Chapter Text
BAZ
He wakes up to screaming.
This isn’t unusual; he wakes up to Simon screaming more nights than he doesn’t, these days. He jerks upright, reaching out on autopilot to flick the lamp switch on, as Simon’s screams die in his throat, turning into these awful, heart-wrenching choked-off sobs. (It isn’t unusual, but it never stops breaking his heart.)
He sits up properly and pulls Simon towards him, takes his face in his hands and curls his thumbs into the space behind his ears. He’s done this enough to know what to do, now, and he hates that it’s become a routine, almost. Simon’s eyes are panicked and unfocused, like he’s still trapped in his nightmare, and he’s sucking in these shallow, ragged breaths. “Shh, hey, Simon, hey.” He murmurs, pushing down his own panic. “Everything’s alright. It was just a nightmare, okay? It’s okay. We’re in the apartment, just you and me. I’ve got you.” Simon looks at him properly, now, reaches a hand out to cling onto his wrist. “That’s it. Breathe with me, Simon.” He murmurs like this until Simon’s breathing evens out again, and then lets out a breath of relief, pushing his hand up into Simon’s hair. “Good, Si. There we go. That’s it, love. Alright?”
Simon squeezes his eyes shut and nods, even though there are still tears spilling down his cheeks, and then he lurches forwards to press his face into the crook of Baz’s neck, still trembling. Baz threads his fingers through his curls and tugs him closer with an arm around his waist. He wants to keep him here forever, safe and in his arms and staying the fuck out of trouble. He hates seeing him like this; he hates that Simon is just nineteen years old and has already known grief, suffering, enough pain to last him more than a lifetime. (He wishes there was a way that he could bear this burden, for him. He’d take it, if he could, in a heartbeat.) Some days are better for Simon, now, but some days aren’t – it’s hit and miss, mostly, and he doesn’t mind. Some good days are better than none at all, and he figures that at least slow progress is still progress. (“Recovery is a marathon, not a sprint,” Penny had told Simon last week, after a particularly shit day, and both Simon and Baz had rolled their eyes at her, but – well, it’s true, actually. He’s started quoting Penny almost as much as Simon does, and it’s really becoming an issue.)
“I’m going for a shower,” Simon says, suddenly, pulling himself away. His hair is sticking up at all angles, and his eyes are blood-shot and red-rimmed, cheeks flushed like he’s embarrassed. He always gets like this after Baz has seen him crying, like he’s worried that he might scare him off. Like anything could scare him off, at this point. But, well, Simon’s ridiculous. So.
“Okay,” he says, gently, brushing his fingertips over Simon’s arm.
“You. Uh. You could – come with me.” Simon stammers, and then flushes when Baz raises his eyebrows at him. “Not like that, you dick. I just – I just. You know.”
“Yeah, okay.” He agrees, easily, because he can get the message, and doesn’t want to let go, either. (Because he’d agree to anything Simon asked him to do.)
-
Simon’s always quietly pensive, after he’s had a nightmare, and Baz can almost see him reliving it in his head. He never asks what it was about, because he figures Simon will tell him if he wants to. He usually doesn’t. (Baz sometimes thinks that the not knowing is better. That it’s easier not to think about the shit Simon’s been through, because it hurts too much. He’s selfish. Ask anyone).
Simon leans into Baz, clings to his arm and Baz tug his clothes off and steer him into the shower, shivering when the water runs cold at first. It isn’t often that Simon lets him in, like this, so he’s going to savour every moment he can. He slides his hands across his shoulders, over the knot of muscles there, down the front of his chest, traces his fingertips along the freckles beneath his collarbones. Simon smiles tiredly at him, tips his head back against the wall. He lets himself be uncharacteristically soft with Simon, in moments like these, when he’s still clouded with sleep.
(He’s spent the last several years of his life wishing for it, so he’s pretty sure he deserves it). It feels too… raw, maybe, to be like this in the light of day, in front of anyone that isn’t Simon.
“I was dreaming about Ebb,” he says, softly, when Baz starts threading his fingers through his hair. His eyes are closed, shoulders slumped like all the nervous energy has just flooded right out of him. “About that night. The blood was- was everywhere, you know, all on the concrete and in her hair. I can’t get it out of my head, sometimes.” He sets his jaw the way he does when he’s trying not to cry, ducks his head like he doesn’t want Baz to look at him. “I don’t want to remember her like that.”
“I know, love. I know.” He sighs, drags his fingers through the short part of Simon’s hair. “You just have to remember all the good parts, too. The time you spent together. Like, I don’t know, herding goats or whatever.” He adds, thinking about all the time he spent watching Simon roaming around the lawns with Ebb back at Watford. How he’d come back to their room red-nosed and rosy-cheeks, smiling to himself beneath layers of scarfs. (And, Crowley, he has it bad. Always did, even back then. Love is foul.)
Simon snorts, jabbing him in the side. “I resent that. We did not herd goats or whatever.” He protests, and then lifts his head, and he’s smiling. (Simon has the most beautiful, blinding smile. It’s a whole scene. He turns everything into a scene). “But you’re right, I guess.”
“I always am.”
“Baz.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
Baz smiles at him, because he can’t not smile at Simon, and tugs at a stray curl. “You know what you signed up for when you asked me to be your terrible boyfriend, Snow.” He doesn’t say it with the same hint of insecurity that he would have a month ago, before Simon found him drinking on the kitchen floor that night. He knows, now, that Simon wants him just as much as he wants Simon, even if sometimes he struggles to show it.
“I know. You really are terrible.” He says, but he’s still smiling at him, his eyes fond. (Baz can kind of see where Penny is coming from when she says that Simon has heart eyes. He’s pretty sure that he’s wearing the exact same expression. It’s sickening, honestly.)
He presses a kiss to the side of his cheekbone, ignores the tender, fond ache behind his ribs. “Okay, okay. I’m tired, and I need my beauty sleep. Let’s go.” (He mostly just wants Simon to get as much sleep as possible, if he can.) Come on, Snow.”
Simon shoves at his shoulder. “Simon.” He insists.
“You’re ridiculous. I’m not calling you that.”
“Simon.” He repeats, folding his arms over his chest.
Baz looks heavenward. “Fine. Simon, darling, the light of my life, the apple of my eye, etcetera, etcetera. Come to bed, you fucking moron.”
“Coming, darling.”