Chapter Text
SIMON
He’s exhausted and angry when he gets home, and, okay, maybe ditching Penny and taking a two-hour long train back to London wasn’t his best idea. Whatever. He would’ve gone crazy if he’d stayed at the Wellbelove’s any longer; the entire family treat him like spun glass, these days, like he’ll break into pieces if they look at him wrong. Penny isn’t any better, either. It’s midnight by the time he makes it back to the flat, and he’s half-hoping that Baz is at the library – he stays out late, sometimes, to study, although Simon privately thinks that maybe he’s just avoiding him. (He doesn’t blame him. He’s suffocating. Even he wouldn’t want to hang out with him, these days). He isn’t sure he could handle the worried glances and too-gentle tones, the way that Baz acts like Simon might break if he says the wrong thing. He’s had enough of it from Penny and Agatha, tonight. But Baz’s laptop and textbooks are stacked neatly on the coffee table, so he’s definitely home.
Back when they first moved in, Baz would hear him before he’d even got his keys in the door, and would pounce on him before he even had a chance to close it behind him. But things are different, now. He follows the sound of the radio spilling out from the kitchen (an old rock station that Simon doesn’t see the appeal of, but Baz loves), and there’s Baz, sitting on the kitchen floor against the cabinets they keep the dishes in, long legs kicked out in front of him, arms loose at his side, head bent so that tangles of inky hair are falling across his face.
“Baz?” He calls, tentatively, dropping his bag on the kitchen floor.
For a long, terrible moment, he thinks that something must be wrong, that Baz must be hurt, and his heart turns over in his chest – but then he lifts his head up, and he’s grinning and flicking hair out of his eyes, and he looks fine. (Correction; he looks absolutely hammered – but otherwise fine). “He-ey, Simon,” he drawls, tipping his head back against the cupboards. He reaches out, and then drops his arm like it’s made of lead. “Thought you’d be gone until, uh, tomorrow.”
“Clearly,” Simon says, eyeing the haphazard pile of dishes in the sink, Baz’s jumper and shoes strewn across the floor. Baz looks gorgeous (he always does), in dark trousers and a threadbare white t-shirt. (Simon is pretty sure the t-shirt must be his; Baz barely owns any t-shirts, and usually wouldn’t be caught dead (ha) in something so inexpensive-looking). He looks gorgeous, and he also looks like he’s had far, far too much to drink. His face is flushed, eyes glassy and unfocused, and his long fingers are loose around the neck of a bottle resting in his lap.
“Oh, Baz.” He murmurs, crouching down in front of him. “You’re a fucking mess, Basil.”
Baz tips his head to the side, blinking at him with big, sad eyes. “I know.” He says, mournfully, his voice a little slurred. Simon wonders how much he’s had to drink; Baz is hardly a lightweight. Not that he drinks, much, anyway – but the bottle in his lap looks suspiciously empty, and it smells like a fucking liquor store in here. “Hey, hey, Simon, c’mere,” he says, opening his arms and grinning up at him – properly grinning, all teeth. (It’s adorable). Simon does, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to say no to anything Baz asks, right now, not when he’s looking at him like that, with those sorrowful eyes. Baz could ask to drain him dry, right now, and Simon would let him. He’d open up a vein. He wouldn’t even hesitate. (God, he’s so far gone for this boy). He leans forward and props his chin up on the top of his head, and lets Baz wrap his arms around him, slumping against him.
He can’t remember the last time he hugged Baz. Baz barely touches him, recently – soft brushes of a hand across the top of his head, against his shoulder. That’s it. He thinks that Baz is maybe psyching himself up to break up with him. The thought makes it easier to lean away from him every time he gets too close. (Maybe it won’t hurt as bad, that way).
“I miss you,” Baz says, into his shoulder.
“I’m right here, Baz.” He says.
“Y’know what I mean,” Baz mutters, fingers tightening where he’s clutching Simon’s t-shirt. He does know what he means – this is the closest he’s been to Baz in weeks, fucking months, probably. “You feel so far away, Si. ‘S like I’m losing you. Lost you.”
“Baz,” he says, softly, trying to ignore the tender ache in his chest. “Hey, look at me. Baz.” He tugs Baz back by his shoulders, gets a hand under his jaw so he can push his chin up. Baz’s eyes are glassy and so, so grey. “You won’t lose me, okay? Not ever. Over my fucking dead body. Alright?”
“My dead body,” Baz says, and then dissolves into giggles, pitching forwards to press his forehead against Simon’s shoulder. “Get it, Si? ‘Cause I’m a vampire.”
Simon swallows a laugh, pushing his nose into the top of Baz’s head, just because he can. Because he’s never seen Baz this out of his own head, before, this uncensored, all soft edges and gentle eyes. Because it hasn’t felt this easy in a long, long time. He’ll allow himself this closeness, just for tonight. Hopefully, Baz is too far gone to remember it tomorrow. “Yeah, Baz. I get it. Hilarious.” Baz is still laughing, low and throaty, and he feels so, so fond. He manages to pull himself away, after a moment. “Okay, c’mon, let’s get you up.” Simon pulls himself up to his feet and holds his hands out to Baz.
“You takin’ me to bed, Snow?” Baz grins, blinking up at him with unfocused eyes. “How decadent.”
Getting Baz up off the floor is a bit of challenge, because he’s absolutely fucking legless, all limbs and no grace – a stark contrast to his usual supernatural elegance. He’s got a good four inches on Simon, now, too, because apparently he’s a solid 6”2 and still growing, that fucker. Simon manages to haul him up after several attempts, hooking his hands under his arms and pulling him off the floor. Baz pitches forwards almost straight away, but Simon manages to get an arm around his waist before he hits the ground. Baz is laughing, mumbling incoherently as he leans heavily against Simon, slinging an around his neck and clinging to his shoulders.
“Dance with me, Simon,” Baz grins, swaying on his feet.
“Baz, come on, you’re fucked, you need to get to bed.”
Baz’s face falls, then, which goes to show how out of it he is – usually Baz never shows his emotions on his face. Even Simon struggles to read him, these days. He thinks, briefly, about the last time Baz had tried to dance with him, months ago. His favourite song had come on the radio, and he’d caught Simon in his arms, and, for just a moment, everything had felt right, again, waltzing under the soft glow of the stove light. It hadn’t lasted long. Simon had given up and pulled away, after a minute, because he couldn’t get the steps right. He couldn’t get anything right. (Baz deserves better, he thinks). They’d slept on opposite ends of the bed, that night, and the foot of distance between them might as well have been a thousand miles. It felt like it, anyway.
“Yeah, fine, okay, let’s dance,” he finds himself saying, because he’d say just about anything to get that expression off of Baz’s face.
Baz slides his arms around his waist, pressing his palm into the small of his back, and Simon lets himself reach up to loop his arms around his neck, lets himself have this moment. (Because he’s worried there won’t be many of these moments left. Baz has always said this will end in flames; Simon is starting to think maybe he’s right). It’s less like dancing and more like stumbling around the kitchen, mostly because Baz seems to be having issues standing without support, and Simon is shit at dancing as it is, let alone when he’s trying to stop Baz from face-planting at the same time. But Baz is laughing into his neck, and for the first time in a while, it feels easier to breathe, again, like someone has loosened the knot that seems to be perpetually tightening in his throat. (His therapist says he’s traumatised. He isn’t sure what the point of his therapist is, really, because he could’ve figured that one out for himself. It’s not exactly rocket science).
“As romantic as this is, Baz, you’re a lot heavier than you look and I’m starting to lose all feeling in my arms. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” He says, gently. It’s true, but he’s mostly just worried that Baz will throw up if he keeps swaying.
Trying to get Baz into the bedroom is like attempting a three-legged race with the world’s most pissed, uncoordinated vampire. He manages it, eventually, though, after several minutes of Baz getting distracted by everything and tripping over his feet. He drops him onto the bed, but Baz catches him by the front of his t-shirt and pulls him forwards, vampire-strong, slotting their lips together. Simon lets himself lean into it, just for a moment, closing his eyes and curling his palm around Baz’s jaw – and then pulls away. Baz, looking vaguely affronted, makes a soft, low whining sound at the back of his throat as he tries to tug Simon back into him.
“No, Baz, you’re drunk. And you taste you’ve been gargling nail polish remover. Come on, arms up.”
Baz pulls a face, but does as he’s told, anyway, and for a nineteen-year-old supernatural creature, he sure does look a lot like a petulant toddler. “All my fantasies of you taking m’shirt off involve me being a lot more sexy and a little less hammered.” He admits, after Simon’s pulled his t-shirt off, dropping back down against his pillows and closing his eyes. Simon tries not to think about how gorgeous he looks like that, his hair everywhere, all in his eyes and splayed out across the pillow, a stark contrast to the white sheets. Baz is all harsh angles, dark hair, high cheekbones, slightly crooked nose – even drunk out of his mind, he looks like some kind of Greek god. Like he’s been cut from marble. (It takes every single ounce of his willpower not to fit his hand into the planes of his chest, trace down the lines of the muscles in his torso, and, hell, he is so far gone).
“You’re always sexy, Baz.” Simon tells him, straightening up and rummaging through Baz’s drawers for clean pyjamas. “And I’m only saying that because there is zero chance of you remembering this tomorrow. Wouldn’t want you getting too big for your boots.”
“Well, y’know what they say about big boots,” Baz grins, raising an eyebrow. (Simon is potentially one more innuendo away from a heart attack. Drunk Baz is fucking incorrigible).
“I’m ignoring you, Baz.” He sighs, hiding a smile, and tugs at the ankle of Baz’s trousers (dark, expensive trousers – because of course Baz wears his fancy clothes even when he’s drinking at home on his own). “Come on. Trousers off. I’d like to sleep at some point today, Pitch.”
Baz stretches, languidly, folding an arm under his head. Simon pointedly ignores the way that the muscles in his shoulders shift. “In a minute,” he grunts, blinking up at the ceiling. “M waiting for everything to stop spinning, first.”
Simon rolls his eyes, moving to unbutton Baz’s trousers. Baz grins at him, wolfish, watching him through half-lidded eyes, and opens his mouth to say something. “One more innuendo,” Simon warns, before Baz gets the chance to speak, “and I will make you sleep on the floor. I’m serious.”
Baz holds his hands up in surrender, lifting his hips so Simon can pull his trousers off. It takes another solid five minutes to convince Baz to put the pyjama bottoms on (red and white tartan trousers – he’s pretty sure they’re his, actually, because even drunk Baz looks vaguely horrified by them).
-
When sits on the edge of the bed to untie his shoelaces, Baz moves behind him, slumping against his back and propping his chin up over his shoulder. His skin is cold. (Baz is always cold, but it’s the kind of cold Simon wants to live inside). Simon twists his head, pushing his nose against his mess of dark hair. “If you throw up on me,” he warns, “I will kill you.”
“M not g’na throw up,” Baz promises, ducking his head forward to kiss the mole against his Simon’s collarbone, sliding his arms around his middle. He kisses along the line of his throat, clumsy but so, so gentle, and Simon goes pliant, for a moment, tips his head to the side to give him access – because it’s all so easy and familiar, so achingly tender that it almost hurts. Baz hasn’t touched him like this in what feels like forever; why can’t it be this easy when they’re both sober?
“C’mon, Baz,” he says, softly, but doesn’t make any move to pull away. Baz murmurs unintelligibly against his neck, and then mouths at the junction of his throat, teeth grazing the skin there. Simon realises that he’s probably a little bit crazy, because he’s letting a drunken vampire bite at his neck, but, whatever. He can’t bring himself to care. He trusts Baz more than he trusts anybody – more than he trusts himself. Even when they’re fighting. Even when they’re barely talking. Baz starts sucking a mark underneath his jaw, and he doesn’t manage to swallow down the choked-off sound he makes.
“Okay, Baz, enough, c’mon, bedtime,” he says, standing up and pushing Baz away so he can change out of the fancy formal wear Agatha had corralled him into for dinner with her parents. When he turns back around, Baz is watching him with possibly the fondest expression he’s ever seen, like he really does love him. But this is Baz after almost an entire bottle of vodka – what if this isn’t really what he wants? What if this is just fleeting? Simon isn’t sure he’d be able to handle it if Baz goes back to being distant and quiet again tomorrow morning.
He hesitates, for a moment, unsure of himself, but Baz catches him by the wrist and tugs him forward. “Come to bed, Si,” he mumbles, looking at him like he’s a complete idiot. (How does Baz manage to look so thoroughly unimpressed with Simon when he’s absolutely fucked? He’s starting to think that it might just be his resting expression). Simon goes easily when he pulls, because he really doesn’t have any willpower, and lets Baz curl around him, pushing his face into the crook of his neck.
-
“I’m worried you don’t want me, anymore.” Simon says, very, very quietly, after several minutes of laying in the dark, listening to Baz breathe. Baz is still, for a moment, and he’s starting to think that maybe he fell asleep or maybe he hadn’t heard, and that maybe it’s better that he hadn’t heard, anyway – but then Baz pushes himself up on his elbows, blinking at him, eyes wide and sad. (Baz’s eyes are so, so grey). Simon looks up at the ceiling, dragging his fingertips over Baz’s back so that he has something to do with his hands. “I used to be made of magic.” He whispers. “Now I’m nothing. A Normal. And I’m not even very good at being Normal.”
Baz scoffs, pushes himself up all the way. “You’re not nothing, Simon Snow.” He says, gripping his arm so hard that it’s starting to hurt. (He’s starting to realise that Baz is less aware of his super-strength when he’s drunk. It’s kind of adorable, somehow). “You’re everything. My everything. I don’t – I don’t care about magic, Si. I would give it all up. For you. In a fuckin’ heartbeat. All I want is you, s’all I’ve ever wanted. Magic or no magic. Normal or not. Don’t you get it?”
Simon closes his eyes, and wishes, not for the first time, that he still had magic and a wand so that he could cast one of Penny’s spells, make time stop, keep Baz here in his arms, in this moment. Everything is easier in the dark than it is in the harsh light of day, somehow. “I get it.” He says, and he does. He really does. But the doubt will always be there, the panic, the knowledge that Baz deserves better, and that he could realise that at any moment. That Simon is holding his entire world in his arms, right now, and he doesn’t have the first clue what he would do without him.
“Simon,” Baz murmurs, a slur still evident in his voice. He brushes his nose against the curve of his collarbone. “My Simon. Will you still be mine when I wake up?”
And that breaks his heart, just a little. “Always.” He promises, squeezing Baz’s hand. “I promise, Baz. Always.”
Baz sighs, contentedly, dropping his head down against Simon's chest, and, after a few minutes, his goes limp, his breathing evening out.
(It's the first good night of sleep Simon's had in months).