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“I loved him!”
“Love? I thought you just kinda liked him. Sometimes I wondered if you even tolerated him.” Penelope says, without taking her eyes off the flowers she’s picking for her arrangement. Which is very rude of her, really. Can’t she see that Simon is having a crisis? (Well, he supposes she can’t. Not when she’s buried in buttercups and magnolias and other flowers that are frankly too happy and stable for this moment.)
“Penny, please. I need you to focus.” Simon says, teary-eyed. He waits until she turns around to look at him. “We’re talking serious here.”
Penelope stares at him blankly.
“I’m talking about the sword!”
“Oh.” She says. Then she scrunches her nose. “Your sword was a he?”
“I gave that fucking twat the right finger. It’s the only right thing I did.” Simon raises his middle finger (the one with the truly unfortunate Jeremy tattoo) enthusiastically flipping off as he stares into the distance. “Fuck you, Jeremy.”
“I thought his name was just too long to fit on any other finger.”
Simon is still flipping off the tattooed finger. “Fuck you!”
“How did this even happen?”
“He broke in! He broke up with me, and then he broke in!” Simon shakes his head in disbelief. He’s still flipping off the Jeremy finger, but almost absent-mindedly now. “Motherfucker broke into my flat and stole my sword!”
“Jesus. Have you reported this yet?”
“No. I’m not in the right state of mind, Penny.” He finally lets his hand fall. He’s still shaking his head. “I’m in mourning.”
“We’re doing that after work.” Penelope pauses, frowning like she’s considering something. “How do you know it was him?”
Simon rolls his eyes. “Who else could it be? He kept talking about how he wished he had a sword, too. He taught me how to pick a lock!”
“Well, that sounds pretty incriminating.”
Simon deflates against the counter. He sighs, shoulders sagging. Then he runs his fingers through his hair, messing his curls.
“I’ll never love again,” he swears.
“Really, Simon, that wasn’t lo—oh.” She stops when she sees the look on Simon’s face. “You’re talking about the sword.”
It really was a sword worth mourning for. The thing looked like the kind of weapon a fantasy action hero would have—it made Simon feel like He-Man. It was the one good thing that came out of Davy, the goddamn tosser, and now it’s gone—as if a higher power has determined “not a single good thing shall be associated with Davy, Grand Poobah of Tosser-dom.”
“I hope you learned a lesson here.”
“Yes. I’m never getting another bloody name tattooed.”
“You should have learned that before Agatha…” Penelope doesn’t say that he should have stopped with the name tattoos after his mom (lovely idea, unfortunate result) (besides, she has already told him). If Agatha was here, she would be looking towards the heavens, imploringly, asking questions such as “what the fuck?” and “why am I friends with these people?” Agatha’s not religious, but sometimes a girl just needs answers.
“I just can’t believe it. First bloke I ever date, and he steals my sword,” he huffs. “Can’t believe I ever felt happy that I finally had the courage to kiss a bloke with that fucker.”
“So you wanted to kiss blokes. That’s valid, Simon. Feeling happy because you feel like you can do that now? That’s a good thing. Don’t let the bloke in question take away from that.”
“But the bloke is a sword stealer!” He cries.
“Well, that’s just how it is. You think ‘what a pretty face,’ believing you’re into them, but it turns out to be more of a ‘beggars can’t be choosers' situation.” She’s making air quotes. “Then you actually get to meet them, and they become a punchable face.”
“I would really like to punch him,” Simon murmurs.
“The important thing here is…” She waits until Simon looks at her, giving her his full attention. “You are no beggar, Simon. You don’t have to be. You deserve better than barely tolerable blokes you only kind of like.” She pats his arm, soothingly. “And you definitely deserve better than crazy sword stealers.”
Simon sniffs. “I miss him.”
“The sword?”
“Yeah.”
“It was a good sword…”
Baz’s expression looks like he can’t decide between amusement and disbelief, and has settled somewhere in the middle.
“And it only took me like… a decade or so to realize Penny was right,” he shrugs. “I mean, she usually is.”
Simon is lying in bed with Baz. He’s feeling very content and way too lazy to move. Simon wants to savor this feeling—he knows his stomach will be demanding he gets up for breakfast soon.
“I was reborn when I met you, babe. From the moment I saw you—”
“You mean when you stalked me, hoping to catch me in different states of undress?”
“Exactly.” Simon peeks under the sheets. He nods, approvingly. “Those legs are life-changing.”
Baz clears his throat, cheeks rosy. Simon is still looking down, intently, tongue peeking out. He looks distracted.
“That’s not the only thing that’s life-changing...” Simon trails off (still looking down). “Now there’s a sword I like to hold.”
“Oh my God.” Baz groans, laughing. He swats Simon’s hand away. “No. I can’t let you touch me after that awful—”
“It was a good one. Admit it.”
“Absolutely not.”
With a sudden burst of energy, Simon gets on top of Baz, caging him between his arms. Baz's hands instantly go to Simon’s hips, as if attracted by a magnet. Under Simon’s heated gaze, Baz lets his hands travel over the expanse of his back. He settles them on Simon’s wings. (He knows exactly where they begin and end without having to look. He’s intimately familiar with the location of every single one of Simon’s tattoos). Baz pulls him closer.
“We should be getting up, anyway. Aren’t you hungry? No—don’t answer that.” He amends when Simon starts wiggling his eyebrows.
“Five more minutes?” His voice sounds husky.
Baz pretends to consider it for a moment. Simon drops kisses on his jaw, and Baz pretends it takes great effort to give in. “Fine.”
As if he could deny him.
~
Simon is panting by the time he gets to Baz’s flat.
“Did you run all the way here?” Baz sounds amused.
Simon hands him his flowers—a simple arrangement with baby’s breath and four red roses. He’s often bringing him flowers to both his flat and his tattoo clinic. Simon knows it makes Baz happy, and he likes to make him happy. (Simon more than likes it. It makes him feel fucking ecstatic.)
“Where’s my present?”
Baz gestures towards the kitchen counter. A small, pleased smile illuminates his face.
When Simon sees it, his jaw drops.
“What the fuck.” He feels the impulse to rub his eyes, just to check if they’re working properly. “Is this…”
“Yes.”
“You got me a sword? ” Simon sounds beyond amazed. He looks like he’s about to pass out.
“Take a deep breath, love.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales.
The sword feels great in his hand. Balanced. So much better than he remembers his previous sword feeling. He makes some cutting motions in the air before turning back to Baz, beaming.
Baz is looking at him with barely disguised interest. He’s biting his bottom lip.
“Where did you—How did you—How on earth—”
“I know someone.”
“You know a sword dealer? Is that even a thing?”
Baz shrugs. It’s a very Simon-like gesture. “It’s a client. We made a deal.”
Simon carefully puts the sword on top of the counter again. He walks to Baz and gently holds his face. He kisses him soundly. “You really are the love of my fucking life.”
Baz rolls his eyes, fondly.
“See? I told you tattooing your name over my heart was a good idea. A terrific idea, even. Best idea I’ve ever—”
“Alright—”
“I have never known true love before you—”
“That’s enough flattery,” Baz bites his bottom lip again. He looks like he’s fighting a smile. “Now go play with your new sword.”