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"How long are you in town?"
"I'm just here for the holidays. I'm usually down at university."
Simon Snow is questioning everything.
How did such a beautiful boy get into his kitchen, first of all? Well, he knows the literal reason—namely, Simon invited him inside. After setting up a date.
But still… how?
"That's amazing, Baz!"
He's smiling, but it's closed-off. Stoic. His knuckles are tight against the countertop.
Which brings him to the second question. Does Baz Pitch hate him? It seems more than likely at this point.
"Are you a freshman?"
"Yes." His eyes are fixed on the window, where flurries of snow are currently descending. Simon stands as the oven's timer dings.
Third question. What can he do to make Baz smile? Like, really smile?
Maybe this will do the trick. He pulls the sheet from the oven and presents it proudly.
"Apple tarts, coming right up!"
A tiny smirk peeks out the corner of his mouth, though Simon seems more excited about it than his date does.
He could've chosen something nicer, like a restaurant or a movie or a casual bowling sesh. In fact, he should've.
It was just… he felt best at his kitchen counter with the Christmas lights twinkling, where he was able to give people good food and warmth and welcome. Why would they go out when he could make something just as delicious?
He carefully picks up a tartlet with his spatula and slides it onto a plate, whisking it across the table with a flourish. The corners of Baz's mouth lift just a little more.
He's so pouty. Simon would hate to be the reason for that pout.
Anxiously dusting his hands off on a towel, Simon sits next to Baz, who is approaching the tart with a fork the way one might approach a panther with a treat. As if the plate would bite him.
Simon tap, tap, taps his fingers against the table. Baz looks up at him, a flash of emotion making a brief appearance in his eyes. "Are you going to eat?"
"Oh!" Simon brings a hand to his face, embarrassed. "Yeah, of course. Silly me. Sorry."
This elicits a soft breath of a laugh from Baz, and the sound lights Simon up like a Christmas tree. Head to toe.
He grabs two tarts and sits down again next to Baz. He's now raising the fork in slow-motion to his mouth.
"Need anything else, honey?"
He flinches, full-body, and Simon winces. "Sorry, sorry! I don't know why I—"
"No," he rasps, giving Simon a little smile. It's still not enough. "No, it just surprised me."
Simon beams at him. "I'm full of surprises."
He rolls his eyes! It doesn't put Simon off, however—it's an almost good-natured look. And it helps that Baz has a nice dusty pink flush over his cheeks.
He finally puts the fork in his mouth and, for a moment, Simon gets to watch his eyes get all dreamy as he tips full-tilt into joy. Then he snaps out of it and scoots back from the table.
"I really should go." His hands are shaking.
"Oh!" Quashing his disappointment, Simon jumps up. "I can give you a ride! Or if you'd prefer a taxi… just let me find my keys…"
"I won't be able to get home if it snows like this for too much longer," he muses as Simon whirlwinds through the kitchen.
"We'll get you home, Baz. Don't worry."
"I—they'll start asking questions."
Simon pauses, breathless. "Who will?"
"My aunt, my stepmother, my father. Everyone will have something to say." Baz shakes his head suddenly. "It's none of your concern."
But Simon's in full-on indignation now. "What do they care? It's not any of their business. You don't even live at home anymore."
"No. But Father pays for uni. And there are still—expectations…"
"Look, I'm calling you a ride. It'll be okay."
"Maybe I could just—would you miss another tart too terribly?"
Simon grins. "Not at all. They're for you!" He whips another tart onto Baz's plate, and Baz looks up at him. It's arresting. He's… his gray eyes are full of something Simon can't name, an emotion that might be sadness or desperation or a wistful something in-between.
They stay like that, interwoven without touching, for a long moment.
"I can't," Baz whispers.
"I know." Simon rounds the table and sits beside him. "You don't have to…"
"Just—could you lend me your comb?"
"Your hair looks great, hon—Baz! I mean, yes, you can keep it. But you don't need it!"
Simon hurries off, flushed. He's messed things up again, hasn't he? And with the prettiest creature he's ever been blessed to interact with?
It's not his choice to make, though. Obviously Baz has more to deal with than a boy making pastries in a shabby kitchen.
When Simon reemerges with the comb, Baz is wringing his hands.
"I'm supposed to leave," he mutters.
"You don't have to. Or, you can! If you want…" Simon breaks off with a choked little sigh as he hands Baz the comb, and…
When their fingers brush…
It's just like they tell you it will be. Sparks and butterflies and the whole production.
"I shouldn't keep you," Baz whispers.
"You're not." Simon sinks into the chair again as Baz picks at his plate. "The most important thing right now is you."
Baz closes his eyes. "They'll ask me questions tomorrow if I stay."
"You don't have to answer them."
"It's so cold out there."
"Do you need a coat?"
"It's just… this evening has been really lovely, Simon, and—"
"Yeah? Yeah!"
"But I don't know what… I can't…"
"Your family should be happy for you," Simon says gently. "And besides, I bet your stepmum would love me."
Baz laughs! A real giggle this time. "She would…" He gazes into space for a moment. "I have to go."
"Text me when you get home, okay?"
He looks back at Simon, his eyes a storm of confusion.
"It's ultimately your choice," Simon murmurs. "I'll be happy with whatever you want. Just tell me."
Baz blinks. "I… I suppose it wouldn't be too terrible if I stayed."
"That would be really nice," Simon says shyly, unable to control his smile.
"And it's freezing out there."
"Oh, so frigid."
He stares up at Simon, eyes overflowing with hope. "I don't want to leave."
"Oh?"
"I mean, there's no point in leaving now."
Simon finally catches on, a laugh bubbling up from his throat. "And I suppose we might have to huddle for warmth…"
Baz's eyes widen. There it is, the smile. Big and bright, showing off his pearly white teeth. "I believe that's inevitable at this point."
Simon leans closer. "You're so beautiful, baby."
His lashes dip. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
"Are you sure?" Simon's heart jackrabbits against his sternum. "I don't want you to feel pressured."
"Simon Snow." He leans halfway out of his chair to rest his head against Simon's, still looking radiant. "I've never been so certain."
"May I kiss you, then?"
A soft puff of breath. He smells like apples and cedar. "You may."
Their lips crash together, and Simon pulls Baz into his arms. They deepen the kiss, pressing closer, their heat intermingling.
"I didn't think I could have this," Baz whispers, hands scrabbling for purchase in his hair.
Simon hums and wraps his arms tighter still around Baz, this beautiful, beautiful boy.
"Baz Pitch…" he murmurs, lips skating over his ear, "you don't have to be cold anymore."