Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

                    Talkerchat is a free, online chat room website where you can have live, anonymous discussions with anyone across the globe. Let us help you connect with singles near you or far away without the Google searches of Facebook pages bogging you down!

Agatha’s pouting. It’s something she does often and when she does, it’s directed at Simon, who typically melts and gives in. She’s been (not unusually, but just  more ) passionate about Simon paying attention to her recently, so she whines and pouts when he spends more than five minutes on his phone while they’re together. 

Once Simon feels the burning eyes in the back of his head from his girlfriend, he sighs and sets his phone down. He’ll pick it right back up the second that Agatha goes to work. 

“Sorry,” he says, out of habit, turning his head to look at Agatha. 

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, wearing a very pretty white blouse and skirt combo with strappy heels that she made Simon pick out for her in one of her online shopping phases. She’s just finishing her breakfast, sipping the dregs of her coffee and looking lovely while doing so. 

Simon knows that Agatha’s the most beautiful person he knows - and Agatha knows it too. Really, he should feel lucky to be with her. (He does. Sometimes). 

“I told you I’m writing an article on that, right?” Agatha asks. Really, it’s more of a statement than anything. She’s just trying to bring it up so Simon will feel a little guilty about his phone-usage. 

“You mean a quiz?” Simon teases. 

Agatha works for Buzzfeed, which is a Los Angeles based company, but as Agatha says, they want “foreign flavor”. Simon swears that’s a fetishization of her being from the UK, even though they live in New York now. She does a lot of fluff pieces (as is the nature of Buzzfeed ) but what she’s really interested in is convincing readers to not be on their phones all day (self-care and the lot). She’s written a couple of articles that sometimes go over well, but she’s incredibly proud of her work. 

Agatha smiles prettily and Simon feels bad for teasing. She stands up and drops her mug and plate into the sink. 

“You know it’s an article, Simon,” Agatha says. She washes her hands and dries them. She looks at Simon and waits expectantly.

Simon smiles, stands up, and makes his way over to Agatha, flicking the hair bobble off from around his wrist. He carefully ties her long blond hair into a braid down her back and squeezes her shoulders once he’s finished. 

“Aren’t you going to be late?” Simon asks as Agatha turns around to face him. 

She checks her watch (bless her) and sighs softly. “I’m gone,” she says. Simon can tell she considers kissing him but instead she smiles at him before stepping past him. 

Simon watches her as she grabs her large tote bag that consistently holds her four notebooks and bullet journal and floats out the door. Once the door is shut and latched, he tiptoes over to it and spies out the peephole. Just to make sure she’s gone. 

He grins once he sees her disappearing around the corner of the hallway. Simon rushes back over to the couch where he left his phone and picks it up, dropping himself down onto the soft cushions. He’s still in his flannel pajama pants and doesn’t have to work for another forty-five minutes, so he indulges himself in checking for a message on talkerchat. 

Simon grins brightly when he sees the message from grimmauld. 

grimmauld : Do pets count as family details? I’m going to go ahead and say no and tell you about my cat. He is the biggest arsehole on the planet. His name is Terence Fisher (because what else would I name my cat?), but we call him Terry. He’s a black cat so it seemed appropriate. I’m sure I’ve mentioned him in messages before, but he has the same amount of personality as a human being, so it wouldn’t be hard to misread him into being a person that I spend all my time with. He likes going outside when it means he can chitter at birds and rub his stomach on the pavement but otherwise is a very indoor cat. He has his own armchair. Son of a bitch doesn’t even pay his share of the rent. Do you have pets? Or should I have redacted this entire message? I doubt you could figure out who I am based on my choice of cat partner. Or maybe I want you to find out who I am. 

winterstorm : No, you don’t. The whole anonymous thing is very charming and you know it. I look forward to opening up this very stupidly named app to find a message from a person I know no personal details about and having deep, philosophical conversations with him. I’ll allow the pet discussion, but you won’t be so lucky next time. I did have a hamster once, but he died from too much exercise (incredible, right?). [Redacted], the person I live with, used to have a dog, Lucy, but couldn’t keep it in the place we live. 

grimmauld : Too bad. You seem like a dog person. I imagine you with a bright-eyed golden retriever. Or maybe that’s how I see you as a dog. I do like the anonymous thing. It’s dramatic and if you know anything about me, it should be that I have a soft place in my heart for drama. If we ever meet, it will be very clear when you see me. 

winterstorm : Oh, you want to meet? I thought we would continue talking over this app until I die a mysterious death and you, listed as my emergency contact under grimmauld, will have to identify my body. And you won’t be able to. It’ll be truly embarrassing for you. 

grimmauld : Multiple questions. 1) Why would I be your emergency contact? How far in the future is this mysterious death? Are we still anonymously chatting online when you’re well into your fifties? 2) Why would I have to identify your body? Surely you have other friends. Including the person that you live with. 3) (not a question, but) I’ll have Terry identify you. He has a very good sense of smell and I bet he could figure it out. 

winterstorm : You’re insufferable. I hope we meet one day so I can knock your teeth out. 

grimmauld : You’ll be ruining a very handsome face if you do. A face you could be staring at dreamily instead of punching.

Simon sets down his phone and blushes. They’ve been chatting online, anonymously, for a few months. He and grimmauld flirt innocently. But Simon has a girlfriend and grimmauld has let some hints slip about having a boyfriend, so the further they move into flirting, the more nervous Simon gets. 

He has to get to work, anyway. He leaves his phone on the couch as he gets ready, showering and changing into a pair of simple slacks and a blue button-down that Agatha says looks nice with his eyes. He makes the bed before he leaves (Agatha’s only request of Simon’s in the mornings - besides braiding her hair, but that’s not a request necessarily, just a habit) and slides on a jacket when he remembers how cold it is outside. 

One of Simon’s greatest joys is the walk to his little shop around the corner. He’s self-indulgent and tends to leave early from his home just so he can walk slowly, taking his time and enjoying the sights. He’ll often stop and get a piece of fruit for his breakfast or get some flowers for Agatha if she’s mad at him. Today, Simon sight-sees (which means stare at people walking past. There’s a girl with insanely overdrawn lips and a tight bun at the back of her head, a man with dark hair in a fully floral-printed suit, and someone with a blanket wrapped around their shoulders holding a coffee and sidling down the street who catch Simon’s attention the most). 

When he comes up on the shop, Penelope Bunce, his best friend, is already sitting on the bench out front. (To be fair, Penny’s always there before him). 

Simon owns a bookstore, Snowy Stories, which he inherited from his recently-deceased mother. He works there with a few friends, but owning a bookstore in a world of technology (especially a children’s bookstore) is difficult. 

“Good morning, Penny,” Simon says cheerfully, handing her one of the flowers from the bouquet he picked up for Agatha. (He doesn’t think Agatha’s necessarily mad at him today, but he’d rather be on the safe side. Plus, it’s the easiest way to please her. She loves flowers). 

“Morning, Simon,” Penny says back, standing up and dusting off her skirt. Penny’s got a very specific academic style of dressing and Simon thinks she looks adorable every time he sees her. Today she’s wearing a dark skirt and green knee socks. Her matching button-down is mostly hidden from view by her sweater vest. Very academia-lesbian-chic.

“Nice day, huh?” Simon asks, grinning as he fumbles in his pocket for the keys. 

Penelope eyes the two men arguing behind Simon, just across the street (they’re not quiet), but Simon’s already popped the grate and opened the door to the shop and bounced in. 

“You’re quite chipper,” Penelope remarks. 

“Am I?” Simon asks, grinning. He walks to the small office space in the back of the shop so he can set his coat down on the back of the office chair.

Penelope follows, looking suspicious. She watches as he puts the flowers into a vase with water and sniffs them. 

“What is wrong with you?” Penelope asks. 

Simon turns and raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” Before Penny can respond, his eye catches on the book in Penelope’s hands. “Oh, you’re reading Maurice ?” he asks, delighted. “I adore that book.” 

Penelope frowns and once Simon’s walked away from her to flip on the lamp, her mouth quirks into a smile. “You’re in love,” she insists. She takes off her coat as well and puts it next to Simon’s.

Simon plays dumb. “With Maurice? Of course I am. It’s a great book.” 

“You’re in love ,” Penny repeats. 

“No. No. No, I am not.” 

Simon pauses in his tracks as he’s brushing dust off the lampshade. He spins around.

“ Yes,” he says, wincing at how much he’s put his foot in his mouth. “Yes, I am in love! With Agatha. I live with her. She’s my girlfriend. I am in love with her.” Simon changes the subject because he knows Penelope doesn’t believe him. “Did you get the shipment in yesterday?” 

Penelope somehow knows what he’s talking about. He loves her a lot. “I did,” she says, following behind him as he walks quickly to the front counter. She stands on the customer-side of the counter and leans her elbows on the desk. She stares at Simon as he tries to look busy, mucking about with an already settled stack of picture books. 

Simon sighs and drops his hands onto the desk. “Is it adultery if you’re just anonymously messaging someone?” 

Penny tilts her head to the side. “Hmm. Have you sexted?” 

Simon flushes. “Christ, Pen, no.” 

“Good. Don’t.” 

Simon busies himself with labeling stickers for the sale coming up. “We just message. It’s all innocent.” That’s not necessarily true, but Simon doesn’t need to divulge all his secrets about this to Penelope. 

“How’d you meet?” 

“Uh.” At this, Simon blushes further and looks down at his busywork. “We just happened to be online at the same time. I saw his username and thought he sounded interesting.”

“Right.”

“It’s completely anonymous. I know nothing about him - not his name, not what he does for work. I mean, I know he has a cat. And I only learned that today.” 

“You talked to him this morning?” 

“Yeah.” Simon bobs his head. Then, a split-second decision to get Penelope off his back. “I decided I’m going to stop.”

“Oh?”

Before Simon can respond and confirm that he’s quitting his harmless flirting, the door opens, and Rhys wheels in (he’s gotten very good at shoving the door open and rolling in before it shuts on his wheelchair. Simon thinks it’s quite impressive). 

“Hi,” Rhys says cheerily, rolling over to Penelope and Simon. They’ve kept the aisles wide for accessibility reasons, a project spearheaded by Rhys when he started working for Simon. 

Simon and Penelope exchange greetings with Rhys before he asks, “What’re you guys talking about?” He settles himself behind the desk in the office so Penelope has to raise her voice when she responds. 

“Sexting,” she says loudly. 

Simon holds back the desire to slap a palm across his face. 

“Oh,” Rhys says, as chipper as ever. He grins over at them. “I’ve done that.” 

Simon blushes again. Penelope does tend to derail conversations away from where he wanted them to go, but he’s used to it. Sexting isn’t the worst topic that’s come up from a completely innocent conversation. 

“So has Simon,” Penelope says, putting both hands on her hips and looking at Simon. 

“I have not,” he insists. (Technically true. Definitely not with grimmauld and not with Agatha). 

Rhys just laughs. He turns back to the computer and reminds them, “Time to open, you two.” 

Penelope goes to the door and flips the open sign. Two of their regulars, Tina and her daughter Eliza, come in just as the sign is being flipped, and Penelope opens the door for them. Simon watches as Penelope says hello and takes Eliza’s little coat. He hears Rhys answering the phone (“ Snowy Stories, this is Rhys. And how are you this fine fall morning?”)

Simon smiles.

Chapter Text

Baz rewrites the message about his cat at least three separate times. He’s worried about overstepping the boundaries of being anonymous so he edits and revises what he says until his head hurts. He doesn’t even check if winterstorm has seen it or answered. He shoves his phone into his pocket when he hears Isaiah shout his name from down the hall. 

“Yes?” Baz calls back, opening the fridge and sliding out the oat milk. (Baz is a simple man who loves sustainably sourced dairy with his Frosted Flakes). 

“I’m almost ready, will you start the coffee?” Isaiah yells from their bedroom. 

“Yes!” Baz shouts, setting his milk down on the counter and stepping over to start the Keurig. 

“Did you start it?” 

“Yes!” Baz rolls his eyes.

“Will you get the creamer?” 

“Yes,” Baz yells back, adding, “Babe,” on the end in a teasing tone. He’s never been one for pet names, but Isaiah insists on calling him babe and baby whenever he has the chance. 

Baz gets the creamer out as well as Isaiah’s coffee mug, setting them on the counter before taking a seat at the table and assembling his cereal. Terry jumps up onto the table and rubs his head against Baz’s hand affectionately. 

Isaiah comes rushing into the room, clipping his shoulder on the doorframe and grunting as he does so. He’s got his coat in one hand, keys and his phone in the other. He drops the phone open to Twitter on the table in front of Baz and goes to the Keurig. 

“Hurry up!” He shouts at the machine impatiently. He turns back to Baz and motions for him to look at the open Tweet. “Look, babe.” 

It’s some obscure meme that Baz can’t decipher, but he laughs softly just to validate Isaiah showing him something. 

Before the coffee’s even ready, Isaiah rushes back out of the room, probably realizing that he forgot his left shoe. 

Baz watches him go. Isaiah’s really lovely - he’s got soft brown hair that he keeps cut short and he’s got the worst resting bitch face Baz has ever seen, but he probably likes Isaiah more because of it. They’ve only been dating a few months, but Isaiah stays over more often than not.

Typically, Baz sees Isaiah in the mornings before either of them go to work and then again when they’re both coming home from the workday, dinners, and bullshit corporate meetings. Sometimes sleepy and half-hearted sex occurs, but not often. 

When Isaiah has retrieved his missing shoe as well as his glasses (that he wears for show. He has perfect vision), he stands at the counter and fills up his coffee mug. 

“Don’t forget about the dinner tonight,” Baz says offhandedly. He knows he’ll have to remind Isaiah again approximately eighteen minutes before they have to leave. 

“Oh yeah,” Isaiah says, turning back around while switching his too-hot coffee mug between his hands. “Do we have to go?”

Baz rolls his eyes. “Yes.” 

“I don’t want to. It’s black-tie.” (Baz knows it’s black-tie. That’s probably the biggest draw for him). 

Baz stands up and pats his boyfriend on the shoulder. “Oh,” he mockingly pouts. “Your life is so hard. You have to go to a fancy dinner party that you promised me you’d attend.”

Isaiah rolls his eyes and blows on his coffee, taking an experimental sip. 

“You’re late,” Baz says. 

“I know, I know.” 

Baz goes to sit back down at the table and Isaiah finishes his coffee (way before it’s cooled down enough not to burn his tongue). He drops his coffee mug down onto the counter and grabs his phone from the table before rushing down the hallway and out the door. 

Baz counts to twenty-five after he hears the latch of the door. When he’s finished counting, he still stands up and goes to the door, just to make sure Isaiah’s gone. Checking his phone, Baz lets a grin cover his face as he sees that winterstorm has responded. He spends the next fifteen minutes ignoring the fact that he’ll be late to work at this rate and messaging him anyway. 

Once he makes a complete fool of himself by messaging winterstorm about staring at his face dreamily, Baz chucks his phone on the bed and finishes getting ready for the workday. He wears a more casual suit, floral-printed, and leaves his hair down so it rests in a wave just above his shoulders. 

He doesn’t have the shortest walk to work, but he tries to find the joy in it (which means ignoring all the people and focusing on the dogs). Unfortunately, his first stop of the day is in the construction site of the new Pitch Books store so he doesn’t have much to look forward to. 

“So,” Niall starts, trying to keep up with Baz’s pace as they step through the taped-off section of the half-constructed building. 

Baz doesn’t hear anything else Niall says. 

“Yes, great,” Baz says when it feels appropriate. He’s walking and not hearing a word Niall’s saying because he’s too invested in thinking about winterstorm . (It feels ridiculous to keep referring to him like that - he wishes he knew his name). 

Niall is seemingly finished talking. 

“So the insulation is getting finished today?” Baz asks, remembering that’s the one thing he promised his father he’d look into. 

Niall sighs. “No, Baz, I said he won’t be here until Thursday. You’re clearly not listening to me.” 

Baz smirks a little bit. Even if Niall’s frustrated with him, this is mostly his project. Baz is just supervising and Niall will take care of all the small details. “Hard not to drone you out, mate.” Baz grips onto a pillar and swings himself around the corner. 

“You and Isaiah are engaged, aren’t you? You should have called me, you bastard!” 

Baz pauses and looks up at Niall, who is still on the higher step. “What? Engaged?”

“Is that not it?” Niall asks. He’s grinning like he knows something. (He doesn’t). “I thought you liked him.” 

“God,” Baz says, perhaps too quickly. “I like Isaiah. Of course I like him. I love him. A lot. He’s great.” 

Niall raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything else. 

“Right.” Baz starts to walk again and Niall follows, catching up with him this time. “My father suggested advertising our new location to the neighborhood, but the man has never been to New York.” 

Niall laughs. 

“They’ll eat us alive.” 

“Protests down the block.” 

Baz’s smirk turns a little sad. “When we actually open, they’re going to love it. Cheap books and cheap coffee.” 

“We’ll knock out every tiny bookstore in a four mile radius,” Niall says.

Baz doesn’t answer. He’ll let Niall deal with that. 

--

When Baz gets up to his office, he takes a moment to lean against the frame that supports the floor to ceiling windows. His father wouldn’t allow Baz to take an office anywhere lower in the building than the thirty-eighth floor, so Baz has a great view. (And Baz didn’t particularly want to have an office window that stared out into other office windows). 

Unbuttoning his blazer and taking a seat at his desk, Baz flips open his laptop and waits for it to boot up, tapping his short (and carefully groomed) nails against the mousepad, creating a dull thud from every finger. Once he signs in, he’s greeted with the ringing of a Skype call from Malcolm Grimm. 

Malcolm Grimm is the owner of Pitch Books , a family business that Baz is in line to take over (as if he doesn’t practically run it already). Malcolm named the company when he was married to Natasha Grimm-Pitch, Baz’s mother. Natasha passed when Baz was five years old, but Malcolm kept the name as a sort of homage to her.

Quickly running his fingers through his hair and straightening out the lapels of his suit, Baz accepts the call. His father would point out any discrepancy in Baz’s appearance and Baz would like to avoid that at all costs. 

“Basilton.” 

Baz stops himself from rolling his eyes but just barely . “Father.” 

“How is construction?” 

Straight into business then. Not that Baz expected anything different. Malcolm Grimm is a businessman, through and through. He’s wearing a stiff suit and his hair is perfectly laid. Baz recognizes the office from back home and has the smallest jump of homesickness flutter in his stomach. 

“Construction should be finished on schedule. Niall and I are worried about the neighborhood response to a corporate book store over their beloved small businesses.” 

Malcolm waves a hand in a dismissing manner. “Let them fuss.” 

Baz nods. “Daphne and Mordelia got on the plane alright?” 

“Yes. They should be arriving in a few hours. You’re still able to pick them up from the airport?” 

Amazing. Even when they’re talking about family, they’re still talking business. 

“Yes, Father.” 

“Good. You’ll show them around?” 

Baz sighs. “Yes, Father.” He’s trying not to clench his jaw. “We’re planning on buying the whole inventory of NY Books , which is a smaller bookstore down the block. They’re going under-”

“How sad,” Malcolm interrupts. There’s a hint of a smile. (Baz swears that Malcolm gets off on ruining small businesses. Not that Baz is against it if it means Pitch Books will thrive, but he’s not heartless). 

“So we’re buying out their whole stock. We’ll have over a hundred and fifty-thousand titles by the time we open.” 

“Good,” Malcolm says. “Any competition?” 

Baz almost laughs. “Not that much of competition. Snowy Stories , which is a children’s bookstore.” 

“ Snowy Stories ?” Malcolm asks, sitting forward in his chair. “That was Lucy Snow’s place. It’s been there for a while, right? Doesn’t her son run it now?” 

Baz is surprised that his father knows anything about small bookstores in New York. 

“I believe so,” Baz says. 

There’s just a moment of silence, then: “Pick up Daphne and Mordelia from the airport.” 

“Right. Will do. Father-” 

Malcolm’s already hung up. 

Baz angrily tugs his phone from his pocket, set on texting Niall how upset he is, but once he sees a talkerchat notification, he cheers up immediately and diverts his attention. 

winterstorm : New York in the fall has my heart. Everyone is outside with their kids, their dogs, their cats. (I imagine you’re the type of person to take your cat on walks). I swear it takes me longer to get somewhere now because I’m so caught up watching the people around me and the cute little fruit stands that line the streets. 

grimmauld : Terry doesn’t like his harness (even though he looks so cute in it) so we don’t go on many walks. He likes to tear down my curtains for exercise instead. He loves autumn just as much as you do, though. The first time that he discovered crunchy dead leaves, he spent half an hour rolling around in them. See attached: a photo of my cat in his bright yellow harness and leash, ready to claw my eyes out when I’m least expecting it. 

winterstorm : He is very cute, even when plotting your murder. Terry and I would get along - I love to roll around in crunchy dead leaves and I hate curtains. 

grimmauld : Do you really hate curtains? Did you accidentally stab your girlfriend’s father through some when attempting to murder your stepfather/uncle? Bad memories?

winterstorm : Was that… a fucking… Hamlet reference? You didn’t tell me you were a nerd. 

grimmauld : I think my status as a nerd on classic Shakespearean tragedies is quite clear from who I am as a person. 

winterstorm : I wasn’t even sure that you could read. 

grimmauld : How do you think I respond to your messages? 

winterstorm : Voice to text. Siri can read things to you, ya know? 

grimmauld : Right. I’m not tech-savvy enough for that.

winterstorm : Clearly. 

grimmauld : I’m surprised you know Hamlet. 

winterstorm : I think a lot of things about me would surprise you. 

grimmauld : I don’t doubt that. You thrill me. 

winterstorm : God, stop trying to get in my pants so hard. 

winterstorm : :)

Chapter Text

winterstorm : Barring any extremely personal information, even if we ( you ) have been toeing that line a lot recently, I want to pick your brain about something. Have you ever had something passed down or gifted to you by someone and the fear of letting them down is even worse than the desire to keep the thing afloat? 

grimmauld : When were you going to tell me you google searched me and found my Wikipedia page so you could send me this verbatim quote from it?

winterstorm : Do you have a Wikipedia page? Are you that well-known? Maybe I could find you if I googled ‘New York man who owns a black cat named after Terence Fisher and gets his dry cleaning done every three days’.

grimmauld : I said approximately every three days. Will you never let me live that down? 

winterstorm : Never. It’s how I know you’re a big businessman who can afford to get his suits dry cleaned more than once a week (fucking overkill). These are the details that keep me going.

grimmauld : Even more innocuous details lie in my Wikipedia page if you should ever find it. Good luck. 

winterstorm : Oh, you mysterious man. 

--

“It’s so ugly,” Penelope comments. 

Simon, Penelope, and Rhys are all positioned at the corner of the street, just barely on the edge of the sidewalk, staring up at the Pitch Books Superstore - Coming Soon! sign that spreads the entire length of the building that’s been under construction for a while now. 

Rhys had seen it on his trip home after the store closed for the evening and immediately wheeled around to drag Penelope and Simon out to see the horrific structure.

Simon is endlessly optimistic - at least in front of his friends/coworkers. “It’s not that bad.”

Penelope gives Simon a questioning look. “This is a nightmare , Simon.” 

“Come off it,” Simon says. “They don’t have half the customer service that we do. They’re unfeeling and cold - no personal connection with what they’re selling.”

“Okay, but I heard they’re selling coffee, too,” Rhys comments.

Simon ignores Rhys. “It could be good,” he insists. “We can work off each other - whatever we don’t have, they probably do.”

“Right,” Rhys says. “I’m sure they’ll tell their customers the same thing.” He’s being sarcastic and Simon knows that. It’s very unlikely that a Pitch Books Superstore will be lacking in children's literature. 

Simon tells Agatha about the new Pitch Books store when he gets home. He unpacks the groceries as Agatha sets up something at the table that she won’t let Simon take a peek at. 

“Simon, come look at this,” Agatha says finally, ignoring the fact that he’s clearly busy with making sure none of the eggs broke in transit. “Simon,” she says again when he doesn’t appear right by her side. 

“What?” Simon asks with a soft sigh, setting down the egg carton once he’s satisfied with his inspection. He steps over to the table to stand just barely behind Agatha’s shoulder to see what she’s been fiddling with. 

“Isn’t it lovely?” she asks, moving out of the way so Simon can see the typewriter. It’s pink and vintage and just so Agatha. She’s always on his case about using his phone and his computer so often that he’s not surprised this was her next step. “I’m going to use it to write my articles.” 

“Don’t you normally just write them in your notebook and then type them up to send in?”

“Yes, but just think about the work I can produce with this,” Agatha says, patting the top of the typewriter fondly. 

Simon thinks that the work she produces with the typewriter will be of the same quality but the process will be a lot louder. (He also thinks that it will mostly be used as an aesthetic centerpiece for her Instagram stories). “It’s really nice, Aggie,” he says, nudging her shoulder softly with his.  

“Thank you.” 

Simon turns back to put the rest of the groceries away as Agatha sits down at the table to test out her new purchase. (Simon was right - it’s very noisy). 

“They’re building a Pitch Books Superstore right down the street from the shop,” Simon says, conversationally. He knows Agatha of all people will be supportive, even if she’s a bit distracted right now.

“Really?” Agatha asks, very distracted. 

“Yes,” he says, leaning against the doorframe so he can stand right behind Agatha and watch her type. “I’m quite nervous about it, actually,” he admits. 

“Why?” Agatha’s still typing, but it’s slowed. She’s paying a little more attention now. 

“I just-” Simon pauses and sighs, running his hand through his hair. “ Pitch Books is larger than Snowy Stories will ever be - and that’s fine - building a superstore with no integrity isn’t what I want. But I’m worried we’ll be run out of business.” 

“Oh, Simon,” Agatha says, finally stopping her incessant typing and standing up. She places her hands on his shoulders. “You’re solid. Snowy Stories is doing the good work.” She doesn’t explain herself further and Simon doesn’t ask her to. She’s already sat down at the table again.

-- 

Baz picks up Daphne and Mordelia at the airport, Mordelia running into his arms the moment she sees him. She’s only seven, but when he puts her down from the hug, she says, “Hello, Basilton,” formally, holding a hand out for a handshake. (Baz likes to believe she looks like him and his mother, Natasha, just a little softer).

Baz ruffles her hair fondly and kisses Daphne on the cheek. She smiles at him.

Daphne says she’s had a migraine all through the transatlantic flight, so Baz has her driven back to the hotel (having your own driver has its perks) with the promise of giving Mordelia the best day of her young life. 

There’s a fair going on downtown and Baz takes Mordelia. She gets her face painted to look like a cat and she beats him at every single carnival game they play. (He’d like to say he let her win, but she’s a bright kid). She even wins him a teddy bear. 

They come out of the carnival with sunglasses that are comically large for their heads, several stuffed animals, balloons, and far too many sweets for Baz to explain to Daphne. (He tries to convince Mordelia to eat as many of them as possible now - and he sneaks some for himself, of course). 

As they walk back towards the hotel where they dropped Daphne off, Baz notices them passing by Snowy Stories and so does Mordelia. She stops abruptly and rushes over to poke her head up over the window ledge to look into the shop. 

“Baz, can we go in?”

He nods and pushes open the door so Mordelia can rush inside. It’s quaint and well-decorated, books in curated little stacks everywhere. They seem to have arrived at a very good time - there’s a man in the corner telling a story, a cluster of children sitting around him and listening. Mordelia looks up at him and he pushes at her back, leading her over to the group. Mordelia finds a seat next to a young man in a wheelchair who already has two kids sitting on his lap. Baz smiles a bit and stands behind her, occasionally reaching down to pat her head.

When he turns his attention to the man telling the story, Baz’s breath catches in his throat. Lovely curly bronze hair, blue eyes, freckled tawny skin, and arms that could keep Baz safe for the rest of his life. He indulges in staring at him (he’s just looking - it’s very innocent) and leans against a bookshelf to listen. Baz finds himself shutting his eyes, just relishing in the soft sound of the man’s voice (he notes the accent - impressed that he’s found another Brit in New York, especially this close by and in the same profession). He gets distracted from the actual storyline and focuses on the rounded vowels and shapes of each word. 

By the time the story has finished (or maybe it’s just a chapter? Baz wonders if he could come back later and hear more), Mordelia is leaning her head back against Baz’s leg and grinning brightly. 

The storyteller stands up and sets the book aside. “Thanks for listening, everyone,” he says warmly. “We’ll read more from this story next week.” 

(Baz makes a note to return). 

The bookshop turns into a bumbling scene, children running past the display tables and adults discussing book prices and whether reading Jane Eyre at age nine will stunt your developing brain. Baz doesn’t have the heart to argue with them. 

He ends up talking to Rhys, the man in the wheelchair, about a hand-inked copy of Hamlet . Baz found it an odd item to be on sale in a children’s bookstore, but apparently the owner has a love for Shakespeare that transcends a limit on children’s books. 

“That’s why it’s worth a lot more than a regular copy,” Rhys finishes, grinning at Baz and leaving the book in his hands. 

Baz can’t deny that it’s beautiful. “‘s why it costs so bloody much,” he breathes. He looks at the back cover again, runs his fingers over the inlay, and hands it back to Rhys. “Maybe next time.” (He really does mean it - he’s planning on coming back just to hear more stories). 

He hears Mordelia’s voice from across the store and he politely thanks Rhys for his help before sidling over to them. 

“They’re all so nice,” he hears Mordelia say. “I want the whole series.” 

“Well, that’s a lot for your dad to buy all at one time,” the storyteller says and when Baz gets closer, he trails off a bit, looking up at Baz. Baz is a delicious three to four inches taller than him. 

Baz places his hand gently on Mordelia’s shoulder, peeking down at the series she’s got her hands on. He doesn’t recognize the title but there’s a vampire and a boy with dragon wings on the front, so it looks pretty interesting. 

“Oh,” Mordelia says, looking back at Baz and shrugging his hand off her shoulder. “He’s not my dad. He’s my brother.” 

“Really?” the man asks, dubious of the significant age gap. 

“Step,” Mordelia adds as if that clears everything up. 

Baz is gracefully entering his mid-twenties, but he understands the confusion behind his sister being seventeen or so years younger than him. 

“A very modern family,” the man remarks, smiling. Baz notices the soft freckles and moles adorning his face and neck - basically anywhere that skin is exposed. 

Baz picks up the first two books of the series and makes a motion to move to the counter. “Just these two, okay? Don’t tell Father.” 

The storyteller makes his way to the other side of the counter to ring them up. 

“May I, uh-” Baz starts, setting the books down. “Ask for your name?” 

“Simon Snow,” he says, grinning. “I own this shop.” 

Simon Snow. Snowy Stories . Cute. (If not a bit ridiculous - he’s never heard of the last name Snow before). 

“Lovely,” Baz responds, mostly under his breath. 

“And you are?” Simon asks. (Simon. Baz thinks that name fits him so well). 

“Baz,” Baz says simply. He very purposefully leaves off the last name. He doesn’t think that’ll go over well here. 

“And I’m Mordelia,” Mordelia pipes up. “Mordelia Gri-” 

Baz claps a hand over her mouth and laughs. “Right, Mordelia, let the grownups talk.” He winces at himself - he’ll apologize to her for that later. (He doesn’t know how well-known the Grimm-Pitch association is, but he’d rather be on the safe side).

“Penelope,” Simon says when a shorter girl in a very nice sweater vest joins him behind the counter to help ring up the books Mordelia wants. “This is Baz and this is Mordelia.” 

Baz waves softly and Mordelia lights up at seeing a new person. 

“Hi,” Penelope says, mostly to Mordelia. She starts to scan the books Baz is purchasing for his sister. “Are you planning on coming back to get the rest of the series?” she asks. 

Mordelia looks up at Baz and makes her pouty face. Baz finds it half endearing and half amusing (a common feeling toward Mordelia). He ends up nodding at Penelope, smiling. 

“See,” Penelope says. “Our customers are loyal to us. We won’t go under.” 

“There’s a Pitch Books opening up down the block,” Simon explains, rolling his eyes and effectively stopping Baz’s heart. 

“Oh?” Baz says before looking down at Mordelia and giving her a withering look to not say anything. She’s sharp enough to know when to shut up and she’s busy shoving a sweet into her mouth so he knows he can trust her. 

“You see,” Simon continues. “I’ve been running this shop for a while now and was around when my mother ran it. Customer service and personable marketing is what draws people in. Discounted prices and coffee are nice and all, but Pitch Books is going to have salespeople who know nothing about authors, about themes, about literature .” When he finishes, he looks a little embarrassed. 

“Right,” Baz says, unsure of what else to say. 

“Sorry,” Simon apologizes, blushing. 

“Your total is twenty-nine dollars. How are you paying?” Penelope asks Baz, sliding the neatly stacked books across the desk where Mordelia grabs onto them. 

“Twenty-nine?” Baz asks back, looking down at the two thin books in Mordelia’s hands. It’s not that he minds the money (he’s got too much of that), but it’s the principle of the thing. 

“Yes,” Penelope says as if daring Baz to argue. He’s a bit intimidated by her so he goes with it and hands her his card.

“Is that you?” Baz asks, eyes catching on the photograph behind the desk of a sweet looking lady with pretty features holding the hand of a young boy with soft hair and blue eyes. 

Simon looks back at it and smiles fondly. “Yeah, and that’s my mother. She left me the shop when she died - I’d just moved to New York a year or so before, so she’d been training me to take over. I hope to pass it on to my own child.” 

Baz smiles a bit, even if his heart wrenches at hearing Simon talk about having a child. (Which is good. Baz has a boyfriend. A boyfriend who he loves. A lot). “How old is your kid?”

“Oh,” Simon says, good-naturedly. “I don’t have one. Hypothetical and eventual child.” 

Baz laughs a little bit and takes his card back from Penelope. “Right.” 

“Well, um,” Simon starts again. “Thank you for coming in. Pitch Books can just go to hell, right?” 

Baz smiles just enough that it doesn’t seem like he’s grimacing. He taps Mordelia on the shoulder. “Ready to go?”

She’s got a lolly in her mouth but she nods. As they leave, Simon shoots Baz a lasting smile.

Chapter Text

When the Pitch Books Superstore opens, Simon retains his optimism. They still have customers that day - a lot of the regulars and a few others buying week-out Christmas presents for their loved ones. 

Six days after the Pitch Books Superstore opens, Simon’s starting to get worried. Their sales have gone down significantly - several hundred dollars less than the same week the year before. He does his best to hide his worry from Penelope and Rhys - they don’t need that from him. 

“If we go under,” Penelope says. 

Simon whips his head back. He’s been doing his best to wrap a lamp with twinkle lights in order to make it look like a tree. (They can’t have an actual tree in the store - children’s eyes are far too level with the branches). 

“ If we go under,” Penny repeats. “I’m going to have to move, Simon. I don’t know where I’ll find another good part-time job like this one. I’ll have to move back in with my parents.” 

“It’s a new store, Penelope. They have an opening sale price that’s attractive, but it won’t last long. It’ll blow over,” Simon says.

Rhys opens his mouth to argue. 

“It’ll blow over,” Simon insists. 

-- 

“It’ll blow over,” Agatha insists, tightening the strap of her dress using the mirrored wall of the elevator. 

Simon looks at the pair of them in the reflective surface. Agatha’s in a pretty blue dress that she spent hours picking out and she’s got her hair loose and flowing around her shoulders. Simon’s wearing a black turtleneck under his grey suit because Agatha said it was fashionable. (Oh, the things he wears because Agatha says they’re fashionable).

They’re headed to a publishing party for Vince, one of Agatha’s friends that Simon’s only met a few times, but she did a pretty good job of convincing him to come along. He’ll never say no to a party that’s bound to have free food. 

Simon nods. “I know,” he says. He hopes Agatha’s right. 

When they get up to the fifth floor where the party is being hosted, Agatha is social, laughing and talking and flicking her hair around, and Simon trails along with her - pleasantly engaging in conversation. 

When Simon goes to get himself another mini scone from the tray that’s floating around the party, he sees a familiar wave of dark hair and freshly pressed suit lapels. He shoves the scone into his mouth, picks another up, and sidles over to Baz, waiting until he is noticed.

“Hi,” Simon says once he finally makes eye contact with Baz. 

“Oh,” Baz says. “Hello.” 

Simon shifts around so he can stand directly in front of Baz. “You look nice,” he says. And he does. Baz is sporting a soft-looking black suit with a light pink button-down underneath. Simon blushes when Baz looks him up and down.

“So do you.”

“Thanks,” Simon mumbles. “How’s your sister?” he asks, grinning at the memory of the sweet girl Baz had come in the store with. 

Baz takes a drink from his glass. “She’s doing well. Back in England with my father.” 

“Lovely.” 

Baz doesn’t seem interested in carrying on a conversation. Simon’s embarrassed and as he wanders away to find Agatha, he glances back and sees Baz wrap his hand around someone’s waist - a tall man who looks like he’d rather eat live piranhas than be at this party. Simon’s not sure how to interpret the tug in his stomach. (He figures he might as well take it for hunger so he finishes off his scone and grabs another from the passing tray). 

When he finds Agatha again, she touches his shoulder softly. “Was that Baz Pitch?” she asks, almost in awe. 

“What?” 

“Baz Pitch,” she says again, motioning to where Simon has just returned from. 

“ Pitch ?” he repeats. “As in-”

“ Pitch Books , yes.” 

Simon is dumbfounded. And quite upset. He turns to the side and scans the room for Baz again - he’s standing by the bar with his hands resting on the edge of the table delicately. Simon wants to swipe his hands off the table and knock Baz to the floor for making him feel this idiotic. 

“I’ll be right back, Aggie,” Simon says, pressing his hand to her back before setting his sights on Baz and stalking towards him. 

“Hello, again,” Baz says coolly, wrapping his hand around a wine glass and bringing it to his mouth, regarding Simon with a raised eyebrow. 

“Pitch,” Simon responds. He picks up a glass of champagne from the bar and takes a drink too fast, his throat contracting around the alcohol. He barely stops himself from coughing. 

“Grimm-Pitch, to be precise.” 

It’s infuriating how calm Baz is - how he’d held that over Simon’s head while Simon went on a whole rant about Pitch Books going to hell. “Right,” Simon says. He downs the rest of the champagne in his glass. “Why did you come to my store? Were you spying on me?”

“Why would I spy on you?”

“You know why,” Simon insists, rubbing his fingers along the empty glass for something to do. “I’m your only competition still left in the area.” 

“I don’t know if you’re really my competition , love,” Baz says, smirking. 

Simon flushes in frustration and in embarrassment. He changes the subject. “Is that girl even your sister?” (He knows she was - she looked just like Baz, but a little softer. Younger. Not grown into her shapes yet). 

“She is,” Baz says. He finishes his wine. “I’ll show you our birth certificates if you like.” 

“No, thank you.” 

“I came into your shop because Mordelia wanted to - not because I had some reason to spy on you. Obviously,” he says. “I don’t need to steal business secrets from a children's bookstore.” 

The insult smacks Simon between the eyes and he blinks rapidly for a few seconds. “Maybe you should,” he mumbles. “Perhaps you’d learn a thing or two about integrity.” 

Baz laughs - it’s cruel and short. “Integrity? I wasn’t stealing from you, Mr. Snow . I’m not particularly worried about your store putting me out of business.”

He gapes at Baz and before he can even try and muster up a response that’s half as scathing, Agatha’s appearing at his side. 

“Hi,” she says prettily to Baz. 

Simon watches in awe as Agatha puts on the flirtiest face he’s ever seen (one usually reserved for Simon ) and holds out her hand to Baz. “Agatha Wellbelove,” she says. “You’re Baz Pitch, right?”

Baz is immediately charming, shaking Agatha’s hand and curling his lips to form a smile. “At your service.”

Simon is dumbfounded. 

“Baz Pitch,” Agatha sighs. “The killer of small bookstores, city-wide.” It’s clearly a joke but Simon recognizes the tinge of truth in her voice. (He’s a bit more distracted by how much Agatha is batting her eyelashes at Baz). “How do you live with yourself?” 

Simon’s trying to figure out this weird flirty-insult situation Agatha has going on.

The tall man that Simon had seen Baz with his arm around earlier steps up to Baz’s side. “Oh, he’s not too bad to live with. A blanket hog if I’ve ever seen one,” he says. “But at least he’s tidy. I’m Isaiah Eaden.” 

Isaiah shakes hands with Agatha and then with Simon. 

“You’re Agatha Wellbelove, right?” Isaiah asks. 

Agatha’s eyes practically bulge out of her head. “Yes,” she says, waiting for the explanation of why he knows her. 

“I’ve read some of your articles,” Isaiah says. “I’m always telling Baz here to put down his phone every once in a while and enjoy the company of those he loves.” 

Agatha grins brightly. “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve read them. I’m flattered.” 

Simon and Baz make heated eye contact that’s full of subtext. Agatha and Isaiah continue discussing the benefits of taking time to yourself and breaks from social media and baths , but Simon’s tuned them out. There’s something about the way that Baz is looking at him that’s making his insides bubble. 

“It was really nice to meet you,” Isaiah says finally and Simon’s snapped back into their conversation. 

“You too,” Agatha says, shaking Isaiah’s hand. “Let’s talk more.” 

Simon practically yanks her away from Baz and Isaiah. 

--

grimmauld : Do you ever have come to terms with your own capacity to be a huge prick? Along with my affinity for drama, I tend to be unnecessarily abrasive. I have always been quick-witted and that comes with the price of laying awake at night and feeling guilty for being a dick right off the bat when I’m provoked. I’m fine with being a dick once I get to know somebody. 

winterstorm : I’m endlessly impressed with you. I can’t seem to get my brain whipped into shape enough to respond with something remotely scathing. If I’m in an argument or some sort of banter, I’m stuttering and trying my hardest to come up with something to say. Then, I lay awake trying to think about what I should have said. I’ve been thinking about a conversation I had the other day and still can’t decide what I should have said to someone who belittled me. 

grimmauld : Maybe I can give you my sharp tongue. Then you can strut around with your perfectly concocted comments and I’ll be content with not insulting every person I ever meet. 

grimmauld : Do you think we should meet? 

grimmauld : I mean it this time. 

-- 

Baz sees Simon everywhere - buying groceries, walking to work, seeing a Broadway musical he’s a bit embarrassed about loving. He finds himself ducking behind doorways and rushing to the other side of the street in order to avoid being seen. 

When he sees him at a local coffee shop, it’s not surprising. The universe is having a good time throwing Simon’s existence in his face. 

“I’m so sorry,” Baz hears Simon say from the front of the line. He looks up from his phone where he’d been diverting his attention once he realized Simon was five people ahead of him. 

Simon’s patting his pockets and looking distraught. The barista looks about ready to deck him. 

“I’m so sorry,” Simon says again. “I must have left it in my car. I’ll come back another time. I apologize.” 

Before Simon can leave the line, Baz finds himself exiting the back of the line and stepping up next to Simon. “How much?” he asks the barista. 

The barista relays the total while Simon splutters. 

Baz hands the barista his card and smiles down at Simon. “Hello, there,” he says. 

“Hi,” Simon mutters. “You really don’t have to.” 

“I know.” 

“Thanks,” Simon says, mostly under his breath. 

Baz takes his card back and picks up the coffee to hand to Simon. “Nice to see you,” he says. 

“You too.” (He knows Simon doesn’t mean it and that’s okay. Baz doesn’t even like Simon. He just didn’t want to hold up the line). 

-- 

winterstorm : I remember and miss my mother the most at Christmas. I mean, I miss her all the time, but there’s something about the cold months and the hot chocolate and the family-based traditions that remind me of her even more. 

grimmauld : I understand. My mother passed when I was five, so I can’t be that motherly presence in your life, but I can drink hot chocolate in your honor. 

winterstorm : I forgot you lost your mother as well. I’m sorry. I just wish she was here to give me advice and kiss my forehead and tell me everything will be alright. 

grimmauld : What kind of advice are you looking for? Terry and I give very good advice. 

winterstorm : I don’t know if this is Terry’s area of expertise. 

grimmauld : Then you don’t know Terry well enough. What’s it about? 

winterstorm : My business is in trouble. 

grimmauld : Lucky for you, I’m an excellent businessman. You can tell because I dry clean my suits every three days. What is your business? 

winterstorm : I can’t tell you. Way too many details. 

grimmauld : Well, without anything to go off of, all I can tell you is to fight to the death. Fight with everything you’ve got. Be brave. It’s not personal, it’s business. 

-- 

Simon sits on the edge of the bed and drops his phone onto the pillow. Be brave. Fight to the death. 

“Agatha?” he calls out. 

“Yes?” she says, conveniently coming into the room right when Simon needs her. 

“I want to fight.” 

“Fight who?” Agatha asks, looking up from her notebook. 

Simon pats the bed next to him so she’ll come and join him. She does, not setting down her notebook. 

“Will you write that article about the store? About us, you know, doing the good work ?”

“Sure.” 

And that’s that. 

The next two weeks are a blur - Agatha’s article comes out and paints Snowy Stories as the sweet, underdog bookshop and Pitch Books as the domineering monster who will eat the entire city’s culture one small business at a time. Simon goes on television and issues a call to arms to support Snowy Books against the villainous superstore. He even sneaks in insulting Baz Pitch personally, which is always a win. There are reporters and news broadcasters at the shop for several days straight. 

Agatha’s article even stirs up an interesting audience in her writing - she’s interviewed on a local channel and as she and Simon watch it, Simon appreciates everything she does for him. (Even if she and the nice reporter are flirting incessantly on camera and Agatha denies it when Simon brings it up). 

After the few weeks of protests outside of Pitch Books and the seemingly increased flurry of business at Snowy Stories , Simon and Penelope sit down to go over the books. 

“The article did nothing,” Simon whispers, dropping his eyes to the table and feeling numb all the way through his chest. 

Penelope nods, sliding the laptop back over to her side of the desk. 

“We’re still going under,” he says. “How?” 

Penelope shrugs. “I don’t know, Si.” 

“We’ve had so much publicity. How could it have not done anything?” 

Penelope doesn’t answer. Simon tries to wrap his brain around having to close the shop. He loves it so much, his mother loved it so much. He’s barely holding it together. When Penelope stands up to put the records away, Simon tugs out his phone. 

winterstorm : Do you still want to meet? 

grimmauld : Yes.

Chapter Text

“He said he’s wearing a mustard yellow sweater.” 

“ That’s how you’re going to identify him?” Niall asks. “Seriously? You should have just gone full romantic comedy and had him put a book with a rose in it on the table.”

Baz rolls his eyes. “I can’t rely only on my intuition to figure out who he is, Niall.” He’s starting to get nervous and strips off his overcoat to lay it over his arm. 

He can see the caf é where he and winterstorm plan to meet and the closer they get to it, the more worried Baz is that he’ll be disappointed (or disappointing). He’s been talking to winterstorm for months - laughing at his jokes, swapping thoughts on the world, flirting minimally. What if winterstorm isn’t who he thinks he is? Or what if Baz isn’t what winterstorm had hoped for? 

“Baz?” Niall asks once they’ve stopped outside the caf é . 

“Why am I doing this?” Baz spits out. “I could have been happy just talking to him anonymously for another six months.” 

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Niall insists. “All you’ve talked about for the past week is wanting to finally put a name and face to the personality.”

Baz knows he’s right. 

“He’s right in there,” Niall says. “Baz, c’mon.”

Baz whips around, staring Niall down. “You have to go check if he’s there. You have to tell me what he looks like. If he’s even kind of pretty, I’ll likely drop everything and marry him right now.”

“What?” 

“Please, Niall. Just look in the window.”

Niall sighs but gives in, taking the few steps up and peering in the window. “Right,” he says, looking around. “Well, I do see some very handsome men. None in yellow sweaters…” He trails off. 

“What?” Baz asks, inching closer. 

“Oh, I see the yellow sweater. Uh.” Niall cuts off and leans in towards the window like he can’t believe his eyes. 

“For fuck’s sake, Niall, is it him ? What does he look like?” 

“Well, Baz,” Niall says like he’s ready to send Baz off on a cruise to nowhere. “He is very attractive.” 

“Oh, I knew he would be,” Baz says, grinning and straightening the hem of his blazer. “I knew he would be!” He takes another experimental step toward the stairs. When Niall doesn’t answer and continues to stare through the window, Baz pauses. “What?” he asks again. 

“You know who he kind of looks like?” Niall says slowly. 

Baz raises an eyebrow. 

“Uh, that Simon Snow from that bookstore around the corner.” 

“Simon Snow?” 

“What, he’s also attractive, right?” 

“Sure,” Baz says. “I don’t particularly care to think about Simon Snow right now.” 

“Well, I hate to tell you, but if you don’t want to think about Simon Snow right now, you might want to turn around and go home.” 

Baz pauses, his brain trying to catch up to what he suspects is going on. “Why?” he asks. 

Niall sighs. “Because it is Simon Snow.” 

Baz refuses to believe it. He takes the steps two at a time and practically smashes his face in the window, pushing Niall out of the way in order to see. It’s Simon Snow . Wearing a lovely yellow sweater and looking like an angel with his soft blue eyes and curly hair. “Holy shit,” Baz says, unable to tear his eyes away, even if he’s in danger of Simon looking up and seeing him. 

Simon . winterstorm . It’s hard to reconcile those people so he decides to analyze his feelings about it later. 

“What are you going to do?” Niall asks from just behind Baz. 

Baz tears his eyes away from the window and looks down at his friend. “I don’t know, Niall. Leave, I guess.” 

“What? You’re just going to leave him there?” 

“Yes. See you later.” 

-- 

Simon fidgets in his seat. He’s been fidgeting for fifteen minutes now, adjusting his sweater and straightening out the sleeves of his button-down. He suggested the yellow sweater to grimmauld as mostly a joke but it quickly became a reality and now he’s feeling like a sore thumb in a caf é , waiting to meet a person he’s told his every innermost thought to for months on end. 

He got to the caf é five minutes early and has already had his water refilled twice. The waiter keeps giving him suspicious looks like he doesn’t actually have a person he’s meeting. (At this point, he’s worried he won’t). 

It’s quite dark outside so he can’t see anything past the windows (and even if he did - what is he hoping for? How’s he supposed to recognize him?). Every time the door opens, Simon’s eyes shoot up and he hopes it’s him. It hasn’t been so far. Simon shifts in his seat again and runs a hand through his hair. It’s crossed his mind more than once that he could be getting catfished. The entire app he’s been spilling his secrets onto is a deathtrap for people being untruthful about who they are. 

The door opens and Simon sits up expectantly. When he realizes who it is, his cheeks flush and he ducks his head down, tugging his phone out of his sweater pocket and pretending to be very interested in the Twitter loading screen. For good measure, he leans an elbow on the table and puts his hand against his forehead to cover his face. 

Simon’s prepared to run into the kitchen and light himself on fire when Baz fucking Pitch strolls up to his table. 

“Simon Snow?” Baz says (and even though Simon doesn’t look up, he can hear the smirk in his voice). 

“Baz,” Simon says, sighing out his name and setting his phone down on the table. He looks up at Baz (and thinks about how that fantastic bone structure is wasted on this prick of a person). 

“Mind if I join you?” Baz asks, already sliding the chair back. 

“Actually,” Simon says, reaching across the table to stop him even as Baz is already sitting down. “I do mind. Yes. I’m waiting for someone.” 

“Oh,” Baz says, grinning. “Well, I’ll move once they get here.” 

Simon slides back across the table and gently sets his hands in front of him, embarrassed that Baz being here is making him so flustered. “What do you want, Baz?” 

“Nothing,” Baz insists. “I just figured I’d come say hello.” 

“Right. Hello. You can leave now.” 

“Why would I leave when you look so cute in your yellow sweater?” Baz says and Simon swears it’s patronizing. (He already wishes he’d chosen something subtler than the sweater so this doesn’t help). 

Simon tightens the sweater around his torso and sits back in his chair. He considers taking it off, but he doesn’t want grimmauld to not be able to identify him - and in turn, save him from this horrible situation. 

“Who are you waiting for?” Baz asks, making himself comfortable in the chair. 

Simon doesn’t respond, trying to come up with something to say to Baz that will make him leave. 

The waiter swings by the table. “Can I get you anything?” he asks Baz. 

“An iced tea would be lovely,” he says just as Simon says, “No, he won’t be staying.” 

The waiter looks confused for three seconds before nodding at Baz and heading back to the kitchen. 

“Who are you meeting?” Baz asks again.

“None of your business.”

Baz nods. “Of course.” He’s still smirking and Simon wants to smack it off his face. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand the intricacies of personal relationships when the only friends you have are terrified subordinates who curse your name in their downtime and bring you coffee with trembling hands in hopes of not getting sacked if it’s too cold.”

Baz raises both eyebrows, shocked. The waiter brings Baz’s iced tea.

Simon starts to smile. Inside, he’s impressed with himself. “I finally said what I wanted to,” he mumbles. “Instead of being flustered when antagonized, I came up with a solid retort.”

“Oh, was that your first insult ever, Snow?”

Simon’s taken aback by the nickname choice but nothing’s going to take him off this train. The door opens and he’s immediately distracted, sitting up in his chair, only to be disappointed when a delivery boy for the caf é rushes in and heads straight for the kitchen. 

“I take it that’s not who you’re meeting?” Baz asks, turning back around from when he’d looked at the door along with Simon. 

“No,” Simon says. “Now will you please leave? I would prefer to not be associated with you.” 

Baz raises his hands in defense and redrapes his coat over his arm before standing up and pressing past Simon. 

“Thank you,” Simon says. 

Baz sits down at the table right behind him. Without turning around, Simon can feel Baz’s presence just beyond his back and he winces. 

“So,” Baz says, conversationally, leaning over so Simon can see the smooth wave of his dark hair out of the corner of his eye. “Am I right to assume you’re meeting a Miss Wellbelove?” 

Simon tries his best to ignore Baz, taking a distracting sip of water. 

“Or someone else,” Baz guesses. “Who is this mystery person? Do you have more insults stocked up in case they’re a huge dick like I am?”

“I won’t need to insult him,” Simon practically hisses, turning his head just barely to the side so Baz can hear him. 

Baz takes that as his cue to stand up and return to sitting opposite Simon at his table, his coat still slung over his arm. “And why is that?” 

“Because,” Simon says. He already has his answer set up. He’s been thinking about grimmauld the second that Baz Pitch decided to take a seat at his table - and how different the two men are. “He is nothing like you. He’s thoughtful and good-hearted. He works hard for what success he’s gotten. He wasn’t gifted everything on a golden platter,” Simon says pointedly. 

“How can you know we’re so different?” Baz asks, egging Simon on and giving him a look that Simon doesn’t fully understand. 

“Because he’s never lied to me,” Simon shoots back. “You walked into my store, a smile on your face and a distractingly adorable little sister, and lied to my face.” 

“I never lied,” Baz insists. 

“You did.” 

“I did not.”  

“Yes, you did.” 

“I absolutely did not.”

“ Baz ,” Simon says with venom in his voice. “No last name given. Just a charming smirk and the knowledge hanging over my head.” 

“Withholding the truth is not the same as a lie.” 

“ He wouldn’t withhold the truth like that.” 

“Well, he’s not here, is he?” Baz says, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m sure he has a reason,” Simon quips. He checks his phone and his heart sinks when he realizes that grimmauld is now fifteen minutes late. “He cares about me,” he insists. “Have you ever truly cared about anyone, Baz? Or are you Scrooge McDuck, hiding in your multimillionaire home in piles of money, hissing at every innocent soul who you come in contact with. Your business is impersonal and your heart is cold as ice. I wouldn’t expect you to understand caring about me.” 

Baz blinks a few times. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, sets a large bill down on the table in front of him, and mumbles, “Have a good night, Simon Snow,” before standing up and leaving without another word. 

Simon feels close to tears as he watches Baz leave. Once Baz has left the caf é and Simon watches the door shut behind him, he picks his phone up and checks talkerchat . 

No new messages. 

-- 

“So what happened?” Penelope asks immediately after picking up the phone. 

“Nothing,” Simon says from the other end.

“What do you mean nothing? Did he show up?”

“No,” Simon says bitterly. “I spent the evening with Baz Pitch.” 

“Baz? What was he doing there?” 

“I didn’t think to ask,” Simon mumbles. “I was too busy having my night ruined.” He pauses. “Pen, what if he saw me and went running?” 

“Simon,” Penny says. “He wouldn’t.” 

“Right. I’m sure something just happened and he wasn’t able to get to his phone.” 

“Why don’t you just ask him?”

Simon tongues the corner of his cheek and flips over so he’s lying on his bed on his stomach. He’d come home and immediately called Penelope, not even bothering to change out of the stupid sweater. “I’m embarrassed,” he says after a moment. “I felt like a fool sitting in that caf é . What if he somehow found out who I was and didn’t want to meet me?” 

“Simon,” Penelope says. It’s her real talk voice. (Simon hates it). “Message him. I’m sure he has a very reasonable explanation.”

Simon nods, then: “You’re right.” 

“I know I am. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Bye, Pen.” 

“Bye, Si.” 

Not even two minutes after hanging up, Simon has sent three messages to grimmauld . 

winterstorm : I went to the caf é tonight. I don’t know why you weren’t there, but I can’t imagine you’re the kind of person to stand people up. I hope you have a good reason for not being there. Someone else showed up and sat with me so if that’s what you saw and you didn’t want to come in, I’m sorry. I didn’t want him to be there either. I even finally had a breakthrough and said something hard-hitting and insulting to the man who has been belittling and provoking me for months. (It felt terrible. It felt like how you said it would. I didn’t think he’d be affected but when he left, I felt like crying). 

winterstorm : Anyway, I wanted to talk to you. I want to talk to you. We can talk about anything - nothing. We don’t even have to talk about why you didn’t show up. Talking to you has meant more to me than a number of meaningful conversations I’ve had with people face to face. 

winterstorm : So. Thanks, I guess. 

Simon sits, staring at his phone, waiting in painful silence for a response. 

grimmauld : I can’t give you a reason right now. I’m sorry that you were stuck in a bad position. If you can trust me, please know that I will tell you eventually. I promise. Please forgive me for what happened. 

grimmauld : We all say things we shouldn’t have or regret - such is life. I’m sure he deserved whatever you said to him (and maybe now isn’t the time, but I am proud of you for staying strong in the face of adversity). I promise I will tell you what happened. But for now, I’m still here. 

grimmauld : Let’s talk. 

He doesn’t even notice Agatha coming in, he’s too distracted reading over every single one of grimmauld ’s messages. 

“Simon?” 

Simon swears under his breath and drops his phone on the bed, standing up and turning around. Agatha’s standing in the doorframe, looking flushed and like she’d sprinted home. 

“Hi,” Simon says, rubbing his sweaty hands along his shirt. 

“Simon, I don’t know how to say this.” 

Simon blinks, taken aback. “Say what?” 

Agatha unwinds the scarf from around her neck and sets it gently on the dresser. She messes with a simple ring on her finger. (He’s never seen it before). “Um,” she says softly. She moves over to the bed and sits down daintily on the edge of it. She motions for Simon to join her. He does so, moving his phone and setting it on the bedside table, facedown. 

Simon furrows his brows, waiting for her to explain why she’s in the most uncomfortable mood. 

“You know I think you’re wonderful,” Agatha starts, looking down at her hands. “I really do. I’m very lucky to be around you as much as I am.” 

Simon nods and opens his mouth to respond. 

“No, no,” Agatha says, cutting him off. “Don’t say anything yet, please. I have to tell you this and I know it’s going to be hard. Si, I- I don’t love you.” 

Simon’s silent, but his brain is working a million times a minute. And not for the first time, he considers his relationship with Agatha and what it really means to him. (By extension, he thinks about grimmauld ). “Agatha,” he says slowly. 

“I’m so sorry,” Agatha says. 

“You don’t love me,” Simon repeats. Then he starts to smile. “Agatha, I don’t love you.” 

She looks up from her hands. “What?” 

“I don’t.” 

“You don’t love me?” she asks. (It must be a hard concept for her to grasp - for Simon, too - because she’s absolutely the loveliest person alive). 

Simon shakes his head. 

Agatha starts to smile, too. “You don’t love me! 

“You don’t love me !” Simon practically shouts. 

“This is wonderful!” she says, smiling brightly. “You don’t want to be with me?” 

“No! Oh my God.” 

Agatha smiles and leans forward to lean her head against Simon’s shoulder. 

“Is there someone else?” Simon asks. 

“Oh,” Agatha says. “You remember the reporter-” 

“Yes!” Simon interrupts. “She’s perfect for you.” 

“And you?” Agatha asks, sitting back up straight. “Have you met someone else?” 

Simon thinks about her choice of words and slowly shakes his head. “No. I’m not sure,” he says. Truly, he’d been convincing himself that his obsession with grimmauld was purely one of friendship and intellectual connection, but the more than he considers it, the more clear it is. “Maybe,” he says.

Agatha doesn’t say anything more and neither does Simon. They sit in comfortable silence, content with the knowledge that they don’t love each other, but can still have this moment together.

Finally, Agatha says, “I brought home Chinese food. Hungry?” 

“Always.”

Chapter Text

“We’ll miss this place,” the lady says, reaching over to squeeze Simon’s hand. Her son is wrapped around her leg, sniffling and whining that he wants to go home. 

Simon smiles sadly and finishes ringing her up. He makes eye contact with Penelope when he looks up at the sound of her voice. She’s helping Rhys fill out an application at the desk in the back and it breaks his heart to see it. 

“Thank you,” Simon says, handing the lady her purchased books. He watches as they leave. 

The next man that comes up to Simon from the line makes a comment that makes Simon’s breath catch in his throat. “Your mother would be very proud of you,” he says. 

“Uh,” Simon chokes out. “Thank you.” 

“I’ve loved this place since I was young - thank you for keeping it up for as long as you did.” 

Simon smiles and rings him up. “I’m sorry we couldn’t keep it around for longer.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I won’t ever give Pitch Books my business.” 

Simon feels like laughing, but instead thanks the man for his loyal business again before taking his payment and finishing up the transaction. 

Simon’s not sure that his mother would be proud of him but the sentiment is nice. He did everything he could do to hold onto her shop - he played nice, he played dirty, he convinced himself they would be fine. Nothing he did mattered. And now, he has to find something else to do. Penelope’s found a job as a teacher’s assistant at a local college. Simon’s pretty sure that Rhys is currently applying to work at Pitch Books . Simon has no plans. He’s not even sure he’ll make it past this weekend when the store will be closed for good. 

--

grimmauld: I came home tonight, had one conversation with my now-ex boyfriend, and Terry and I moved out an hour and a half later. I’ll spare you the intimate details, but thinking back on it, I’m incredibly aware of every single thing that he said to me and how it meant nothing. And then I thought about how we talk about “nothing” - we talk about New York in the fall and how to curate the most wounding insult and how much we care about what our families think of us. Somehow, this nothing means more to me than his nothing ever did. Change is difficult (and now I have to find a cat-friendly apartment in New York City).

winterstorm : Take a shot every time some tells me that change is good and that everything happens for a reason. (Often in the same sentence). My store is closing down today. I know I never told you that I own a store, but I figure now’s an okay time to be a bit more transparent about things. And in approximately four days, I won’t have a store anyway so it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry to hear about your ex-boyfriend. I hope you and Terry have found a place to stay, at least until you somehow find that pet-friendly apartment. Good luck on that front. 

grimmauld : Oh, I won’t need luck. Terry is the cutest cat to ever grace the earth so a landlord will take one look at him and do whatever it takes to find us a suitable place. 

winterstorm : I don’t doubt it. And if your online charm is anything like your in-person charisma, you’re set. Give Terry my best. 

-- 

Baz buzzes the doorbell then takes an apprehensive step back, carefully resting the bouquet of flowers against his shoulder so he can shove his phone back into his pocket. 

After a few moments, the door opens and Baz’s heart splits cleanly in half. A very clearly sick Simon Snow appears, blinking as he’s exposed to the sunlight coming in from the windows in the hallway outside his door. A quick peek behind Simon tells Baz that he’s probably been sleeping all morning - a makeshift bed set up on the couch that’s only recently been abdicated and the curtains drawn to block out the light. Looking back to Simon, Baz takes note of his rosy nose, sleepy eyes, and the very pink bathrobe he has wrapped around himself. 

Simon sniffs and attempts to glare, but Baz assumes he’s just woken up (which he feels bad about) and he doesn’t have control over his facial features yet. “What’re you doing here?” Simon asks, half of his words slurring together. 

Baz is prepared for the question. He’s been thinking about Simon non stop over the past week, ever since he broke up with Isaiah. (He’d been thinking about Simon non stop long before that - but under a different name. Although, he thought about Simon Snow almost as much as he thought about winterstorm ). Baz has come to a conclusion about his complicated feelings about Simon/ winterstorm and it’s that he loves him. He really does. It’s still hard to reconcile the people in his head but once he’s successfully done that, heart eyes are filling his brain. 

“Heard you were sick,” Baz says. “Mind if I come in?” 

Simon sniffles again. “No.” 

“No you don’t mind or no I can’t come in?” 

“ No , you can’t-”

“Just for a minute,” Baz interrupts. “It’s not like you’re having any other company over,” he says pointedly, eyeing the mountain of tissues on the floor in front of Simon’s couch. “You won’t even have to be seen with me.” 

“I- Fine,” Simon says, wrapping his robe tighter around himself and stepping out of the way so Baz can brush past him into the apartment. 

It’s quaint - a decent size for New York City but small by any other city standards. Besides the area surrounding the couch, it’s very clean, and Baz can see Simon in the very minimal decor (a blown up Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban poster mounted to the wall, several children’s board books set against a bookshelf in the corner, a framed photo of who Baz now recognizes as Simon’s mother, and the Snowy Stories sign propped up on a chair). There’s not a lot else around the apartment. It’s stripped pretty bare. 

“Jesus, Simon,” Baz says, turning his head back towards Simon. “Did you just move in?” 

Simon blushes (at least Baz thinks he does - his face is already pretty flushed from the probable cold he has). “No, uh, my ex-girlfriend just moved out,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. 

Baz raises an eyebrow. “Miss Wellbelove?” he asks. “I seem to remember her being absolutely lovely.” 

“She is,” Simon says and Baz notes that he doesn’t seem terribly sad. Perhaps he’s moved on already. Baz is itching to ask the details of what happened. “Well, this was a nice visit-”

“I brought you flowers,” Baz interrupts again, holding up the flowers he’d gotten from just down the street. 

“Trying to make up for putting me out of business?” Simon asks snarkily. 

Baz bites the inside of his cheek. “Can I put them in some water?” he asks, ignoring Simon’s remark. 

“Uh,” Simon says, shaking his head and blinking a bit. He seems confused by the lack of fighting coming from Baz’s end of this conversation. “Sure. There should be a vase under the sink.” Slowly, as Baz heads into the kitchen, Simon sinks down into a chair next to the table. He watches Baz carefully. 

As Baz procures the vase from the cabinet, he says, “Rhys says hello, by the way.” 

“Oh, Rhys,” Simon says fondly. “How is he doing?” 

“He’s doing well. Tells me when I’m fucking things up every half hour and really keeps the other people in his department in line. You trained him well.”

Simon hums and closes his eyes, leaning his elbows against the table and pressing his face into his hands. 

“He’s the one who told me you were sick. Tea?” 

“Sure,” Simon says. 

Baz busies himself with the kettle and finds tea bags somewhere in Simon’s cabinets. They’re all pretty bare and Baz considers asking Simon out to lunch just because he doesn’t seem to have any food . 

“Why are you here again?” Simon asks and when Baz looks over at him, he sees that Simon’s folded his arms and is resting his head on them on the table. His voice is sleepy. 

“I wanted to come check up on you,” Baz says, trying to hide his affectionate smile. He finishes up making the tea and quietly searches through the cabinet for a mug to use. 

“Right,” Simon says softly. “You’re not exactly who I expected to come check on me.” 

Baz nods thoughtfully and brings over the mug of tea, blowing on it gently before setting it in front of Simon. “I know,” Baz says.

“You’re a dick to me.” 

“I know,” Baz repeats. He nudges Simon’s arm softly to alert him of the presence of the tea. 

Simon looks up and rubs his eyes before grabbing the mug gratefully. “Thanks,” he says to the tea. 

Baz doesn’t respond and instead goes back to making sure the flowers look nice in the vase he’d gotten out. 

“Do you remember that night I saw you at that caf é?” Simon asks, blowing into his mug. 

Baz tenses a bit. “Yes,” he says carefully. 

“You were an arsehole to me,” Simon says. 

“That I was,” Baz agrees quietly. He’s not even sure that Simon hears him because he continues on so quickly. 

“And I said something rude back and I spent the entire night in fits about how I could have hurt you.” 

(Baz wants to tell Simon that he had a lot of other things on his mind that night). 

“And,” Simon continues. “I was going to meet someone that night. He never showed up.” 

Baz’s heart pangs in his chest. “Right. Who were you meeting?” he asks, trying to find a nice way to segue into telling Simon who he is. That’s the real reason he came to see Simon. It feels wrong to continue to keep the truth from him. 

Simon laughs. “You’ll think it’s stupid.” 

“Try me,” Baz says. 

“I- I was supposed to meet someone I’ve never actually met. We started talking online - on that app, talkerchat - and we stuck to the whole anonymous thing.” As Simon talks, he stands up and goes to sit on the couch, setting his mug down on the coffee table so he can lean against the arm rest. “We’d been talking for months and finally made a plan to meet. Then, well, you showed up. He never came.” 

Baz winces. “Right,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry about that.” 

“Not your fault.” 

(It is truly and entirely Baz’s fault). 

“I’m sorry for being so rude to you,” Simon says and when Baz pokes his head around the corner, Simon’s eyes are closed and he looks half asleep. 

“I’m sorry for putting you out of business.” 

Simon hmmph s. 

Baz leaves the flowers in the windowsill and steps around the corner to sit on the edge of Simon’s coffee table. Simon’s eyes flutter open. 

“I can leave if you’re going to fall asleep,” Baz says softly. (This time he can’t stop the affectionate smile taking over his face). 

“I’m fine,” Simon insists. He snuggles into the couch a bit more. 

Baz reaches over and snags the blanket from the end of the couch and lays it over the top of Simon. Simon looks up at him, surprised. 

“What’re you-?”

“Go back to sleep, Simon,” Baz breathes, letting his hands linger against Simon’s shoulder as he lays the blanket down. “I’m sorry I bothered you.” 

“No,” Simon mumbles. His eyes are closed. “It’s okay.” 

Baz takes a breath and decides to just get it out. “Simon, I have to tell you something.”

“Hmm,” Simon hums. 

Baz grimaces and stands up. “Feel better soon,” he says, leaning down to kiss Simon’s forehead. He’s not even sure Simon feels it - the poor boy is pretty much asleep. 

Baz leaves Simon curled up on the couch and clears up the pile of tissues off the coffee table before heading out without another look. It hurts to look at the man he’s so clearly in love with, knowing that he ruined his professional life. Knowing that Simon hates him.

Chapter Text

winterstorm : I’ve been thinking about it and I’d like to meet. 

grimmauld : I should warn you that seeing me in person may lead to actual heart eyes and immediately falling in love with me. 

winterstorm : I’m pretty sure I can handle it. 

grimmauld : I’d love to meet. Unfortunately, I have a project that’s quite time-consuming that will take a while. Can I get back to you re: you falling in love with me in one glance? 

winterstorm : Of course. I will still be live-messaging you my thoughts while watching Game of Thrones . (The dragons are the best characters and I’ll hear no arguments against that). 

-- 

Simon sees Baz everywhere. As opposed to his usual approach of hiding in any place available, Baz manages to catch up with Simon before he can escape. Simon doesn’t really mind it - now that he doesn’t hate Baz with all of his being (maybe seventy-five percent of his being), he recognizes that Baz can be funny and charming in addition to posh and snarky. They’ve stood around and talked a few times - Baz even helped Simon carry his groceries to his apartment. 

Which is why he isn’t surprised when Baz knocks on the window of the coffee shop Simon is sitting in. Simon’s sitting at the counter by the large windows and he looks up in surprise when Baz hits the glass. Baz makes a motion to Simon asking if he can come in and join him. 

Simon nods after a moment. He has a feeling that Baz wouldn’t leave him alone even if he shook his head. 

“Hello, Simon,” Baz says once he’s entered. He sits down at the seat next to Simon at the bar. 

Thinking back to when he had to hike himself up onto the tall stool, Simon considers Baz’s infuriatingly easy motion into the seat a personal affront. (The bastard is three inches taller). 

“Baz,” Simon says curtly. He saves his document before closing his laptop and wraps his hands around his iced coffee. He turns in his chair to face Baz more head-on. 

Baz already has a coffee from another coffee place and he takes a sip, eyeing Simon carefully. “What were you working on?” he asks. 

Simon instinctively places a hand on top of his laptop. “Uh, I’m just writing,” he says. He’d already told a few people of his plans to start writing a children’s book but he doesn’t think that he and Baz are at that level of friendship quite yet. 

“Oh, your children’s book?” Baz asks. 

Simon frowns a bit. “How did you know that? I only told…” He trails off, listing the people in his head. Penelope, Agatha, Rhys, grimmauld . 

Baz’s face blanches a bit. “Oh, Rhys must have mentioned it,” he says flippantly.

Simon bites at his bottom lip and nods. “Right.”

Baz crosses one leg over the other and leans an arm against the bar. He changes the subject. “How’ve you been?” 

“Small talk, really, Baz?” 

Baz starts to speak, but Simon cuts him off. 

“In addition, I quite literally saw you yesterday, so I think you know how I’ve been.” 

“Right,” Baz says, half-smirking. “But a three-minute conversation next to a hot dog stand doesn’t give me a lot of insight into your life.” 

“Why are you suddenly so interested in gaining insight into my life?” Simon asks, suspicion leaking into his voice. 

Baz grins. “Can’t I try to atone for my sins against you in the past by-” he flicks his eyes back to the menu behind Simon before continuing his thought, “-buying you a muffin?” 

Simon holds back a laugh. “I appreciate the willingness to apologize with treats,” he says. Then he shakes his head. He lets his eyes trail on his phone, hoping a notification will pop up and he can focus on grimmauld instead of fucking Baz Pitch.

“Waiting for a call?” Baz asks. 

Simon instinctively starts to apologize, but when he looks up at Baz, he recognizes the lighthearted expression that Baz has adapted. Simon sighs. “Just a message,” he says, and continues when Baz gives him a pointed look. “From my, um, anonymous friend .” 

“Ah, the mystery man who didn’t show up to your date,” Baz says. Simon notices a slight tense in Baz’s shoulders. 

“Right,” Simon says. “We’ve been talking more.” 

“Even after he stood you up?” Baz asks. 

Simon nods. “Ever since, uh, the shop closed-”

Baz flinches. 

“-he’s really been there for me.” 

“Good,” Baz says. “You deserve that.” 

-- 

Simon continues to see Baz over the course of the next three days and he’d be worried that Baz is stalking him, but Baz looks so genuinely surprised that Simon can’t fathom that this isn’t all coincidental. (Even if he is being stalked, Simon appreciates the attention because grimmauld hasn’t been messaging him apart from the occasional response to Simon’s live reactions to Game of Thrones ). 

Baz’s attention isn’t… nice, per se. Baz relies on teasing insults and quick wit when in Simon’s presence and Simon can’t explain why he likes it so much. It feels like an unusual form of affection. 

“How’s the book going?” Baz asks Simon as they lean against the side of the building where Snowy Stories used to be. 

They’d accidentally walked that direction but Simon actually felt better after seeing it (even if it is a Baby Gap now). Just knowing that it was there and Simon worked hard at it. Having Baz with him was an odd catharsis when Simon really thinks about it. 

“It’s going alright,” Simon says, letting a smile drift onto his face. He tucks his free hand behind his back and flicks his phone around in his fingers with the other. “I haven’t worked on it at all today.” 

“A much-needed break,” Baz comments. “You work too hard.” 

Simon shrugs. 

“You should certainly take more time to yourself,” Baz insists. “Or at least find someone who will make you take breaks. Someone who has a secret stash of face masks or something.” 

Simon rolls his eyes and teasingly says, “I could never be with someone who has a secret stash of facemasks.” 

“Oh,” Baz says, then smirks and shrugs. “Then I guess we could never be together.” 

Simon furrows his brows at Baz, trying to figure out what kind of trick he’s playing, but Baz is already looking away from him. Simon’s cheeks flush at the insinuation of them being together . They hate each other. He hates Baz. Well, he mostly hates him. He’s been spending a lot of time around Baz for someone who hates him. He just enjoys his company. 

Baz has looked away from Simon, checking his phone, so Simon takes the opportunity to run his eyes over the shapes of his nose (it looks like it’s been broken before), the curve of his chin, the jut of his Adam’s apple, and then elegant lines in his neck that disappear behind the collar of his shirt. He feels himself blushing when Baz turns back to him, catching him in the act of self-indulgent looking . 

Simon looks down. He thinks about being with Baz. Simon has never liked to think about where he lies in terms of the Kinsey scale and thinking about Baz’s neck and about his hair sweeping just above his shoulders is making that difficult to continue ignoring. He shakes his head a bit and decides to ignore the tense in his stomach. If he’s attracted to any man, it’s grimmauld and not Baz Pitch. 

“Hey,” Baz says, knocking Simon out of his thoughts. 

“Hmm?” Simon hums, looking back up at Baz. He’s gotten the blush in his cheeks under control but Baz looks at him with such intensity that Simon feels his ears start to burn. 

“We’ve been running into each other a lot.” 

“Right.” 

“Would you like to purposefully run into me to get lunch on Saturday? At that new caf é on 73rd? Noon?” 

Simon considers saying no and go to hell but he needs to try out the new restaurant and maybe this will make up for the last caf é experience he’d shared with Baz. “Sure,” he says. 

Baz’s mouth twists up into a pleasant smile. “See you then,” he says. He leans off of the wall and tucks his phone into his pocket. He reaches over to Simon and gently brushes a curl out of his face, tucking it back behind his ear. 

As Baz disappears around the corner, Simon absentmindedly reaches up to touch his face where Baz’s hand had brushed. He shakes his head and swiftly tucks that thought into his padlocked chest of Things to Deal With Later .

-- 

grimmauld : My project is coming to a close. Would you still like to meet?

winterstorm : Yes, only if you explain to me this mysterious project. 

grimmauld : You don’t even know my name and you think my project is mysterious? This whole setup is mysterious. 

winterstorm : Fine. We’ll meet, I’ll shake your hand, you’ll tell me your name, and then you’ll tell me everything about your project. 

grimmauld : I’ll be glad to fulfill your requests. You are forgetting the whole falling-in-love-with-me-at-first-glance part but otherwise, that timeline should work for me.

winterstorm : We’ll see if I can’t skip that part. 

grimmauld : Saturday. 1:00 PM. Shakespeare Garden. There are two log benches just next to a very sensual sculpture of Romeo and Juliet. Terry and I will be waiting. 

--

“Maybe it’s him,” Baz says, pointing out a tall man who is very clearly over the age of fifty.

Simon chokes on his drink and sets down the glass, glaring at Baz. “Not funny.” 

“Not into daddies?” 

Simon blushes. “Not particularly,” he says. 

Baz smiles back at him. “Okay,” he says, experimentally, looking around the caf é for a new victim. “How about him?” he asks, pointing out someone feeding their support dog food from the table.

Simon grimaces. 

Baz takes that as a no. “You’re far too picky,” he says. “I still haven’t ruled out that he could be catfishing you.” 

Shrugging, Simon tucks his bottom lip into his mouth. “He doesn’t seem like the type,” he mumbles. 

“And what type is that?”

“An arsehole.”

Baz smirks a bit. “So you think I’m the type to catfish then?” 

Simon starts to argue. “No, I don’t think you’re-”

Baz cuts him off. “It’s fine, Simon.” He pauses. He takes a moment to admire Simon - he often admires him but this might be one of his last chances. Depending on how the day goes. “You know,” he says, smiling at the waitress who drops off the check. He fills it out as he continues to talk. “I wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t been competitors professionally.” 

“What do you mean?” Simon asks, tugging on the check to try and slide it away from Baz. 

“I’ll get it,” Baz says, gripping onto it. He slips his card into it and signals to the waitress. “I mean,” he says. “What would have happened? I’m pretty sure you’d be in love with me.” 

Simon flushes again and splutters out, “I would not!” 

Baz raises an eyebrow. 

“I had a girlfriend until last week, Baz.” 

“Who you were staying with out of a false sense of honor,” Baz adds, pointedly. 

Declining to verbally respond, Simon frowns slightly. 

“Doesn’t dispute my point,” Baz continues. “That you’d have fallen irrevocably in love with me.”

“You think too highly of yourself,” Simon says, looking down at the table. Baz notices the blush that spreads across his cheeks. 

By the time the waitress has come back to collect the check and clear some of their dishes, Simon has started putting on his jacket. 

“When did you say you were meeting him?” Baz asks, mirroring the action and putting on his own jacket.

Simon checks his phone. “In twelve minutes,” he says. Baz isn’t sure he’s ever seen him smile this much. 

They step away from the table and wave goodbye to the sweet host who had seated them originally. Baz places his hand on Simon’s back when they leave, just as an excuse to touch him. He can see the blush hit the tops of Simon’s ears. 

They walk easily down the street until they have a little more privacy. Baz pushes his hands gently in the pockets of his trousers and pauses until Simon notices. Simon turns around, only a few steps ahead. 

“Baz?” 

Baz takes a step toward Simon. “What would have happened if I hadn’t run you out of business?” 

Simon tongues the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know,” he says. “Why are you bringing this up now?” 

Baz tilts his head in an admission of uncertainty. “I would have tried to date you,” he says simply. 

The flush that covers Simon’s cheek is quite familiar to Baz at this point. “Oh,” Simon says. “Really?” 

“Of course,” Baz says, smirking. “You’re just my type.”

Simon looks at the ground, silent. 

Baz knows what he’s doing. He’s not expecting Simon to drop this idea of grimmauld for someone he hated until maybe a week ago. He just wants Simon to think about it. He wants Simon to think about him. (He thinks that’s all he’s ever wanted). 

“I have to go,” Simon finally says softly. “I’m sorry.” When he looks up, Baz notices how glassy Simon’s eyes are. 

Baz’s heart sinks to his stomach and he debates throwing his whole plan away and just kissing Simon. He shuts his eyes just long enough to get a hold on himself before looking back at Simon and nodding. “Alright,” he says. “Good luck.” 

Simon shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and takes a step back. “Thanks, Baz,” he says softly. “I’ll see you later.” 

Baz watches Simon walk away and the second that Simon rounds a corner, Baz is whipping around and practically sprinting back down the block. He checks his watch and speeds up when realizing he only has eight minutes left. 

When he gets back to the caf é, Niall is standing outside, a very agitated Terry in his arms. 

“Baz,” Niall exclaims. “Take this demon away from me, goddammit.” 

Baz smirks and plucks Terry from Niall’s arms. “You’re lucky I let you even hold him.” 

“I certainly wouldn’t consider myself lucky,” Niall mumbles, trying to brush cat hair off of his white shirt. Baz mentally wishes him good luck. 

Fixing one of the straps on Terry’s harness, Baz nods at Niall. “Thanks for your help,” he says. 

Niall shrugs. “Whatever. Go get him.” 

The Shakespeare Garden is pretty close so Baz doesn’t feel the need to run (even if his heart is racing like he is). He speed walks, Terry bouncing softly in his arms. The second he’s close enough to see Simon while still knowing that Simon can’t see him, Baz sets Terry down on the ground and tightens one of the straps in his harness. He crouches down to press his face into the top of Terry’s little head. 

“Ready?” he says softly. “This is going to hopefully change our lives, Terry. Don’t fuck it up.” 

Baz turns Terry a bit before letting him go, the cat bounding away with the leash dragging behind him. Terry’s rushing toward where Simon is standing just in front of a bench, looking nervous. 

“Terry!” Baz calls out. “Terry!” He takes a deep breath before following Terry toward Simon. 

Simon’s head turns. He sees Terry. He sees Baz. Baz is too far away to see the cogs turn but he can imagine that Simon’s head is reeling and he’s putting it together. 

Baz can’t help himself and breaks into a light jog so he can catch up with Terry and get a hold on his leash. When he’s straightened up with the leash in hand, he’s only a few feet away from Simon. 

Baz smiles, feeling a bit shaky. He tightens his grip on Terry’s leash. “Hello,” he finally says. 

“Hi,” Simon breathes back. 

“ Winterstorm ?” Baz asks, smirking as he takes a step closer. 

Baz notices that Simon’s freckles become less prominent when he blushes. 

“Snowstorm seemed a little on the nose,” he says softly. Baz thinks Simon might be about to cry. Simon looks down but takes one hand out of his pocket to place it on Baz’s wrist. “I wanted it to be you,” he whispers. “God, I wanted it so bad.” 

Baz can’t bring himself to smirk or make some snarky comment. He can barely stop himself from crying. Baz twists his wrist out of Simon’s grip in order to grab onto his hand. He squeezes Simon’s warm fingers and leans his head down. Simon meets him there. 

Simon’s lips are somehow chapped and soft and Baz is fucking obsessed. Baz winds his free hand around Simon’s waist. Simon slides his hand and presses it against Baz’s neck. Terry rubs his head between their shins. 

When Baz can’t breathe anymore, he pulls back. 

“It’s you,” Simon whispers, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. 

Baz nods. “It’s me,” he says. (He really can’t believe it). 

They hold each other and kiss and when Simon decides they should go back to his place, Baz looks up at the Romeo and Juliet sculpture they happen to be standing by. Star-crossed lovers . Sounds familiar.