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Baz.
Pitches never talk; We learn to know.
No one ever taught me how to tie a tie, make toast, or play polo. I learned by osmosis.
It makes life confusing, sometimes, but with practice, you learn to hear all the things that aren’t being said.
In my family, unspoken words are the majority of the conversation. For every sentence that passes my lips, three more go poetically unsaid. My father and I will someday reach a perfect equilibrium where neither of us will have to speak at all.
So, when my father pulls me aside after dinner to have a talk—I understand exactly what he’s saying.
“Are you in over your head, Basilton?,” my father inquires.
“No,” I answer.
(I’m perfectly capable of spending the rest of my days pining over Snow’s thighs with no outside assistance, thank you very much!)
My father is practically winking. How very unlike him. He usually maintains more composure than this. Perhaps the thought of having the Mage’s heir under his own roof, where he could so easily be threatened or bribed, is going to my father’s head.
He seems to believe that I lured Snow here to trap him. Why else would he be asking after my plans?
“Remember, son. The Families are ready to help if you need…assistance.”
I have no doubt that the Families have a plan of their own. I know everything I need to know about their plan, which is to say: I know nothing at all, except that whatever it is will be horrid.
I try not to curl my lip. Betraying too much emotion wouldn’t do.
“I’m fine.”
(I am most definitely not fine, and a cursory glance at my situation would tell anyone that.)
I nod. He nods. We both nod at each other, content in our mutual predicament of understanding everything and agreeing about nothing. We could sit here nodding at each other all night, like two bobble head dolls, and be none the wiser for it.
This was a good conversation. I, for one, feel enlightened and edified. I think we may have said ten whole sentences to each other.
It’s more of the same with Daphne. I once thought, perhaps, that I wouldn’t need to be quite so delicate with my new stepmother. Fortunately, my father seemed to have clued her into our little game early-on.
Maybe that’s what he saw in her. An inability to talk directly about the problems that are right in front of her.
She made up one of the guest rooms for Simon. The one down the hall from mine. I suppose she was worried about him trying to kill me in my sleep, now that the Anathema doesn’t protect us.
“Shouldn’t I be keeping an eye on him?” I ask. In case he decides to go wandering through the house or rifling through my things. He could find dark objects, or illegal books, or my diary.
She gives me a cool look. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
It probably is. Daphne let him borrow a pair of my old pyjamas and they’re just a little too small on him. It’s nearly impossible to look away. But what Daphne doesn’t suspect won’t hurt her.
“You’re comfortable letting the Mage’s watchdog roam the halls?”
“You were comfortable inviting him into our home, weren’t you?” She puts a hand on my shoulder and the familiarity startles me. We don’t touch in this family, either. “He’s more of your lapdog, if anything.”
Daphne severely overestimates the power I hold over Snow.
“If only. It would make my life far less hard.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “No need to keep up pretences.”
“We’re only roommates.” I wave her off. “If he trusted me that much, you know I would have taken care of him already.”
That seems to be enough to placate her. She knows I’d never turn against this family. But she stops as she turns to leave me in peace.
“If you see him tonight, Basilton,” she says, her voice grave, “be safe. Use protection.”
As if fighting with Snow is the nearest thing on my mind right now.
Malcolm.
Ahhh, youth.
Children are so young and impressionable these days. And they grow up too soon. Just yesterday, young Basilton was toddling around with his toy trucks and his teddy bear, and now look at him: eighteen years old and about to get his cherry popped!
I couldn’t be prouder.
I only wish he would accept some assistance. I realise that the children of today think they know everything, but they’re still just babes in the woods.
These things require delicacy, finesse, and a basic understanding of human anatomy. All of which young Basil is sorely lacking.
We kept encouraging him to get out more, to find a date. (“You need to be prepared. A man in your position must strategize. The Mage is leaving no future for us, beyond what we can seize…”). But somehow, our petitions never took, and he insisted on spending each summer playing Mario Kart and learning the violin. It was getting downright concerning.
But now I think I see the reason why.
Basil wasn’t hopelessly introverted, he was just hopelessly in love.
I try to caution him that he and his paramour should progress slowly. Perhaps ease in with some light necking, or some tonsil hockey, before taking things to the next level.
“Are you in over your head, Basilton?”
“No,” he answers.
He thinks he’s ready to score, the little tyke.
But I’m a concerned father. How do I help my son across this threshold of manhood? How best to guide his first, faltering steps?
Watford doesn’t teach a course on sexual education. And I doubt that our young man learned any specifics from our family library. The Twilight Saga only takes one so far.
He needs guidance. Instruction. Techniques.
It’s at times like these that I feel the need to be more forthright than usual. No need to beat around the bush. Best to face the issue head on. Directly.
“Your mother and I thought you might like to speak to someone about your—situation.”
This demands greater resources than I can muster. It’s time to call for reinforcements. I delicately refer him to a professional. If anyone is equipt to prepare the youth of today for the realities of intimacy, it’s Dolly, our sex therapist.
But Basil won’t accept my suggestion.
“I’m fine.”
Ah well, I’ve said all a father can say. I suppose matters are now out of my hands. Perhaps I’ll have Daphne send up a book on sexual education and a few condoms with his dinner tonight.
I nod.
“Alright, then. Carry on, Basilton.”
Daphne.
Baz is a good kid. Poised. Smart. Accomplished. He takes after his mother, I’m led to believe. And if he’s anything like his mother, he’ll be married off by nineteen to the first incompetent boy who charms his way into his bedroom. (Of course to a boy. It’s a wonder that he thinks we don’t suspect.)
Nothing against Malcolm. But it’s not prudent. And Baz is so young, naive, and inexperienced.
Baz’s friend is just another thing to worry about after an already long day. And I’ve yet to start on any of the wrapping for Christmas. But when I see Malcolm waiting for me in our bedroom, all the stress falls away.
“That was quite the show today, wasn’t it?” Malcolm says, raising an eyebrow, and I know he’s not talking about the ballet we took Sophie and Petra to this morning.
“I’ve seen more elegant dances.” It’s an effort not to laugh. Neither of the boys were exactly subtle. Simon was even easier to read than Baz. I caught him stealing glances at our son no less than three times while Baz was introducing us. You’d think the boy had never seen a pair of jeans before.
“I found it sweet.”
“You’re a romantic.”
“That I am.” I’ve always been far too endeared to that self-satisfied smirk of his.
“Still, it seemed a little premature.” I’m not certain Simon is eighteen. I’m not certain he’s certain of his own age.
“Would you have regretted it?” Malcolm says. “If you were their age?”
He raises an eyebrow. I respond with a tilt of my head.
I don’t know much about being their age and in love. I know a lot about being 29 and falling for a handsome man with a mysterious past and a house to match. One I hadn’t been willing to give the time of day until I realised I was an option.
He narrows his lips slightly and I smooth my hair. (I can’t help it. Not when I’m under his gaze like that.)
He clears his throat. His eyes cut away to a wedding portrait of Tyrannus and Karima Pitch.
I’m sure people had plenty to say about that relationship too.
I shake my head. “You’re right. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
There are footsteps above our bed. Simon must be settling into the guest bedroom above our own.
“I thought they would have snuck in together by now,” Malcolm muses, and I feel a pang of guilt at separating the boys. An entire hallway between them.
I set my jaw. Time to take matters into our own hands.
Malcolm nods. We don’t speak. No need to waste any words. We both know what to do.
“Ooooooh,” he begins to moan as I grab a broom and use it to pound on the ceiling.
Above our heads we hear scuttering, and then a door slam, and the sound of feet pounding down a hallway.
We turn to each other and smile. Mission accomplished.
5 years later.
Simon.
Baz has spent the past five years prepping me on how to deal with his family. From the first (well, second) time I went to his house for Christmas he’s insisted his parents are a pair of uptight pricks who never say what they mean and never mean what they say.
Though that’s never been my experience with them. I’ve seen Malcolm cry over a dozen times. (And I really try to avoid seeing Malcolm whenever possible, so this is a lot proportionally.) And Daphne’s always understood the meaning of sharing a good meal.
But I can’t exactly tell him that.
So I “yes, babe,”-ed and “I hear you babe,”-ed all the way down to Oxford while Baz went on his yearly rant. Because I’m a supportive boyfriend who sometimes says what his boyfriend wants to hear. Sue me.
I’m half expecting Baz to just imply our engagement in conversation and hope that his parents pick up on it. (“Let me handle it, Snow, you don’t understand what it’s like with them,” was not reassuring to hear.)
But when we get there, Baz doesn’t get the chance to say nothing. Malcolm takes one look at Baz and announces, “Finally!” so loudly that at first I think we got here days late. Then I realise he’s staring at Baz’s left hand.
“Finally?” Baz repeats.
“Of course.” Daphne grabs his wrist, pulling the ring up to her face. “Ever since that night your father and I impersonated the wraiths...” She sees our confused looks. “What? You didn’t think the guest bedroom was really haunted by wraiths, did you? How unimaginably rude to put our visitors through that.”
Daphne’s going on about proper Grimm hospitality--Malcolm winks at that phrase--and I swear I’ve never seen Baz flushed pinker.
He doesn’t even have to speak. I know exactly what he’s thinking.