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Some nights, he dreams of dark things.
Of times we've long escaped. Of scenarios some mad scientist cooks up in the dream lab, so dark and twisted it makes my stomach ache.
I've seen him. I know what it's like. Sometimes he'll spell me, after much cajoling, to be able to see his dreams. Like little projections against the wall. Sounds and everything.
Dream in color, that's the spell. A riff on the age-old question that somehow every blind person gets asked (the answer is no, by the way.) We learned it from our magickal neighbor, who decided to reclaim the meaning of the spell after one too many frustrated explanations that, no, being blind since birth doesn't miraculously allow you to see while comatose. I'm grateful for her ingenuity, because it's allowed me to help Baz when I've so often been unable to.
It's the past he's trapped in now, and I don't need the spell to tell. He's laying flat and stiff with his hands clawing aimlessly upward, struggling to find purchase. His target happens to be my forearms, since we fell asleep sort of sandwiched, but I don't mind. Maybe the sensation will help bring him back.
For a moment, I think it's worked. His body is free from its imaginary bounds, and he's attempting to sit up, whispering "Simon, please. Please help me. I'm sor—"
His voice is cut off as he falls back against the bed with force. Dream-summoned tears roll down his cheeks as he claws for purchase against my arms again.
"Please," he whispers, "I can't bear it anymore. I won't bother you, we can keep the window open, just come back, don't leave me—"
But the dream-version of me had. The hate Baz thought he'd deserved all those years ago, the boy he believed could never be his… he'd found him in the coffin only to be slammed back into the dark.
The message couldn't be more clear.
With a desperate, weakening spasm, his nails break through my skin just enough to draw blood. Baz goes deathly still, then his eyes fly open.
He looks up at me for a moment, still that boy. Like a cornered animal preparing to be scorned.
"Oh, honey," I whisper.
I know what he needs from me.
I start with his hands, cradling them gently in mine. He loves gentleness, feels safer in its sphere than anything else, even my words. "Oh, my baby." I kiss his fingers and wipe the excess blood away. His nails are ragged.
"Simon?" he whispers. He sounds so small, like he doesn't even know where to begin.
I do.
I kiss his tear-stained cheek. "Love," I say. "My gorgeous Baz."
His eyes flutter shut. "I—I don't—"
"I know. Just sit tight."
It hasn't been bad like this in a long time.
I free him of the blankets that have become more construct than comfort and pause with my arms open.
"Can I hold you?"
He looks up at me with heartbroken disbelief. "What's wrong? Am I dying?"
I wish he wouldn't say things like that. They splinter me. But I also know that to him, the version he is right now, it's the only way I could ever be this soft with him.
"No; thank magic no Baz, you're just lost. It's okay; I'll bring you back."
I trail feather-light fingers over his jaw. He shivers, eyes flitting to the tiny crescent-marks that I now realize are very close to his face.
"Do you… would it make you happy, love? To heal me? You can if you want."
He lets out a star-struck breath. He's just staring into my eyes, looking so in love. It's times like these that I start to wonder—
But no. He loves me and I deserve his love. I deserve to give him these things.
"Could I?" he says reverently.
Without a word, I bring my forearm close to his mouth. Lashes dipping, he ghosts his lips over the indents, lingering just a moment with a soft inhale as his tongue gently traces over the broken skin. He tips back his head and watches as the wounds close.
I can't help but shiver every time, though it's happened so often—he insists on healing me with each paper cut and razor-nick. He knows I dislike being cast on, and this is better for both of us.
"Baz? Can I hug you now?"
He squeezes his eyes shut and a few tears slip down his cheeks. But unlike me at seventeen, Baz doesn't question my kindness. He just nods hopefully.
I pull him close. I wrap my legs around him and bury my face against his chest and warm every square-inch of newly-frigid skin. He shivers and cries a little more and settles against me.
His lids are heavy. As a last touch, I trace the space below his eyes with my fingertips. He whimpers and leans into the touch.
"I love you, Baz," I whisper. "So much. I'm so sorry for how long I didn't."
Tentatively, like it's forbidden—it breaks me to see him like this—he slips a hand into my hair. The other comes to rest beneath my shirt at my lower back.
"Love you," he says, voice muggy with sleep. "I love you, Simon. My Simon."
He almost sounds like himself. I keep it together until he's asleep, then my limbs begin to shake. I don't bother swallowing my tears.
They're so cruel, the tricks his mind plays. I know them because my mind plays equally deceptive ones, if of a different nature.
Still, if I have to re-instill hope in him every night, if I have to kiss him for hours until the light comes back to his eyes, I will. We both take breaks when things become too much. There are other sources we can turn to—we both have therapy, Baz has Dev and Niall, and I have Penny.
But when all it takes is to breathe warmth back into him—or in his case, to ground me with calm—there's no question who we'll call on to bring us back.
…
Hours later, drowsy sunlight slips through our window. Egg-yolk yellow—Baz would chide that even my thoughts are food-centered—and providing just enough warmth not to be harmful for Baz, but to lift both our spirits.
He comes awake slowly, laden-limbed. He likes to pillow his head in the space between my shoulder and neck—it's a perfect Baz-nook, I always say.
"You look tired," he rasps. He can barely form sentences in the mornings.
"Oh, Baz…" I pull him closer. "Love of my life."
He looks up at me as I bury my hands in his curls, gears whirring in overtime as he attempts to understand.
It doesn't seem to be satisfactory enough because that little scowl on his face won't go away.
"Just… got scared." I'm careful to use passive voice—thank you, Uni English class. I don't want him to ever think it's his fault.
He looks down at me with those perfectly pouty eyes. "Nightmare."
"Bad one. You wouldn't come out of it."
"Oh," he whispers. He hides his face in my shoulder again.
I nudge his calf with my toes. "Don't fret. Just… I hate…"
"Likewise," he whispers, always somehow knowing what I'm trying to say.
"You know I'm obsessed with you? Not just that, I adore you. You're the apple in my eye."
"Of your eye, dear, I daresay there's not an entire apple, that'd be quite painful and the dimensions themselves are a nightmare—"
"Gross!"
"You were the one who said it."
"Fine. You're the… butter to my scone."
"Oh, please let me be something else. The sheer volume of the butter you consume disgusts me—"
"Baz!"
"I know what you mean, Sn— Simon. I'm sorry that I forget sometimes."
"It's okay," I whisper, nuzzling into his hair. "I'll never let you forget for long."
"No," he murmurs, pulling me into a tender kiss. "I always remember in the end."