Chapter Text
SIMON
It’s past noon by the time I wake up. I feel like I got hit by a truck. A very big truck, going very fast. It takes me a bit to remember what happened last night. I’m still lying in bed when the anxiety starts twisting through my arteries, the memories flooding my synapses.
I kissed Baz. He pulled away, he cried, and he left. Was that a rejection? I’m not sure. When I think about asking for clarity, it makes me want to throw up. There’s no playbook for this. Usually when I feel this lost, it’s Baz I go to for advice. What am I supposed to do now?
Actually, I think I really do need to puke.
When I’m done heaving up last night’s mistakes in the bathroom, I feel much better. Physically. I brush my teeth and shower, lingering until the hot water runs out. Eventually, I’m too hungry to avoid the kitchen.
Baz is up. Well, sort of. He’s curled up on the couch under a pile of blankets, an episode of The Good Place playing on the TV. He doesn’t acknowledge me when I walk past to the kitchen, but that’s not weird. He’s always grumpy and sullen when he’s hungover. I’m not even positive he’s awake under there.
I make scrambled eggs and coffee. Penny gets home as I’m turning off the stove. Her hair is wild, and she’s wearing Shepard’s sweatshirt and sweatpants, which are simultaneously too small and too long on her. It’s adorable. When I put down the pan of eggs and hold my arms out wide, she shuffles toward me for a hug.
“You smell bad,” I say into her hair. She shoves me away, but she’s smirking.
“That was mean -- now you have to feed me,” Penny says, collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs. She raises her voice. “Baz, I’m stealing your eggs!”
“There’s enough for all of us,” I say. I hear shuffling and grumbling coming from the other room, and my heartbeat starts pounding in my throat. Maybe I need to throw up again. Maybe I need to run away. My mom would let me move back in. She’d only be a little bit passive aggressive about it.
I turn back to the counter as Baz shuffles into the kitchen and busy myself grabbing plates, utensils, and mugs.
“How was your night?” Penny asks. I can’t see it, but I sense Baz’s shrug. When I turn around to bring everything to the table, Penny is smirking at him, shaking her head. She says I created a monster with Baz, that I coddle him too much when he’s hungover. He didn’t used to be this pathetic after drinking, but he’s steadily devolved over the years. It’s the same when he has a cold — utter breakdown. Every responsible inch of Baz dissolves into a needy puddle. I don’t mind. He doesn’t let people take care of him often. I like taking care of him.
I take my seat at the table, slurping at my coffee.
“Did you guys make the train?” She asks, digging into her eggs.
“We walked,” I reply. My knee is bouncing under the table. Baz hates when I do that — he says my nerves are contagious. I stop my knee and look up at him.
Baz has his forehead propped up on his palm, leaning over his plate to eat. He’s still got two blankets wrapped around his shoulders. His long hair is in his face, so I can’t tell how he’s feeling. I frown, then go back to eating my eggs in silence.
“What’s wrong with you?” Penny asks. She’s looking at me. I guess I’m the one acting weirder — I’m usually buzzing after a night out, ready to recap the wildest moments even if we were all present for them. I do want to do that. I want to tell Penny how Baz almost turned to a life of crime at 7/11, how we found a neat playground in Brookline. But I don’t want to mix those good memories with the tension in the air. I don’t want to ruin anything.
“Nothing,” I say. Penny raises her eyebrows at me, and I just shrug again.
“Oooooookay,” Penny says. She stands to dump her plate in the sink. “We’ll try that again once I’ve napped enough to do emotional labor. I’m going to take a shower.”
I nod, and she disappears.
Baz is done eating now. But he makes no move to clean up his plate, which he seems to be having a staring contest with.
I clear my throat. Baz raises his head, putting his fork down carefully on the table. It’s the first look I’ve gotten of his face today, and for some reason, relief swells in me. It’s just Baz. He’s looking kind of rough — puffy eyes, chapped lips. But he’s still him.
I grin at him, exhaling a breath I didn’t know I was holding. His eyes crinkle a bit with a hint of a smile.
“Hey,” I say. He smiles fully then.
“Hi.” His voice cracks on the word — likely the first he’s spoken today.
“How are you?” I ask. Because apparently I’m resorting to small-talk with my best friend.
“I’ve been better,” Baz says, leaning back in his chair with a raised brow. He ties his hair up absentmindedly, missing strands around his face and at the nape of his neck.
“Yeah,” I agree, uselessly. I’ve never been great with words. Mom put me in speech therapy as a kid, and that helped a lot. But it’s still hard to string a sentence together when I know the words have weight. I open my mouth a few times as I decide what I want to say next. Baz watches me without judgment. He knows how my brain works.
“So, last night…” I trail off, unsure. There are words I can say to confirm to him how I feel. There are words he can return that will drown me. There are words that could ruin everything, and I don’t want to say them by accident. So instead, I just say: “I’m sorry.”
Baz looks down at his plate again. He sighs.
“It’s fine, Simon,” he says. “We were both drunk. We can just forget it happened.”
I want to fight that. I want to say: I don’t think I could ever forget how your lips felt on mine. But I don’t. Because what if that ruins it? What if I lose Baz completely? That would be unbearable — it would’ve been unbearable even before I knew I was in love with him.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s what I’ve been missing with Agatha all that time, the “spark” she said we didn’t have. Because I think my heart has belonged to Baz since move-in day of freshman year.
“Okay,” I whisper. Baz nods, standing up. He’s still got blankets around his shoulders, and his hair is tied up in that messy way that means he’s going to have to spend forever untangling the knots. He takes our dishes to wash them. I watch him, framed in the light drifting in from the window above the sink. It feels like I’m seeing him in double vision: He’s the cause of the sinking feeling in my chest. But having him here, doing dishes in our home, is the comfort I’m clinging to.
He sets the dishes in the drying rack, and I think about being brave. I think about asking if he wants to forget, telling him I won’t forget. I have the words. But when Baz nods at me and leaves the kitchen, I don’t let them escape the tip of my tongue.
I don’t know how it got ruined, but something is definitely broken. Baz doesn’t come out of his room for the rest of the day.
BAZ
I wish I could call my mom.
We don’t really talk about these things. My mother is usually kind. She loves me, and she would never kick me out for being gay. But it certainly doesn’t vibe with the Perfect Nuclear Family persona she’s been building for the last two decades.
Natasha Pitch is a Republican state senator, which I don’t like to think about too much. I don’t go home often. I’ll probably stay on the east coast after graduation. My plan has been to “end up” wherever Simon gets a newspaper job. It’s not like the market is hot for poetry majors — I have no clue what I want to do when I graduate.
I haven’t left my room since Simon and I talked yesterday. I have my own en suite and a stash of salt and vinegar chips in my nightstand; enough supplies to wallow for a few more days at least, as long as I make the chips last.
This behavior is cowardly and I know it. There’s a good chance I’m putting further strain on our friendship with every hour I avoid Simon. But panic flashes behind my eyes when I think about facing him. It’s not rational. I’m not being rational. But I don’t know what else to do.
I can’t call my mom, not about this. I could call Fiona. She lives in Los Angeles and she’s cool with me being gay. But she’s never liked Simon — calls him “my hillbilly.” All my close friends are also Simon’s friends; I don’t keep in touch with anyone from high school.
I pull my knees up to my chest under the covers, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. I’ve never felt this lonely before. I wish I could talk to Simon, but that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?
Our first semester of freshman year, Simon failed a class. He’s a brilliant writer and storyteller, but he struggles in the classroom setting — especially with the added rigor of college-level learning. He called his mother crying, afraid he’d lose his academic scholarship. Lucy drove down from Vermont the next day, took him to a burger place and let him talk it out.
I sort of wish I could call Lucy right now too. If it was over anyone other than her son, I think she’d let me cry on the phone to her about my broken heart. Maybe she’d visit and take me out for lunch. Junior year, I had a bad case of the flu. I was so dehydrated I had to go to the hospital. Simon called Lucy and she came right down to Boston, helped me figure out the discharge paperwork, and stayed for the weekend to take care of me.
“Thank you for everything,” I whispered in her ear, half-choking on my tears, when she hugged me goodbye that weekend. I’d spent several holidays with the Salisburys at that point, probably spent more time in Vermont than in California since I graduated high school. Lucy pulled back from the hug and cupped my cheeks, fixing me with the sharp blue eyes she passed onto her son.
“You’re family, Baz,” she said. “You always call me when you need help.”
I don’t call her. I don’t call my mother. I don’t go to Simon.
I lie in bed, drifting in and out of fitful sleep, until there’s a knock on my door.
“I’m sick,” I call out, my voice rough and cracked. At least it’s convincing.
The door opens, and Penelope’s head pokes through.
“No, you’re not,” she says. “Are you clothed?”
I snort, sitting up in bed. She flicks the lightswitch on and I squint at her as my eyes adjust to the brightness.
“Simon went out to buy candy for trick-or-treaters,” Penny says, sitting on the edge of my bed. “Why are you avoiding him? He’s sulking around like a kicked puppy.”
I shrug, and Penny sighs.
“Did you tell him?” she asks, and dread curls in my gut.
“Tell him what?”
“How you feel.” Penny’s voice is soft, her face stern but kind. I can’t handle it, so I lie back down and pull my blankets over my head.
“Am I that transparent?” I say into the sheets.
“To everyone except Simon.” She pats my leg over the covers.
I don’t reply for a while, both hoping Penelope will leave and hoping she won’t. She stays, lets me ride out the overwhelming humiliation I’m feeling. I take a few deep breaths, trying not to cry.
“I love him,” I finally admit. Penny yanks the blankets off of me and moves to sit next to me against the headboard. She takes my hand, and my tears spill over.
“I know,” she says. “You told him?”
“No.” I tuck my face against Penny’s shoulder. “He kissed me.”
“So why aren’t you in your honeymoon phase?” she asks, squeezing my hand.
“Because he didn’t mean it. We were drunk.”
“How do you know that?”
I let go of Penny’s hand, rolling away from her. Penelope sighs, but she keeps going.
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“We agreed we were drunk and we’d forget it.”
“‘Forgetting it’ sounds like the opposite of talking about it.”
I sit up, exasperated.
“Penelope, I can’t ruin our friendship. If that’s all I get, then it’s what I need. I just want it to go back to normal.”
“Okay…” Penny stands up, frowning. She puts her hands on her hips. “But if you want normal, you can’t avoid him. That’s the least normal thing in the world.”
“I know,” I say, rubbing my eyes until color splashes behind my lids.
“Come play Scrabble with me,” Penny says. She’s standing at the door now. “I’ll kick your ass. It’ll be super normal.”
I play Scrabble with her. She kicks my ass. Simon comes home just before trick-or-treating is meant to start, hauling up bags of groceries. He smiles at me tentatively when he passes through the living room. When I return it, his grin finally reaches his eyes.
I forfeit to Penny (Queen of Scrabble, the only non-writing major in the house) and go into the kitchen to grab our largest mixing bowl.
“I got this too — thought it might be fun,” Simon says, holding up a plastic jack o'lantern bucket. I smile, taking it from him and emptying some of the bags of candy into it.
Penny dons a big purple witch hat. Simon changes into a “Lumberjack” costume, which is really just his regular Green Mountain Boy attire. Red flannel, puffer vest, loose jeans, Timberland boots. “Did you hear Timbs are cool now?” he said to me a few weeks ago. “Seems like I’m the fashion-forward one now.”
I’m not dressing up tonight — it’s too cold, nothing would be visible under my knee-length winter jacket. Penny hands me an orange beanie with a pumpkin print, tells me I need to do something or I’ll scare the children away. I won’t say no to added warmth.
We settle on the stoop of our building with our jack o’lantern full of candy. Families filter through slowly, since we’re off the main road trick-or-treaters usually take through the neighborhood. Simon hands out candy, and I compliment kids’ costumes. It doesn’t take long before Penelope’s enthusiasm wanes — she’s not really big on kids.
“Can you two handle this yourselves?” Penelope asks, giving me a meaningful look. I frown at her.
“We’ll be fine,” Simon says. He’s standing on the sidewalk, holding the bucket out to a young boy in a blow-up costume that makes it look like he’s riding Yoshi. I can hear the fan running inside the costume, keeping it inflated.
“I’ll make hot chocolate when you’re done,” Penelope says cheerily, rushing up the stairs and inside. Betrayer.
Yoshi and company thank us before moving on, and now it’s just me and Simon. He sits down again, putting the candy bowl on the steps next to him. I watch him work his lip between his teeth as he stares at his feet. I’m not sure if he actually has something to say, or if he’s just not sure how to fill this new, awkward silence between us.
I sigh. This isn’t us. Every fear I had about facing Simon in the last 24 hours seems ridiculous to me now. He’s my best friend, and I’m okay with that.
We kissed once. Simon apologized for it. So what? Penelope and I kissed once on a dare, and the world didn’t end. I finally know, concretely, that Simon doesn’t want me that way. Maybe now I can move on, find someone who’ll return my feelings, and enjoy a life of his friendship without wondering. (Ha. If I was capable of falling out of love with Simon, I think I would’ve managed it by now. I’ve certainly tried.)
Simon’s still gnawing on his lip. It’s time to move on. It’s time to go back to normal.
“What’s with the inflatable costumes?” I say. Simon’s jaw falls open. He’s a mouth breather — it’s disgusting. (It’s on the list of things I think about when I try to stop loving him.)
“They’re kind of sick,” Simon admits. “We should see if they make adult ones for next year.”
“Absolutely not,” I sniff. “Can you imagine trying to maneuver around in one of those things? It’d be like existing in a giant marshmallow.”
“Yeah, still sounds awesome.” Simon grins at me, eyes crinkling. “And anyway, you do that all winter. Your jacket is basically a marshmallow.”
“It is not,” I argue, but I’m smiling too.
“A big gray marshmallow,” he says, nodding. “A marshmallow dropped in the fire and charred to shit. Shame.”
“You literally burn your marshmallows on purpose.”
“Only barely,” Simon defends. “It takes ages to get a marshmallow ‘perfectly toasted,’, and even then, it tastes exactly the same in a s’more.”
“Exactly the same. Minus the fucking burned bits.”
“The burned bits add seasoning,” Simon says. I laugh, shaking my head.
The sun’s going down now and it’s freezing. My jacket sort of is a marshmallow, but it’s still not thick enough.
Simon’s sitting two steps above me, now brainstorming new costume ideas for next year. Normally, I’d move so I could sit between his legs, and he’d tease me as he draped his furnace of a body over my back. But the idea of having that much contact with him is too much for me right now — I can’t pretend like that anymore.
I wrap my own arms tight around my torso. Maybe we can’t go all the way back to before. I guess it’s time to find a new normal.
SIMON
Things with Baz are fine. After a weird, lonely weekend, we’re back to spending as much time as possible together. But I can’t stop noticing him in new ways this week: The way he crosses his long legs when he sits on the T. The way his fingers wrap all the way around his coffee cups. The way he scowls at the squirrels on Boston Common when they venture too close. He’s so lovely it kind of hurts, and I find myself pulled even further into his gravity than usual.
Wednesday is deadline night at the paper, which means I’ll be in the office past midnight doing my duties as the editor of the sports section. Baz drops by the office to bring me coffee like he usually does before heading home. He’s fresh from the shower after soccer practice, so his hair is still slightly damp, and he’s all bundled up in soft sweats.
“I never get coffee,” Niall grumbles from his desk across the room, editor-in-chief plaque glinting above his chair. “Don’t you dare look at the copy, Pitch. This is an ethical operation.”
Baz only smirks, hopping up to sit on my desk next to my screen. We don’t have enough chairs in our tiny, windowless office for even all the staff members, so he always has to sit either on the floor or on my desk. Niall hates when Baz chooses the desk.
Niall hates when Baz comes to the office in general. And that my friendship with Baz means I can’t actually edit any of the soccer stories. It’s a conflict of interest that ends up being more work for Niall. Baz really should start bringing Niall coffee.
“Your gangly limbs are in the way,” I grumble, yanking one of my notepads out from under his thigh. He lifts his leg for me, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips, then settles back against the wall.
I like when Baz stays. Deadline night is always stressful. The newspaper is entirely student run, which means there are always fires to put out. I didn’t really mean to become a section editor, but I’ve been here the longest, so it just sort of happened. I don’t mind it, but the anxiety in the room is often too high.
So it’s nice when Baz is here. He doesn’t distract me — just plays on his phone, knee occasionally bumping my elbow. It sends a jolt of electricity through my arm every time.
Baz yawns after an hour or so. He’s slumped against the wall next to my monitor, phone in his lap, watching my face as I edit.
“Go home before the train stops running,” I tell him, poking at his waist, making him twitch.
“Yeah, fine,” Baz says, hauling himself up to his feet and yawning again. He leans over to rustle my hair, and I lean into the touch, closing my eyes.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Baz murmurs, giving me one final pat on the head before he heads out the door.
“I still can’t believe y’all aren’t dating,” my assistant editor whispers to me. Keris has snagged a chair in the late hour (they’re a sophomore, and don’t rank high enough for chair privileges until some of the other upperclassmen leave). They’re plugging away on their laptop on my right.
It’s a long-running joke in the newsroom that Baz is my boyfriend. Agatha used to hate it, but I've always found it kind of funny. Now, I just sigh.
Keris looks up, raising their eyebrows at me.
“Oh no,” they say.
“What?”
“You finally realized you’re in love with him.”
I look around, but no one is really paying attention to us. Sports is small potatoes at a liberal arts school — most of the other editors tune us out, assuming they don’t have the vocabulary to keep up.
“You knew?” I whisper. Keris’s face falls.
“I wondered,” they admit. “Are you going to tell him?”
“I sort of kissed him after a Halloween party last weekend. He said we were drunk and that we should forget it.”
“Okay…” Keris drawls, leaning into their Mississippi accent. “But did you tell him?”
“I don’t want to ruin it! What if he doesn’t feel the same way?”
“Simon, he’s clearly gaga for you — has been forever,” Keris says, waving a hand dismissively. “He gets this sour puss face when I make boyfriend jokes in front of him. That’s why I don’t do it anymore while he’s here, it was making me feel bad. Which, also, please note that my roommate doesn’t come to be my emotional support animal on deadline nights. My girlfriend doesn’t even do that!”
I don’t know what to do with this information, so I just put my head down on my desk. My forehead thunks against the wood in a satisfying way. I hope I give myself enough brain damage to get amnesia, erase the past week from my memory. I’m not sure if that would really help, though. I think this realization was always going to sneak up on me.
Keris pats my shoulder consolingly and doesn’t push the issue.
“The lacrosse feature is done,” they say. “I need your help reworking the lede for the basketball game story, though. They got decimated tonight. I don’t know how to not be mean about it.”
I lift my head, nodding. Keris smiles, squeezing my shoulder.
We finish our pages two hours later, and I book it when Niall approves them. Keris lives on campus, but they wait outside with me until my Uber pulls up. The last train left long ago.
Keris rocks back and forth on their feet, arms crossed. I know they’re dying to bring up Baz again.
“Don’t say it,” I tell them. The Uber is pulling around the corner now — it’s always quick at this time of night, Boston’s streets empty and dark in the early morning hours.
“You don’t know what I wanted to say,” Keris accuses, flipping their braids over their shoulder.
“I do.” The car rolls to a stop in front of us, so I give Keris a hug. “Thank you for your hard work tonight. Get some sleep and text me if Kyle says something about the version of his story that ended up in print. If he wants to write flowery prose without it getting cut, he can join a lit mag.”
“Yeah, yeah — you better talk to your boy!” Keris shouts as I get in the car. I smile at them, rolling my eyes.
“I will,” I promise.
Baz is still up when I get home, hunched over his laptop on the sofa. He gets like this when he’s writing something, loses track of time. I drop down on the couch by his feet, jostling him a bit.
“It’s three in the morning,” I say. He nods without looking up at me. “Can I read it?”
“It’s not done,” he murmurs.
“When you finish?”
“Probably not.”
I frown. I love reading his poetry, even though it’s a bit over my head sometimes. Baz doesn’t like when I say I’m not as good of a writer as him. “We’re just different types of writers,” he’ll say. Baz claims my sports features make you feel like you can run a marathon with whoever I’m writing about. I got a piece I did on a local youth figure skating champion printed in the Boston Globe, and Baz got it framed. It hangs in the living room above where he’s sitting now.
I grab his tea from the coffee table, drinking it even though it’s gone cold. I always stay up for a bit when I get home from deadline night, riding out the dopamine high from finishing something under a time crunch. I prop my chin up with my palm, elbow resting on the back of the sofa, watching him write. He’s frowning, olive skin flushed gray and pale with the cool light from the laptop screen. The hood his soccer sweatshirt is pulled over his head and cinched around his face, just a few strands of hair escaping around his temples.
After a bit, Baz takes in a sharp breath and looks up at me. He blinks a few times as he exhales slowly, coming back to reality.
“Hi,” I say. “Can I read it now?”
Baz rolls his eyes, shutting his laptop without answering.
“It’s so late,” he says instead. “Go to bed.”
I shrug.
“I don’t have class on Thursdays. You go to bed.”
“My body doesn’t require sleep,” Baz says, resting his cheek against the back of the couch. I laugh and reach out to flick his shin. He smiles at me sleepily, and my heart does somersaults in my chest. I love him, I love him, I love him. It’s impossible to ignore, impossible to forget, a truth that I’m not sure I’ll ever stop carrying. I squeeze my eyes shut against the tidal wave of the emotion, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
Baz is looking at me with concern when I open my eyes, and I feel my face crumple. The adrenaline rush is gone. I’m exhausted, I’m devastated, I’m lost. I almost bolt to my room — Mom would pick up if I called, I think. She usually leaves her phone ringer on. I haven’t told her about any of this; I’ve been too embarrassed. But I don’t know how to hold this inside me anymore. I feel like I’m going to go nuclear.
I’m about to get up when Baz grabs my wrist, anchoring me to the couch.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, and I can’t look him in the eye. He shakes my wrist a bit, and my tears spill over and down my cheeks. Baz sits up, tugging me against his chest and wrapping his other arm around me. “Simon.”
“I can’t do it, Baz,” I cry into his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, rubbing my back, soothing me until I can speak without choking on a sob.
“I can’t forget.” I press the words against the knit of Baz’s sweatshirt, over and over. “I can’t forget. I can’t.”
Baz’s hand stills on my back. I sit back, away from him, covering my face with one hand. He pulls at my hand again, not letting me hide, making me look at him. He looks confused. He looks hurt. He looks like he cares about me, and it’s absolutely wrecking me.
“What does that mean?” Baz asks. He’s holding both my hands now. His fingers are cold, and I squeeze them tight as I swallow another sob.
“I can’t forget I kissed you,” I whisper, and Baz’s eyebrows meet in the center of his face. I’ve got the words tonight — they’ve been stuck to the roof of my mouth for days. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I didn’t do it because I was drunk. I did it because I wanted to, because I love you.”
Baz’s mouth falls open, watery gray eyes darting around my face. His hood has fallen halfway down his head and his hair is sticking up in the back.
“And I don’t know what to do with that,” I continue. “I don’t want to ruin anything, because you mean so fucking much to me, Baz. But I also can’t just pretend I’m not in love with you. I’ve been trying all week. I’m so fucking sorry.”
BAZ
“Don’t apologize.” My words come out in a growl, and I yank at Simon’s hands. I’ve got tears running down my cheeks now, and Simon’s chin wobbles again. I drop one of his hands to cup his cheek, and he presses his face into my palm.
I shake my head, trying to sort all the thoughts jostling for attention. He loves me? He’s sorry? I must take too long to respond, because Simon squeezes his eyes shut and tries to get up again.
“Please stay,” I say, holding onto his hand. “I’m trying to process.”
Simon sits back down, his back to the arm of the couch, legs crossed in front of him. He wipes his nose on his sleeve.
“You don’t have to try and make me feel better,” he says, and I shake my head, shuffling closer so that I’m kneeling in front of him.
“Simon, I’m not trying to make you feel better,” the words come out as a laugh. They come out wet. I feel a bit drunk, maybe high. “I’m trying to figure out how to tell you that I’ve been in love with you for years. I don’t want you to be sorry. I never intended to forget — was never going to be able to.”
“What?” Simon’s voice is snotty and mangled. He’s never been a pretty crier, all runny nose and ruddy cheeks. I take his face in both my hands so I can admire him.
‘For years, Simon,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “Do you want to read what I was just working on?”
“I always do,” he whispers, clearly confused about the change in direction. I grab my laptop off the coffee table, unlock it, and hand it to Simon. His lips move as he reads, ghosting the words that will hopefully help him understand.
Blister
I crave the way it wraps around me,
Like a blanket just pulled from the dryer
While the winter air pounds the walls,
Desperate to find a way inside.
It’s like the sun soaking into your skin that first April day,
Or switching off the alarm to turn your face back into the pillow,
Or rubbing your hands together over the campfire.
But this heat,
it can blister.
The sun can leave you red and scaling.
The day can leave you to waste.
The fire can grow too high —
It grew too fast —
We thought we knew what we were doing but —
It can burn.
But are these wounds,
persistent and painful,
worse than the cold
that will creep in through the cracks of your being
if this love were to be extinguished?
Simon reads through it a couple of times. I track his progress through his lips. Then he closes the laptop and looks up at me, wide eyes blinking.
“This is about me?” he asks. I nod, and his eyebrows furrow. “For years?”
“Yeah,” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Simon asks, grabbing my hand. “I only just figured it out. We could have saved so much time.”
I shake my head and laugh again. Or maybe it’s a sob. I don’t know.
“Baz…” Simon’s wet, freckled face shining in the lamp light. He smiles. “I love you.”
And I’ve waited so fucking long. I thought I’d wait forever. So I close the gap between us and kiss him.
SIMON
Baz is in my lap, his knees straddling my hips. His elbows resting on my shoulders, his fingers wound through my hair, his tongue in my mouth. I’ve got a fist in his hair too, and a palm pressed low on his back, pulling him closer to me. Time has passed. A faint light has started to filter through the window as the sun makes its way to the horizon.
We’ve grown lazy now, open-mouthed kisses and lingering, wandering touches. I bite his bottom lip, just to see what he’ll do. I’ve always been a quick learner when I get to work hands-on. Baz gasps, grinding his hips down against me.
It’s too much for right now — too much for the sleepless hour and the world-rending realizations. Baz must think so too, because he pulls back, sitting carefully on my thighs. His hands are hovering by my face, so I turn my head to kiss his wrist. He’s smiling when I look back up.
“I love you, too,” he murmurs. “In case that wasn’t clear.”
“You’ve made a convincing argument,” I say, and he laughs. “We should go to bed, you have classes tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Baz says, but he makes no move to get up.
“I could… come with you? Just to sleep.”
Baz raises an eyebrow at me, and I laugh, hiding my face in his shoulder.
“Just to sleep, for tonight,” I whisper into his collarbone, and I feel him shiver. “There’s so many things I want to learn about you.”
Baz finally stands, laughing nervously and scratching the back of his neck. My cheeks heat up.
“Was that weird?” I ask. “I just mean, like… I used to think I knew everything about you. But it’s like I’ve unlocked a new secret level.”
“A secret level,” Baz repeats, shaking his head. He holds a hand out to me, pulling me to my feet. “No, it’s not weird. I get what you mean. It’s just a lot to process tonight.”
I nod, squeezing his hand.
“You can come to bed with me,” Baz whispers. “Just to sleep.”
I grin, kissing his cheek.
By the time I change and brush my teeth, Baz is already in bed. He pulls back the covers so I can climb in beside him, then reaches over to turn off the lamp. The pink light of the sunrise fills the room.
“Will you be able to sleep if I’m touching you?” I whisper.
“I think so,” Baz murmurs. He turns so that he’s facing away from me, so I press my chest against his back, wrap an arm around his middle, slip my knee between his thighs. I brush his long hair off the back of his neck so that I can rest my cheek against it, pressing small kisses there. Baz sighs, content, putting his hand over mine where it rests on his stomach.
“Is this good?” I ask.
“Very.”
I kiss his neck again. He smells so good. I nuzzle against his skin.
“Baz.” He hums in response, and I feel it in my fingers and in my chest. “I want you to be my boyfriend.”
“Okay,” he says, like it’s easy as anything. I laugh.
“Are you awake?”
“Very.” He squeezes my hand.
“Cool.” I laugh again. I feel giddy. “I want to take you to dinner at the Top of the Hub.”
“That’s so tacky. But okay.”
“We can go on a date in the North End. I’ll buy you a cannoli. Or maybe we can go to the MFA, and I won’t even complain about how long you spend with each piece of art.”
Baz hums appreciatively. I rub slow circles against his stomach.
“We can go to a Bruins game,” I say. “But you have to embrace your weird little violent side. Like when you steal my phone to see what random fight videos the people I went to high school with have posted on Facebook. That way you can really appreciate the hockey.”
“I like that one less.” Baz’s voice is muffled against the pillow. “But okay.”
“I want to hold your hand on campus,” I whisper. “I want to kiss you on the T and make everyone around us uncomfortable. I want to be so gross and possessive and let everyone know you’re mine.”
“Why don’t you pee on me, really stake your claim,” Baz says. We both giggle.
“I might,” I say, sighing. “I love you. A lot.”
“I love you too,” Baz murmurs. He yawns, pressing his head back against my face. I kiss his neck.
“A lot?” I ask. I hope he can feel my smile on his skin.
“More than a lot,” Baz confirms. “I burn with it.”
I squeeze him everywhere I’m holding him.
“Simon.” I lick his neck, just to see what he tastes like. “Simon. If you do that again, we are definitely not going to just sleep.”
“Okay, you’re right, you have class.” The sky has turned to a pale blue now. I can hear birds chirping in the trees that line the sidewalks outside our home. I relax my grip on him, letting myself sink into the mattress.
“Goodnight, Baz.”
“Goodnight, Simon.”
I feel like it’s going to take me forever to fall asleep since I’m so caught up in the joy of having Baz in my arms. But it’s not a problem. I’m exhausted. And I’ve never felt this safe and warm.