Work Text:
BAZ
The speakers on my mobile crackle and stutter as the volume spikes. Something has just fallen. I look over at the screen, pulling my attention away from the last of the paperwork I’ve procrastinated on (I don’t usually procrastinate. I’ve just been distracted.)
“Simon?” I ask, searching the garbled pixels for any sign of my lovely boyfriend. There’s a distinct, frustrated shout , and Simon blusters into view from behind a pile of boxes. He’s beautiful, shirtless and frazzled and angry. He’s exceptionally sweaty. Even through the low quality image I can see how his skin shines in the afternoon light. I want to smear my fingers over the sheen of sweat. I want to lick the beads of it from his hairline. I want to fill my head with the musky aroma that--
Cerce, I miss him. Desperately. It’s been far too long.
Simon and I have been living together for the better part of a year. It’s been heaven. I have no clue why we’d agreed to live apart in the first place. There had been some vague mention of the seven years spent rooming together at Watford, how space is important. Some load of bollocks that was. Living with a Simon Snow (Salisbury, now. Simon Snow Salisbury, a mess of alliteration) who undeniably, unequivocally loves me… it’s a completely different beast. One I curse having been denied for so long on a nigh-daily basis.
He wakes up before me most days. Often at the crack of dawn. He still hasn’t found a job (that’s okay, he doesn’t need to. We started a rent share when I’d officially moved into his flat and his inheritance has been stretched even further than he’d planned for. Besides, Lady Salisbury would rather die than let her grandson go homeless. We have safety nets.) but he seems to enjoy the early mornings to himself. More often than not I’ll awake to a warm cup of tea placed on the bedside table and the makings of a Simon-worthy breakfast wafting beautiful smells from the kitchen. He’s gotten so attentive. So sweet, and caring and thoughtful. We still have bad days, or bad moments peppered throughout good days. It’s not always perfect, and I’m not sure it ever will be with us. But it’s good. It feels so inherently right, like this was how it was supposed to be from the beginning. I am living in bliss.
Well, not now. Now I’m living in a constant state of anxiety and stress-induced migraines.
Simon might not have a job, but I was offered one a few weeks ago. A good one. A TA position at uni under my favorite professor, studying my favorite topic-- English literature-- that will practically guarantee me a proper teaching position upon graduation. I didn’t know that I’d wanted to be a teacher. I’d thought about it once or twice, given my mother’s position as the headmaster, but I figured I’d be dead before I even graduated Watford, or otherwise I’d be expected to take over the care of the manor and Grimm-Pitch family business. That was a best-case-scenario for me. I really, really thought I’d be dead by now. But I thrive in academia. I always have, and I seem to have a knack for teaching. Simon says I’m extremely patient and good at explaining things. He said some other things, too, but the context of this conversation was decidedly non-academic and not everything said was relevant. The point remains.
The TA position is across town, half an hour give or take from Hackney Wick, and they wanted me to start as soon as physically possible. It wasn’t too difficult to find a new flat in London (I haven’t told Simon that bribery goes a long way. Any landlord will happily hand the keys over to you if you offer to pay triple, or even quadruple the security deposit. Simon will not find out about this.) and Simon seemed to be ready to move on, as well. If that were all it was, then I’d be home every evening to see him, help him pack and clean. However, while the position is in London, my professor is finishing up a research term at another school. Five and a half hours away. They’ve kitted me out with a dorm here, temporarily, while he trains me and helps me develop a lesson plan for next term, but the commute makes visiting Simon nigh-impossible around my schedule.
Now, it’s only a week before we must be fully moved out of the flat. The landlord told us it had to be thoroughly cleaned as well if Simon wanted his security deposit back, but he doesn’t seem overly concerned about it. I had to begin working less than a week ago and we’d determined that Simon would be in charge of finishing up the packing (there isn’t much left. I took most of it over when I went to pick up the keys.) and I would be in charge of the unpacking, and the working. And continuing to research a way to teleport an entire mattress and bedframe across 10 whole miles. That, or finally cave to renting a truck.
Simon had insisted that he was capable of finishing packing on his own. He’d insisted that he could do it by himself, practically threw me out onto the street after I’d been fretting for nearly an hour before I was slated to leave. I’ve been video calling with him every day, as much as I can around my new schedule. We talk, often, but for the most part we simply leave our devices open as we perform our own separate tasks. Simon, while he’s packing; me, while I’m working. It’s nice-- not as nice as having him here with me, feeling his heat and his presence (he’s still so hot , both literally and figuratively), but it’s certainly better than nothing.
He’s been fumbling through the larger boxes, trying to get the last of the knick knacks and small, easy-to-miss items packed away so he can begin cleaning. We’ve acquired a lot more things in the last year. I was content to just be with him in our flat, at first, but after a few weeks the lack of decor (the lack of a bed frame) began grating on me. We’ve picked up gifts, as well. Housewarming gifts, birthday gifts, Christmas gifts. Small, sentimental brick-a-brack. I had brought books with me, too, and a shelf for them. We got a sofa and a television. We bought cookware, baking supplies. We had photos hung on the walls of friends and family. There’s one I’m particularly fond of, during Simon’s birthday this past Summer. Lady Salisbury and Jaime threw him a proper birthday party. The sheer amount of cakes were overwhelming, as was the amount of liquor and wine. The photo is of the three Salisbury’s (Simon included), myself, and Bunce and Shepard. Everyone is smiling, pressing as close to Simon as possible as he grins cheekily over the most enormous buttercream cake I’ve ever laid eyes on. The framed photo is hanging beside the sofa, blown up slightly so that it’s more difficult to miss. I catch Simon looking at it fondly, sometimes. It’s so good to know that he has a family. That we are his family.
I’ve gotten no response to his name, so I turn to lift the mobile closer to my face.
“Simon,” I say, slightly louder, “are you alright?”
Simon lets out another shout, reaching up to tug at his curls. I’m trying to encourage him to stop that. I’d prefer if he didn’t go bald by thirty.
“How the fuck,” Simon growls, “am I supposed to do this? Why do we have so much bloody stuff? When did we turn into hoarders?”
I scoff, leaning back against my desk chair.
“We have a perfectly reasonable amount of stuff for two men in their early twenties, Simon. Not everyone can live out of a bindle their whole lives.”
He turns a fiery look towards the camera.
Alright then, not the time. Noted.
I sigh, tilting my head back to shake hair from my eyes. When I look back at the screen, I’m a little pleased that Simon’s expression has softened slightly.
“If it’s too much then I can come back for a few days,” I say, although we’ve proven that I’m not much more of a help than Simon. I’ve never had to move my own things.
Simon shakes his head, plodding up to where he’s propped up his mobile. He collapses onto the floor in front of it, leaning back on his hands and looks off to the side. His tail thumps against the wood floor in irritation, like a cat. His wings rustle a bit, the muscle of them tight with anxiety. I have a much better view of his bare chest, now, too. It is sweaty. It’s gleaming. It’s obscene.
“No, don’t. As much as I want… well, as much as I want to see you, you’ve got work to do, aye?” He glances back at me and his expression softens further. He’s nearly smiling. “I do miss you, though. Fiercely. This is the worst, Baz.”
I smile at him, my dead heart twitching at the words. Even a year later (more, if you count the first eighteen months. I do. I don’t think Simon does.) he still manages to make me feel like a lovestruck schoolboy.
“Only for another week, love,” I say, tipping my head to the side. Simon mirrors me-- I’m not sure he means to-- and his face crumples a little again.
“It’s--” he swallows and looks away from the camera. His skin has cooled, the sweat having begun to dry I believe, and he’s not as red. He’s more yellow-gold than rose-gold now. Still lovely, all of him is lovely. “It’s really hard being away from you,” He says, voice tight, “I’m not good at this stuff. I’m not… good at being alone.”
My heart breaks.
Of course I knew this was going to be hard. Moving is one of the biggest stressors on a relationship, right behind money troubles and killing your father figure who was trying to kill you. Losing your magic is up there, as well. We’ve dealt with worse, is what I’m saying. Still, it’s hard.
“Simon,” I say, and my face must look devastated because Simon sits up, shaking his head again.
“I can do it, obviously,” he says, insistent (he very much wants to prove how capable he is on his own. I’m happy to let him), “I’ll be alright, it’s just hard. We’ll get through it. I don’t want you worrying after me.”
This only causes my heart to break further.
“Simon,” I say (I’m saying his name a lot. I think I miss saying it), “You are always worth worrying after. You can talk to me if you’re having a bad time. I’m not going to run to your rescue just because you’re anxious. Not unless you need me to.”
He sags a little. I think, sometimes with how our relationship has been during this past year, we want to be there for each other for every frown, every tear shed. It’s nice, for the most part, to have someone to support you whenever you need it. But it makes it difficult to simply be upset without someone immediately trying to fix it. People have been trying to fix Simon his whole life. I think he’s gotten used to the reaction.
“I’m just,” he lets out another frustrated groan, burying both of his hands in his hair and leaning back. His wings support him like extra arms. “I’m not used to this, you know? It feels so bloody stupid, because I was in charge of saving the whole fucking world, so this should be small potatoes, right? But I don’t have you here. I don’t have Penny. I’m just… alone with my thoughts. I even started to talk to Antony, and he hates me.”
Antony is our cat. I never thought we’d be the sort of couple to adopt a pet together. I drain other people’s pets when I’m desperate, but he’d come one night when I’d been sloppy with thirst and cast a “Here, kitty kitty”. There’s plenty of ferals around Simon’s flat. I didn’t think it would be too much of an issue. I’m fairly sure there’s a colony underneath the foundation. He was this scrawny ginger thing. In the moment, I’d thought “too thin” and moved on to his plumper counterparts, but once I’d gotten my predator instinct under control, my human one took over. He’d rubbed his wide head against my knee, even after watching me crack open the skulls of several of his compatriots and sink my teeth into them. When I’d blustered in through the door with him tucked under my arm, Simon had wrinkled his nose from his seat on the couch.
“Fuck, I told you not to take home leftovers, Baz, I’ll get attached.”
I’d rolled my eyes and let the cat fall to the floor, landing on all four paws with a thunk.
“Feel free,” I’d grumbled and retreated into the bathroom to scrub myself raw. I hate drinking cats. They feel too intellectual. I haven’t done it since Antony.
He’s a good man. He likes to lay on my chest while I scroll through social media and lick at my chin. He avoids Simon like the plague. I think it’s funny, and a little vindictive (animals usually avoid me on instinct. They usually love Simon.) and he’s grown on me greatly. He’s grown quite a lot, what with Simon’s attempts at wooing him with bits of steak and bread rolls. I hope they’re bonding a bit in my absence.
“I imagine he’s a good conversational match for you,” I say at my phone screen. Simon makes a mocking sort of face and then looks away. I see the flash of an orange tail behind a pile of boxes and Simon makes a clicking noise with his tongue. Antony doesn’t emerge.
“Oi, you little shit, your dad’s on the phone!” He calls over his shoulder. I can’t suppress the grin on my face. I see Antony’s pixelated face-- green eyes mere smudges-- as he pops out behind a piece of furniture. “He misses you, arsehole. Least you could do is say hi.”
Antony mewls and makes a chirping noise before he bounds towards Simon. He uses Simon’s bare chest to claw onto his shoulder-- there’s loud protest from both of them-- before Antony curls himself around Simon’s neck and gazes at the phone. There’s beads of blood pearling on Simon’s pectorals. Obscene. I can feel my fangs itching and I’m hours away from him.
“He likes you, see?” I say, gesturing towards our furry child. Simon scoffs, but a hand reaches up to scratch at Antony’s chin.
“He’s only paying attention to me because he misses you . You’re going to give him a complex.”
That hurts. I’ve never had a pet before, not since my childhood dog that I’d drank in my vampiric adolescence. I like Antony. I don’t want to give him trauma.
“He’ll be fine,” I say dismissively, “he knows I love him.”
Simon grins, moving his face so it’s half-buried in Antony’s shoulder.
“Hear that, boyo? Your da still loves you! So does your pa.”
Simon’s taken to calling Antony 'boyo' after he’d used the word to make fun of Fiona for a stint and it sort of stuck in his vocabulary. He calls animals 'boyo', and young children. He calls them 'duck', sometimes too, when he’s feeling particularly sentimental. I think that’s Ebb’s influence.
“I’m going to try to get back sooner than the end of next week,” I say, completely making it up as I’m going along. I make it seem like I’d planned it.
Simon’s head snaps to look back at the phone, his face wide open, excited.
“Really?” He asks in a breath. I nod, setting the phone back down on the table.
“It would be foolish to allow you complete control over our belongings. I should, at the very least, oversee the last few days of the packing and cleaning process. I’m sure my professor will understand. I did relocate for the position, after all.”
Huffing, Simon reaches up to bury his fingers in his hair. It startles Antony enough that he leaps off of Simon’s shoulders and darts away. Simon doesn’t seem to notice.
“I would--” he pauses, a grin spreading over his face, “I would really like that, Baz. I’m going to have everything ready by then, too. Just you wait.”
I smile. I know he will. He’s extremely capable, even when he’s out of his element. Maybe especially so.
“Bully Bunce and Shepard into helping you out. You can all get pissed together and make a game of it.” I’ve been thinking about how to make this experience less trying on Simon. This was one of my best ideas. I’m not proud of it.
He nods, looking like he’s mulling it over.
“Yeah, that might be nice,” he says, like he’s lost in thought. I know his brain is likely fried from the packing and organizing.
Gently I say, “go relax, Snow. Watch some telly, order some take away. You’ve been doing more than enough. I’m extremely proud of you. I love you.”
He blooms under my words, grinning from ear to ear. Snakes alive, I miss him to my bones. To my marrow.
“Thanks, Baz,” he says, bouncing his head a little at the prospect of not having to pack anymore, “yeah, I think I’ll do that.”
“I’ll order some as well,” I find myself saying, “and then you should tell me what you watch. We’ll watch it together.”
He scrambles up, likely going to get one of the many take away fliers we have now stacked neatly in a pile on the kitchen counter, ready to be thrown away as soon as we leave. It seemed important for Simon to keep them, for now.
“There’s that new show,” he calls from the other room, half of it is barely understandable, “on Netflix.”
“The dating one?” I ask, as loudly as I’m willing in my unbearably small dorm.
“Aye,” he shouts back. A second later he’s practically running across the hardwood of the livingroom.
“Aye,” he says again, quieter, as he slides into a sit in front of the phone with a Greek restaurant menu clutched in his hands, “the one where they’re all into each other, y’know? They’re all bi or whatever.”
I hum, smiling again. He makes me smile a lot. It’s embarrassing.
“We could watch that,” I say, wanting to reach out to him, wanting to touch him. This next week (less, now. I’ve decided) will be torture. I want nothing more than to curl into his warmth, feel his tacky skin, listen to him snort in laughter at ridiculous reality television. In a week’s time we will be in a new flat, our flat. One we picked out together, that will have both of our names on the lease. We’ll be in London. We’ll be closer to Bunce and Shepard again. We’ll be settled. We’ll be okay.
“Baz,” Simon says, his face closer to the screen. I can make out a few of his freckles and moles.
“Yes, love?” I ask, my voice a little too wistful, a little too in love. (There’s no such thing anymore, I remind myself.)
“I love you, and I miss you,” he says like it’s the easiest thing in the world (it is), “and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”
My heart quite nearly bursts from my chest, growing more and more alive by the day.
“I love you, Simon Snow,” I say, “and I will always love you.”
Life isn’t always going to be perfect, it’s not always easy, but every time I’m allowed to say those words, I think… this is it. This is my happy ending.