Chapter Text
Baz
We’re in his bed. Well, on his bed. Complete with Spiderman sheets (He says it’s ironic, I think it’s moronic. But he is a moron. So.)
We have been studying at the library for weeks. As much as it kills me to admit it, he’s actually an excellent tutor. Typically, my brain goes into a sort of spiral lock down when I get bogged down in a difficult math problem. Simon has this ability and patience to break it down and methodically untangle the knots so that things make perfect sense. He’s so fucking kind, it literally takes everything I’ve got not to take him by the neck and snog him senseless on the library table.
He’s actually a little handsy, now that I’ve gotten to know him. Always ready with a pat on the back or a warm grasp on my arm when I’m getting frustrated. You’d think he came from a big, affectionate family. He didn’t, but the guy definitely has some personal space issues.
Not that I’m complaining. I love it, actually. I may even occasionally take a bit too long to catch on to a difficult topic on purpose, just for the reward of his touch. Because I’m weak. Because I’m a constant disappointment to myself.
During these weeks we’ve graduated from sticking to calculus-only topics to getting-to-know-you banter. I’ve learned that Simon is an orphan. He was a resident of the care home where he became a hero. He happened to be coming home late from work just as a fire was breaking out. Without giving a thought to himself, he rushed in to save the other kids. He just managed to get everyone out before the gas lines blew, sending furniture and debris flying for blocks. It was a miracle everyone was ok. He hated talking about this, and I may or may not have used hermit crab blackmail to drag the information out of him. He’s brave, and selfless, and clever and I’m not telling him any of that.
I’ve shared a bit of my family life with him. Not that there’s much to tell. My father and I aren’t speaking at the moment, while I “rethink some of my life choices.” “Not speaking” also means “cutting me off financially,” which is why I have this abominable RA job.
There’s a hint of pity in the way Simon looks at me when I tell him this, which is simply intolerable. But there is something else there as well-something more-which I refuse to think about.
So, I suppose you could say we’re friends now. Well, I’m Simon’s friend. He’s the unrequited love of my life, and will remain so until the day I leave this dismal husk we call Earth. OK, I’m probably being a little dramatic. I’m in a mood. It’s finals week. Summer break is looming and my study time with Simon will come to a close. This is more upsetting than I would like it to be.
Anyway, It was Simon’s idea to work in his room.
“It’s more comfortable,” he said. “Plus I’ve got crisps.”
I opted not to mention that there is a vending machine in the library. For obvious reasons.
So here we are, on his bed, working through quadratic equations. It’s a small bed, mind you. We’re sprawled out next to each other on our stomachs. I’m taller than Simon, but he’s thicker than me. I’m trying not to notice that his broad shoulders are pressing warmly against my lank ones. I’m trying to give him space, but somehow he keeps inhabiting mine. It’s driving me mad. Simon is radiating heat like a furnace and he smells like, well he smells like Axe Body Spray. Jesus.
“Baz.” Simon interrupts my mental analysis of his 8th grade scent.
“Yes, Snow?” I reply, perhaps a little snappishly. It is getting uncomfortably warm in here, but I’m not about to leave his proximity to turn down the thermostat.
Is it uncomfortably warm in here? Simon looks cool as the proverbial cucumber.
Simon is up on his elbows, as he grabs a crisp from the bag and begins to chew thoughtfully.
We have these moments from time to time, when Simon likes to wax poetic about something. I usually take this opportunity to remind him he’s an idiot.
Ignoring my irritation, Simon reflects, “Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas.”
I lower my brows and look over at him, “What?”
“Einstein said it. Math is just, well. Predictable and true, isn’t it? You just open yourself up to the possibilities, know the basics and it will always make sense. If you let it, yeah?” He’s looking down at his textbook. His cheeks darken to a lovely shade of rose.
“There’s something to be said about opening yourself up to the possibilities, you know?” Simon emphasizes softly, looking my way.
“What are you on about?” I quip. “Math as a metaphor for life? Only if you’re seeking an existence of hopeless mundanity.” I roll my eyes, “Math is bollocks.”
Simon turns towards me, shifting even closer and dipping his face towards mine. I’m pointedly staring at my textbook, avoiding his eyes. We’re treading into uncertain territory. “What I’m saying is,” Simon murmurs, “sometimes you have to stop thinking and just let things happen.”
My heart flips to my stomach. Is something happening here? What the fuck is happening? I hazard a glance at Simon, at his perfectly blue eyes that are boring into my soul. His breath smells of salt and vinegar. Surely I’m reading too much into this. I glimpse over his shoulder, because I’m a self-defeating train wreck.
“What the fuck is that?” I may have shrieked. I clamber to my feet and over to the monstrosity inside Simon’s aquarium.
“Shit,” Simon exclaims from behind me, “Calvin is out of his shell.”
“Is it dead?” I ask, eyeing the limp, pink creature in the tank.
“Nah,” says Simon, “ He’s just molting. I’ll transfer him to the hospital tank.” He proceeds to move another pile of clothes to reveal a small aquarium, also filled with dirt, containing an assortment of shells. He then lovingly gathers the naked crab (it’s truly hideous), gently places it in the new tank, and spritzes it with water.
He covers the aquarium with a faded black t-shirt, “Let’s give him a little privacy, and he’ll be right as rain, with a new shell home tomorrow.”
I’m standing right behind Simon and he turns around to face me. There’s a mad glint in his eye as he looks up at me. Is he smirking?
He steps closer, into my space. “Are you going to turn me in, Mr. Pitch?” What is he doing with his voice? It’s lower, softer. Like velvet.
“Well, you’ve proven to be an acceptable tutor.” My voice cracks like an adolescent. I clear my throat. “I,er, think I can let this slide.” I feel myself blushing a deep crimson.
Simon rumbles a deep chuckle. I could happily listen to that sound for the rest of my life. He presses even closer and slides a hand around my waist. I think I am going to combust. His blue eyes meet my grey ones. This time I can’t look away. I can barely breathe.
“Baz?” Simon murmurs.
“Simon?” I manage to respond.
“Could you please stop thinking for a minute and just kiss me?”
I do. And it’s glorious.
I wonder, is there a rule against RA’s fraternizing with their students?
I’ll think about that tomorrow.