Chapter Text
Basil
It’s not until I’m finishing closing-- alone, the other two left an hour ago to catch a movie-- that I get the text. The numpty probably didn’t even see it until now, probably almost tossed the cup out.
is this baz
No capitalization, no punctuation, nothing. It’s a very Simon way of texting.
Obviously. Why would I give you someone else’s number?
idk man ur 6s look like 8s
I huff, dropping my rag into the bucket.
They most definitely do not.
why’d u give me ur number tho
Fuck. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask. It’d been nerve wracking enough to give it to him and play cool at the same time, when all I’d wanted to do was explode.
Believe it or not, Snow, I do like talking to you.
shit since when???!!
I can’t help the grin spreading across my face.
Honestly the jury is still out.
oh fuck u
Please do. Pretty, pretty please.
How hard?
Asldjfkbdnjslkaddf??!?!
Of course Snow is a keysmasher. I hate that I find it adorable.
Eloquent.
shush, u prick. u can’t just say those things
Why not?
i’m. what. wh.
Ah, there’s the Snow I know.
blocked and reported
Ouch. I’m heartbroken.
good <3
-------------------
It’s been nearly a week since I saw Snow in person, but we’ve been texting nearly constantly. I wake up to a good morning text (he’s always up earlier than me) and fall asleep to “goodnight <3”. All through my shifts, he’s pinging me memes and gibberish, from complaints about his study group (all assholes, it seems) to ramblings about whatever show he’s watching (“You”; he says the main character reminds him of me).
“You look awfully happy,” Miriam tells me this morning as she wipes down the bakery case. There’s bags under her eyes and her hair is a mess, proof of another sleepless night. I don’t ask her about it.
“I’ve never been happy in my life.” I deadpan.
“I dunno, man. You seemed pretty happy when Simon was around. Are you texting him now? That what’s got you all smiley?”
I huff, and lie: “No.”
“Ok sure.” She doesn’t seem convinced, shooking me a smirk. “Just ask him out already. It’s clear that he likes you.”
“Snow hates me-” Even I know that’s a lie by now. If he hated me, he likely wouldn’t be texting me all hours of the day. I can’t help but feel a flutter of hope in the pit of my stomach. I backtrack, “Ok, he doesn’t hate me anymore, but he definitely doesn’t think of me that way.”
“Is he gay?”
I’m not sure what he is. He mentioned that he was at least into blokes a few days ago-- I’d thrown my phone on the bed and hyperventilated for a good minute or two-- and he was with Wellbelove, so I’d assume he likes girls too. Besides that, he hasn’t told me how he identifies, and I’m not one to assume. I shrug.
“Does he like men? Tall, dark and brooding ones?”
“Get back to work, Mir. I’m not that brooding.”
“Liar.”
--------------------
It’s on a rainy Sunday that he comes back into the shop, sopping wet and absolutely gleeful about it. His hair had been matted to his forehead, dripping down his temples. As he’d shuffled towards the bar, giggling to Frank and Miriam about something, I’d traced the water sliding down his neck with my eyes, wishing I could drag my fingers--or better, my tongue-- along the damp skin.
“God, I fucking love that smell,” He’s saying now, leaned against the counter. Miriam had dragged him into the back almost immediately, squealing and hugging him. I admit, they do make a cute pair. “What’s it called? Periwinkle? Peridot?”
“Petrichor.” I chime in.
“No, that can’t be it. Pemdas… Persian… Porcelain…”
“You’re so fucking stupid.” I tell him, and he flushes red. “It’s ok, I like it.”
“You only like it because it makes you feel smarter.”
“Maybe so.” I shrug. “What of it?”
“Come off it,” He huffs, smacking at my arm lightly, “Wanker.”
“So,” Miriam interjects, nestling herself into Snow’s side. He wraps an arm arm around her slim shoulders immediately, and for a moment I can imagine it: Miriam coming to visit us at our apartment, where we live in domestic bliss together; the two of them laughing too loudly at shitty movies on the sofa while Frank watches in contented silence; having the three people that matter most to me (Fiona aside) all in one room, so I don’t have to worry ever again. I want it so badly it makes me sick. “You’re the one who’s been texting Basil twenty-five eight, huh?”
“Er, yeah.” He looks nervous all of a sudden, like he’s scared she won’t approve. It’s fucking adorable.
“‘S cute. He smiles when he’s texting you.”
I drop the pitcher I’m holding. “Do not.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Don’t lie, Mir. It’s unbecoming of a lady.”
She crinkles her nose. “Don’t call me a lady ever again.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Snow says from beside her, faking a salute with her free hand. She laughs, batting at his shoulder.
“Ass.” She sniffs, sticking her nose in the air. “You and Basil are perfect for one another. Both assholes.”
Smiling, I lock eyes with Snow. “We match.”
------------------
I’m locking up for the night when I get the text.
Can u cmoe over
“Cmoe”?
come
over
come over pls
i need help
Are you okay? What’s wrong?
im ok im ok dont worry
i just need your help w something
Ask Bunce?
Why am I doing that? I want to see him. But seeing where he lives might be too much-- too close to something I can’t have.
no has to be u
pls baz it’s bugging me i haven’t slept in three days
Christ okay. What’s your address?
[Location Sent]
see u soon bazzy
He’s not far from the shop, and I’m there in no time. I buzz in, and by the time I’m at his door I’ve worked myself into a right mess, shaking legs and everything.
When he opens the door, my whole body seems to exhale. His hair is a mess and he’s wearing oversized grey track bottoms, smiling at me. There’s a mole on his right temple. I’ve wanted to kiss it since I was twelve. From what I can see from the doorway, his apartment is cozy and warm, a bit of a mess like him.
“What is it you need help wi-” He’s yanking me into his flat before I can finish, slamming the door behind me with a definitive thud . I turn towards him, about to ask what that was all about, but my eye catches on something behind him and the words die in my throat.
It’s me . Not just one me, either-- a whole wall of canvases and sketches, all of my face. There’s even a big one directly on the wall behind him, where a table and lamp have been haphazardly shoved aside. They’re all a little different-- in his one I’m looking up, that one I’m smiling down on someone, this one again I’m pouting with closed eyes-- but the figure is distinctively Baz-like in each. All different color schemes and styles, too. My eyes catch on one doodle of me with my arms crossed and my hair in my face, looking down. There’s a small “he broods” scrawled above its head. Snow’s handwriting is pure chicken scratch.
“Er… Snow?”
“Uh.” He’s not looking at me, he’s digging around in a pile of papers on the kitchen table.
“What’s with all the… me?”
He turns to me, a wild look in his eyes. “Okay, I know it sounds crazy but like- ok so-” he’s rambling, one hand tugging at his curls. “When I first saw you again I- well, I hadn’t been able to paint in a while, right? And then I saw you and as soon as I got home I started painting you and like, I can’t.” He groans in frustration, “I can’t get your face out of my head, you're all I can paint right now-” There are angry purple bags under his eyes and he looks deranged, shuffling through the stack of papers.
“Okay, so how did you want me to help?” I should be freaked out. This is crazy. I should turn and run, but the object of my affections for over a decade just said my face is all he can think about. He’s scrambling to explain why there’s an army of Bazs watching me from his living room wall, and it’s all I can do not to kiss him right now.
But he looks like he’s going to lose his mind and he asked for my help, so I’m going to help him.
“I just- I can’t get your eyes right. And it’s killing me. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat-”
I can’t help the scoff that tears out of me at that. “That’s a first.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know! So can you just- just stay here, so I can- so I can get it right?”
I should say no.
“Yes, of course.” Fuck me.
“Really?”
Say no. Say no, Basil. “Yeah.” I take a seat. I’m going to combust. “Go ahead.”
The way his face lights up is worth it.
---------------------------
It’s been almost an hour. And hour of Simon’s tongue sticking out of his mouth; an hour of him squinting at me and the canvas; an hour of him making the smallest little strokes on the canvas-- this one just a closeup of my eyes-- an hour of little ‘hm’s as he admires his work.
I think it’s gorgeous, but he keeps glaring at it like there’s something missing.
“Snow,” I venture after he’s stared a hole through my left eye, “Maybe it’s time to take a break. Have you eaten dinner?”
“No.” He says offhandedly, poking at the canvas with his brush. I don’t know which part he’s responding to, but Simon never says no to food, so I stand, stumbling through his mess into the tiny kitchen. There’s nothing in his fridge besides an expired carton of milk and some carrots past their prime, so I dig two cups of ramen out of a cabinet, setting a kettle on to boil.
Simon
Baz disappears into the kitchen after a while. Everything’s starting to get a little blurry round the edges, so I set my brush down and fall into the chair he just vacated. It smells faintly of his cologne still. I take a deep breath.
I think I’ve almost got it. The colors are all there, and the life in them, but every time I glance at the canvas, he’s staring too fondly back at me. Baz doesn’t look at me like that.
When he comes back, he’s holding two ramen cups, holding one out to me wordlessly. I take it silently, and we’re quiet as we eat. The silence is near unbearable, swirling in my ears. Everything has gone soft in the fading daylight, washing Baz in gold. The blinds make a kaleidoscope of his face, all pale and glittery, and his eyes look like stars from where I sit. I wish I had a camera to capture him like this, socked feet and sitting on my carpeted floor, hunched over a bowl of noodles. If you’d told me back at Watford that I’d see Baz relax like that, in my own home, I’d have scoffed in your face. Something warm fills the pit of my stomach as I watch him, my own food nearly forgotten.
“When did you start painting?” He asks finally.
“Right after school,” I set my empty cup aside, “Mostly landscapes at first, when I was staying with Ebb, before she left England.”
“You’re really good.” It rolls off his tongue so easily, and if I hadn’t known him ten years, I’d have thought he’d been complimenting me his whole life. He seems to mean it, though, smiling the slightest bit. The dimple comes back. A cloud shifts outside, letting in a few more faint rays, and they dance in his irises for a moment-
It hits me, and I’m throwing my chair back, scrabbling for my brush. There’s a pale gold spot in his right eye. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten it-- I’d always known it was there; it was one of the first things I noticed about Baz when we met, besides his general poshness. I can feel him stand behind me, leaning over my shoulder like he did last week at the shop, when he was trying to show me to steam milk. His breath ghosts over my neck-- I’m wearing a bare threaded t-shirt near the end of its life--and I can feel the heat radiating from him, gentle and inviting.
I’m so tired, and he’s so warm. Despite myself, I find my back pressing into his strong chest, and before I know it two strong arms are circling my stomach, rubbing lazily through the cotton of my shirt.
“You should get some sleep,” He says softly, a mere whisper into the side of my neck. “C’mon.”
He’s dragging me to my bedroom, not letting go of me. We stumble awkwardly through my flat, half my weight bearing onto his shoulder. Without stopping to undress-- I can deal with that later-- I fall into bed, wriggling under the covers. The light flicks out above me, and there’s a creak from the doorway.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Pitch?” Even to myself, my voice sounds slurred and sleepy, and I’m not far from passing out at this point.
“Pardon?”
“Get in here.”
“Simon-”
“Please?” I’ll probably regret this in the morning, but right now I want to hold him. I want him to hold me.
He sighs, but I hear a shuffling and then he’s climbing onto the bed with me, the mattress creaking under his weight. Suddenly I’m not so tired, my whole body going on high alert as he lays flat beside me. Baz Pitch is in my bed. I roll over to face him.
“Baz,” I whisper.
“Snow.” He says through clenched teeth. For a minute, panice wells up in me. Maybe he really didn’t want to stay with me. Did I just force him into my bed? He seemed reluctant to come. I’ve got it all wrong, haven’t I?
I’m about to work myself into a right fit, but one of his hands finds mine under the covers. “I can hear you thinking, Snow. It’s bad for your health.”
“You called me Simon before.” It just slips out, and I want to kick myself.
“Most certainly didn’t do that.”
“Most certainly,” I narrow my eyes at him, pushing my face closer, “Did.” Now that my eyes have adjusted, I can see that Baz is blushing. He’s looking right at me now, a strange gentleness in his eyes as he grins.
“Never.” He’s so close. If I were to scoot just the tiniest bit further, our noses would be touching.
I don’t have to push closer, because he does it first, lips finding mine as one hand comes up to tangle in my hair. It’s like my body is electrified, spreading from everywhere we meet-- his hand in my hair, the other holding mine; his lips, warm and soft against me. He’s obviously done this enough times to know what he’s doing, pushing me gently into the pillows.
When he pulls away for a breath, he looks nervous-- “Is that- was that ok?”
I can’t help but laugh but that, and Baz’s face falls. I rush to wrap my arms around his torso before he can pull away, “‘M not laughing at you, Bazzy. Just- Christ, yeah that was ok. More than ok. Perfect. In fact, you might have to try again, so I know you weren’t cheating. Perfect scores are hard to come by-”
He interrupts me by kissing me again, and I lose track of what I was saying anyway, what with the way he’s moving his chin.
He pulls away all too soon. “As much as I’m enjoying this, you really should get some sleep.” I roll my eyes at him, and he smirks. “There’ll be plenty of time for that tomorrow.”
“That a threat, Pitch?”
“Even better. A promise. Goodnight, Simon.”
“Night.”
It’s the best sleep of my life.