Archive of Our Own

SIMON

The music starts around nine or so. An obnoxious whine pierces through the ceiling, growing louder and higher pitched until the beat finally drops, shaking the whole flat. 

“Christ almighty, EDM? On a Wednesday?” Baz directs his question towards the heavens, and I pause to admire the way his neck stretches as he gazes upwards. We’re in the kitchen, pressed side by side, me washing dishes and Baz drying as directed by the flat’s chore calendar. Through a series of bribes, favors, and whiteboard editing trickery, I’ve ensured we are always paired up for cleaning tasks. Because apparently rooming with my crush isn’t enough for me, I have to manufacture new and achingly domestic ways for us to spend time with each other. 

And here, presented before me in the form of shitty club beats, is yet another opportunity to monopolize Baz’s time.

“Should we go see what Gareth and the boys are up to?” I ask oh so casually. 

“We know what they’re up to. Gareth is a walking uni lad stereotype. Probably in the midst of choking on a beer funnel.”

The music continues to vibrate our surroundings. A newly dried glass rattles. 

“So,” I offer, bumping Baz’s hip with mine to the beat of the pulsing bass, “is that a yes?”

I get a laugh for my efforts. “That’s a yes.”

That’s a date, I think to myself. But then Dev and Niall materialize from thin air, ready to get shitfaced at Gareth’s expense.  

“Don’t you two have one more exam tomorrow?” I ask in a last-ditch attempt to shed off our flatmates. 

“Carpe Diem,” Dev responds, as if that’s anything. Then just like that, we’re out the door, up a floor, and weaseling our way into our neighbor’s flat. 

It’s crowded—hot and loud—with too many bodies pressed into too little space, red cups clumsily bumping along to the music. Baz pulls a face as he’s jostled, the harsh line of his mouth barely visible in the dim glow of cheap fairy lights.

“Shall we?” I motion towards the kitchen where Dev and Niall have already headed when Baz’s frown deepens. I match his expression as he pulls out his mobile and gives it a little wave. The caller ID reads Bridezilla. 

He slips into the crowd, pressing his mobile to his ear. Three drinks later, I’ve yet to see him again. 

I know this wedding has been stressful, and I can’t help but be a bit pissed off his aunt selected a date so close to end of term, but voicing the obvious would do nothing to help the situation. So, I’ve kept quiet on the whole thing. Baz has had enough to say for the both of us, anyway. He’s been under a lot of pressure, carrying out “Man of Honor” duties while finishing exams, but he’s been honest about the stress. At least with me. That’s what best friends are for, right?

The whole crush thing is… well, it’s just me, isn’t it? 

I down one more shot before I start hunting for Baz, and I find him just as I’ve given up. With my head pressed against the frame of an open window, doing everything in my power not to openly mope, I spot him. He’s on the fire escape, mostly turned away from me with his back curled over and knees pulled up. The heel of his hand is pressed against his temple and a lit cigarette hangs between two fingers, glowing in the dark. He’s still on the phone.

I have to fold in half to fit through the window and end up bashing my shoulder. Baz turns at the sound, face scrunching in an expression somewhere between concerned and amused as I trip over myself to join him. He motions to the space next to him and I sit, enjoying the view of his profile as he takes a drag from his cigarette. 

Smoke crawls out from between his lips as he says into the phone, “Yes, truly terrible.” It comes out deadpan. “Tulips,” he continues, rubbing at one eye. “How plebeian. I’ll call the florist first thing in the morning and demand something more extravagant. Maybe we’ll luck out and they’ll have a strand of roses long thought lost. Happy? No?” Baz breathes out a frustrated, tired sigh. “Christ, Fiona, what the fuck else could you possibly need to bitch about? The wedding is in a week .”

He slumps back against the building, head tilted up and eyes closed as he listens to whatever else his aunt needs to tear apart on her path to the big day. The cigarette is still resting between his fingers, seemingly forgotten and almost falling through the grated floor. I rescue it and bring it to my lips. I don’t smoke, but I do this sometimes—take puffs off of Baz’s lit cigarettes. Indirect kisses. Stupid. But it perfectly captures what it feels like to hold onto a secret love. A burn that slowly poisons you. 

I’ve had too many drinks, I think. Then I stop thinking. I snub the cigarette out against the fire escape railing and I listen.

Baz’s voice is nice, even when he isn’t saying nice things. It’s one of the things I like about him. If I could, I’d have him say all sorts of things to me, nice or naughty. I’d take it any which way, as long as it’s him.

“You must be joking,” Baz barks out, and I briefly wonder if that’s how he would respond if I ever confessed, then I remember I’m not supposed to be thinking. “Where would I even find someone at this hour?”

I glance over to see him sitting bolt upright, looking somewhere between shocked and fed up. 

“Who the fuck cares about extra servings? Even if I did bring a date, it’d hardly make up for the entire fucking Wellsley party canceling.” 

It’s hard to piece together what’s getting Baz so worked up when I’m hearing only half of the conversation, but the mention of a date has me leaning closer to try and gather more context.

In a thin, tinny voice, I hear Fiona saying, “You originally RSVPed a plus one, boyo, so clearly, you had someone in mind. Honestly, I don’t care who it is, they just better have an appetite.”

Baz tries to shove me back, but I’m not having it and grab at his wrist. I’ve got him pinned back against the brick facade as I try to hear more of the conversation, but all that comes out is an annoyed, “Baz? Are you there?”

He opens his mouth, eyes wide and dancing between mine. I can feel his breath. 

“Baz?”

Fiona’s voice cuts through, and I jerk back, releasing my hold and throwing my hands up in apology.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, hanging up. His eyes are still on mine. I watch them narrow. “You’re drunk,” he accuses.

“Tipsy,” I admit.

“Come here. You’re too close to the ledge.” 

I glance at the railing behind me. “Am not.” But then Baz’s hand is on my forearm, and I flop down next to him willingly, back against the wall. Our shoulders touch. I knock his knee with mine, then keep it there. He lets me. 

The noise from the party reaches us, but it’s dampened by the sounds of the city and my own drumming heartbeat.

“So,” Baz begins, “you heard?” I can tell he’s not looking at me, so I try not to look at him (I still end up looking at him.) “I need to bring a date to the wedding.” 

I lick my lips and take a breath. “I could be your date.”

Baz is now very much looking at me. My gaze drops to his lips before I pull my focus away, staring blankly into the night.

“I mean,” I continue, voice going wonky, “like, for emotional support. As your friend.” 

Baz sinks back against the wall. “As my friend.”

“Right. Your friend.” I let my head rest against the brick, and turn to find him watching me. “Who can definitely eat more than one portion if called upon to do so.”

“That is true,” he admits. 

I press a little harder. “So it’s a deal?”

With a smile my heart was not prepared for, Baz says the three magic words. “It’s a date.”

BAZ

I’ve never seen Simon in a suit before, and while I once might have thought that was a missed opportunity, I can’t help but think that it was for my own good. 

Because now Simon is standing in front of me in a perfectly fitted navy suit and I’m having the sudden realization that going along with this plan will be the death of me. 

A date, I had said. A date. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Do I look alright?” he asks in the most adorably nervous voice, his hands smoothing the front of his jacket. He looks at me, eyes searching, and I’m at a loss for words. What do I even say? How do words work? My brain reaches for something, anything to say that isn’t you look like heaven incarnate, and I want nothing more than to throw you onto that sofa and have my way with you. 

The longer I fail to say something, the more worried he looks, so I finally blurt out, “I told you blue was your color.” 

He relaxes, beaming at me, and my stomach feels simultaneously light as a feather and heavy as lead. 

His eyes travel slowly down my length and then back up, as he takes in my own ensemble. It makes me shiver as I fantasize about what he could be thinking. But I know he doesn’t see me the way I see him. 

“You look great,” he says, rubbing the nape of his neck where he keeps his hair short. It’s incredibly endearing when he does that. 

I shrug, a terrible habit I’ve picked up from him. “I’d prefer to be wearing more color, but one of the unfortunate parts of being in the wedding party is not being able to choose your own attire.” 

“You look good in black and white. Makes you look like a movie star.” He grins sheepishly and I know it’s because talking about fashion isn’t something he’s very comfortable with. 

“I think we’re going to look like a funeral procession instead of a wedding party, but my aunt seems to think it will be elegant .” 

He chuckles, then flexes his wrist to check his watch. The fabric of his jacket clings to his bicep and it occurs to me that I’ve never seen anything lovelier than him. 

“We should probably get going, yeah?” 

“Yes,” I say, somehow tearing my eyes away from him, turning to grab my keys and coat. 

When I face him again, Simon asks, “You ready?” 

Not in the slightest, I think. But I can’t say that, so I give him a small smile and nod. 

He opens the door of our flat and holds it open for me. 

It’s only ten in the morning when we arrive and already the venue is a bustle of activity. The banquet hall employees are putting the finishing touches on the table settings while the florist and her assistant are out in the garden adorning the chairs along the aisle with white roses. (Thank Christ we didn’t get stuck with the tulips.) 

Simon whistles. I watch him take in the gilded ceilings and glittering chandeliers. “Swanky place,” he remarks. 

“Mmm,” I hum in agreement, as we exit the hall through the double doors propped open to the garden. I was a bit surprised Fiona picked such an extravagant establishment, but I quickly learned through the planning process that while my aunt’s usual tastes lean laid back and punk, her wedding aesthetic was over-the-top fairy tale romance. 

We make our way down the cobblestone path in the grass and take in the view. The gardens here are truly breathtaking.

The rows of chairs face the spectacular view of the country estate, where we can look down upon flowers and trees in full bloom. The fountain nearby fills the air with the quiet sound of running water and the sky today is bright blue and clear of clouds. 

Simon walks to the edge of the hill we’re on and looks out at the sprawling estate below us. I follow, and he turns to look at me as I reach him.

“This is amazing,” he says. He looks gorgeous, framed by the lush greenery behind him. His smile is brighter than the sun. Blinding. It’s difficult to look straight at him. Soon it becomes too much, and I glance down, patting my pockets and remembering that I specifically did not bring cigarettes with me because I knew I’d be a chain-smoking mess if given the opportunity. 

Simon bends his knees, positioning his head below mine and forcing me to look at him again. 

“Hey, no stressing yet,” he says. 

“Yet being the operative word,” I say, and Simon tsks in response. 

“You’re forgetting, you’ve got me here with you. And I’m a blast at weddings.” 

I arch an eyebrow at him in question and he doubles down on his assertion. 

“I mean it! Once we make it through the prep and the ceremony, we’re gonna have the best time. We’ll drink and stuff our faces with cake and dance the night away. Trust me, you’ll be so glad you brought me as your date.” He catches his slip up and makes an embarrassed face. This isn’t a real date and we both know it. (As desperately as I wish it was.) 

“You’re right, I’m sure I’ll be relieved you’ve come as my friend,” I say, trying to save face for him. 

He looks stricken, and I wonder how I could have possibly bungled this up further. 

Suddenly, Simon asks, “Is that woman crying?” Ah, that must have been what that look was about. My eyes follow where he nods with his chin and I see her sitting on a bench, shoulders slumped, face splotched and red. 

“Fucking Fiona,” I murmur. 

“How do you know it’s her fault?” 

“That’s the wedding coordinator,” I explain. “Of course it’s her fault.” 

I sigh, heading in her direction. Simon stays by my side. I really am grateful he’s here today. 

“Hello, Mary,” I say as we approach. 

She startles, looking up at me. “Oh! Baz, hello. I’m sorry, don’t mind me,” she says, carefully wiping her running mascara and sniffing. 

I pull out my handkerchief and hand it to her. She takes it, giving me a small smile while attempting to blow her nose discreetly. 

“So what exactly did my aunt do this time?” I ask. 

“Oh, it’s not her fault,” she says dismissively. 

I see Simon’s cheeks puff up and his eyes widen in a look of sarcastic doubt and I suppress an urge to laugh. 

“No need to beat around the bush. You can tell me,” I encourage. 

She takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “It’s been a hard morning all around. The makeup artist is almost an hour late and Fiona doesn’t want the photographer to start taking the getting ready photos until she’s here. Nico only just got here twenty minutes ago and is holed up in his dressing room refusing to talk to anyone. I thought I heard retching sounds coming from there but when I tried to tell Fiona about it…” she trails off, voice wavering. 

Simon’s face softens and he puts his hand on her back, gently rubbing small circles. I hate that it immediately makes my stomach clench with jealousy. It’s a frustrating response that triggers easily when it comes to Simon. Despite my best intentions to push such feelings deep within me, my mind still seems to betray me by imagining him dating the person. Holding their hand, stroking their hair softly, laughing and gazing at them adoringly. (Basically all of the things I wish he would do with me.)

I was an absolute wreck when his ex, Agatha, came into town. I sat at home, stress eating crisps for the entire two hours they were off having lunch. I was convinced they would get back together. I don’t know why, they’d barely talked since their break up just before Uni. But logic cannot convince my love sick brain. 

Mary shakes her head, forcing a self-deprecating laugh out and it jolts me back to the present. 

“Don’t mind me, it’s been a particularly intense wedding season this year.” She looks up and lets out a small gasp. “Oh! The makeup artist is finally here.” 

Simon and I both follow her gaze to see a young woman, arms laden with bags, hurrying up the path to the front doors. 

“We’ll show her where to go,” Simon says, and my heart swells at the thought of him willingly facing my aunt after witnessing the way she’s reduced Mary to tears. 

I nod in agreement. “And we’ll handle Nico, as well.” 

Mary sniffs again and thanks us for our help. I tell her it’s no trouble and Simon and I hurry off to catch the makeup artist, who looks frazzled, but otherwise seems unaware she’s marching to her death. 

SIMON

The day I met Baz was the day I met Fiona. First year of University. Student hall move-in. Every new resident was allowed one helper to keep the chaos to a minimum. Baz had his aunt. I had an assigned student volunteer who vanished as soon as my belongings had been deposited into the room.

My tall, dark, and hot neighbor was taking longer to lug in his boxes and I thought there’d be no harm in him giving a hand. First impressions and all that. So, I donned my brightest smile, said hello, and offered to help.

What I got in return was Fiona’s glaring mug materializing in front of my face and her proclamation that I looked like an orphan. I dumbly responded that I was an orphan as Baz hip-checked her out of the way. With a strained smile, he declared, “ I don’t know her,” then threw a glare at his aunt before stating he would love some assistance.

Baz and I have been friends ever since, and through said friendship, I’ve had the joy of follow-up encounters with Fiona, each one featuring a meanspirited and terrifyingly accurate dig. 

As we enter the bridal suite, the makeup artist in tow, she continues with tradition. 

“This is your date?” she asks Baz in greeting, rising from a pastel armchair to stand firmly in the middle of the cream and gold room, arms crossing over a silk robe. Her hair’s in curlers and there’s a bubbling glass of champagne in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. The room smells like an ashtray coated in Febreeze. She turns her glare on me. “Of course you’d take advantage of a situation like this.” 

I force out an innocent laugh and resist the urge to pull at my collar. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“The free food?”

Her eyes narrow. There’s ash crumbling off her cigarette. “No.”

Baz claps his hands once. Hard. The piercing sound brings an end to the scene, shutting down the conversation and saving me from the pit of vipers that is his aunt. In the ringing fallout, he calmly states, “Your makeup artist is here."

The woman pokes her head out from behind Baz, smiling through a grimace. She’s nearly dragged down by the weight of her makeup bags. 

Fiona takes one look at her, drops her shoulders, rolls her head back, and yells at the ceiling, “For fuck’s sake, finally!” before simultaneously downing her champagne and stubbing out her cigarette.

“Call the photographers,” she barks to no one in particular, storming off towards a well-lit vanity where her hairstylist is already waiting with dead eyes. The makeup artist quickly follows, tripping on apologies for her tardiness, and it’s only then, as she rushes past a floral loveseat, that I notice Baz’s step mum is here too. She looks between me and her son, a smile frozen on her lips as she mouths “Help me.”

I watch Baz visibly choke down his frustration, his eyes closing on an inhale and opening on an exhale. His gaze finds mine as Fiona continues to huff and puff in the background. I lean into his side, dropping my chin on his shoulder and whispering into his ear, “It’ll be over before you know it. You got this.”

He nods, knocks his head lightly against mine, and sets to work.

“Mum,” Baz begins, talking while walking towards a clothing rack against the far wall, “would you be so kind as to fetch one of the photographers? I believe I saw them waiting down the” —Daphne is out the door before he finishes— “hall.”

He collects a white garment bag from the rack, holding it up to inspect carefully.

“Simon,” he calmly calls out, “refill my aunt’s champagne glass and get me one while you’re at it.” 

“On it.” 

“Fiona—”

“Why isn’t the photographer here yet?” she snaps, her sudden outburst causing the makeup artist to drop her concealer.

Baz pauses, turning to her with the garment bag still in hand, soothing tone unchanged. It’s like he’s trying to calm a toddler mid-tantrum. “They will be here. Now, where would you like your dress hung?” She doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it, gently fishing out the ivory grown and hanging it by the windows. 

It’s pretty. A bit sexy, actually. Old Hollywood. The dress is beaded with a side slit, a deep neckline, and sheer sleeves. There’s a delicate embroidered pattern covering the whole thing. Silver fading into the ivory. Vines and leaves. It’ll be beautiful in the garden.

We’ve all paused to take it in. 

I approach Baz slowly, champagne flutes in hand. He drains his in one go and returns the glass before bringing Fiona hers. She takes it, and the makeup artist and hairstylist silently get back to work. The tension has eased.

I head back to the ice bucket to pour myself a drink, trying to be small and out of the way. Baz stays near Fiona’s side, watching over her through the vanity mirror. 

“I’m tired,” she admits, eyes finding his in the reflection. “And stressed out.”

“I know,” Baz sighs. “Me too.” 

Fiona’s gaze lowers. “I wanted it to be perfect.” 

Baz kneels down next to her and takes her hand. I can only see him in profile from where I am, but the love and care are clear. 

“Nothing is ruined,” he says, voice low. “The best parts are still to come. You’ll be beautiful in your dress, and Nicodemus will have those sicking hearts in his eyes, and I’ll be there with tissues whenever you need them.”

Fiona blinks, looking up with glassy eyes, squeezing Baz’s hand. He offers her a tissue. She takes it, her laugh wet. Baz’s smile is small and perfect. 

He’s perfect.

From behind me comes the sound of a camera shutter, the moment captured, and Baz turns. His eyes find mine, his smile slowly spreading. It makes my lungs hurt, my stomach twist in knots, and I fall in love with him all over again.

BAZ

Once Fiona finally seems to have calmed down, Simon and I head to Nico’s room to assess just what shape he’s in. 

As we walk down the hall, Simon nudges my shoulder with his. 

“That was really sweet, what you said to your aunt,” he says. “I think you really helped to chill her out.”

“It’s possible,” I muse. “Though Daphne told me she took a muscle relaxer before we came in, so who the fuck knows.” 

He laughs softly through his nose. It’s a pretty sound. I never tire of making Simon laugh. It’s probably one of my favorite pastimes. 

When we get to Nico’s room, we can hear arguing through the door. 

“At least it sounds like he’s let someone in,” Simon offers hopefully. From the sound of their voices, I’m skeptical whoever is in there is helping much. 

Sighing, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “He and Fiona honestly deserve each other, don’t they?” 

“Haven’t met him yet, but by the sound of it, I think so.” 

As much as I would like to grab Simon by the hand and sneak away, I feel duty-bound to fulfill my promise to Mary, so I open the door and push through without knocking. 

“Just give me the fucking paracetamol! I feel like my head is being split in two!” 

“I already told you, it’ll be useless if you just spew it back up!” 

Nico is sitting on a chair with his head hanging low, elbows propped on his knees while his sister, Ebb, stands next to him with her hands on her hips. They both look up as we enter the room. Ebb’s already dressed for the day, wearing her Kelly green bridesmaids dress and patent leather Doc Marten boots. (Odd choice, but somehow she pulls it off.) Meanwhile, Nico looks like he hasn’t even showered yet, and I can smell the sick from here. 

“Morning!” I say in a sarcastically chipper voice. 

Nico merely grunts in response. 

“Basilton,” Ebb sighs. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with this drunken idiot. My patience is threadbare at this point.” Her voice wobbles a bit at the end. Dear God, please don’t let her start crying. I’m not sure that I could handle a weepy Ebb on top of everything else. 

“Rough night?” I deadpan. 

“Should’ve known I’m too old for a proper stag,” Nico says, voice gruff. My throat hurts listening to him. 

“I’m just going to duck out for a minute,” Simon mumbles beside me, as he hurries out the door. That’s odd. Simon is no stranger to a vomiting drunk. We’ve seen our share of it between Dev, Niall, and the rest of the lads. The smell in here is particularly putrid though, so I don’t blame him. I guess I’ll have to soldier on alone. 

“Alright, first thing’s first. Has he been drinking water?” I ask. 

“Yeah, but he hasn’t been able to keep it down for long,” Ebb says.

Christ, this is terrible. I doubt he’ll be able to eat anything, then. 

“Maybe we can at least get him into the shower.” 

“Un-fucking-likely,” Nico responds. “I’ve got the spins. I’m not fucking falling and getting concussed on top of this shite.” 

“Well unless you want me to tell Fiona today is cancelled, you’re going to have to give it a go.” I check the conditions in the bathroom and see that the shower has a decent size ledge and a detachable shower head. That will work. 

I march back into the room. “You’ll be able to sit while you’re in there, so up you go.” I take one elbow and Ebb follows my lead, taking the other. 

“This is how we used to wash Gran’s hair,” Ebb says, giggling. 

“You’re not fucking washing my hair!” Nico grouses. 

“Nobody is washing your hair but you! You’re not completely useless. Now get in.” 

We help him into the shower and sit him, fully clothed, on the ledge. I set the toiletries next to him and a towel and robe on the toilet within arm’s reach. 

“Hopefully you can handle undressing yourself and working from there, because there’s a limit to my aid, here.” 

Nico simply nods morosely, so Ebb and I leave him to it. 

“Thank you for your help,” Ebb says, as she shuts the door to the bathroom behind us. 

“It’s what I’m here for,” I say and start busying myself with unzipping Nico’s garment bag and laying out his suit. Anything to keep moving and distract Ebb from getting too emotional. I’m clearly not successful though, because she goes on. 

“He was a right mess when I came in this morning,” she says. “Blubbering about what a shite husband he’ll be if he can’t even stand up straight at the altar.” She sniffs, and I can hear her extracting a tissue from the box on the table next to me. 

“Well he’s not the first groom to get wasted on his stag night, and I’m certain he won’t be the last.” 

I turn to start looking for his shoes and catch sight of Ebb dabbing her eyes. Christ, I can barely deal when my own family shows emotion. ( That’s a rarity as it is.) But despite my discomfort, I try my best to be consoling. 

“We’ve still got plenty of time,” I say softly. “I’m sure he’ll be right as rain in time for the ceremony.” I try to give her a reassuring smile, and she responds by blowing her nose with a loud honk into her tissue. At least I tried. 

Just then, Simon (thankfully) enters the room again with a tall pint glass filled with some sort of red liquid. 

“Please tell me that’s not a Bloody Mary,” I say. 

“A little hair of the dog?” Ebb asks. 

Simon shakes his head. “No alcohol. Though it does have tomato juice. Among other things.” 

“Do I want to know?” I ask doubtfully. 

“You’ve never seen me make this?” Simon asks. I shake my head, so he explains. “This,” he says, gesturing to the glass, “is my patented hangover cure. I make it whenever one of the fellas wake up still pissed.” 

“‘M not drinking that,” Nico says. Steam follows him as he shuffles slowly out of the bathroom in a white, fluffy robe. He’s moving about as stiff and slow as my grandfather, but at least he’s moving on his own. 

“Trust me, it works wonders,” Simon says. He hands him the glass and Nico eyes it wearily as he eases into a chair. 

“The fuck’s in it?” he asks. 

“All stuff to settle your stomach and help work against the alcohol. It’ll sound gross if I list it all, but I promise it doesn’t taste that bad.” 

Nico still looks unconvinced. 

“Four years of Uni parties and this has never steered me wrong.” He’s utterly sincere and gives Nico his most winning smile. It somehow (miraculously) works, because he takes a tentative drink. 

Nico’s brow relaxes as he lowers the glass. “Wasn’t as bad as I expected,” he concedes. 

Simon grins even wider and my chest aches with love and gratitude for him in this moment. 

“How on God’s green Earth did you manage to make that?” I ask, pulling Simon to the couch on the far side of the room as Ebb frets over Nico’s hair.

“Nicked everything I needed from the bar while it was left unattended,” he says, settling down next to me. My arm’s still linked with his, and I’m thrilled he hasn’t tried to untangle from me. 

“You’re a menace.” 

“Yeah, but you love it,” he says, resting his head on my shoulder. 

“Mmm,” I quietly agree. I love everything about you, I practice in my head. If only I could get the words out. If only he’d feel the same way about me. I sigh, trying to feel content in this moment with him. I wish this was enough. (It is enough. I’d rather die than ruin our friendship by burdening him with my unrequited love for him.) 

But sometimes my greedy heart tries to convince me to seek more. My mind wanders to daydreams of holding him under the twinkling lights on the dance floor. I imagine him laying his head on my shoulder just like this, his arms around my waist. (The smell of his hair and the tickle of his curls on my neck make this image all the more vivid.) I could whisper my confessions in his ear, under the romantic setting of this wedding. 

I close my eyes and grit my teeth, willing myself to snap out of my fantasy. Simon is here with me, as my friend. (Which he has made explicitly clear.) I should be grateful for him being here at all. 

I sigh, resting my head on top of his. We murmur commentary on Nico and Ebb, as they wrangle a tie around his neck and squabble over whether he should shave his stubble. Nico argues that he’ll look eighteen if he shaves and Simon agrees. We laugh and joke and it’s easy. It’s enough. 

I wish it were enough. 

An hour and a half later Nico looks like a new man. He still looks tired (he declines my offer to apply concealer to the dark circles under his eyes), but it’s a complete change from this morning. 

When Fiona told me he’d be wearing a plain black suit with a white shirt, I thought it sounded boring. It isn’t boring. He looks classically handsome. He’s got his blonde hair tied back and his face is cleanly shaven. (Thank heavens.) He kind of resembles a fairy tale prince and I think I’m finally understanding my aunt’s wedding aesthetic. 

The photographer comes in looking for me. She wants to take some family photos of me and Fiona before the ceremony starts. As I stand to take my leave, Nico calls to me. 

“Baz, wait.” I turn and face him. “I just wanted to say thank you. To both of you,” he looks to Simon, too. “Fi means the world to me, and if I had ruined today, well, I never would have forgiven myself.” 

“She means a lot to me too. Witch that she is,” I say. He grins at that. 

I hold out my hand. “Welcome to the family.” Nico takes my hand and gives me a firm shake. 

I hear a sniff from Ebb from behind us. I take that as my cue to leave. 

When the ceremony finally arrives, everything seems to be in order. The weather is still warm and lovely, the decor looks immaculate, and the guests have all arrived on time and are in their seats. 

I peek around the corner from the staging area and see Simon sitting near the aisle. I feel a little guilty that he has to sit and make small talk with our Aunt Mildred, but I’m guessing by the way he’s gesticulating that he’s doing just fine. 

“Baaaaz, when is it going to start!” Sophie whines, pulling my attention back. 

“We’re nearly ready,” I say, turning to address her and Petra. “Do you both have your flowers ready?” 

They nod, lifting their baskets brimming with white rose petals. 

“Good. Swithin, Do you have your pillow?” 

“Yes, I’ve got it!” His little voice practically shrieks with pride. Mordelia is standing behind him, eyeing the pillow wearily. She looks like she’s had enough of babysitting the rings while we wait, especially since Swithin insists on holding it despite his inability to stop bouncing on his toes. 

As the humming strings of Kishi Bashi’s rendition of This Must Be the Place drift through the garden, Mary comes around the corner to tell us it’s time. I look up at Fiona, and mouth, are you ready? 

“Yes, yes. Let’s get this show on the road!” She says impatiently, but she winks at the kids, making them giggle. 

Mary ushers the twins first, and they parade out onto the aisle. Sophie hurls fistfuls of petals onto the ground haphazardly, while Petra marches at a painfully slow pace, dropping petals delicately. The guests are enamored by them both. 

Mordelia takes Swithin’s hand next and leads him down the aisle. He gets suddenly shy, gripping her hand fiercely, but she coaxes him down amidst the cooing of the crowd. 

I give Fiona’s hand one last squeeze before I take my leave. “See you on the other side,” I say, and she plants a hasty kiss on my cheek. Ebb takes my arm, and quickly pulls a handkerchief out of her pocket to wipe lipstick from my cheek. For a horrifying moment, I think it may be used, but thankfully it’s dry. I smile at her in gratitude and we make our way together. By the time we’ve made it to the altar, Ebb starts sniveling again. I’m all too happy to take my leave as I stand on the bride’s side and she takes her place next to her brother. 

When the music shifts to a deep, crooning cover of Can’t Help Falling in Love , the guests all rise from their seats. Fiona finally emerges and she looks absolutely breathtaking. I know I just saw her a moment ago, but seeing the look on her face while she only has eyes for Nico, I’m struck by how soft and open she is. The late afternoon sun glows on her dark hair and her red lips open in an enormous smile. She looks happier than I’ve ever seen her. When she finally reaches him, Ebb takes her bouquet so that they can join hands. Nico beams at her, and it feels incredibly intimate watching them take in each other. It’s as if no one else is even here. 

“Dearly beloved,” the officiant starts, and the ceremony begins. 

As I watch and listen I try to stay present and in the moment. Fiona makes promises in her vows to be Nico’s “ride or die” and “the Bonnie to your Clyde” and he in turn promises to “be your rock, even when you drive me fucking mental.” We all laugh at how absurd they are and I really am glad she’s finally found the person who completely gets her. 

But there are other moments throughout the officiant’s address when my thoughts drift to him . 

“One of the greatest gifts of the human experience is the magical and compelling shared impulse to seek each others’ company. To feel deep affection and undying love for another person fulfills us in an all-encompassing way.” 

Simon. With each beat of my heart, I feel his name in my veins. Si-mon, Si-mon. It thumps in my chest. 

“Any of us who has been fortunate enough to find and express the kind of loving devotion that we are celebrating today knows that it is an awesome and beautiful thing.” 

Si-mon. How could I think of anything else? 

“At this time, I would like to share three suggestions for you. One, be constantly grateful for this precious person who has chosen to make a life with you.” 

A memory surfaces. I think about the first time Simon brought up rooming together in a shared a flat. 

“I know you probably don’t need to share a room, like financially,” Simon explained, as he passed me a pint of ice cream with the spoon he had licked clean. I had stared at it, realising it was one of the countless examples that showed how much I loved him. I would never share a spoon with anyone else. And yet this tiny, intimate gesture meant everything coming from him. 

“I’m not that rich,” I lied. “Even my father would balk at the price of renting a single room while I’m still in Uni.” He wouldn’t. But Simon didn’t need to know that. 

“Really?” he said, eyes bright. “So is that a yes?” 

My heart squeezed hearing the hope in his voice. I had to focus on eating the ice cream to keep from blushing furiously. 

“Of course,” I said. 

He took the pint and spoon back from me, wiggling closer under the blanket draped over our laps. I don’t know if I’d ever been happier. 

Si-mon. 

“My second suggestion is this,” the officiant continues. “Be generous, attentive, and helpful. The world can be a tough place and any of us can be subject to rough handling. Each of you can, by your tenderness towards each other, kind words, and thoughtful actions, make your relationship and your home an uplifting refuge.” 

I steal a glance at Simon because I just can’t help myself any longer. He’s watching the ceremony so intently, but when he notices me looking at him he gives me a crooked grin. 

Simon has been nothing but helpful and attentive this whole day. He bought a suit, put aside an entire weekend to accompany me, and has put up with my crazy family (including Fiona, who terrifies him) all for what? I know I’m his closest friend, but his absolute dedication is giving me pause. Tenderness, generosity, attentiveness. Sure, those can describe the actions of a friend, but hearing them described as the attributes of a loving relationship…

“Last, but perhaps most importantly,” the officiant’s words interrupt my thinking. “Make truth the unfailing bedrock of your lives together. A happy, loving relationship is built on trust and respect. That trust and respect can only be sustained if you are both deeply committed to always being open and truthful in every exchange no matter how small.” 

A sinking feeling hits me deep in my gut. I’ve probably been more honest with Simon than with anyone else in my life. And yet I’m keeping a fairly huge secret from him. I can’t say for certain whether Simon feels the same for me, but it’s dawning on me that keeping the truth about my feelings from him is hiding a pretty big part of who I am. 

Tears sting my eyes and I thank heavens I can blame it on the wedding. Rings are exchanged, cheers erupt when a rather hot and heavy kiss is displayed, and I resolve to be truthful tonight with Simon once and for all. 

SIMON

I’m given two servings at dinner. Fillet mignon first (medium rare, buttery mash, absolutely heavenly), then as soon as I finish, a server stealthily swaps in a roast chicken (juicy, glazed carrots, more of that glorious mash). He gives me a little wink when he does so.

Baz frowns next to me as I dig in. 

“What?” I ask. He’s only halfway through his salmon.

“Nothing.” He lowers his gaze to his plate, picking at the roasted baby potatoes.

“Do you want some of the mash? It’s really good.” I hold out a forkful, lifting it to feed him. He eyes it, then me, and there’s a fondness that seeps into his expression. It makes my chest go tight and the hold on my fork waver. 

Baz wraps his hand around my wrist to keep me steady and then leans in to eat the mashed potatoes. My eyes drop to his mouth as I watch him pull off the fork. There’s a bit of melted butter on his bottom lip, giving it a shine. The air’s stuck in my lungs. 

I think, not for the first time today, that I want to kiss him. I always want to, but usually I’m able to stamp down the flare of want with an effective mix of fear and self-preservation. Maybe it’s the gin and tonics from cocktail hour, maybe it’s the way the officiant’s message settled into my chest cavity and fed daydreams of “what-ifs” into my brain, but the typical spiral of risk and failure isn’t present. 

“Eh-hem,” someone clears their throat at our table, but it’s nothing more than white noise. I’m too focused on the idea of kissing Baz. We’re close enough that if I leaned forward, I could.  The way Baz’s been looking at me tonight… is looking at me right now… I really could.

“Eh- hem!”

There’s a bit of movement across the table, but I’m not looking away from Baz for anything.

“Basil, darling, your father is awkwardly trying to get your attention.”

Oh Christ, I forgot Baz’s parents were seated with us. I instantly go red. Hot from head to toe, and it’s that horrifying splotchy blush. I can tell. I drop my head to my plate and give the bits of rosemary on the chicken my undivided attention.

“It’s time for your toast,” Baz’s dad explains, voice light, but I can still feel his eyes on me. I try to become one with the table setting as I hear Baz stand. His hand brushes my elbow as he tucks in his chair. 

There’s a tinkling of silverware on glass and it’s mirrored across the softly lit banquet hall, ringing like countless little chimes. 

“Hello? Can you hear me alright in the back?” 

Two tables down shout a confirmation, and then with a fortifying breath, Baz begins.

“Thank you for joining us as we celebrate the union of my emotionally stunted aunt and her unfortunate partner.”

I snort, finally looking up to see the rest of the guests stuck between awkwardly gaping and confused laughter. Fiona herself is watching on with a wicked grin, Nicodemus at her side is looking rather pleased with himself.

Baz clears his throat. “I’m Basilton, the Man of Honor, and it’s my privilege to open this evening’s toasts.” There’s a sprinkling of golf claps. “When I was six years old, I spent summer holiday at Aunt Fiona’s flat in London. It smelled like cigarettes and marmite, and there was always a record playing too loud on speakers too tiny.” 

It still is that way. I’ve only been there once, but I’ll never forget the way my shirt smelled after. Or the way Baz sang along to The Smiths. It was during second year. Fiona had been out of town and Baz had to pick up a package she was expecting. I came with (I followed him everywhere that year) and we ended up drinking most of her booze while Baz recounted his childhood summers, set to the soundtrack he remembered from his youth.

He’s a good singer. I’m shit at it, but he forced me to anyway and then laughed when I kept drifting off-key. I started doing it on purpose just to hear him laugh more. I’d do almost anything for that sound.

Baz laughs a little to himself now as he admits, “I loved it. It was the first summer since my mother had passed, and after a year of grieving in a quiet house, that summer was exactly what I needed. My aunt was what I needed.” He looks to Fiona, and they share a silent moment before Baz gives her a wide smile. “Loud, unhinged, and fun .” He pauses, his focus drifting to Nicodemus, and he sighs.

“So of course, she’d find her match in you. Nicodemus, you know how to have a good time, even if you’re crass. And reckless. And you don’t shower enough. And you dress like a retired punk turned used car salesman.” 

Fiona looks to Nicodemus like every trait listed is a reason she loves him. That’s what love is, I suppose. Taking each other as you are.

Even Baz isn’t perfect (all the time). He can be mean when he’s scared, he often neglects his own well-being in favor of completing a given task (see this wedding), and he’ll go through a bag of crisps and a pack of cigarettes before he’ll open up about what’s bothering him. We all have our flaws, and Baz’s don’t make him any less loveable. 

He certainly looks perfect now, though, as he takes in the newlyweds with a playful curve to his lips. “You’re a messy, hilarious pair, and I adore one half of you dearly.” Baz raises his glass. “A toast,” he says, turning to the rest of the banquet hall. His eyes find mine and his smile is soft and sweet. He’s looking at me with more than friendly affection as he concludes, “To having fun with the one you love.”

Fiona whoops, Nicodemus laughs, and I stare at Baz, butterflies and possibilities choking me as every other guest lifts their glass to say, “Cheers!”

After dinner, we’re guided through the double doors of the banquet hall and return to the gardens to witness the couple’s first dance. The chairs from the ceremony have been cleared away and in their place is a dance floor surrounded by standing tables. A DJ setup is at one end of the outdoor space and a bar is stationed at the other. Everything glows under a canopy of string lights.

I dance about as well as I sing, but present company hardly seems to mind. Although, they have been demanding I pick up the pace. 

“It’s a slow song, Petra. We’re not supposed to go fast.”

Baz’s little sister looks up at me with disappointed frustration. Her black buckled shoes are resting on top of my brown oxfords as I waddle around the dance floor. Her twin, Sophie, is across the way, dancing in a similar fashion with her big brother. They had latched onto us as soon as the dance floor opened and haven’t given us a break since.

Petra narrows her eyes. “Faster,” she demands and I almost laugh at how much she resembles Baz with that harsh squinty gaze. Naturally, I can’t deny her.

“All right, all right,” I relent, hoisting her up into my arms to give her a twirl. She squeals with glee as I bounce her around to the tune of Time after Time and spot Sophie tugging at Baz, clearly wanting the same treatment.

We gravitate towards each other, meeting in the middle of the dance floor, each swaying with a giggly girl in our arms. Baz blows a raspberry on Sophie’s cheek and he’s so cute with his siblings, I could fucking melt.

After cake (a vanilla sponge and lemon buttercream dream) comes a round of drinks, and then more dancing minus the children. The party playlist is a mix of top forty, old school hip hop, and British alternative hits from the 2000s. In other words, a real crowd-pleaser.

Baz and I are out there, blazers off, sleeves rolled, and ties loose. I let myself touch him. Little brushes. He returns the favor, and every fleeting moment of contact leaves sparks in their wake.

Another drink, more dancing. Baz sings along to Lizzo as he drops down low, and I almost kiss him as he comes back up. I’m close enough, and by the next song, I’m somehow even closer. Baz’s shirt brushes mine and he’s grinning, cheeks flush and eyes heavy-lidded. I wrap an arm around his waist, our hips moving together, and there’s no way friends would dance like this.

The music changes, slowing down, and we sway under the warm glow of string lights. Baz has one of my hands in his. He’s giving me that soft, sweet smile again as his head tilts slightly, and there’s no ignoring what this is.

How long, I wonder, have we felt the same way?

There’s a warm buzz under my skin, a pleasant mix of gin and love. And I think if I don’t get Baz alone to myself soon, I’m going to turn inside out.

That’s when I see it over Baz’s shoulder. 

“Baz.”

“Hm?”

“There’s no line at the photo booth.”

Baz’s head tilts a little more in question. “So?”

“So,” I say, turning us around and taking a small step back in the direction of the booth, “let’s go.”

BAZ

Simon grabs my hand and pulls me to the photo booth, weaving us through a sea of bodies on the dance floor. When we finally reach the corner of the gardens where it’s been set up, I’m surprised to see it’s empty since it’s had a small crowd around it all night. 

Simon looks back at me and smiles widely as he pulls back the curtain and steps into the booth, tugging me in with him. I step in after him, letting the curtain fall closed behind us. There’s clearly not enough room for two grown men in here and the alcohol we’ve both consumed makes us clumsy and giggly. When Simon tries to turn around, he ends up tripping on his own feet (or maybe mine) which causes him to fall hard on his arse on the tiny stool. (Why is there only ever one stool when these booths are obviously meant for more people?)

“Ouch! Fuck!” he curses, then laughs. I start giggling even more until I stumble over his legs and try to catch myself from falling. With one hand on the wall and another on Simon’s shoulder, I hold myself above him, mercifully not completely eating shit. 

I hover there for a moment leaning over him, while I try to keep from getting dizzy. Simon’s head is so close to mine that his curls brush my nose when he looks up at me. My own hair falls in curtains around his face. His eyes find mine for a moment before they travel to my mouth. Instinctively, I look to his as well just as his lips part ever so slightly. My heart starts beating so fiercely that I can feel it in my ears. 

“Sit with me,” he says, voice low. He swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs dramatically. 

Slowly, without letting my eyes leave his face, I lower myself onto his lap. My arms rest on his shoulders, my hands clasped behind his neck. Simon has one arm around my waist and the other on my thigh. 

“Is this okay?” I murmur. 

He nods. “Perfect.” 

He’s right. It is. 

I love you. 

It’s three simple words. I can do this. I can say it. My heart is pounding, and Simon’s arm slowly grips my waist, and still, the words catch in my throat. 

I love you. 

I unclasp my hands and run them down his shoulders and onto his chest. My thumbs rub along the lapels of his jacket. Simon watches me carefully as he takes a deep breath. The hollow of his neck falls into shadow. 

I love you.

Simon cautiously skates his hand along my thigh, moving it all the way to my waist so he can hold me there. Both of his hands find their way under my jacket and I can feel their heat through my shirt. For a moment, I can’t seem to meet his eyes. Not because I’m afraid of what I might see, but because I think it will be too much. 

I love you. 

I finally understand he feels the same. I think he has for a long time. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. Maybe I wanted it so badly that I told myself it wasn’t possible. Or perhaps I’d convinced myself that happy endings weren’t in the cards for me. Or I simply was too scared to jeopardize one of the most important relationships in my life. But we’re here now. And I want this. And I think he does, too. 

I love you. 

I run my hands back up his chest, sliding then along his neck until I’m cupping his cheeks. I finally convince myself to look up at him. The crease between his eyebrows disappears as he closes his eyes. A smile ghosts his lips as he leans into my touch. 

I love you. 

Simon’s breath hitches as my thumb traces his lips. I need to say it before it burns me up from the inside. My lips meet his and I breathe him in. His grip on my waist tightens. Simon’s tongue slides along my lower lip, and I open for him. He licks inside my mouth and he tastes like champagne and buttery mash and something incredibly familiar. He tastes exactly like he smells. He tastes like home. 

I pull back an inch so I can whisper the words on his lips. “I love you.” 

He lets out a shaky exhale and it sounds like a laugh. “I love you so fucking much,” he says. 

Now I’m laughing. And crying. And clutching Simon’s neck for dear life. 

Simon buries his face into the crook of my neck, laughing against my skin. It gives me goosebumps and I never want us to move. I could stay like this for a lifetime. 

The DJ’s voice drifts through the noise of the crowd. “Well, it’s that time folks. All good things must come to an end. It’s time to see the happy couple off and bid them goodnight.”

“I know it’s just a coincidence,” Simon says, “but it kind of feels like your aunt is cock blocking us on purpose.” 

My head falls back as I laugh loud and long. Simon pulls me close and kisses my throat. 

We somehow manage to untangle ourselves and head over to queue up with the rest of the guests. Sparklers are handed out and I’ve stationed myself at the end of the line where I can open the car door for them. It’s a silly gesture. They’re staying at the bed and breakfast on the estate like the rest of us, so they’re merely being driven around to the back, closer to the entrance to their suite. 

Simon twines his fingers in mine as we twirl our sparklers in the night air. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers into my ear. 

I give him a smile that I hope conveys all I’m feeling, but because I never want to hide anything from him again I tell him. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.” 

I only get a brief moment to bask in his glowing smile because the cheers of the crowd make him turn in time to see Fiona and Nico coming down the walkway. When they reach us, I let go of Simon’s hand so I can open the car door for them. Fiona stops to pull me into a hug. 

“Daphne owes me 20 quid,” she says. 

“What?” 

She pulls back glancing between me and Simon. 

“What?” I bluster again. 

“Did I tell you your room only has one bed?” She grins wickedly. “Seems you figured it out just in time.” 

She turns and winks at Simon, whose mouth has practically hit the floor. 

Nico just laughs, as he places a hand on the small of her back and guides her into the car. I can only manage to shake my head as I close the door. 

Simon steps beside me. “I think that was the nicest thing she’s ever said to me.” 

I cover my mouth to suppress a laugh because I simply won’t give Fiona the satisfaction. 

Their car drives away, the sparklers burn out, and the crowd slowly dissipates. Simon winds an arm around my waist. 

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the key card to the room we’ve yet to see. 

“Is this okay with you? That we share a bed?” I ask. “We don’t have to do anything,” I add quickly. “If you don’t want to.” 

Simon reaches forward and grabs the key card out of my hand, then tugs me close by the waist. 

“Um, we’d better do something,” he says, grinning. “I’ve been waiting four years for this. Please don’t tell me I have to wait any longer.”

I shake my head in disbelief, then lean forward to kiss that smug look off his face. 

“Does this mean you're my terrible boyfriend?” I ask. 

He kisses me again slow and deep. “Yes,” he says. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”