Work Text:
“You know I'd marry you if you wanted, right?”
The mattress dips as Simon ungracefully throws himself on the bed next to the huge blanket lump. The lump doesn't answer, just lets out a long, unintelligible groan. Uh. This is not the sound sad Baz makes. (Sad Baz makes no noise at all.)
“I'm sorry, babe,” Simon says, softly. He sits up and bends over his partner's shape to find their face between the blankets. Face that's nowhere to be seen. “I thought you were just feeling the holiday sadness. Migraine?”
The lump moves slightly, and Simon takes it as a yes. He should've seen it coming, but Baz always gets quiet around Christmas, so he assumed that was the problem when they didn't want to get out of bed in the morning.
“All right.” He gets up, his mind running through the practiced steps of How To Take Care Of Baz, but the blanket lump groans again.
“Don't leave.” Baz's voice is rough and weak, and Simon kneels on the floor next to where their head is supposed to be.
“I'll be right back.” He pats Baz's something awkwardly. He's not even sure Baz can feel it from inside their cocoon. “You know I always come back.”
Baz hums, and Simon quickly collects water, meds, a wet washcloth, and Baz's favourite lavender oil. Then he sits again on the bed, his back against the headboard, and shakes Baz's shape gently.
“Get out of there now,” he whispers, starting to tug away one of the blankets. “You know you'll get overheated and only feel worse.”
Baz doesn't help him, but they don't protest as Simon keeps peeling off layers of their cocoon until their sweaty forehead and pained expression appear. Simon brushes their hair behind their ear, his hand lingering on their cheek.
“Do you think you can sit up a little bit? Or put your head in my lap?”
Waiting for an answer, Simon fights to turn on the lamp on his nightstand. The room is dark, but Baz hates being completely without light. That's why Simon bought soft glow lamps and arranged them all around the house — their light is not strong enough to hurt Baz when they have a migraine, but they're good to avoid pitch black rooms. This one is a cute round frog casting a warm green light on the walls.
Baz scoots closer to Simon, bumping their head against his thigh.
“Here, babe,” Simon says, placing the cold cloth on their forehead and trying to tie Baz's hair in a loose ponytail. He contemplates the result, and it's not terrible. Not pretty, but functional enough. “I have your meds here, when you're ready to sit up a bit.”
He keeps a hand on the cloth, the other finding Baz's and tracing mindless patterns on their palm.
“Can we have pizza tonight?” Baz asks after a while, and Simon smiles.
“You sure?”
“Pizza's the only thing that never makes me sick.”
Simon laughs. “I'm so jealous of your Italian genes.” He lifts the cloth and bends to press a kiss to Baz's widow's peak. “Of course I'll order pizza.”
It takes Baz a couple of minutes to be able to sit up enough to swallow their pill and some water. Then they rest their head back down, on Simon's thighs, and look up at him.
Simon finds the lavender oil and pours some drops on his fingers. He massages Baz's temples lightly, and when Baz relaxes into his touch he applies some more pressure, rubbing slow circles on their skin. They spend what might be an hour or an entire week in silence, until Baz turns their head to press a gentle kiss on Simon's palm and tries to sit up.
“Thank you,” they smile, and Simon pulls them closer.
“Better?” he asks. He knows it's not good yet, not so quickly, but he always hopes he can help Baz at least a little.
Baz nods, finding their glasses and slipping them on and then taking them off again with a frown. Simon chuckles. He definitely gets rid of his own glasses when he's overstimulated and just doesn't want to see anymore.
“What was all that about marrying me?” Baz asks, relaxing into Simon's embrace, their head on Simon's shoulder and Simon's arm around them.
“I thought you were sad because of...” Simon gestures between them. “Us, and your father, and the holidays.”
Baz tries to look at him, but they can just glare at Simon's chin. “I could never be sad about us, Simon.”
“I know, just. You know. I'd marry you if it helped.”
Baz snorts, which makes them grimace. “I don't want to get married just because my father doesn't understand our relationship and needs to impose his amatonormative standards on us.” They sniffle. Simon kisses the top of their head.
“I wouldn't mind, Baz. We'd have a nice party, lots of food... We'd get to celebrate the fact that I love you, and that would be enough for me.”
Simon's thought a lot about this. Getting married wouldn't change the nature of their relationship any more than living together and thinking about kids does. If anything, it would make things easier from the world's perspective.
Baz says nothing.
“I already know you're my life partner, putting it on paper wouldn't change it,” Simon adds. “So? Would you consider marrying me?”
“I don't know.” Simon can feel the smile in Baz's words. “But if we ever get married, it won't be to please my father. It will be to give you the best buffet of your life and make my relatives pay for our trip around the world.”
“Sounds good to me,” Simon says, letting his head fall on Baz's.
“Are you already picturing yourself with food from each country on Earth?”
“Of course I am.” Simon finds his phone between the blankets and unlocks it. “Starting with the pizza I'm ordering right now.”
Baz hums contentedly. “Get tiramisu too?”
“I will make you all the tiramisu you want, my love.”
“With extra chocolate?”
“Who do you think I am, a heathen?”
Baz hums again.