Chapter Text
BAZ
It was done, college. All he had left was to get this last trunk into the car and he’ll be out of Watford for good. He couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit of melancholy, despite everything that went down here (or didn’t), he did live here, on-and-off for seven years. It wasn’t home, but there was an attachment here.
His father and step-mother had come early in the day to take the majority of the boxes, so really Baz only his one trunk and two boxes to drive home. He takes one last look at the imposing boarding school he spent his teenage years in, expecting to never come back again (Why would he?) (Well, Mordelia starts Year Seven here in the Fall, but still). As he followed the outer walls of the school and into the parking lot, he sees Simon Snow Salisbury himself.
For some reason unbeknownst to Baz, putting them together into that bloody room in the Tower ruined any chance they had at becoming friends. They were fundamentally too different as people to get on. Baz like things neat, Snow treated everything as a hamper, hanger and storage. Admittedly, neither of them spoke much beyond shouting and complaining at each other, but part of Baz was going to miss listening to that mouth breather every night, and fighting with someone for the en suite in the morning. (They worked out a system by Fourth Year, Simon got nights, Baz got mornings).
In fact, by the start of seventh year, they had silently agreed to a truce of sorts, with A-Levels around the corner, it seemed the academic rigour of Watford Academy finally wore them out. But Baz would hesitate to call them friends, not even acquaintances. It was mutual tolerance for each other whilst they sit one of the most important exams in their lives.
Snow was staring at his phone, brows knit together and his tongue stuck out his mouth. Gathered by his feet was everything he owned at Watford. It was strange that it took Baz two cars to pack up his life at Watford, but all it took Snow was three duffle bags. He watches Snow go up to Keris, before turning around to and pulling at his hair.
“Fuck.” His Manchester accent always made him so easy to pick out in a crowd. It didn’t endear him to any of the posh twats here, Baz being one of them.
I guess we’re out of here now, to hell with the rules.
Baz had no business butting his head into it. He could just walk away and never see those golden curls again. However, it was their last day here, and all the upper-sixths were moving out. Baz wasn’t looking to salvage anything with Snow, but to extend the first and final courtesy to his former roommate.
“What’s wrong Snow,” he said. I could try being a nicer person, but that’s like asking Snow to not leave crumbs everywhere like he’s Hansel. It’s a quirk, take it or leave it.
“What do you want?” he huffs, desperately scrolling through his phone.
“I sensed your distress and came over to bask in your foul mood.”
“Fuck off Baz.” He sneaks a peek at Snow’s phone, and just sees a list of cancelled trains.
Ah. Great Western strikes again.
“Stranded are we?” Baz said.
“Yes. Great Western strikes again. So now that you know, would you kindly fuck off to whatever haunted mansion you escaped from?”
Baz never understood why Snow’s default insult toward him always revolved around words like “villain” or “vampire” – he might be mean enough, but hardly pale enough for it. Maybe after a long winter.
“Where do you need to get to?” Baz asks.
“Euston, to meet Penny” he’s sending a tome to Bunce, what she’s supposed to do about reliably unreliable British trains, Baz didn’t know.
“I can drive you.” Snow looks at him like he’s grown two heads, and frankly, Baz would be doing the same (if not worst) if Snow made a similar offer. “I have space in my car, and it’s en route.”
“It literally isn’t, why would anyone drive into Central London. Don’t you live in Bournemouth?”
“Hampshire. And yes, I’m planning on driving us both off a bridge.” Baz snapped, annoyed that Snow wasn’t immediately accepting his exceptionally kind gesture to venture into London traffic for his benefit.
“What are you plotting?” Snow asks again.
“If that’s a no, I’ll be leaving,” turning on his heel he walked back towards his Jaguar. He tried to do one nice thing for Snow before they parted their ways. Of course, we’d part ways after one final spat.
SIMON
“Wait up!” he shouts behind Baz, trying to catch up to him. There were no trains heading out to London due a trespasser on the track, and he there was no way he could afford a taxi to London. If Baz was offering a free ride, he wasn’t going to say no. He dragged his duffle bags along, not that there was really anything in there that warranted care – they mostly a variety of school uniforms, the few casual clothes he had and sketchbooks he collected over the years. Simon wondered how Baz amassed enough crap to require two cars, when he managed to get by with so little. Baz just raises an eyebrow at him before motioning for him to pop his bags in the back. Git.
Climbing into Baz’s car, he was suddenly hyper aware of just how posh Baz was – no eighteen year old should sit behind a Jaguar. The leather smelled so new Simon was worried he scuffed it by just sitting on the seats.
If he’s not wrong, it should take them just under an hour to get to Euston. What Simon forgot to account for how to fill the hour’s drive – it’s not like Baz and him ever just talked. This oversight became painfully apparent when the two sat in abject silence for fifteen minutes, neither making a move to even turn on the radio.
With my luck, no matter what I pick, he’ll just say it’s awful. And I really don’t want him to drive off the road.
After Watford disappears from view, Simon could no longer stand the silence, so he attempts to make small talk with Baz Pitch of all people “So, uh, where you going to for uni?”
“LSE,” he replies bluntly, “You?”
“London College of Communication,” he replies, “Animation.”
“That’d explain why your homework always had more doodles than actual words.”
“Consider it practice, and I literally did an Art A-Level” they might not be friends, but if Simon could figure out Baz took exclusively essay subjects, he’s sure Baz would have caught on to his sketchbooks and attempts at art history, “What about you?”
“I never doodle,” Baz said, changing lanes to head into London, rather than continuing onto the M25 toward Southampton. I guess he is going out of his way, huh?
“Don’t be a knob, I meant what you doing at LSE.”
“Law.”
“You would pick the thing that requires the most reading,” Simon said. Now that they’ve talked, Simon really didn’t want the silence to come back but Baz wasn’t exactly a conversationalist. Ultimately, he bites the bullet and turns on the radio, letting the generic pop music fill the air. He defaults to humming whenever there’s a lull in Baz’s complaining about London traffic, and it seems the more off key he was, the less Baz complained. Not even about his singing, though singing along to Mr. Brightside did earn him a threatening glare.
Seeing Baz glare at him, Simon couldn’t help but start laughing, Baz’s eyes move back to the road, though he does turn to look at him every once in a while, irritated by his attempts to clamp down the laughter that sounds more like choking.
“What’s so funny?” Baz sneered.
“Just thinking. It’s weird y’know, graduating. Leaving Watford…with you of all people.”
“Don’t be dramatic Snow,” Baz rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t press Simon for more. He wasn’t sure if Baz understood what he meant, but he must have because it was weird. Watford Academy, or any school really, was like a crucible that burnt and moulded children into young adults before spitting them out into ‘the real world’. One of pains of attending a boarding school was that for a lot of them, life at Watford was all they knew. So yes, leaving this crucible was definitely weird.
“It’s a good thing. You coming down to London,” Simon suddenly blurts out as they enter into Camden.
Baz looked confused, and honestly, Simon wasn’t sure why he said it. If anyone had asked before this, he’d say Baz could’ve gone to study in Australia and it wouldn’t be far enough for him. What he did know was that Baz familiar and a routine irritation that he’d grown accustomed to, like how tree roots adapt to their surroundings.
“Why?”
“You’re kinda the only person I know there.”
“I know for a fact that Bunce is going to UCL,” Baz said, “You definitely know her.”
“I didn’t live with her for seven years,” he states matter-of-factly.
“We barely know each other Snow.”
And that was the last thing they said to each other.
Simon didn’t know if Baz wanted him out the car as soon as they got to Euston, but with what he said hanging in the air, he just gives him a quick nod and scrambles out the car. Grabbing his bags out of the back, he ends up just standing there, checking in with Penny who still had another twenty minutes before arriving.
Watching Baz drive off left him feeling a bit lonely. Though he hated most of their time together, seventh year was almost tolerable, and even today, Baz offered him out of a tight spot – that must’ve meant they don’t actually hate each other anymore, right?
BAZ
Despite the abrupt departure, Baz was left wondering if Snow and he had just started to move beyond mutual tolerance into amicability. Not that it mattered – in a city with almost ten million people, he doubted he’d see Snow again. But because Baz couldn’t help it, he looks into the rear-view mirror as he leaves the drop-off point, catching one last look at his nemesis, and he sees Snow watching him drive off.