unable to undo it from the tremble of excitement in them.

"Here," Simon murmurs, hands over mine in an instant. He deftly undoes the knot as I continue to ramble over his shoulder at Agatha.

"They're so tall, Agatha, Cass's nearly to my shoulder now. And they look so much like Mordelia did at that age, I can't believe it. Emilia's in woodwind- first chair clarinet! Cassandra's still into strings, but she plays the cello. Do you remember when she used to sit at my feet while I practiced my violin? Now she wants to do it professionally, has her sights set on a specific orchestra and everything, but she's only twelve. God, she's twelve now-"

That realization finally takes the wind out of my sails enough for me to coast to a stop. Simon's already slipped the fabric from around my neck and pressed a kiss to my cheek, heading off to wherever it was he was going. I love that he's comfortable here.

Agatha takes the empty space in stride and wraps her arms around my neck. "I'm so happy for you," she says into the crook of my shoulder, and I squeeze her frame in my own arms.

"How was Anaïs?" she adds in a low tone.

"She was great," I reply at the same level. She pulls me back by the shoulders, eyeing me closely.

I've thought about it a lot this week, today, tonight. But seeing Anaïs again, the decision is easy.

While it doesn't excuse what I had to go through at the hands of my father, I can also look back and see now that she was going through it too, just in different ways. She was doing what she had to, same as I was. And she acknowledges now that she didn't do all she could for me, acknowledges that what I went through was hell, and sees what it's done.

I don't have to forgive, and can't see myself ever forgiving, my father. But I don't want to blame Anaïs for what he did to me anymore. She's as much a victim as I am.

"Honest," I tell her. "She's said I can see Emilia and Cassandra whenever I like, that she desperately wants us to speak and be siblings. She's vowed to keep Malcolm away from them as much as she can, and she wants us - she and I - to be able to be friendly, all on my terms. And I believe her, Agatha, I really do. If not for how good she was to me tonight than how she was with Simon."

Agatha nods, her jaw tight, and lips struggling under the weight of her smile. "Good." She nods once, twice before the tears start to roll. "Hell, Baz, this's all I've ever wanted for you. You know I think Malcolm's a bastard, but I've always loved your sisters, and I'm just- I'm just really fucking happy, oh, hell."

She rubs the side of her thumb under her eye. "I told myself I wasn't going to cry," she adds through a shaking laugh.

"They asked all about you, wanted to know how you were, where you were."

She squawks, "Stop!" and brushes harder at her face. "Are you serious? They remember me? They were just babies last time I saw them!"

"They've still got hell of a good memory, and I think they watch the channel when they can. You should've seen them when they saw Simon. They were half starstruck."

"Oh, so they take after you then?" she asks through a laugh.

"Shut up, I'm allowed to be impressed by my boyfriend-"

"I wouldn't call it impressed, so much as enamored," she starts. "But do they know that? I mean, obviously they aren't stupid, but that he's your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, they do."

I can only describe her ensuing look as overtly fond with heavy amounts of pride.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come, but next time?"

"Next time," I agree, impossibly giddy over the thought.

* * *

As rare as it is, Simon's next shift isn't until Sunday, so he's got all of tomorrow free, just about. Which is why he's staying the night, and we'll find something to do together tomorrow.

For now, though, we're each trying to climb into my bed before the chill sets in. We're racing like children, madly tugging back covers and slipping under them, all the while laughing loudly enough I'm waiting for Agatha to shout at us from across the flat.

Laughter residue is still clinging to us as we settle. My foot hits the back of his leg and he jerks, a, "Bloody hell, Baz, your feet are fucking freezing," hissing through his teeth.

I laugh delightedly, slipping an arm around the softness of his middle and pulling him toward me, my icy feet finding home over his calves and shins.

He curses his way around in my grip, until he's rolled and we're face to face.

I can't help but kiss him.

It's his lips first, but from there it changes, remolds as I sweep my lips over his freckled cheeks, the thin skin underneath his dazzling blue eyes, too.

"Thank you for tonight," I mumble against somewhere around his jaw.

"Thank you for letting me be there," he replies. "They're amazing, Baz."

"They love you," I inform him, but I think he already knows that, if I'm being honest. My nose bumps his as I say it.

His nose twitches in the way it does when I know he's looking for just the right words, so I wait him out, knowing they'll come to him in time.

"I'm glad," he starts. "That they get to love me as your boyfriend. You didn't have to introduce me like that, not the first time I met them, but I'm really honored that you did."

I inhale against his skin, letting his words gather comfortably around me.

Simon and I haven't hid our relationship by any means. Our friends and family love to remind us how disgustingly in love we are any chance they get, after all. But in our positions, our careers really, things like this are tricky. We haven't hid our relationship, but the millions of people that have a constant look into our lives and have for years, they don't know yet.

And though that shouldn't matter, for us, who have been as active as we are within our community, it does. Hell, it's what brought us together in the first place, to this relationship I never thought I'd have in a million years. Because before I fell in love with him in person, I fell in love with a boy with golden curls and flour-caked hands, laughing with his siblings in his parent's kitchen so many miles away.

And though we don't shy away from one another in public, we do still have to think about our actions and their ramifications. Every tweet or post or word we say on a livestream. Videos have been edited to remove receiving a text that makes us smile, to cut out the looks if we're in the same room. Not because we're ashamed, though, which is a fact that fills me with love and light everytime I think about it.

But tonight, it was important to me that my family know who he is to me. This magical boy that I've fallen head over heels for. And even though the room was half empty when I said it, any number of people could've seen us at any point in the night. By tomorrow our Twitters could be alight with exposés we never asked for.

But we understood that going in, and decided it was a worthy "risk."

Nothing about Simon Snow feels like a risk to me.

"I didn't have to, but I wanted to. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Good."

He breathes steadily for a few moments, and I think he's fallen asleep on me, but his voice vibrates through me a moment later.

"Not right now, but in a month or two, I think- no, I know - I know I want to talk about maybe making a post or video or something. About us. I want to be able to be your boyfriend all the time."

I don't say the first thing that pops into my head. I don't say that I've known I would shout it from the rooftops since day one, that I have never been so sure about one person as I am about him. I don't say that I would send a tweet or make a sappy post on Instagram or do a live Q&A tomorrow if it was what he wanted and was ready for.

I don't say any of that because that's not the conversation we're having, but it rattles around at the back of my mind, a fact that I now know for sure.

Instead, I follow the conversation we are having, and reply, "'m looking forward to it," before pressing a kiss into his curls.