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Chapter Text

Simon sits at the short, wooden table, tapping his fingers against the oaken tabletop. His eyebrows are furrowed with concentration and confusion as he pores over the wedding invitations. The list Agatha has created, printed on creamy white card stock in magenta and decorated with frivolous flourishes, is huge. He's beginning to think she just listed off everyone she could think of. Half of these people he never even spoke to at Watford, most of them he dislikes, some he doesn't even know, and the other part of them are Agatha's family members (seeing as he has none of his own).

"Agatha," he calls. She saunters into the kitchen, looking beautiful as always, with her icy blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and a lovely white sundress flowing just past her knees. They don't live together yet, but he's spent a lot of time at her place over the past few months, and she at his. He's starting to wonder if he really wants the wedding present Dr. Wellbelove has promised he's buying them- a two story house, nothing too intricate, but big enough to have three bedrooms (and Simon knows what extra bedrooms mean.. Extra bedrooms mean children). (Maybe that's why he doesn't want the house).

"What, Simon?" she sighs, obviously exasperated. The wedding planning is taking a toll on her, and she tends to snap at him to stop being ridiculous before any words even leave his mouth lately.

"This list... There's way too many people on here. I don't even know most of these people. Who is..." he squints at the paper, then gives up and points to a long, foreign name. Agatha rolls her eyes.

"That's one of Penny's mom's cousins, Simon."

"Exactly what I'm talking about," he mumbles. "Why are we inviting one of Penny's mom's cousins? I've never met her. I don't believe you've ever met her either. And did you invite everyone from Watford? Because from what I can tell, you literally invited everyone." (Well, one name was missing. Maybe he just hadn't seen it. Maybe he should look again.)

"I invited everyone I thought you'd want there," Agatha murmurs, then pinches the bridge of her nose like she's getting a migraine. She does that a lot when she's talking to Simon.

"Well, frankly, I don't want half of these people there!" Simon's voice is rising now, to an almost-angry level of noise.

"They're our friends, Simon! Our friends and family! And this is our wedding!" A florid blush appears on the apples of Agatha's cheeks.

"They're your friends, your family, and I'm starting to think this is your wedding, too," Simon retorts. Agatha gasps. "I've barely had a say in anything to do with it. I didn't even have a say in the proposal- your father told me how I should do it! Doesn't that seem a bit strange to you?" Agatha pinches her nose harder and shakes her head.

"He just wanted-"

"Well- I- it's- I mean-," (spit it out, Snow), "What about what I want? Doesn't that matter? Of course it doesn't, it never has. I don't want any of these bloody people at the wedding, why is that such a difficult concept for you to understand?" He feels the magic building up in his fingertips as the anger rises to his core and begins to bubble over. He lays his head down on the table, desperate to staunch the flow.

"You make the list, then! Take my list and do whatever the hell you want with it, Simon. It's not like I could stop you," and she storms out, a single tear running down the side of her perfect little ski-slope nose. This has been happening far too much, but Simon chalks it up to the stress of the wedding. A minute goes by, then two, and the horrid magic begins to fade, leaving a numbing sensation in his hands, but no anger. He's all out of anger. The guilt washes over him like a wave, and he begins to drown in it.

He gets up and walks after her, finds her crying on the couch with her head down. He gently places a hand on her shoulder. She jumps a little, but doesn't look up.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled," Simon acquiesces, and she slumps back into of the couch.

"I know. The list... change it how you like. It's not worth getting so worked up about, for either of us." Her eyes are still closed. "Could you get me a tissue?" she asks weakly.

"Of course, love," Simon replies, his voice monotonous and nondescript. (Isn't that what he's supposed to call her? She's his fiancée, for fuck's sake. Of course that's what he's supposed to call her.) His mind is cluttered as he shuffles to the bathroom and opens the cabinet. He rummages through the mounds of beauty products and finds an unopened box of tissues. "Here you go."

She even looks pretty blowing her nose. (Is pretty enough? he wonders, then shakes the thought from his head). "Thanks. I'm headed to bed. I love you," she says, but her eyes aren't bright, and she doesn't smile, and Simon knows she doesn't mean it, so long after he kisses her on the forehead and she goes to bed and he's supposed to be heading over to his rented flat, he's holding his head in his hands, blubbering like an idiot, snot and tears all over his face. Agatha doesn't love him. He doesn't know if he even loves her. He doesn't know if he ever did.

He gropes clumsily for a tissue, and on his way out the door, he sees the list. Looks it over once more.

There's someone missing.

Simon flips open Agatha's laptop and quickly, guiltily (why do I feel guilty about this?), adds a name to the end and hits print. He lays the new copy on the table in place of the old one, smiling at his handiwork. Smiling a bit too fondly.

It wouldn't be right if Baz wasn't there.

*****************************************************

Baz almost never checks his mail. He never gets anything important, anyway. Junk mail. A few bills (very few). The occasional flyer from Watford. Never any personal letters, never anything good since he'd stopped receiving letters from colleges, which was a long while ago (he's still in college part time to become a barrister). (At the top of his class, of course).

So he doesn't know why, on his way home from a rather tense dinner with his family, he gets the sudden urge to look at the mail for the first time in two weeks. But he does, so he checks. Just as he expected. Junk.

Baz clutches the wad of flyers and envelopes and makes his way into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him. He throws the letters onto his coffee table in a pile, then goes to change out of his khakis and button up into some pajamas. One donut and a hot cup of tea later, he sorts through the pile, and gets an unimaginable shock.

An off-white envelope with the words 'Basilton Pitch' on the front, handwritten in familiar, childlike scrawl.

A letter from Simon Snow.

Baz drops the envelope to the floors in shock, and stares at it. Simon? It's been five years since he's even spoken to Simon, and the last thing he said to him (if his memory serves him well, and it always does, sometimes to his detriment) was 'Fuck off, Snow'. (It was easier than goodbye, and far less suspicious).

Blinking, dazed, Baz crouches down and lifts the letter off the floor, holding it at an arm's length, as if it's a wild animal, and might have the disposition to bite. For a moment he considers tossing it in the trash (He doesn't deserve another moment of your time, he thinks). (That's a lie and you know it, he thinks again). Baz tears open the letter, ravenous with curiosity, and then, his entire world stops.

'You are cordially invited to the matrimony of Simon Snow and Agatha Wellbelove'.

Snow is getting married? (Well, they didn't waste a second with that). He knew it would come one day, and he figured he'd see the pictures on the Internet and maybe in the paper, but he never dreamed he'd be invited to the wedding. Who's bloody idea was this? Neither of them even liked him! Baz lets out a short, sarcastic laugh. And then the tears start coming.

He's crying so fast that it surprises him when the sobs unleash from his throat, and he grips his head, winds his fingers in his long, unkempt hair, and slides down the kitchen wall as the world closes in for a few minutes.

He's going to the wedding.

Chapter Text

The telephone rings in Simon's flat for the first time in a long time. Agatha only calls his cell phone, and he and Penny normally just Skype. Simon didn't even bring the house phone when he moved in- it came with the flat. He doesn't give out the number. (He doesn't even know the number. It's written on a sticky note somewhere in the desk drawer where he keeps his letters and paperwork). So who could be calling?

Simon answers the phone suspiciously (maybe it's the landlord?). "Hello? Simon speaking." He sounds harsh and formal, and he cringes at the sound of his own voice.

Another male voice, deeper and huskier than his own, comes from the other end. "Yes, I'm just calling to RSVP for the wedding? I, um, I received-"

"Baz?" Simon interrupts. "But Agatha just sent out the invitations yesterday. How did you get yours already? It's been like... Not even twenty four hours."

"Crowley, Snow, I live half a mile away from you. I honestly don't know why you didn't just drop the invitation off personally." He's sinking back into his old ways, sneering at Simon in a pompous, superior way that he doesn't mean at all. Then softly, almost apologetic, "I honestly don't know why you even invited me."

"I invited you because... Well... Because..." Simon's voice trails off. Because it kills me that we left things the way we did. Because I don't know if I can do this. Because I have so much more I want to say that I know I never will. Because I don't know if I can stand not seeing your face for another year. "Because we were roommates for eight years. You know me better than lots of people.. Even if you don't like what you know."

But I do! So much it hurts. Baz protests silently, but he bites his tongue (not literally of course, his teeth- his fangs -are so sharp that he'd probably start to bleed if he did). "After our last conversation, I didn't think we'd ever speak again."

"Me nei-" Simon begins, but then stops. "Wait, you live half a mile away?"

Baz sighs. Of course Snow doesn't know where he lives. Snow probably doesn't even know if Baz is still in London or not. Which he is. And that makes perfect sense, because Baz is always on the lookout for Simon, and he rarely spots him (they don't go to a lot of the same places) but when he does, he avoids him like the plague. Because who knows what would happen if he didn't? Nothing good.

"Have for the past three years."

"Why haven't I seen you around, then?" Simon asks, a note of suspicion in his voice.

"Think about that for a second, Snow. Do you imagine that it'd be terribly pleasant if we saw each other again?" The words are bitter, but Baz's voice is soft and raspy and sickeningly sweet, and Simon wants nothing more than to hear it again. His voice is melted caramel, smooth and delicious, it's the scent of cherry blossoms carried in on a warm summer breeze, it's the relief of sleep after a long day. It's music, angsty romance ballads and soft classical string quartets and gentle lullabies.

"Snow? Did you die?"

"Wha-" Simon snaps out of it. (What was that?) "You wish," he snickers, but on the inside, he's unnerved. He shouldn't be thinking about Baz like that- or anyone like that. He's engaged to be married!

"Would make things a little easier on me," Baz laughs back casually, then clicks his tongue and drums his fingers against his leg. This is getting awkward. "Well, I just called to say-"

But some part of Simon can't let him off the phone. Because he knows that if he does, that's it. The end. He doesn't get another chance (another chance at being friends with Baz, of course. Just friends). And before he can think, he's speaking, so fast that his words are catching in his throat and he can't get enough air and his brain hasn't quite processed what's coming out of his mouth but it's coming and it's clear that there's no stopping it. "Wait, Baz, please, I- it's just- it's just that I really kind of wanted to see you.. Not in a weird way but I thought that would maybe be a good idea because I just missed you a lot and I want to apologize for a lot of things and I have a lot of stuff that needs apologizing for and even more stuff that I just want to say and- and- and.... Would you maybe like to see each other sometime before the..." (and he can barely choke out the word) "before the wedding?"

For a few moments, the only sound on the other end is Baz's breathing. Slow. Calm. (Baz is not calm). (Just very good at pretending). "Simon? Did you just say you've missed me?" And he giggles, but not lightheartedly.

"N-no, I.. That's not what I... I mean.. Agatha." (Like that explained anything. It was barely even English). "But, I just thought, you know, that maybe we could get together and talk and make up some lost time."

"Sure, Snow. How does tomorrow at eleven sound? I can pick you up," Baz replies, trying hard not to show his shock or his enthusiasm. Where did this come from? He can't get too excited though, in fact he shouldn't be excited at all. Simon is straight, after all, and he isn't single. Far from it.

"You called me Simon before," Simon breathes into the phone, his voice thick with barely concealed longing that he didn't even know he was capable of until this moment.

"No, I didn't. Tomorrow at eleven? Where should I pick you up?"

"Yes."

"That's not much of an answer."

"I'll meet you at the coffee house, you know, the little indie one over by the used bookshop? But on one condition," Simon grins to himself.

"Ye-es?" Baz inquires, reluctant to hear the answer.

"Admit you called me Simon."

"But.. But I didn't," Baz denies.

"Fine then. Be that way." A pause. A long pause.

"Wait!"

Silence. Then, a sigh.

"Simon?"

"I'll see you at eleven." And for some reason, Simon is blushing.

Chapter Text

Baz sleeps like shit that night. He tosses and turns, replaying the events of his conversation with Simon over and over until it drives him mad and he's convinced it never happened, only to convince himself it did once again. He even tries sleeping spells, to no avail (he's never been good at sleeping spells). So when his alarm rings, three sharp, high pitched beeps, he hates it with every fiber of his being. He throws it across the room, just to shut it up. Maybe it shatters, he doesn't know, he doesn't check, because he's going to lunch with Simon in two hours, and that's all that he cares about right now.

********************************************************************************************

AGATHA: hey

SIMON: hey

AGATHA: ru stopping by the house today??

SIMON: no i have plans, sorry

AGATHA: oh

SIMON: dont be mad, love

SIMON: i'll be by tomorrow, i promise

AGATHA: i gtg, luv you

SIMON: ❤️

Simon sets down the phone and glances in the mirror one last time. Same as last time (same as always)- tousled curls, big blue eyes, dozens of moles, a nice pair of rather tight-fitting jeans and a pale blue t-shirt. Sneakers on his feet. It's 10:30, and the coffee house is a bit of a drive, and he wants to get there a few minutes early, so he grabs his keys and heads out.

The drive is tedious (he really hates driving) but the end result is tantalizing, so he goes as fast as he can below the speed limit and doesn't let himself thing about Baz. Doesn't let himself think about how silky and dark his hair is, and how sometimes he runs his hands through it and bites his bottom lip when he's thinking, or how when he gets tired his voice gets so low and throaty and he has to strain to hear, but he always wants to listen... (Stop it. What the hell is going on?)

He pulls into the car park of the shop and takes a moment to admire it. It's a quaint little place, with good coffee, and they serve cherry scones, which automatically endears it to Simon. (They aren't as good at the scones at Watford, but that's okay). He checks his reflection one more time (Is there something in my teeth?), then steps out of the car and starts for the door.

***************************************************************************************

Baz takes a sharp breath when he sees through the coffee house window. There he is. Perfect, as always. Radiant as the sun. Looking damn fine in that t-shirt too (It's a v-neck. A fucking v-neck). His curls are messy in an cute, effortless way, and he has his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans (Baz is gaining more appreciation for a well-fitting pair of jeans). Simon enters the shop, breezy as always, and immediately catches Baz's eye. He flashes Baz a stunning smile, and Baz remembers how much he misses that smile.

Even for a meeting at a coffee shop, Baz is dressed up too formally, in what could be considered a dress shirt (a white polo) and black dress pants. He always looks so collected, so professional, so confident. Simon walks up to him slowly, hesitantly.

And all of a sudden, he's a mere few feet away, closer than he's been in five years, and he's opening his mouth, but the words aren't coming out. (Words have never been Simon's strong suit, Baz thinks).

The entire situation is so pathetic, with Snow just standing there, mouth agape, teeth glinting, lips... Well, Baz doesn't want to think about his lips. (Actually, he really, really does.) (That's why he tries not to). It's so heartwrenchingly awkward that Baz has to interject. "Snow," he nods at the golden haired boy formally. Simon swallows, nervous.

"Pitch." Baz suppresses a giggle, but not very well, and Simon immediately regrets the decision to use his last name. A blush rises to his cheeks. Baz can't help but notice how attractive the rosiness is on his bronze complexion.

"Since when do you call me Pitch?" Baz allows himself a slight chuckle, much to Simon's dismay.

"I don't know, it's just... I mean... I'm a little.. Well more than a little..."

"Come on, Snow, we don't have all day here."

"I'm just a bit nervous is all," Simon admits, looking up at Baz with a shy smile. That fucking smile.

"Now why would that be?" Baz teases and raises an eyebrow, shocked at his own actions. He can't be flirting with Snow. That's wrong. But Simon doesn't flinch. He also doesn't seem to notice the flirting. He just looks.. Sad.

"I'm not really sure," Simon says quietly, and shifts his eyes towards the floor. When he lifts his head, Baz is staring intently at him. They lock eyes for a few moments, both a little confused and a little scared, and then Baz smirks.

"Let's get some coffee."

The cashier is a petite girl who looks at them, a bit shocked. "So Simon, you finally brought him along, eh?" She asks with a hundred-watt smile. Baz feigns boredom. (He's talked about me?).

"Wha- Ruby, what are you talking about?" Ruby is Simon's favorite cashier here (she always gives him a scone, on the house, when she can sneak it by her coworkers).

"Your fiancé. I never thought I'd get to meet him. You never talk about him, you know."

"I never even told you I was engaged! And what makes you thi-"

"Why else would you be wearing the ring, silly? That's how I knew. I always thought it was a bit strange how you never mentioned anything about it. I guess I get it now.. You never know who might be a little judgmental."

"I- Baz isn't-"

"So what can I get for you two lovely gentleman?" Ruby grins so hard her eyes practically disappear. "The usual for you, Simon?"

"Yeah, but listen, Ruby, Baz isn't.. We're not.. I'm engaged to Agatha Wellbelove." Ruby's grin falters, and confusion clouds her face.

"For how long? I've never seen you two together. I know Agatha, we have horses at the same stable. But she's never mentioned you, and you've never even mentioned anything about.. Anything."

"We've been together for years. Why does no one ever know that?" Simon is beginning to get flustered. Baz lays a hand gingerly on his arm, and it has an instant calming effect that even Simon himself isn't expecting.

Ruby glances pointedly at Baz's hand resting on Simon's bare arm, and Baz removes it. "Whoa, it's no big deal. You two just have a natural chemistry is all. You'd make a cute couple. Now, Baz," she says, putting devilish emphasis on his name. Simon's cheeks become hotter. "what can I get you to drink?"

"Coffee. Black." Simon looks at him incredulously, and laughs a bit.

"Black coffee? That's like, the scourge of coffees. Who in their right mind goes to a cute little coffee place and orders a black coffee? Honestly, Baz, at least get a cappuccino or something. Milk?" Baz shakes his head, trying hard not to smile. "What about some sugar?" Another shake, a small smirk. Simon pushes playfully into his side, and Baz stiffens at his touch, but doesn't shy away. "How about some flavoured creamer? No? You know what, I'm just going to order for you." Now Baz is looking rather pleased, a small but bright smile on his face.

"Okay then Snow, what am I having?"

"He'll take..." Simon scans the specials printed on the countertop. "A mocha espresso with whipped cream." Baz groans a bit. "What?"

"It's just that that's so... Sweet."

"C'mon, you're bitter enough without black fucking coffee to top it off. Indulge a little." And Simon's eyes are dancing. And he's never felt this way before with anyone, especially not with Agatha.

Like hell they're not a couple, Ruby thinks, but rings up the order without saying a word.

Baz pays ("It's on me", he insists, even after Simon requests four cherry scones, then refuses to share) and the two sit down at a little corner booth by the window.

"So.." Simon starts, but trails off. The silence is permeating his brain, and Baz's eyes are so deep, so intense, so easy to get lost in.

"What are you staring at, Snow?" Baz asks with thinly veiled irritation.

"Nothing," Simon lies. "Just thinking. It's been a long time."

"You haven't changed a bit," Baz notes, stirring his mocha espresso (Aleister Crowley, Snow, whipped cream? Do I look like the whipped cream type to you?)

"Neither have you. Still a prat," Simon retorts, a mischievous look in his eye. He glances up at Baz through his thick, dark eyelashes (why does he have to be so pretty? Baz grumbles to himself).

"And you're still a pretentious, oblivious, scone-obsessed mongrel, but I decided not to mention that part. Common courtesy and all." Simon begins to retaliate, but Baz continues. "Not to mention you eat like you haven't seen food in years. How does one down two and a half scones in five minutes? There's crumbs all over your shirt. Speaking of your shirt, did a blind man pick it out? Really, Snow, a v-neck? I expected better of you." (Baz loves Simon's v-neck. He loves that he can see the outline of his collar bones and that there's a tiny mole right on the hollow of his throat that he wants so badly to kiss). (Obviously, he doesn't say any of that). By now they're both clutching their stomachs, laughing so hard tears prick at their eyes, wondering how long it's been since they laughed this hard, realizing that it's been a very, very long time.

Chapter Text

The home phone rings for the fifth time today (it's been doing that a lot lately). Sometimes it's someone calling to RSVP for the wedding. Simon has no idea why Agatha put his number on the invitations, and he really wishes she hadn't.

But sometimes it's Baz. And that? That Simon loves.

Simon picks up the phone. He takes a breath, but before he can begin to speak, Baz interjects on the other end.

"Wanna have some fun?" Simon can hear the smile in his voice.

"That sounds dangerous and awful already. I'm in." Simon starts pulling a sweatshirt over his head before Baz says another word. "I'll be waiting outside."

***************************************************

"Have you ever been to the fair, Simon?" It's the first thing Baz has said to him the entire trip, and they've been in the car ten minutes.

"I love it when you call me that," Simon whispers. Baz laughs, but it comes out a little strangled and a little wrong. Because it's not funny when Simon says things like that. It hurts. Because it's a little taste of what Baz spent all those years avoiding. Why he acted like he hated Simon. It's a little too close. And now, with two weeks until the wedding, the days when he can have his little taste of heaven are dwindling, and that makes it hurt even more, because why would Snow choose now to reconcile his relationship with Baz? (He did it because he was scared and because the wedding was looming in the future and because he didn't know how to deal with his feelings. But neither of them knew that. Not really).

"So, have you? Been to the fair?"

"No. But I saw pictures of it in a lot of the books they had at the homes I stayed at during the summer." His voice takes on a slightly painful quality. "I've always wanted to ride on a Ferris wheel. When I was little, after I saw one on the telly, I used to imagine how it felt to be up that high. Above everything and everyone. In control." Baz removes one hand from the steering wheel and rests it gently on Simon's hand, which is laying on the console between them.

Simon gasps quietly, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he turns his hand and interlocks his fingers with Baz's. Because even if in two weeks, they can't have any of this, right now, they have everything. And that's what matters.

"We can go on the Ferris wheel if you like."

******************************************************

They pull into a huge dirt car park. It takes them fifteen minutes to find a good parking spot, and another five minutes to walk to the actual fairgrounds. Simon stares in awe at all of the people around him- he's never been anywhere with this many people. And then the fair comes into view.

It's just now dusk, and a patchy violet has begun to dust over the sky. It's light enough that they don't need the lights of the fair to see, but dark enough that they've just been switched on, and Simon is astonished by all the bright, neon colors and the sparkling signs. "What's this? What's that?" He asks Baz in a childlike stupor, eyes wide and bluer than ever and full of innocent wonder. Baz takes a deep breath and reaches for his hand again, and holds it so gently that Simon isn't sure if it's really happening until he feels the discrete stares coming from all directions. Heat rises to the back of his neck and his cheeks, turning his face blotchy and red. But he doesn't let go. He merely clutches tighter and stares defiantly back at the people who look a little too long, with an expression on his blushing face that screams "This is who I am. I'm alive. I'm on fire. And there's nothing anyone can do about it."

"Where to first?" Baz barely manages to squeak out, shocked by Simon's willingness to hold his hand in public, and shocked by the lively determination he sees in the lines of his face. Simon looks up at Baz, fiery blue eyes burning into cool grey ones, and then laughs an adorable, high pitched, tinkling laugh. "Can we go on the Ferris wheel? I see it right there."

"Of course we can go on the Ferris wheel, Snow. Isn't that what you wanted to do in the first place?"

"Yeah, but there's a long line, and I didn't know if you'd want to wait."

"For you, Simon?" Baz whispers. "I'd wait forever."

Simon blushes so red he's practically purple, and leans into Baz's side. Baz wraps his arm around Simon's shoulders. He makes me feel so small, Simon thinks. But so safe.

They walk in silence until they reach the line to the Ferris wheel, Simon tangled in Baz's arms, trying not to think about how good, how right the weight of his arm feels swung around him. Simon gets up on his tiptoes, puts his mouth close to Baz's ear like he's going to brush a soft kiss onto his cheek, and says, so quietly Baz almost can't hear it (even with his magical vampire hearing shit), "This is so wrong, you know."

"Why? Why is it wrong?" Baz demands, suddenly defensive. "Because I'm a guy, and you're a guy? Why the bloody hell does that make anything wrong?"

"No, no, that's not it," Simon counters, pulling away. "It's just that.. Well... Agatha."

"Fuck Agatha," Baz spits in disgust. "Or rather, don't. Don't ever. Because you know you don't want to, and I know you don't want to, and she probably doesn't want to either."

"I know. But I took off my ring today when I came out to the car to meet you. And it didn't strike me until now how immensely wrong that was."

"Simon, are you straight?"

"I- I really don't know. I thought I was. But then again, I never really thought about it. I've never had much of a choice in anything. I was expected to go to Watford, I was expected to defeat the Humdrum, and I'm expected to marry Agatha." The line is slowly shifting forward, and Simon shuffles up as he talks. "Baz, I don't know if I want to get married. I've never had the chance to think about what I want or what I don't. I just do as people think I should, and that's a little bit wrong, too." Four people in line before them. "You know, Agatha and I have never done anything but kiss. And we've been together for more than long enough. And when we kiss, it feels like just a routine. I think kissing may be overrated." (Baz really doesn't want to get started thinking about Snow and kissing in the same context, but he nods his head thoughtfully like he isn't imagining slamming Snow up against a wall and tearing his shirt off). Two people. "I don't know if I've ever really felt anything with Agatha. She's so beautiful. Shouldn't that make me feel something? And she's so smart, and funny, and she's just such a lovely person. Shouldn't I feel something? Baz, shouldn't I?" Simon is pleading now, begging Baz to validate his feelings.

"You should feel something," Baz agrees in a gravelly voice. It's their turn. They climb into the seat together and Baz watches as the fear and worry slowly melts from Simon's eyes and is replaced with fascination as they're lifted higher, higher, into the clouds. It's quite dark now, and they can see the stars twinkling above them as they rise. Baz grabs both of Simon's hands in his and lays them on his lap.

"Baz?"

"Simon?"

"I feel something."

Chapter Text

The ride lurches to a violent stop right as Baz and Simon reach the top. All the blood drains from Simon's face and he lets go of Baz's hands, gripping the edge of the cart until knuckles of his broad, red hands turn white. "What was that?"

"Don't worry," Baz assures Simon with a security he doesn't feel. His voice has a barely detectable edge of nerves. "That's supposed to happen. They're.. Letting people off at the bottom." He smiles, but Simon notices something off. Baz smiles with his eyes more than his mouth, and his eyes look wrong.

"You're lying, aren't you? What's going on?" The lights around the fair begin to flicker. It's dark now, pitch dark, the sun a long forgotten occurrence dropped deep over the horizon. With the lights out now, Simon has to strain to see Baz a foot from his face. "I'm scared, Baz." He sounds like a toddler. I'm scared, Mommy, will you hold my hand? He leans closer to Baz, burying his face into his chest, taking a deep breath. Is he wearing cologne? "You smell nice," he remarks, still with a juvenile fear creeping just under the seams.

"Thanks," Baz chuckles. "Here, does this make you feel any better?" He lights a small fire in the palm of his hand, the flames blue and dancing. The tiny light reflects off Simon's eyes. Blue shadows make Simon look thinner than he is, make his eyes whiter and bigger, enhance the circles underneath them from lack of sleep and the slightly gaunt quality of his cheeks. It's only then that Baz notices- Simon really hasn't been well. He holds him a bit tighter.

A tinny voice comes on over some sort of intercom. "Attention all visitors. There has been a power malfunction throughout the entire park. If you're currently on a stopped ride, do not panic. We're working on restoring the power, but until then, please be patient. Everything should be in working order in about a half hour. Thank you."

Simon breathes a sigh of relief and slumps further into Baz's chest. "You make me feel safe," he mumbles, mouth pressed to his neck, sending chills down Baz spine. Simon looks up at Baz. "How were we ever enemies?"

"Maybe because... I think we were both scared. I know I was. I still am. And I'll admit, I don't know what to do with you. Crowley, Snow, you're getting married in two weeks." The words fail to even start to express what Baz feels, and he stops talking.

"Call me Simon."

"Simon."

"Baz." His voice is desperate, desolate now. Pleading.

"Simon." Soft. Gentle. Baz places his cold palm on Simon's cheek, the other hand hovering behind his head, with the fragile blue flame licking dangerously close to his curls. "Make a wish," Baz breathes, voice laced with lust and magic. The flame disappears and all is dark again. They're nose to nose now, and Baz can taste Simon's breath, sweet and a little stale, with a hint of peppermint.

"Baz," Simon begs, barely audible, then leans forward. He hesitates a moment, then presses his lips to Baz's. Timid.

Then, when Baz moves into him, kissing him back... Not so timid anymore. Simon grabs at the back of Baz's neck, pulling him in closer, and winds his fingers into Baz's silky, night-black hair, closing his eyes and feeling the rhythm and movement of Baz's lips on his own. I'm kissing a bloke, he thinks briefly, but all thoughts fly from his mind when Baz gently bites at Simon's bottom lip. Simon makes a noise that's practically a whimper (Morgana, he drives me crazy, Baz thinks) and scoots so close he's almost on Baz's lap. Baz snakes one hand around Simon's side, gripping the back of his shirt tight, both holding him back and pulling him close at the same time. (Bad. Wrong. Stop.) (Beautiful. Safe. So right.)

Simon tilts his head to the right, leaning into him, running his tongue fleetingly across Baz's upper lip, making him shudder. Baz backs away for half a second, catching his breath, running his fingers through his hair, and Simon catches his hands and pulls him even closer still, kissing Baz almost angrily, smashing his lips into Baz's with such an intensity that Baz thinks he tastes blood.

Blood. His fangs begin to poke out ever so slightly and he pulls away, embarrassed. "What?" Simon pants. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, Crowley, Snow, that was fantastic."

"Then why..." And then Simon registers the metallic, coppery taste of blood on his lips. "Oh. I guess I was a little rough." He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his sweatshirt sloppily. His blood smells like smoke and fire and cinnamon and everything delicious, everything Baz would love to sink his teeth into and feel burst against his tongue, running down his eternally parched throat.

"I can't," Baz rushes to hide his fangs, talking like he has a mouthful of food. He speaks beneath cupped hands. "You can't see me like this. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Turn away, Simon. There's nothing to see-" and before Baz can finish casting, Simon rips his hands away from his mouth.

Baz closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable- the screaming, the crying, the fear and the anger.

"Whoa," Simon whispers, reaching out his hand and softly, so softly, tapping his pointer finger on the front of one of Baz's fangs. "I was right."

"Wait... you- you're not going to expose me? You're not afraid of me?"

"Expose you? If I told anyone, surely you'd be killed. Merlin's sake, Baz, I couldn't hurt you if my life depended on it. And now? Now? Now you're fucking untouchable. We're untouchable. I'm untouchable. I'm sitting on the top of a Ferris wheel, fifty feet above the ground, snogging a fucking vampire. Shit, Baz, I'm on top of the world right now. And you are so.. So fucking beautiful. The only thing I'm afraid of is how I feel when I look at you."

Baz stares at Simon in shock for several minutes. "I do believe," Baz says carefully, (and now his fangs are gone), "that is the most eloquent thing you've ever said."

Simon smirks. "So, you goddamned sexy vampire, are you gonna kiss me, or what?"

Baz leans in, and they kiss, and they kiss again, and then, they kiss some more.

Slowly, creakily, the ride begins to move again.

"Baz?"

"Yes, Simon?"

"When I was talking about Agatha? I was wrong. Kissing is not overrated."

Chapter Text

The first thing Simon realizes when he wakes up is the smell. It's wrong. His flat smells like cinnamon and cherries and sweat. Agatha's place smells too sweet, like vanilla and fancy perfumes. Wherever he is, it smells like...

Baz. It smells like Baz, cedar and bergamot and a little bit of laundry detergent and a little bit of that fancy French soap he always used at Watford. He snuggles into the covers that smell like happiness, a soft duvet, and tries to ignore the stream of sunlight shining on half of his face. He hears happy, breakfast-making noises, and that's what convinces him at last that he's definitely not in any bed at Agatha's- no one ever makes breakfast there, and Agatha doesn't particularly like bacon (she says it makes her break out), which is what he smells right now. He's at Baz's flat, and that doesn't bother him nearly as much as it should.

Simon is content to sit in bed for hours, smelling the bacon and eggs cooking out in the kitchen, listening to Baz hum absentmindedly (his voice really isn't all that bad).

But then his phone buzzes.

And it's Agatha.

He's awake in half a second, frantically groping through his pants pockets for his phone, and checking the text messages. Agatha has texted him four times and called him a minimum of twelve.

AGATHA: simon, where the hell are you? I've called bunches of times, im starting to get worried, text me back

AGATHA: if you aren't in life-endangering peril, I'm going to be pissed

AGATHA: i stopped by your place, where were you at 3 in the morning??

AGATHA: seriously simon wtf this isn't okay

SIMON: i went out last night with some friends and was too drunk to drive home, ended up in a crappy motel

SIMON: be home in twenty

He jumps out of bed so fast he knocks all the sheets off, pulling on his jumper and a pair of shoes, and runs into the kitchen. Then stops.

Baz. Standing at the stove, humming and whistling with his back to Simon, flipping pancakes with such skill you would have thought he did it for a living.

Shirtless.

Simon stands there for a few seconds that feel like years (or maybe they're years that feel like seconds, he really isn't sure), and he stares. Baz's back is even paler than the rest of him, and his skin is flawless, a massive expanse of pure white. As he moves, Simon can see the muscles in his back just below the surface moving, adjusting. He looks.. Stronger, with his shirt off. Not so sickly, not so skinny. Still, his ribcage pokes out a little bit at the bottom, and his silk pajama bottoms hang low on his hips, obviously a little too big. And then (and then) he turns around.

"Take a picture," Baz snickers as Simon trails his eyes from Baz's messy bed head to his lips, smiling, smiling, smiling, to his torso.. To his abs. "It'll last longer. And close your mouth, it's making me uncomfortable." Mouth breather.

"I... I really have to go. I'm so sorry, I need to get home... To Agatha." And Baz's smile disappears.

"I understand. I can give you a ride if you-"

"No! I mean, no, I'll take the tube. Thanks, though." Simon starts for the door, then stops and looks at Baz. It hurts to see him like this, sad and crooked and dingy. "You.. You can call me later. If you want." Baz's eyes light up a bit, but not much.

"I might just do that."

****************************************

He knew it would happen, knew it better than he knew anything- Simon Snow would always find someone to be the cloudless blue sky to his stunning, shimmering gold sun. Simon wanted a fairytale princess, with corn silk hair and flawless, honey brown eyes and long, long legs, someone soft and sweet. A girl. An unimaginably lovely girl. Simon didn't want a monster.

No matter that Baz could still taste the night before on his tongue, could still feel Simon arching his back beneath him as he grazed his teeth along his neck, could hear Simon whispering sweet nothings in his ear. He said I was beautiful.

I'm not beautiful.

I'm nothing.

*****************************************

She knew it would happen, sure as a cold flurry of his namesake on a bitter winter day. Simon Snow didn't want a perfect ending to his hero's story. He was constantly talking about how much he wanted to break away from what others wanted, pay attention to his own wants and needs- and being with Agatha was the ultimate thing that others wanted him to do. Simon had been the knight in shining armor for so many years. Maybe he wanted to be a villain for the night.

She pretended it didn't bother her when he walked in the door with a flushed face and a fake, plastered on smile. She laughed at his story about his drunken night out and averted her eyes when he tugged down his shirt collar absentmindedly, revealing love bites that she knew she didn't give him. He held out his arms in apology and she sank into them, more relaxed than she'd been around him for months. At least now he'd actually gone and done it, he'd actually cheated on her and she didn't have to wait, anticipation and dread building like the wall building between them, bringing the taste of bile to her shimmering pink lips every time he leaned in for a kiss. At least now, he'd already hurt her, so she could finally pretend he hadn't been hurting her without knowing for years.

They're in Agatha's room, now, watching a movie, sitting quietly on her bed. Thoughts rush through Simon's head, quick as lightning. Am I gay? I can't be gay. I love Agatha. She's right here, what have I done, what have I done to her? I'm not gay I can't be gay not gay not gay I'm straight fuck what have I done- and he leans over and presses his lips to hers, in a desperate attempt to prove to himself that it's something he can enjoy.

After a few moments of stiff, unmoving lips pressed together, Agatha pulls away. Simon isn't disappointed when she does.

"You can stop trying now, Simon," she says simply, pulling back. "I know you were with another girl last night."

"Agatha, I-"

"It's okay. I'd rather not talk about it. Just.. Just try not to do it again, okay?" She turns to leave the room, then stops. "Actually, can you sleep at your house tonight? I think I need some time to myself."

Simon miserably nods his head and leaves, trying not to cry. At least until he gets out to his car, where his sobs won't wake anyone.

He slams his head into the steering wheel, trying to knock the thoughts from his head, but all he manages to do is hurt. Inside and out, everything simply hurts.

**************************************

"What the actual fuck are you doing in my house?" Penelope snaps at Simon, dropping her house keys and grocery bags to the floor in shock. Simon is sitting on her couch, with tears still streaking down his face even after three hours, curled up in all the blankets Penny owns. "How did you even get in here?"

"I spelled the spare key out of hiding." Simon's voice is rough and sullen.

"Simon, you insufferable git," Penny laughs. "Now, tell me what's wrong or get out."

"You aren't going to like this," Simon whispers, and based on his tone, Penny knows he's right.

"Well, spit it out, then. It can't be worse than the time you tried to light my mother's birthday candles and accidentally set our front lawn on fire." She tries to keep the mood light. "Or when you went into that department store and that guy bumped into you, and you thought he was Baz, and then you punched him right in the-" Simon lets out a huge, earthshaking sob. Penny, taken aback, places a hand on Simon's shoulder. "Simon?"

"It's Baz," Simon cries out, and suddenly turns to Penny and buries his face in the crook of her shoulder, clinging to her like a lost child.

"What about, Baz, Simon? It's been five years since you even saw him. You can't still be upset about the whole chimera incident."

"I'm not, it's not that, I- I- I..."

"Use your words, Simon."

"I kissed him. And he kissed me back, and oh, Penny, it was so lovely, and I hate myself I hate him," he hiccups a few times, choked by tears. "And I'm supposed to love Agatha, we're getting married, we were supposed to live happily ever after, don't you understand? I've ruined everything, she knows, Agatha knows but she doesn't know it was Baz, great fucking snakes Pen, I snogged Baz Pitch."

"You fucking what?!" Penny shrieks and stands up so fast that her scarf catches the lamp on the end table and knocks it to the floor. She doesn't even glance at it. "First of all, Simon, you are engaged. 'Engaged', in case you aren't familiar with the term, means that you can't go around snogging anyone you damn well please. Secondly, you really can't go snogging anyone you damn well please and then be gone all night and not expect your fiancée to notice. Third of all, are you even gay? Are you even bi? Fucking hell, Simon, Baz is your mortal enemy. He pushed you down a flight of stairs." Now she's pacing around the living room in a confused rage, pausing every few steps to throw Simon a glare that could rival Medusa's.

"I know. I know." It's all Simon can say. His tongue feels like a lead weight, and all the words he was preparing to pour out to Penny feel like they've dried up in the intense heat of her stare. Even after a long day of university, then work after school, Penny looks fierce and fiery (and at the moment, she looks like she's about to bite Simon's head off. He's more afraid of her than he was of the chimera).

"Simon..." And then she sees the look on his face, and he looks twenty years older than he is, twenty years sadder. And she softens. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Kill me? Please?" He responds, followed by a mirthless laugh that turns into a horrific, shuddering sob. (There's so much sobbing going on, Penny thinks. I don't know if I can handle it).

"Come now, Simon, I'm sure Agatha will forgive you. Everyone makes mistakes. What did she say when she found out?" So Simon tells her the story of how he got home and he was wearing marks of lost lovers, blood drawn to the skin, bruises mixing pain and pleasure hung about his neck in a macabre necklace. And how Agatha saw them and she exhaled like her soul had left her body and slumped against him in an embrace that wasn't quite one of love, but more like relief. Then, how she sent him away and he bruised his own temple smashing it on a steering wheel in the middle of an empty parking lot. (There was no romance in that bruise).

And Penny sits still and listens , nodding occasionally and pretending like Simon isn't an absolute mess. When Simon is done, when he's truly done and he's spoken perhaps more than he's ever spoken in one sitting before, and all of the language in him has been leeched out, he leans his head on Penny's shoulder.

He's asleep in mere seconds.

Chapter Text

At five thirty that morning, Simon leaves his third voicemail on Agatha's cellphone.

"Agatha, look, I know I was an arse, but it's really not what you think. We need to talk about this. There's a lot of stuff I need to tell you and.. Just... Could you maybe... Ah, fuck, Agatha, just call me already, please." He sets the phone down on Penny's kitchen table and sighs loudly. His life is a fucking wreck. Everything is going down the drain. He doesn't know what to do, so, he does what he's best at. He makes a list.

Ways I (Simon Snow) Have Fucked Up In The Past Week

-I snogged Baz Pitch.

-I also went out on a date with Baz Pitch, who is decidedly not my fiancée.

-I probably destroyed my relationship with my girlfriend of many, many years.

-I may or may not be gay (AKA I'm now questioning my entire sexuality and past romances).

-I've disappointed literally everyone who means anything in my life (except Penny). (What will
the Mage say when he hears I've been hooking up with a member of the old families?)

-Speaking of Penny, I crashed her apartment, nearly gave her an aneurysm, and made her
break a lamp. Also, I kept her up late crying and she got pissed at me when she had to wake
up at five to leave for work.

Things I (Simon Snow) Am Not Allowed To Think About Until Agatha Calls Me Back

-Everything on the other list.

-How soft Baz's lips were last night.

Simon does everything within his power to distract himself. He dances around Penny's kitchen to his favorite songs. He doodles all over the newspapers and magazines stacked on her table. He tries to learn how to do a cartwheel (then he leaves twenty bucks on Penny's night stand to pay for the broken dishes). He sings songs off-key until the neighbors bang on the wall and tell him to shut the hell up or they're calling the landlord. He makes exactly thirty seven pieces of toast, then leaves Penny ten more dollars to cover all the bread he used. (He doesn't actually eat all the toast. Some of it he throws onto the rude neighbors' side of the front lawn).

He somehow keeps coming back to Baz. Fucking. Pitch.

Baz, with his stupidly lovely gray-green eyes and his irritating smirks and his long, flawless, raven-black hair. Baz, who's just as broken, if not more, than Simon.

At seven in the morning, Agatha calls back. Simon jumps when the phone starts buzzing and quickly (a little guiltily) closes out of his webpage ("How Do I Know If I'm Gay?"), then picks up the phone. "He- hello?"

"Hi, Simon," Agatha responds dejectedly. "You wanted to talk?"

"Yeah, listen, first of all, I'm so sorry, just, really, really sorry. Like, immensely sorry. More sorry than I-"

"Sure you are." She sounds bored. "Cut to the chase, would you? I'm tired."

"I really am. I swear. And also..." He trails off, considering his options. I didn't technically cheat on you- I mean, I didn't sleep with anyone else. But I did hook up with Baz. "It wasn't a girl."

"Wait, what?"

"It was Baz."

"You. Cheated. On. Me. With. Baz. Pitch." Now, Agatha is interested. Rather, now she is seething. Anger curls in her throat like flames and pours out her mouth in sour smoke. "You dirty lying faggot," she spits, then gasps at her own words. "Wait, wait, Simon, no, I didn't, don't-".

He hangs up the phone.

He runs the distance to Baz's house in record time, then collapses, sweat-soaked and broken, outside his door. The sweet, melancholy sound of a violin seeps out from inside the flat.

Baz hears Simon long before he sees him. He makes his way to the door after hearing a series of disembodied thumps and heavy breathing, violin still pressed to his chin, and peeks through the peephole, to no avail. He cautiously swings the door open to see Simon crumpled on his door mat.

"Merlin and Morgana, Simon, what the hell have you gotten yourself into now?"

Chapter Text

"Well, don't just lay there, come in, come in," Baz coaxes Simon, holding out a hand to help it up. Simon weakly accepts his hand and comes into the flat. "Take your shoes off at the door, shit, Snow, did you run here? You're sopping in sweat." Simon only nods, staring at the wall with a blank expression.

The shriek of a kettle sounds from the kitchen, and Baz rushes out to get it. "Would you like some tea?" He asks, and Simon nods again. A few minutes later, he comes back, carefully balancing two plates of biscuits on his forearms with two red mugs in his hands. He rests them on the end table. "I didn't know if you wanted cream or sugar, but I like lots of cream, so I put some in yours. Hope you don't mind."

"Baz?" Simon replies with a voice full of incredulity. "You're.. Well, you're wearing jeans."

"Huh?" Baz glances down. "So what?"

"So- so I- I mean-" Simon sputters. "You never wear jeans!"

"Apparently, I do," Baz smirks, bemused. "You like what you see?" And he gives a little wink that makes Simon's heart skip a beat.

"I take my tea with milk," Simon responds indignantly, but he takes a grateful sip from the mug anyways. His hair is stuck to his forehead with salty sweat and his hands are shaking slightly from the exertion.

Baz switches on the television to some news channel he's never heard of and half-listens to a news lady who is showing way too much cleavage report on a house robbery in some town he's also never heard of. When the redness has faded a bit from Simon's face and his breathing is steady, and when Simon has drained the cup of tea and asked for another, Baz speaks.

"About the other night," he begins, trying to sound strong and unaffected. (It doesn't work. His voice cracks. Typical). "We can just pretend it didn't happen, okay? You're engaged. It wasn't right of me to let it happen, and I'm sorry if it caused problems with you and Agatha."

"I... I don't think there's a 'me and Agatha' anymore, Baz," Simon sighs, avoiding Baz's intense grey-green gaze. "I called her and told her what happened, and, well.. She definitely let me have a piece of her mind. I don't know if she'll take me back." He pauses. "I don't know if I want her to." Baz tries to ignore the ray of hope the statement gives him. His thoughts are made cloudy by it, but he pushes through the fog.

"Why not? Do you think.. Are you gay?"

"I don't know." Simon sounds (and looks) miserable. "I thought I loved Agatha, I really did. But if what I had with Agatha was supposed to be love..." He swallows (Baz watches his Adam's apple bob up and down with a little too much interest). "Then what I felt with you that night is something I don't have a word for. It was like all my life, I was missing a puzzle piece and then- wait no, that's really fucking cliche. It was like.. I don't know. I give up trying to explain it. But it was absolutely fantastic. And I've never felt that way before. And I think you should know that."

The room is quiet for another few minutes as Baz lets the words seep into his head. This is too good to be true, he thinks. It's a dream. It has to be.

But it isn't.

Slowly (so slowly, so ridiculously, imperceptibly slowly), Simon lifts his head. He looks Baz right in his eyes. Deep. Intense. Soulful. He takes a big breath, and says-

"Will you take me to go get some scones?"

The tension in the room is automatically alleviated as the two boys start to laugh. The real kind of laughing, the best kind. The kind of laughing where you forget that when you laugh too hard your eyes get squinty and you hate the way they look. The kind of laughing that, for just a moment, makes it seem like you're a balloon filled to the brim with happiness and you're just about to pop. Heart-shaking, belly-aching, tears-coming-to-your-eyes, oh-my-god-I-can't-breathe laughing.

"Sure, Snow. Let's go get some scones."

*************************************************

Simon hasn't been to the coffee shop in almost a week, and Ruby is starting to get worried. The last time he came, it was with that tall, intimidating bloke- the one who looked like he could get a sunburn in the dead of December. Ben, or something. The sexual tension between those two could be cut with a knife, she thinks. She doesn't know what Simon is thinking, being with Agatha when he has a boy that beautiful who looks at him like that.

Like he's the sun. The boy (his name wasn't Ben. It was far less generic than Ben) looks at him like it's all too much and he doesn't know how to handle himself. Watching those two is almost painful. One a cup overflowing with admiration, the other a void of oblivion.

The bell rings and two people walk in. Speak of the devil.

And that dark haired boy... He looks like he could be the devil. Everything about him is stretched out and sharp and too pretty to look at. He looks like a vampire, so much so that it's almost comical, so tall and gaunt and white, decked out in black jeans and black boots and a black shirt. If he went to a caricature artist, they'd sure as hell play up that widows's peak. Maybe give him a cape, for good measure.

Next to him, Simon seems soft (which Ruby never thought before was the case). His broad shoulders and his height and his boyish good looks melt into an innocence that wouldn't be visible without the clear example of what harsh really is standing inches from him.

Shit, are they holding hands?

The cup Ruby's filling, the soy latte for the girl with the bleached blonde hair in the corner, overfills and spills on her shoes. She doesn't even notice. She's staring.

They're the most beautiful couple she's ever seen, and something has changed between them. She can tell.

She quickly cleans up her mess before they get to the counter and comes over. "Simon, you haven't stopped by in a while! How is everything? What can I get you?" Another too-big, too-bright smile.

"Two cherry scones, please. And everything is just fine, Ruby, thanks for asking." He sounds kind of weak, but at least he's trying.

"Listen, Si, I take my break in ten minutes. If you stick around, maybe we can talk. I'm worried about you."

Simon looks at the other boy, who nods in agreement. "Alright," he says vaguely, and gestures towards his usual corner booth. Ruby hands them the scones, and refuses when the raven haired boy offers her payment. "On the house," she insists. "My treat."

*************************************************

Baz thinks that cashier girl is nosy, and her hair is dyed a fluorescent shade of blue that makes him squint to look at. But Simon seems to like her, so that's good enough for him.

"Hey guys!" She calls and saunters over with two coffees. She sets them down in front of Simon and Baz (Baz is surprised to see that his drink, although outrageously sweet, is quite good. Kind of a pumpkin-cinnamon thing). Ruby must see the quizzical look on his face because she smiles (too bright, everything about her is too bright) and says, "Pumpkin mocha breve. It's new on the menu.. I figured I'd try it out on you two."

"It tastes like a liquefied candy bar," Simon says and grimaces. He pushes the drink away a few inches. "I'll stick with the scones, thank you." But Baz is hooked.

"Okay, this might be intruding a little. I take that back. This is definitely intruding a lot. But seriously, what is going on with you two? I've only seen you two times, a total of fifteen minutes tops," she motions towards Baz, "and even I can see it."

"See what?" Simon asks, voice muffled by scones.

"I don't know.. It. It's obvious. There's just something that clicks when I see you together. It looks...." She pauses, searching for a word. "Right. You just seem right together."

"We're not together." Baz interjects.

"Christ. You are holding hands. Just man up and admit it. I see the way you look at him, okay? I get it."

Baz sighs deeply and furrows his brows, taking another sip of his drink. Simon is looking inquisitively at Ruby, head cocked to the side, breathing louder than necessary. Mouth breather.

"Okay, maybe we are kind of together, I don't know. It's complicated, it's really fucking complicated."

"Because of Agatha, right?" Ruby asks.

"Of course because of Agatha!" Simon butts in. "What the hell else would it be?"

"I don't know, Simon," Ruby replies softly. "But if Agatha's the issue, I know the solution." Simon nods, expectant, eager. "You aren't going to like it."

"I want to know. I want to fix this," he pleads.

"You have to tell her how you feel. You have to tell her the truth." Simon whines, but Ruby isn't having it. "Simon, what you have with Ben- uhh, shit, it's not Ben, what's your name again?"

"Baz."

"Yeah, well, what you have with Baz isn't something you should let go of. I can tell by the way you look when you're around him. You're like a light, casting off your shadows and leaving yourself with nothing but a glow. You're practically bouncing off the walls. And you need to do something about it." Ruby gets up and walks away, leaving only two half-full coffee cups and a very, very frightened Simon.

Chapter Text

"Bunce, I don't think you understand."

"I understand perfectly, Basilton," Penny sniffs. "You're, once again, trying to get under Simon's skin. Well, I suppose your little plan worked, because now he's a complete and utter wreck and his engagement is going to shit. Are you happy with yourself?" Her words have a biting edge that sends chills down Baz's spine. Crowley, she's intense.

"No. Yes. Just let me explain," Baz pleads.

"You have thirty seconds," Penny concedes with a sigh. "Go."

"Okay, so I got the invitation to Simon's wedding and I called to RSVP and Simon picked up the phone and Crowley, Penny, I've loved him since fifth year and you didn't even know that," Baz is speaking as fast as his mouth and his brain will allow, as Penny stands shell-shocked. "So we went out for coffee and the waitress thought we were a couple and then we went to the fair and we kissed and he came home with me but we didn't do anything I promise, he even slept in the guest bed, well he did for most of the night, and then he went back home to Agatha and I didn't talk to him for so long and-" Penny snaps out of it.

"Time's up," she says. There's a long pause. She sighs again. "I always suspected Simon might have a thing for you," she admits. "But I never thought it was reciprocated. Why were you always so nasty to him, then?"

"It was just easier that way," Baz answers simply. "I thought he was happy. But now I know he isn't, and if I know one thing about Snow, I know it all. I'll bet you twenty he's headed over to talk to Agatha right now, and not about breaking it off."

Penny furrows her brows in thought. "I don't understand. If Simon doesn't want to be with Agatha, why would he try to salvage their relationship?"

"Because he's Simon, Bunce. He always has to play the good guy, and right now, little miss Wellbelove is his case. Do you really think that Snow, with his immense knight-in-shining-armor complex, is going to let his damsel in distress rot in her tower when the dragon's coming to snatch her in, what is it, three days?"

"Enough with the medieval metaphors, Pitch. What, exactly, are you suggesting?"

"I can't let Simon marry Agatha," Baz replies. "I can't let him do that to himself, and live his whole miserably. I can't let him go back to Agatha, if she'll take him, which I have a feeling she will. I've got to do something."

"Do what? The wedding is in three days. It's not like they can just call everything off because Basilton fucking Pitch says so. The world doesn't revolve around you, in case you hadn't noticed." Penny snaps. 

"I don't know, Bunce, that's why I came to you. Because..." He pauses, the words stagnant in his mouth. But it needs to be said. "Because you're the smartest person I know, and if anyone can find their way out of this tragedy, Crowley, it's got to be you."

*******************************************

The day of the wedding comes. It wasn't so long, really, but to Baz it felt like an eternity. Three sunrises, three sunsets, 72 hours of seeing nothing but tawny skin and wonder-filled features, Simon, disheveled and sleepy-eyed, standing in his kitchen, smiling at him.

Baz goes to the wedding with Penny (an agreement of pure convenience). He looks absolutely stunning in a deep green velvet suit, with his hair tied back in a sleek ponytail at the nape of his neck. Penny wears a suit, too, because she's Penelope Bunce, goddamnit, and she can be a bridesmaid and wear a suit if she pleases. She's standing on Simon's side, anyway.

Baz sits in the back as the procession begins, held at a church (Agatha insisted. Apparently, Simon had wanted a beach wedding). The aisles are decorated with pale pink rose petals, and beautiful crystalline chandeliers hang above on the high ceilings. All around are lovely stained glass windows casting shadows of amethyst and tangerine and maroon onto the white tiled floor.

Music begins playing, the sound blowing across the crowd like a breeze coming from an organ on one side of the church. It's a very traditional wedding, which is rather surprising, seeing as Baz hadn't known Agatha was any sort of religion. Religion wasn't terribly common in the wizarding world. Witchcraft tended to go against most biblical practices.

Dr. Wellbelove walks Agatha down the aisle. She's draped in a long mermaid-style dress with a lace top and a three foot train, a filmy veil over her face and flowers woven into her hair. She looks radiant, as usual, but Baz can see a slight tremor in her walk, a tiny furrow at her brow, the smallest downturn of her perfect, full lips. At the altar, Simon stands.

He has his hands cupped at his sides, and he looks uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, but beautiful all the same. Simon wasn't really made for formal attire, and his curls don't take well to the styling gel they're coated in. They look a little greasy and some sprigs of bronze poke out from the sides of the well-maintained pile, making it look rough around the edges, but that's what Simon is- rough around the edges. The suit, a little large for him, is a simple black suit with a white undershirt and a black bow tie, and it doesn't look right at all. Simon is pinched and prodded and contained. His smile looks fake. His eyes are dancing, but not a loving waltz; their dance is that of a cat on a hot tin roof (which Baz has never actually witnessed, but imagines would be quite entertaining. In this case, however, it hurts to see Simon like this. It hurts a lot).

Agatha reaches the altar, and Baz meets Simon's eyes for a fleeting second. Just long enough to pass the desperation from man to man, and for the longing to be made apparent between them. Long enough for Simon's eyes to harden, just a fraction, as he focuses on Agatha. Heavenly and ethereal, she stands waiting as the priest drones. They didn't write their own vows. Baz isn't surprised- Simon isn't much of a writer.

Simon looks feeble and frightened, languishing under the harsh light overhead, like a strong breeze could blow him over. And then, Baz hears the magic words.

"Does anyone in the audience object to the Union of these two people? Speak now, or forever hold your peace."

There is a pause that seems to last a century before Baz stands up, shaking imperceptibly, his sharp-lined face stone cold and unreadable. Slowly, deliberately, he raises a hand.

"I object," he tries, but his voice cracks. He clears his throat. People are looking at him, whispering about him. Mrs. Wellbelove seems to be near fainting. He ignores them. "I object," he begins, stronger this time. "Because I know Simon Snow, and he deserves to be happy. And he can't be happy with Agatha. And I know Agatha, and she deserves to be happy. She won't make him happy. He won't make her happy," he gulps. "I object because I love Simon Snow. And I want to make him happy." He sits down, and the priest begins to speak once more, but Penelope steps forward without missing a beat.

She looks more certain than Baz did, and there's a determination and fire in her eyes that catches people's attention and holds it. Baz was the catalyst, and she is the explosion.

"I object because I've known Simon since we were eleven years old and he was a frightened little boy holding his wand backwards. A little boy with no friends and no foothold in the world. I watched him grow and change and fall in love. But he didn't fall in love with Agatha." Penny glances to Baz. "No, Simon fell in love with Basilton Pitch, whether or not he knew it. Baz is right. Simon and Agatha can't make each other happy, and if you don't have happiness, well.." She trails off. "What do you have?" She retreats.

And there's an immense silence as myriad hearts skip a beat and Agatha lifts her veil. Tears are running down her opalescent face, and her cheeks are flushed a pink as pale as the roses that litter the aisle. No one seems sure of what to do. Agatha begins to speak, so quietly that all the guests strain to hear.

"I do love Simon," she whispers. "And I believe he loves me, too." Simon nods, otherwise standing stiller than sleep. "But I'm not in love with him. There was a time, back at Watford, when we were young and very much in love. I looked at him," she pauses and gulps. "I looked at him like he was the one who scattered the stars into the sky. But that time has come and gone." Baz thinks Mrs. Wellbelove is really about to pass out, her face is so white. "I'm sorry, Simon. But I'm not your happily ever after. I'm not made for happily ever afters." And she places a gentle kiss on his cheek, removes the veil, and walks away, as graceful and poignant as ever.

At the altar, Simon begins to smile.

Chapter Text

The next wedding Baz goes to is his own.

It's at a beach, in the middle of summer, and he didn't make Simon wear a suit. Yet somehow, surrounded by people in formal dress, Simon looks perfectly normal in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

He looks like that because it's how he's meant to be- free and wild and a little out of place. He looks more than normal, though, he looks beautiful walking down the aisle (he's sort of playing the bride role, much to his disappointment, and Penny's subconscious joy). The sun is dappling playfully over his bare feet in the sand, setting him alight in streams of gold and bronze and fierce blue. He clutches Penelope's arm so hard his knuckles turn white. He insisted she walk him down the aisle, because if anyone had to give him away, they would have to have him first, and Penny was the only one who'd stuck around long enough to do that.

Agatha comes in from California to see the wedding, with her girlfriend, an equally gorgeous, equally blonde, far more tan, typical California-girl. Agatha is beaming.

Mordelia, Baz's younger sister, is grudgingly the flower girl, though she argues she's too old to be a flower girl (and maybe she is), and refuses to wear the pastel purple dress they've picked out for her. She wears a long sleeved black velvet thing (she must be dying of heat) and she throws the flowers.

They're buttercups (because they're Simon's favorite), and they're also orange blossoms (because Baz doesn't know how long he's going to live, or if he's going to live forever, but they mean eternal love, and he intends to love Simon until the day he dies, even if it never comes) and no one even cares that the two don't go together.

They write their own vows. The first thing Simon does when he gets up to the altar is crumple up his paper and throw it into the ocean. "I'd rather say what's on my mind right now," he says, tears forming in his eyes. Baz nods.

"I've never been good with words," he starts cautiously. "They never came as easily to me as they do to Baz, and I'm sure he wrote his vows in three minutes and they'll be ten times as good as mine. Usually, I can tell Baz how much I love him without all the words, because they really can't do it justice. Is there a word that means more than infinite? Basilton Pitch, I will love you past infinity. I will love you tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, on my deathbed and in my coffin. I loved you the first time I saw you, and I couldn't admit it to myself, and I hate myself for depriving us of all those years we could've had together. I lost you once, but now I've found you again, and I'm not letting go," he pauses, and Baz wipes the tears from his flushed, freckled cheeks. "When I'm with you, I feel complete in a way I've never felt before. Growing up, I didn't have a lot going for me, and I didn't know a lot of love. I know why, now. Because one heart can only take just so much love, and you're giving it all to me now, Baz. I wouldn't have it any other way. I just want you-" he sniffles. "I just want you all to know, specifically you, Malcolm," he gestures towards Baz's surprised father. "That I'll take good care of your son, your friend, your brother, your nephew, whatever he is to you, because he's so many things to so many people, but he's my everything. He's my beginning and my end, my other half, all those horrible cliches. And now, incredibly, unbelievably, against all odds... He's my husband."

Baz makes his speech. It's lovely, spoken in a voice like silk. People cheer. They kiss. People cry.

They live happily ever after (or at least that's what I'd like to think).