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One.
Simon’s roommate won’t stop practicing violin.
“He only does it because he knows it annoys me,” Simon says darkly-- or as darkly as he can when he’s cramming scones into his mouth. “I bet he doesn’t even like violin that much.”
“Is he bad at violin?” says Agatha, who looks mildly disgusted by him but is nice enough not to comment on it.
Simon considers that for a moment. Of course, he doesn’t have much experience with music, but he supposes Baz’s playing does sound sort of nice, sometimes.
“I guess not,” he says. “But I still think he does it just to annoy me.”
Penelope rolls her eyes and says, without looking up from her book, “You think he does everything just to annoy you.”
“That’s because he does,” says Simon. He wants to add that he thinks his roommate may even be evil, but the girls have already moved on to another topic of conversation, so he turns his attention to buttering a few more scones, humming to himself quietly.
It takes him a moment to realize that he’s humming one of Baz’s violin songs. When he does, though, he stops immediately-- but he can’t get the song out of his head.
Stupid Baz.
Two.
The top of the tower is freezing cold.
Simon stands with his back to the stone wall, head bowed against the driving wind, doing his best to stop himself from shivering. He’s so tempted to give in and return to his warm bedroom, but Baz’s violin lesson should be over soon.
He knows Baz is up to something suspicious this year. It’s just a matter of catching him in the act. And in order to catch him in the act, he needs to know where Baz is at all times.
Even if that means standing in the freezing cold and listening to Baz’s violin lesson.
The notes of the song drift through the air, and for a moment Simon imagines them sinking into his skin and warming him up. Baz has improved a lot in the past five years (not that Simon would ever admit that to anyone but Penny) and for a few seconds, he actually does feel warmer, as though the music really is magic.
Then the song ends and the cold returns. He stands up straighter and hopes his ears aren’t painfully red. If they are, Baz will probably tease him mercilessly.
A minute later, Baz emerges from the tower, violin case in hand and a long red scarf draped around his neck.
“You again, Snow?” he drawls, making his way past Simon with his ever-present air of disdain.“You must really enjoy my playing. Either that, or you have a bizarre desire to freeze to death.”
“I do not,” says Simon, following him down the icy tower steps. He nearly slips and falls, but manages to grab onto the railing at the last second. “I just know you’re up to something.”
“Yes, I am,” says Baz. “What I’m up to is playing violin. Don’t you have a girlfriend to make out with, or some other way to occupy your time?”
Simon clenches his hands into fists. Baz has been doing this a lot lately-- throwing out little comments about Agatha, glancing over at her with that smirk on his face, flirting with her. It’s driving Simon crazy, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “Leave Agatha out of this, Baz.”
“Stop following me around and I’ll consider it.” Baz reaches the bottom of the steps and turns to face Simon, smirking. He’s always smirking. Sometimes Simon thinks it’s his only facial expression.
“That’s not-- I don’t-- no,” says Simon, forcing the words out. “I’m not going to stop following you.”
“Fine,” says Baz. “Then I’m not going to leave Wellbelove alone. Have fun freezing to death and listening in on my lessons."
With that, he whirls around and makes his way across the snow. He only turns back to say “And Snow, you might want to bring a hat next time. Your ears look like they’re going to fall off.”
Simon growls.
Three.
Simon stands in the entry hall of Baz’s enormous house, awkwardly trying to brush the mud off of his legs and avoid eye contact with one of Baz’s little sisters, who is staring at him.
In the distance, he can hear the faint sound of Baz’s violin, and the familiar melody is absurdly comforting. It’s a sign of Baz’s presence, and in this large, dark mansion, Baz is the only thing Simon knows he can depend on. (He’s dependably impossible.)
Then the sound of the violin stops, abruptly-- someone’s interrupted Baz mid-song. Simon’s stomach twists. He looks down at the floor.
A minute or two later, he hears the sound of approaching footsteps, and then a familiar voice.
“Snow.”
Simon lifts his head. Baz is standing in the arched entrance of the foyer, his hands in his pockets, and the sight of him sends a wave of relief through Simon’s whole body.
“Baz,” he says.
Thank magic, he thinks.
Four.
The other side of the bed is empty.
Simon’s legs are tangled in Baz’s sheets, and he knows Baz should be right next to him, holding his hand, like he was when Simon fell asleep. When he reaches out, though, the sheets next to him are cold.
Groggily, he sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and recognizes the faint sound drifting in from the other room. Baz’s violin.
He slides out of bed and makes his way into Baz’s living room. Though he’s only spent the night at Baz’s apartment a few times (normally they sleep at him and Penny’s place, even though it drives Penny crazy) but he likes it there. The furnishings are simple but elegant, dark and classy-- very Baz.
And then there’s Baz himself.
He’s standing in front of the fireplace with his violin on his shoulder, playing a gentle melody, his eyes gazing into the flames. His back is to Simon, and he’s so caught up in his playing, Simon doesn’t want to disturb him. Instead, he curls up in one corner of the couch to watch and listen, humming along quietly. It’s one of Baz’s favorite melodies, he knows, and it’s the first one Simon ever heard him play.
When the song is over, Baz carefully sets his instrument down on the table and turns to face Simon.
“Did I wake you up?”
Simon shrugs. He’s not sure what woke him up-- Baz’s playing or Baz’s absence from bed-- but it doesn’t seem to matter. “Do you normally play this late?”
“Sometimes,” says Baz. “When I can’t sleep.” He sits on the edge of the couch and takes Simon’s hand in his. “I can come back to bed, if you like.”
“Will you be able to sleep?” Simon runs his thumb across Baz’s palm. He likes Baz’s hands, strong and slender and gentle all at once.
Baz lifts Simon’s hand with his own and kisses his fingertips, sending little shivers through Simon’s whole body, before he speaks. “Probably not, but I don’t mind.”
“Keep playing, then,” says Simon. He’s almost whispering. It’s so late at night that it feels like the whole world has gone quiet. “I’ll just stay here and listen.”
“I thought you hated violin,” says Baz, raising his eyebrows. “You used to complain about it endlessly.” He’s teasing, but there’s a little hesitance in it, a question.
“Of course I don’t hate it,” says Simon, shaking his head. He’s so sleepy, he can hardly keep his eyes open, but he wants to reassure Baz “I love it. I like watching your hands move… and the way you tilt your head.” He yawns. “I think I always liked it… remember how I used to follow you to your lessons?”
“Of course I remember.” Baz leans over and kisses him, and Simon presses one hand against the back of his boyfriend’s neck, gently holding him in place.
Then Baz pulls back a little and says “I’ll play for a little while longer.”
He stands and picks up his violin, moving it into the right position, and begins a new song. The melody wraps around Simon, like a blanket, like a lullaby. He wants to keep his eyes open so that he can watch Baz play, but the couch is so soft, and his eyes are so heavy…
“Baz?”
“Yes?”
“I love your music,” says Simon. He closes his eyes and yawns again. “And I love your hands… and your couch… and you.”
Everything is warm and soft and the music is all around him, as familiar as his own heartbeat.
The last thing he hears before he falls asleep is Baz’s voice, mingling with the notes of his violin.
“I love you too, Simon Snow.”