Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

when i first open my eyes, everything hurts.

it is all red. the lights are too bright, the sirens are blaring too loudly, my chest has twisted itself around a knife, something searing and stabbing and killing me from the inside. i must be bleeding in ten different places. it's all shifting too fast.

i am too tired to cry, to grimace, even. i close my eyes again.

-

the second time i open them i am greeted with the buzz of people around me, poking and prodding. taking my blood pressure, maybe?

something slides against my pocket. i hear a beep of a phone call and a vague semblance of a conversation.

i haven't made a phone call in years. i haven't had anyone to call.

a needle slides into me, and my eyes close against my will.

-

they say the third time's the charm, but i wake up and everything still hurts and aches as much as it had before.

i don't open my eyes. it is slightly better than the previous times, though — i'm lying somewhere vaguely soft, the lights are dimmed, and there's a comfortable breathing next to me. i can't tell who it is, but it's calming, it's regular. it's warm.

i try to flex my fingers. or at least control them. my right hand complies, although just barely — it stings, and i relax it almost immediately. but at least i can still move it. my left hand strains against something, then i realise it's in a cast.

i open my eyes.

the ceiling is white, and with some effort i turn my head to look towards the light source, something coming from my right. i find it, immediately — it's a dull screen, some fluctuating graphs and numbers.

the second thing i see is him.

it's fucking baz.

my heart starts pounding. baz is here. baz is next to me. baz is sitting half a metre away from me, golden-hour-sunlight sifting through the windows, perching on him so pristinely — sitting cross-legged in a sofa bed, typing away at his macbook propped in his lap. he doesn't notice me.

his hair falls a little bit into his eyes — it looks as soft as it did when i last saw him, a miracle, honestly — and he runs a hand through it, staring at whatever he's writing in the slightest frustration. his eyes flicker in concentration. his skin looks almost iridescent.

and he's so fucking hot.

i wish i could look away. he's not mine anymore. people don't stare at their exes from five years ago like that.

what is he doing in my — in my —

i'm in a hospital room. i'm in the hospital bed. i must have gotten into an accident.

he's sitting in my hospital room. and it's almost like a movie scene. and i get flashbacks, all of it.

two years of bliss flood back into my memories, of holding him, falling asleep next to him, being held, of sunkissed saturday smiles, getting our first flat, a cat, breakfast in bed, the one-year-anniversary dinner, his gentle laughs, touches, glimmering eyes. his heart . his soul.

i tell myself not to cry. the aching in my chest blends in with the throbbing pain of my left arm and ribcage, and i almost pretend it isn't there.

the monitor starts beeping. baz whips his head up and catches me staring at him. his eyes are bloodshot.

"hey," he says. there's not a hint of emotion on his face, but he looks so, so tired. then a swallow. "snow. you're awake."

i haven't heard his voice since i sobbed at him five years ago to leave.

i try to say "hi", but my throat catches on something and i start choking — i need water — and each cough sends a ripple of agony down my ribs.

he puts down his laptop and comes closer to me, hiding any sentiment on his face whatsoever. "water?"

i manage a nod.  i can't tell what's behind his carefully arranged restraint.

he lays a hand on my shoulder, and my breath hitches slightly. he helps me, almost clumsily — he looks exhausted — into a half-sitting position, with some effort, and as soon as he withdraws his hold i miss it already. then i tell myself i can't.

he pulls the sofa to sit right next to me, and the bed is low enough that if i move my right hand out i can touch his knee. but i don't, and i gratefully accept the cup of water that he gives from my bedside table.

when we're done, he looks at the monitor. its beeping hasn't ceased.

"your heart rate sped up," he says.

of course it has. fucking cardiac event monitors revealing all my feelings.

i give a shrug the best that i can, trying hard not to move my shoulders too much, but a hellish ache agonises my arms anyway, and i wince.

he pats my shoulder lightly and leaves his hand there. "how are you feeling?"

i turn to face him. "what happened?" my voice comes out as a croak.

"got yourself into an accident, haven't you? they called me as your emergency contact." he lays his other palm up. "i'm not sure why."

oh.

since — since the breakup, i haven't had anyone else. i didn't change my emergency contact.

"i'm sorry." i avert my eyes. "guess i forgot to change it on my phone." it's been five years.

he shakes his head. "who is your actual emergency contact? family? friends nearby? you got a partner now?" his voice wavers.

"no one."

baz scrunches his face. "not bunce?"

"no, penny is… in america."

"oh."

"i'm sorry," i say again, to the ceiling.

silence. i'm not sure what to do. he's watching me, i can feel his stare, and it's too much for me to look back at him — i would combust on the spot. i might as well die now, save for the flooding warmth radiating from the spot where his hands rest on my shoulder.

disappointment takes a hold of me when he finally moves his hand away and back into his chair, and i almost reach out to grab it, to beg him to never leave. and then i immediately kick the disappointment out. he's over me. it's over. we're over. we're long over, and look — he's thriving, right now. 

i should stop thinking about him. a bit hard to do that when he's just a few inches away, isn't it?

why did he show up, then, when they called him? when he heard that i was injured?

"it's okay." he says it so quietly i almost miss it.

"take a nap, baz." i slide back down. "you look tired."

"wanted to make sure that you were fine." he yawns.

my heart skips a beat. how long has he been waiting for me to wake up?

when i look over at him again, he's closed his eyes and laid down on the sofa-bed, eyelashes fluttering gently. the golden hour has passed, yet he always manages to look so good, even in this state of fatigue, that it feels like he must be carrying the sun with him.

i am lulled to sleep, soon, by his rhythmic breathing.

-

i dream of sunshines and daisies. that is to say, i dream of him, over and over again. it is a nightmare in which i am constantly escaping, yet the only thing that is chasing me is myself.

in it i am shouting. crying. i am guilty. i am chasing baz, he is chasing me, the shadows are chasing each other and we blend into an indecipherable mess, falling and drowning and pulling each other down into burning pits of heartbreak.

i never deserved him.

i wake up with my throat raw from screaming, and i am almost used to it already, but baz is beside me in an instant.

"it's okay." he's holding me. he's putting his fingers through my hair. he's rubbing gentle circles on the nape of my neck, and he knows it's my favorite spot. and he pulls me towards the edge of the bed, carefully.

it's not okay. i cry into his arms. the miracle is that he lets me.

i'm sorry, i think over and over again. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry.

he lets me go when my breathing calms down, twice as fast as it usually takes, and it's almost more than i can do to not pull him back. but he's not mine to have; not anymore.

why did i throw it away?

"sleep well, snow," he says.

i nod, even though he can't see it.

-

the doctors come in the next morning, the beeping from their tools pulling me out from a dreamless slumber. better than the former nightmare, i suppose. they wheel in a rolling tray filled with various bottles and clipboards and papers.

baz is awake (already?), his laptop up once again. i wonder what he's writing. an essay? a research paper? is he still in school?

"simon snow," one of the doctors say. i nod a confirmation.

i lift myself up, and they tell me about the details. i'd been out for 12 hours since the accident, and baz has been here for almost all of it. i was driving to drop off a bakery order and a car in front swerved suddenly, and mine crashed into it, almost toppling sideways. they got me out.

a broken left arm and fingers, fractured ribs, twisted ankle, internal bleeding, blunt force trauma to the chest. i was in the emergency care for surgeries, and most of the internal bleeding has been patched up.

they say i am lucky that my face is spared, that my neck is whole, that painkillers relief me of whatever the surgeries cannot. i am inclined to agree. at least i'm not a pianist. a baker can vaguely get by with broken fingers, especially in my non-dominant hand.

i pointedly look away from baz through all of this. when the doctors are done giving me a detailed report of my suffering, they turn to him, and i do, too.

"are you his sibling? relative? husband?"

i lose my breath and my heart aches from holding my mind back, away from exploring the fantasies where he could be a husband. if i hadn't broken up with him then. it might be a reality. but he wouldn't be happy.

he avoids my eyes. "no, just a… friend."

"will you be staying here? take care of him when he's discharged?"

i didn't think to imagine a scenario where he leaves. the fear is sudden, gripping me, choking me. baz is back in my life. i want him here. i don't know what i'd do if he plans to leave in a few days. i don't know why i expected him to stay.

"well, he hasn't got anyone else, has he?" his familiar cheek is back. i hear the grin in his voice, even though he's not smiling. "i think i'll be stuck here for a while."

the doctor writes all that down. then there's a tray of pills being brought to my bedside table. baz seems to find it fascinating. i lie my head down as it starts spinning, and that gives me a perfect view of him listening intently as they describe my dosing schedule, and i watch him write it down.

he's only doing this out of pity. because there's no one else here to help me — because i'm all alone. as soon as i'm self-sufficient, he'll be gone.

maybe it'd be better with him out of my life, anyway. he seems to be thriving. i'm glad the past five years have given him relief.

-

when the doctors finally leave, a nurse comes in, with — with food!

"hey dearie!" she's cheerful, and i love anyone who satiates my rumbling stomach. "breakfast time. sandwich or hotdog?"

"do you have scones?" i ask, even though i know she probably doesn't.

she shakes her head no. "not with me currently, but there's a cafeteria at the ground floor. does your boyfriend want to get some for you?"

boyfriend. boyfriend. boyfriend. "he's not my —"

i watch baz's head snap up from the corner of my eye. "yea, i will."

"there's no need!"

he's already halfway out the door when he waves a hand dismissively and leaves without looking back.

i exhale, shakily.

"not your boyfriend, huh?" the nurse says, with a dash of compassion. "could've fooled me, the way he was looking at you. is he single then? straight? what's his name?"

i breathe in sharply. the way he was looking at me? she's wrong. she's heterosexual, after all. she wouldn't be able to tell. at least baz is gay.

"baz," i say. "i'm simon." i don't answer the other questions.

she smiles. "i'm dawn. you sure you don't want the sandwiches?"

i take one. it's cold, and it's egg mayo. i hate egg mayo.

dawn runs out of things to ask me, but she hangs around, for whatever reason. she's cleaning and arranging random things in my room, tucking in a chair, neatening a pile of papers, adjusting the clock.

i inspect the sandwich. i hate the smell of eggs. i hand it back to her. she's surprised.

"i don't feel like eating right now," i lie. she nods and puts the sandwich away.

i hear his familiar footsteps travel back down the hall. it's still graceful and easy, but i hear a sense of urgency in it. the door swings open and baz is holding a bag of food, and fuck, he looks really good.

he looks like he ran, a few small beads of sweat on his forehead, and his hair is slightly messy from the effort. he puts a hand on the doorframe to steady himself, the other hand holding out a plastic bag.

slowly, he moves to drop it on my lap and crosses over to the other side of the room. he plops down on the sofa and stares at the ceiling.

then, as if he realises that i can't really open the plastic bag with one hand, he sits up and turns to help me open them.

"that's so sweet of you," dawn says to him. i hope she stops talking.

i feel a slight sense of satisfaction when he doesn't respond to her.

"well, i'll see you both around, loves." she leans over my bed to lightly touch his arm.

"thanks," he says. i just nod at her.

i release a breath i didn't know i was holding when she finally closes the door behind her. she must've been waiting for baz to come back.

man.

the smell of sour cherries wafts up, and baz has gotten the bag open and taken out a box from within. i realise, again, how he's sitting on the sofa. so close.

"wow, thank you." it's my favorite flavor. he remembers it.

he leans back, scoffing. "it's the only one they had."

sure it is.

i extract my good arm, my right arm, out from under him, a little awkwardly, lightly brushing his chest and struggling to ensure that my heart doesn't burst out of mine. the scones are in a plastic box with a fork. i futilely poke it with the utensil, and it slides out playfully underneath.

baz makes a sound, somewhere between an exasperated sigh and a laugh. then it turns into a cough. "can't even eat by yourself, huh?"

i stick a tongue out at him, and his expression softens into a smile — how long has it been since i last saw his smile? — and i want to trace it with my fingers, to say something to make him laugh more, but i can't think of anything to say. and i want to kiss it until i forget my name. ridiculous. ridiculous. i cannot.

his eyes flit to the monitor next to me, and peripherally i see it too: an uptick in the graph. must be my heart rate. that little fucker.

he takes the fork and carefully breaks the scone into pieces, then feeds it to me, and it's so intimate, so soft. the scones are vaguely dry and depressing, but i barely taste it. the smell of him is overpowering — ash, academia library dust, of cedarwood, soft and sweetly camphoraceous.

i finish the scones. he leaves to wash his hand in the bathroom.

i hear the door open again as he comes out, and a sprinkle of water lands on my face. "hey!"

he flicks more water on my face, and a vague smile appears on his.

"that's not fair! i can't even get out of bed!"

"stay there. it suits you." he brings his hand right up to my hair and shakes as much water onto it as he can.

"fuck you!" i scrunch up my face at him, slightly. he pats my hair almost mockingly, and i wish he would keep his hand there.  and i hope my cheeks aren't turning red.

he cocks his head slightly to the side and his face spreads into a full grin. this arrogant little shit. "good for you, dipfuck."

this banter is too familiar. it's bringing everything back, back to the school days, the roommate days, the lazy mornings and shared dinners.

i don't want to remember. i can't. i turn away, and he settles back down onto his sofa in his cross-legged position, and it makes him seem perfectly composed, like he has everything all together.

good for him. i did, too, before this accident. i'm not sure how i can go back to baking within the next month or two, three, even. it's going to be so hard to do anything with just one hand.

(it's going to be so hard doing anything, now that baz is back in my head again.)

i wonder where my phone is. i should probably let the client know that my butter croissants won't be reaching them anytime soon.

it's on the bedside table. i stretch and pick it up, with some effort, then i think to text some people to let them know that i'm fine, but there's no one to text. i consider texting penny, but she doesn't need to know about it. she has enough to worry about, on her own.

and i am very bored.

"baz." i turn to face him, and the sofa is still right beside the bed so he's right . there. "what are you writing?"

he looks up, his face blank. "not much."

i poke his ankle. "you've been typing away the entire time you've been here. what are you up to?"

"some people are authors, snow." he pulls his leg away, out of my reach. "freelance writing stuff. like adverts or descriptions or video game dialogue."

that's so cool. of course he's a writer. it suits him. i think of him sitting in cafes, sipping on a mug — maybe his favorite pumpkin mocha breve — typing away. that makes sense. i wonder if he writes any stories. or poems. then i try my best to stop thinking about him.

"that's cool," i say.

freelance writer. no wonder he can stay here for as long as he wants. he doesn't have an office or boss to report to. i wonder how long he's planning to stay.

surprisingly, he bends his macbook screen down and props his chin on top of it. "what have you been up to?"

"i'm a baker!" it's my favorite thing to talk about. "i own a small bakery. like, online small business. then i deliver the foods to them." it's been doing really well, recently — i've gotten a handful of bulk orders for parties and weddings, and i've been creating so many new recipes. "and i make recipes and custom orders and things! i was considering making a book out of it at some point, but i don't know how i would."

a flash of emotion crosses his face, and it's gone as fast as it came. he's back to an empty, cold face, but a small smile rests on his lips. "that's nice. sounds like you're enjoying it."

"i am!" though i think i would enjoy it more if he were doing it with me. i can't maintain eye contact with him for too long. "i was delivering an order when the crash happened. no idea how i'll bake with one arm, now."

"you'll manage, snow." he's leaning back into the sofa now, one hand opening his laptop again, and i know the conversation is almost over. "take care of yourself."

take care of yourself.

i don't reply. i lie back down and try to discreetly watch his sharp, fucking sexy jawline as he purses his lips in engrossment.

-

when i wake up again, he's gone. the lights are out. is it midnight? i reach for my phone. it's 7pm.

i wonder where he went. does he go home in the evening? is he having dinner? maybe he has his friends with him. maybe he has another — another boyfriend, maybe he's having a date night, i —

i squeeze my eyes shut. how does he seem to get over me so easily, when i'm still hung up on him, five years later?

i register the smell of pizza. i open my eyes and realise that it's my dinner. it's on my bedside table, and there's a note:

snow:

went to get some stuff. will be back soon. hope you're sleeping well — press the red button to call nurses if you need anything.

—baz @ 5.35pm

it's brief, but it's in his familiar handwriting, his elegant cursive. it's only changed a little. it's lighter, more fleeting, and his dots on his 'i's are almost haphazardly placed, like an afterthought.

i take the letter and put it in my pocket. i'll probably lose it eventually.

there's a fork with the pizza, but after the scones i don't try to use the fork anymore. baz isn't here to help me, anyways. so i tackle the pepperoni slices with my fingers, and it tastes more cardboard than pizza, but it's delicious nonetheless.

i didn't notice i was starving.

i only realise doing that was a mistake after i'm done eating, because my right hand, my only good hand, is now covered in grease and ketchup, and i don't trust my legs enough to bring myself to the sink to wash up. so i hold my right arm out, dangling it over the bed, and hope that baz comes back soon.

i don't want to trouble the nurses. and i'm immensely bored. i lick the remains of the pizza off my fingers as much as i can, sucking off the cheese and oil, taking my time with each because i'd have nothing else to do when this is done.

halfway through i feel a burning gaze on me. i look up, and i fall straight into baz's eyes. leaning against the door frame, again. his eyes are wide. he's watching me. the eye contact is electrifying. it bangs at my heart and i desperately try to keep it out, it reminds me: he's here. he's here. he's here, all the time. it's him.

he immediately looks away and steps forward.

"i'm back." he makes his way around to the sofa again. i realise he's holding a bag, and his ears and neck are tinged slightly pink.

i push down the part of me that's sobbing, shaking, breaking down at not being able to nibble his ears, to hold his face.

"hi," i say, unable to think of anything else. then i remember. "can you help me to the toilet? i need to wash my hand."

he raises an eyebrow. "did you eat with your hands?"

"so what if i did?"

his hair bounces playfully as he shakes his head. i would give anything to run my hands through them. "there's a fork for a reason. it's called not getting your hands dirty, assbag."

but he does come around and helps me up, holding me standing by my shoulders. his strength is still out of this world. i tentatively put some weight on my ankles, and good — i can stand by myself, though it hurts when i attempt to walk with it.

i try not to lean on him more than i need to. but i am not particularly good at self-control, and he's giving all of himself, bracing me against his chest, and i wish i could fall into it and stay there.

not mine anymore. not anymore. stop thinking.

i don't even know if he's still single.

i wash my right hand, and when i struggle to get it clean with just one hand he sighs gently and steps closer to me — and it feels almost like heaven. my back is leaning against his chest, and he's washing my hand, encasing it in both of his, and did the car crash accidentally knock a car engine into my chest? it's pounding so hard. i wonder how he hasn't heard it yet.

and his hands are so soft. just lightly calloused, enveloping mine and rubbing the grease off so gently. i forget how to breathe.

a song lyric drifts lazily across my mind:

heaven is a place on earth with you.

it's his song. it's our song. was. it was one of the songs in our playlist, the one we listened to on errand runs and road trips, the ones we'd sing to each other and laugh over. i never listened to any of the songs after he left.

he even dries off my hand with a towel before helping me back to my bed. of course he does.

i hate that i need his help. it feels so vulnerable, so helpless. if he leaves i'll just be unable to do anything at all. 

it's too early to sleep, considering i've napped so much in the day. i watch as baz goes back to his laptop. does he work on one project at a time, or does he get bored of it and switch things up every once in a while?

i'm impressed by how concentrated he is. if i were to sit in front of a laptop for the entire day i would need to do a cartwheel every hour.

i wonder whether he knows i'm watching him. 

i don't know how long i lay there, facing him as he types, my mind too active to bring me to sleep. it must be an hour, at the very least. his hands keep stopping for long periods of time as he seems to stare at his laptop with his eyes unfocused, then bringing himself back and typing again.

eventually i hear the jingle of the door opening and i look up. dawn is here, pushing another cart of random hospital things. it's 8.30pm.

"hi darlings!" she smiles at us. i know she's aiming it at baz. "time to change your bandages, simon."

i briefly acknowledge her, and baz sits up to watch as she brings out a roll of white gauze. baz helps her remove my blankets, and she starts working at my left leg, slowly pulling out the sheets wrapped around my ankle.

"watch carefully, baz," she says. "you might have to do this for him. or you can always ask me to show you again, if you forget." and then she has the audacity to wink at him.

i wish i could punch her face. it takes all my restraint to hold my arm back.

he watches, and he — he gives her a smile when she winks.

it's taking everything i have to not run off and hide or start crying. i take a deep breath, disguising it under the pain of my ankle. it's okay. it's alright. we're not together. baz can flirt with whoever he wants. baz can date whoever he wants. he doesn't even like girls. what if he does now? whatever. whatever. it's fine.

when dawn finishes with my bandages, she passes the roll of gauze to baz for future usage. i don't miss the way her fingers graze his. i don't miss the slip of paper she passes to him. and i don't miss the way he glances it, then sticks it into his pocket.

two pains. firstly, the car crash. secondly, watching my — my ex? my… crush? i — watching him flirt, or whatever, with someone else.

the second hurts so much more than the first.

she removes my tubes — i'm free! — and she finally leaves. i don't fall asleep for ages. baz thinks i'm asleep when he gently adjusts my blankets to tuck me in and turns off the lights and go to sleep himself. once i hear him stop moving for a good few minutes i open my eyes again.

my eyes slowly get used to the darkness. first i see his silhouette, a few stray strands of hair flying up, illuminated against the moonlight from the window behind him. then i see the rest of his features, and he looks so peaceful. so at ease.

i haven't seen him like this in five years. i've got to stop thinking about the past.

the sofa he's sleeping on is still pulled right up to my bed, and i can reach him if i wanted to. he's sleeping just an arm's length away. and he looks so beautiful, so phenomenal in the moonlight.

and i do it.

i reach a hand out and tuck a stray hair behind his ears. and i linger for longer than i should.

i don't want to pull away.

his breathing is still even. i want to hold him so bad. i want to tell him i'm sorry — agatha told me how i broke his heart, how he couldn't get out of bed for months on an end. i want to tell him i didn't mean it. that i thought it would be for his own good. that i was right.

he seems to be better off without me. i want to tell him i'm sorry for dragging him back into my life again.

i want to beg him to tell me that i was wrong. that he misses me, too. that he also has not given anyone else a go, because he's still so hung up over me as well.

i think about dawn's note in his pocket and i finally draw my hand back. is he bisexual now? what if he's actually straight?

i almost wish i didn't date him before. then i could start anew. then i would have a chance.

i don't deserve his forever. and i mean, i've had enough experience suppressing my feelings. what's another time?

-

i wake up next to him. i wake up to a small ray of sunlight on his lashes, and it's absolutely breathtaking.

i wish i could wake up next to him every day. i wish i could watch him breathe peacefully, gently, i wish i could see him the first thing in the morning. i wish i could tell him that.

i would love him so hard, if he would let me try again. i would take care of him so well. i would never let him go.

the light that skims over his hair makes it look almost silver, almost glittering in the dark. i wish i could run my fingers through it, trace the skittering luminescence down his cheek, but i remember that he is a light sleeper. i'd wake him in the morning.

he's like a radiant beam in the night. my breathing quickens, and i try my best to hold it down. breathe in, breathe out.

his smell is right there, right in my face. i miss that too. he's everywhere, completely encasing all my senses.

his eyelashes flutter and he opens his eyes, and the dreamy, sleepy grey catches me off guard, and i feel my heart skip a beat and pray to all heavens above that it doesn't show on my face. i look away quickly. hopefully he didn't find me staring at him.

"morning," baz mutters, eyes still half-closed. my eyes drag themselves back, and i can't stop looking at the way sleepiness looks on him. not the exhausted tired sleepy. the quiet, hazy, golden sleepy dreaminess of lazy summer afternoons.

"hi," i say. there's nothing else in my head. "did you sleep well?"

he opens one eye in suspicion. "yes?"

he looks so confused that i can't help the laugh coming out of my mouth. "good to know that i didn't wake you up at night." i don't think i had a nightmare.

maybe i wouldn't have nightmares if i slept next to him.

his hair is messy, just-awoken, but even as he's lying down it still falls into his eyes in perfect waves. "did you sleep well?"

the tender tone he uses is so unexpected that i feel another stab of aching through my chest, sucking the air out of my lungs for a second. his gaze darts up, and i don't have to look to know that the heart rate monitor definitely captured that moment of weakness, too.

"yeah, i did."

he nods. his eyes are still open. they're staring at me, the cloudy grey eyes relaxed, and if i don't hold myself carefully i might lose my balance and fall.

the silence stretches. i scramble to reach for something else to talk about. there's so much unsaid between us. eventually he closes his eyes, and i'm afraid that he's going to fall back asleep.

and then he jolts up again. "you should take your meds."

i wince. "i hate swallowing pills." the small tray on the bedside table holds a box of capsules — anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxants, painkillers.

"you need to eat the pills, you absolute nightmare." he's sitting upright now, the container in hand, and a cup of water in the other. "you'd be in pain otherwise."

i pout. absolute nightmare is bringing back memories i tried to hard to forget i had. his words. his names. his 'darling's, 'sweetheart's, 'love's. i wonder whether i'll hear them ever again.

i wonder whether he's used them with his other partners. i wonder whether he's had any. surely he has. he could take his pick of anyone if he wanted to. he's attractive like that.

baz sticks a pink pill up, right up to me, and i stare at it for a second. i hate taking them. but if he's offering like this — if he's going to put it right up to my mouth — i'd do anything. i hope that my cheeks aren't heating up.

my lips lightly graze his finger as i peck it out of them, and then i take the cup from him and try my best to swallow it entirely. i make eye contact with him and he looks away at the walls, at the floor, at his hands. anywhere but me.

i chuckle and let my hand linger for just a little bit as i get the rest of the meds from him and take them one by one. he thinks i've looked away. i know this because he's watching me again, and i know i'll become a pit of forbidden emotions if i catch his eye like that, but i am turning into a whirlpool of yearning anyway, just from the heat of his stare.

i put the box back down, and he smiles. "congrats," he says. "simon snow finally learns to swallow pills."

i punch him, not too hard. "i've always known how to! shut up!"

he dodges my punch, unsuccessfully, and it lands on his arms. he retaliates on my shoulder, and i flinch in pain. his hand relaxes and he lets them lay there. "sorry," he mutters.

"it's alright," i say. it didn't hurt that bad. and it's worth his touch. anything is worth his touch.

"the doctors say that you can be discharged today."

today? i'm not ready for him to leave yet.

"oh."

songs from our playlist keeps popping back into my head and running at the worst possible time. i hear my heart breaking tonight / do you hear it too?

he sounds a little uncomfortable. "will you be fine? do you have… people to look after you?"

i avoid his gaze. i don't have anyone, and he knows that. he knows that i'm pathetic. and very much alone.

"i'll be fine."

he leans forward and places his hand on my cheek, and surely he must feel it heating up. surely he must hear my heart freefalling in my chest. it's about to crash. "come stay at my flat. so i can keep an eye on you."

"no, i'll be fine." i'm not sure why i'm protesting. and if he doesn't remove his hand soon i am going to implode.

"you're gonna trip over and then they'll have to send you back here and then i'll have to come again," baz says, a hint of laughter in his voice. "just… stay with me for a while, until you heal. you can't even walk. someone needs to make sure you're alright."

it's like a summer shower / with every drop of rain singing / i love you i love you i love you —

i think about it. it would kill me inside out. but i would also give anything, anything to spend more time with him.

"okay," i whisper, unwittingly. a pause. and then i manage to say: "thanks."

"anytime." and as suddenly as it came his touch is gone. he's turned around, rummaging through the pile of blankets and pillows on his sofa, and he pulls out a bag. it's the one he brought here yesterday.

"i… also got you a change of clothes." he opens it and passes it to me. "so you'd be more comfortable."

this man.

i take the bag. 

"thank you," i say. i seem to be saying that a lot today. it's an unexpected moment of kindness.

then i stare at the toilet. i'm not sure how i can walk there, or stand inside and change without hurting my ankle more. "um. i'm not sure i can walk."

he blinks in realisation. "right. i'll just… turn around and close my eyes, if that's okay?"

i nod quickly. "yea, okay. thanks."

that's three times within a minute. get a grip on yourself, simon.

baz turns around. the back of his hair is tousled, messy waves rumpled by sleep, but as usual. it looks good on him. everything looks good on him.

i stop staring and carefully pull myself out of thin hospital pyjamas. the clothes he brought me are soft, a baby blue sleeveless knitted sweater and grey pants that match the colours of his eyes. i shove my left hand, in a cast, through the arm holes, and as soon as i pull it over my head i get completely, entirely overwhelmed by the smells of baz.

i can't breathe. i can't think about anything other than him. i close my eyes and put my right arm through. it's really soft. it feels heavenly. it feels almost as good as being in his arms.

it smells like comfort. it smells like home. it smells like baz.

putting on the pants take a little more effort, as i twist my legs around to manoeuvre them without hurting my ankle, and with only one working hand. but i get it in the end, and the pants are a little long, drooping halfway down my feet.

i don't mind. it is comfortable. "i'm done," i announce. "you can turn around."

he scoots around the sofa back to face me, and i watch as his eyes drop down and does a full scan of me, and suddenly i feel too exposed. too vulnerable in front of him. the heart rate monitor is no longer on me, but how can he not see all my feelings, all my thoughts, as if my heart is on my sleeve? how can he not notice the aching in my chest — how pathetically i am pining after him, when i was the one who broke it off?

his eyes return to my face. "does it fit?"

i nod. "the pants are a bit long. but it's comfy."

"got everything you need? you're discharged by 9am today, and—" he glances at the clock nearby — "it's nearly 8.30. let's go to the counter."

i've only got my phone. i don't think i've had much else on me, and i'm glad my phone didn't fall apart in the crash. a bit of a miracle, really.

he carries me gently into the wheelchair, and i marvel at his strength. he must've been training. he's always been this strong, but it's impressive to have the willpower to go at it so consistently. then i watch him pack his stuff into his bag, a cute little blue dragon backpack — it's the childish side of him, the dragon-lover, the side i fall in love with over and over again — and he zips up his macbook inside, together with the meds container and gauze they've given him. or given me, technically.

he slides my wheelchair out the door, and i think i enjoy being on a wheelchair now. i'd enjoy being anywhere if he's with me.

"push me down the hall," i challenge.

"no way."

"i dare you!"

"you're so childish, snow." there's a hint of laughter in his voice.

snow . i think of the times he called me simon . i loved the way it sounds when he says it. it's clear as the first drop of summer rain, clean and sweet. simon . he says it like it's easy. i wonder if i'll ever hear it again.

"you're just scared of the nurse." i am taunting him. i know that always works.

"i'm not, you fuckhead."

"prove it, then!"

he takes a deep breath, and i know i've got him. he rears back. "don't blame me if anything goes wrong."

there's a strong push, and i'm laughing, and the wind is flying through my hair as my wheelchair skids down the hall, and the adrenaline in my chest — it feels like i'm alive again.

he's so powerful. i'm travelling so fast, speeding past ward doors, and the end of the corridor is coming up rapidly.

i have no way to stop myself.

i start to panic as i hold my hand out to brace the impact, to prepare for the concrete wall smashing into my knees, into my head.

i slam into soft arms and fluffy hair instead. my nose is buried in cedarwood and ash.

"ouch," baz says. it sounds like half actual pain and half theatrics.

and i start laughing, giddy with relief.

he looks at me like i've gone out of my mind, until a laugh spews out of his mouth, seemingly uncontrollably, and he collapses into a heap next to my wheelchair.

of course he accidentally pushed so hard i was going to crash. of course he was running alongside the wheelchair to make sure i wouldn't injure myself. of course he stops me from crashing by throwing himself in front of me.

i think i'm in love with him. i think i'm still in love with him. i think i never stopped.

of course i am. well fuck.

-

it must be twenty minutes later when we finally finish our laughing and make it through the crowd to the counter. the administrative staff takes my room number, my name, my injury.

"come back in a month so we can assess the healing," he says. i nod, and i watch baz type it into his phone.

then the attendant hands the bill over for me to sign.

sixty thousand dollars.

i don't know how i'm going to get sixty thousand dollars. i swallow a lump in my throat and sign anyways.

i think baz can tell that i'm nervous, because he gives my shoulder a really light squeeze as soon as the staff lets us go. (i get to keep the wheelchair. i wonder whether i'll need to return it once my ankle heals fully. i hope not. it's comfortable.)

baz pushes me to his car, in the parking lot — a sleek black one, it looks pretty, although i can't really tell the brands apart anyway — and hoists me into the passenger seat. i suppose i'll have to get used to him carrying me around. if i'm staying in his flat for a while. i mean, i can get myself to places if i want to. i still have a good working arm. it's just… i mean. why not when he's right there? when he makes me feel more alive than i have in the past five years with a graze of his fingers?

he packs the wheelchair in the back and slides into the driver's seat next to me. "pick whatever songs you like." he nods at the screen. "just don't play baby shark."

i scowl. "why would i play baby shark? that's so ridiculous."

"exactly something you'd do." he reverses the car out of parking perfectly and speeds off onto the main road.

i scroll through his playlists. there's a couple of artists i remember, that he introduced me to, that was in our playlist — ricky montgomery, taylor swift. and a few i don't recognise, but he seems to listen to them extensively. jvke, for one. topping his charts in terms of replay count.

it's hard to pick one that wouldn't escalate the palpable tension between us. or maybe i should, to see if i can get a reaction out of him.

i queue lover , the album by taylor swift, in shuffle. he almost flinches as death by a thousand cuts comes up first. good for him.

"this better than baby shark?" i ask. the music is soft enough for us to talk comfortably over it.

"yeah, sure."

i look through the windows of this love / even though we boarded them up / chandelier still flickering here 'cause i can't pretend it's okay when it's not.

maybe this wasn't the best album to play. i'll just have to live with it now, i guess.

the hospital bill is still on my mind. i've signed the sixty thousand, it's going to be paid in monthly instalments from my bank account, but i don't know whether i'll have enough to live afterwards.

"baz…" i don't know why i'm asking him. i don't know what he can do about it either. "i don't have sixty thousand dollars. i don't know how i'm going to pay the hospital bills." i pause. "and also for my car damage."

i watch him in the rearview mirror. "you file a lawsuit against them, you twat." then i think he sees the panic on my face, because his expression softens and he adds, "because it's not your fault you're in a car accident, right? you get them to pay. i studied law in school along with creative writing, so i can… help you with it, if you want."

studying law. i can't really imagine that. it sounds so tedious.

"ah… yes, please." the note of relief in my voice must be evident. a smile plays on his lips.

i want to kiss it so bad. i want to kiss him and love him and keep the smile on his face, more radiant than fifty suns combined. i know i can't.

i don't want to risk ruining… whatever this is. he's helping me recover from my injuries. i don't want to take advantage of his kindness, of his hospitality. and — it's true. i've got no one else. i don't know how i would survive if he stopped helping me.

so i hold it back, and i apologise to him, over and over again, in my heart. maybe he'll forgive me. maybe he'll understand.

you said it was a great love / one for the ages / if the story's over, why am i still writing pages?