Chapter Text
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Baz turns the key in the ignition, cutting the engine, then turns it in the other direction to hear the last minute of the song that had been playing on WRVU.
This morning’s card is sitting in the center console cupholder. Baz pulls a card each day to ground himself in the energy of the day ahead, a habit leftover from his early days of learning every card’s meanings.
For the past two weeks, he’s been pulling pentacles and knights, good solid earthly security and unbridled ambition. No changes ahead, no fives or nines.
But today.
Today is Major Arcana.
The Fool stares up at him from the cupholder, smiling his shit-eating grin, yappy little dog leaping about at his feet.
Baz is more of a cat person.
And he’s been feeling, lately, like he’s finally got a handle on things. That write-up in the Scene has the potential to let him make the leap to reading tarot full-time. He’s not on Miss Cleo’s level yet, but he’s booked solid through September at this point, with no sign of letting up. The Fool signals a shake-up that he’s not sure he’s eager for…
Baz checks his eyeliner in the rearview mirror. It looks good. He looks like someone he’d never dared to dream he’d be when he was in high school.
He picks up his military surplus messenger bag, full of tarot decks, incense, and a pendulum. He usually relies on the same large-format Rider-Waite deck for each reading, but he likes to be prepared in case someone comes in with an actually interesting question. Most of his clients are seeking the same thing: tell me when, where, how, and with whom I’m going to fall in love. Always either love or money…Tarot could give them access to the mysteries of the universe, but they’re more interested in the next time they’re going to get laid.
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He climbs the stairs to Stone Mountain, the hippie shop that lets him rent out their back room for his tarot business. They handle his booking, too, and their bulletin board serves as free advertising for his target demographic; it’s a pretty unbeatable deal. He scans the customers as he enters, trying to guess if any of them are his first client of the day. (It’s not like he’s actually psychic.)
“Yo, Baz.” The manager halts his t-shirt-stacking and pulls Baz into a sweaty hug. “How’s it going, man?”
Baz awkwardly pats him on the back. “I’m alright.” He knows it’s not really a question that demands an answer.
Baz continues to the back room, which is meant more for storage than theatrics. Between cartons of tie-dyed t-shirts and a shelving unit full of lava lamps and incense burners, there’s a card table covered with a purple-and-black elephant-print tapestry. Baz settles in, lights a stick of incense, and scans a handwritten list of names: his customer list for the day.
First up is Amy, a regular who comes in once every two weeks to complain about her love life. The rest are unfamiliar names – Kimberly, Penelope, Michael – six or seven names total. He’ll be here til closing.
Amy’s on time, but she has a lot of questions about the Page of Cups, and Baz is running late by the time she parts the beaded curtain to leave.
He pokes his head out behind her. “Kimberly?”
A girl with braids down to her waist nods and walks towards him. Over her shoulder, Baz spots Simon Snow.
What.
Baz lets the curtain fall and closes his eyes for a moment.
No, there’s no way that Simon is standing in the middle of Stone Mountain, perusing a display of crystals.
Baz opens his eyes and parts the curtain again. He does his best to smile at Kimberly, but his eyes stray past her to confirm.
Yup. It’s Simon. He looks just the same – like the shirtless models smoldering and taunting from the brown paper Abercrombie bags in the hands of every other teen at Cool Springs Galleria. Simon’s head is shaved but for a few curly locks of hair in the front; his blue eyes sparkle while he’s talking to the girl he’s with, and Baz can practically see the outlines of his bulging pectoral muscles through his snug, powder-blue t-shirt.
The girl he’s with – it’s not Agatha, the girl he’d dated all through middle and high school. It’s someone Baz has never seen before, a chubby girl with thick brown hair wearing cat-eye glasses and a thrift store cardigan. He wonders how they know each other. If Agatha is anything to go by, this girl is certainly not Simon’s type.
“Are you Baz?” His client’s voice interrupts Baz’s ogling. He tries to put on a normal, professional face.
“Kimberly? Welcome.”
He does his best to give Kimberly a good reading – he really needs to make sure his first-time customers become regulars if he’s going to achieve his dream of a steady income – but his mind keeps wandering to the boy on the other side of the beaded curtain.
Don’t worry, he tells himself. Simon never even knew your name then. And he’ll be gone by the time this reading is over, and he’ll certainly never set foot in Stone Mountain again.
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Skipping his break between Amy and Kimberly helped him get back on schedule, and he’s feeling on a more even keel by the time Kimberly leaves.
The girl with the cardigan and shiny black Doc Marten Mary Janes steps through the curtain the next minute. “Hi, Penelope Bunce? Two-fifteen appointment?”
Baz checks his watch. It is, indeed, two-fifteen. He nods at her. “Welcome, Penelope. Have a –”
He’s unable to finish his sentence.
Simon Snow has just stepped into the tiny, cramped storage space alongside Penelope.
The space is so slight, Baz can smell him. Soap and sunshine and hair gel.
Simon’s eyes get wide. “Ty?”
Baz immediately starts to sweat beneath his Tom Ford blazer.
“Simon,” he says before he can help himself.
Penelope looks at Simon with an eye-roll. “Do you two know each other?”
“Pen! You told me this guy got written up in the Nashville Scene!”
“He did!” Penelope shrugs. “Answer the question!”
“We went to high school together! Hi, Ty!”
Baz winces. “I go by Baz.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, weird middle name – Basil, right?” Baz is too surprised to correct him. “Weird first name, too. Sorry. Baz. I like it.”
“Thank you. Uh. Should we get started, Penelope?”
“Yes, I need to get some information on my career path, my love life, and how many kids I’m going to have – so I can start planning –”
“Are you sure you want your boyfriend here to listen to all of that?” Baz asks, focusing on shuffling the deck. Love life – he’s picked up his trusty Rider-Waite.
“Oh! Simon’s not my boyfriend!” The two of them burst into laughter.
“Trusty sidekick, I prefer,” Simon adds.
“Okay, fine, just –” Baz is having trouble putting words together, which does not bode well for the work he’s about to engage in. He waves his hand at the extra folding chair leaning against the wall and continues shuffling the deck.
He lights another stick of incense and passes the cards through the smoke, trying to ignore Simon. But Penelope may as well not exist. How is it possible that he’s ended up in the same room as his high school crush?
Baz finally looks up, and Simon isn’t even looking at him. He’s playing with a yo-yo. Baz winces.
He hands the deck to Penelope. “Shuffle these, please. Focus on your questions.”
“Okay.”
Baz lays out another cloth, one printed with a Celtic Cross spread. He doesn’t need it; usually he only pulls it out when he wants to add a little bit of extra flair to a reading.
But right now? Right now, he’s afraid he’ll be lucky if he can explain the basic meaning of The Tower.
“Was that enough?” Penelope is holding out the deck.
“Fine,” says Baz, meeting her eyes. “Have you had your cards read before?”
“Once, at a street fair in Omaha, but I don’t remember much.”
“Okay, well, I’ll just talk you through everything so you’re clear,” says Baz. “Tarot decks can get pretty energetically sticky – any object can, really – so I used the smoke to purify it –” he gestures at the still-burning incense – “and then I had you shuffle to imbue the deck with your energy.”
“Do you use the same deck for every reading?”
“Usually.”
“What if you’re reading for yourself?”
“Usually not.” His thoughts stray to the Fool in his cupholder. He notices Simon’s yo-yo is the light-up kind. “Anyway. Now I’ll draw the cards, and I’m going to place them in this pattern – each place has a different meaning –”
“Is it a Celtic Cross pattern?” Penelope asks.
“It’s a Celtic Cross.”
“Penny has a crystal ball.”
“Oh my god, Simon, don’t embarrass me –”
“It’s not embarrassing! You’re really impressive!”
“Baz is a professional, he doesn’t need to hear all that. Baz, how did you learn to read tarot?”
“Practice,” he says truthfully. He turns over Penelope’s final card. Judgment.
“Well, Penelope, it appears that you’re a very strong and independent woman.” Baz indicates the Queen of Swords, the first card he placed on the table. “Very capable. But you have a tendency to focus on the negative. You might feel like you never have enough money or time, for example, no matter how hard you work?”
“Doesn’t everyone feel that way?”
“Not necessarily,” says Baz. “But it’s not uncommon. It doesn’t have to be a permanent condition, though. Look.” He points at the Five of Cups. “See how he’s mourning the loss in front of him? But he hasn’t lost everything. The cups behind him are upright, he just needs to refocus his attention on the good.”
“Well, okay. But when will I meet my husband?”
Baz frowns down at the cards. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
“I’m just waiting to run into him one day, I guess.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Penelope. Fate plays a part, sure, but you need to be bold. Stop waiting around.” Baz taps the Page of Wands.
He spends the next twenty minutes talking her through her five-year plan. He’s starting to really like this Penelope; she’s not just another husband-hunter, like he originally dreaded. She’s smart and ambitious, and witty, too.
“What about this one?” Simon asks, reaching out to touch the topmost card in the spread, the one closest to Baz on the table. His pinky finger grazes the back of Baz’s hand.
Baz makes the mistake of glancing up into Simon’s eyes. They’re an unforgettable shade of blue – not because they’re particularly unique, but because they’re Simon’s. A light, clear blue, with slightly stubby, dark eyelashes.
Baz’s nervous system sends up sparks.
This is not the kind of intuitive hit I need right now, he tells himself sternly. Focus on the cards.
Right. What was the question?
He clears his throat. “The Lovers. It’s about balance and integration. It’s in a favorable place in this reading – Penelope, it suggests you have strong partnerships in your life to support you, and that you’re working towards a healthy balance of the emotional and rational.”
“Is it ever unfavorable?” Penelope asks.
“It can suggest codependency or clinging,” Baz says. “But I don’t sense that here.”
Simon’s hand is still resting on the table, inches from Baz’s. Baz realizes he’s staring at it. Fighting the desire to grab it. He forces his eyes away and looks at his watch instead.
“Right. We have a few minutes. Is there anything else I can give you clarity on?”
“I think that’s it for me,” Penelope answers. “What about reading something for Simon?”
Baz is suddenly very aware of his heartbeat.
In any other situation – with any other client – he’d say no. Baz follows rules, sticks to schedules, doesn’t make exceptions.
But he has five minutes left of Penelope’s time, and he may not be lucky enough to run into Simon Snow ever again.
“I can read one card,” Baz says, trying to sound indifferent.
He gathers up the cards, stacks them, and lights another stick of incense.
He reaches for the deck to shuffle, then changes his mind.
He pulls out a different deck. A special one. The deluxe Thoth deck that was a present from his aunt, one he’s been saving for an auspicious reading.
“I thought you usually use the same deck for everyone,” Penelope says. Like she sees right through him.
“That was a pretty heavy reading we just did,” Baz lies. It was completely run-of-the-mill; maybe she’ll take his excuse as a compliment, though. People do like to feel special. “I think it’s best if we give that deck a rest.”
He shuffles the new deck, passes it through the smoke, and hands it to Simon.
Is it his imagination, or does Simon deliberately brush his fingers?
Simon takes the deck, but his bafflement is writ large on his face.
“Shuffle,” Baz prompts him.
“Oh. Right.” Simon launches into a messy overhand shuffle, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.
Baz swallows.
Simon licks his lips, his task complete, then looks up at Baz and hands the deck back to him.
Christ.
Baz looks down, shuffles once, cuts the deck in half, and turns over the topmost card.
The Devil.
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“Oh, shit, that doesn’t look good – am I going to hell?”
“You’re not going to hell.” Baz rolls his eyes. “I mean, I can’t tell you that for sure, obviously, but that’s not what this card is about. It’s about your shadow side. Self-sabotage. Things that hold you back from what you really want…What was your question?”
“My question?”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Baz. “Was that helpful?”
Simon doesn’t respond, just continues to gaze down at the card.
“Excuse me?” A voice pipes up from the other side of the curtain. “Mr. Baz? It’s Heather.”
His next customer. Baz checks his watch and suppresses a swear – he’s now running six minutes late.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he calls crisply.
Penelope is already standing up. “We’ve overstayed our welcome – sorry, Baz. I’ll be booking again.” She picks up one of his business cards from the corner of the table – deep indigo, etched in silver with his name and a tiny image of a hand holding a flame – and takes her leave.
Simon remains seated. He takes a business card, too, and runs a fingertip over the raised letters. “This is a nice card,” he says, looking up at Baz.
“Thank you –”
“Is this your number?”
“It’s the store number. If you’d like to book a reading?”
“I’d like to book a –”
He pauses at the click of the beaded curtain and the scent of cucumber melon announcing the entrance of Baz’s next customer.
“Heather?” Baz ventures.
“Are you ready?” she asks, sitting in the chair recently vacated by Penelope.
“Ah–” says Baz.
Simon stands up. “He’s amazing. You won’t be disappointed.” He flashes a smile at Baz. “Baz, when do you get off?”
Baz is stuck on the turn of phrase for a moment. Get. Off.
“My last reading ends at six-thirty,” he says after way too long.
“Great. Have a great reading.” Baz has no idea if he’s talking to Heather or to him.
Simon disappears through the curtain.
Baz focuses on the pungent blonde sitting in front of him, taking in her polo-neck minidress and butterfly necklace. “So. Have you ever had a tarot reading before?”
“This is my first!” she chirps.
“I reckon you’ll be wanting me to look into your love life, is that right?”
“How did you know?!”
“Lucky guess.” Baz barely manages suppressing an eye-roll.
“Oh, god, what is that!” She’s looking at the Devil card, still face-up on the table, terrified. This is clearly what her momma warned her tarot was all about.
“Don’t worry. That’s not for you.” Baz picks up the card and tucks the Thoth deck away. Still imbued with Simon’s energy…
Soon, Baz is immersed in his work, and the hours fly by. He takes a break after Michael’s reading, smoking a cigarette in the lot behind the store. He allows his mind to wander back to Simon and his parting words.
When do you get off?
It’s obvious what Simon meant, but Baz’s thoughts won’t leave the double entendre alone. When do you get off – with another person, not for ages. Not since last summer’s bar bathroom encounter. And then, god, was it really not since summer camp?
He’s smoked the cig down to the filter; he grounds it out under the heel of his Doc Marten and climbs back up the stairs, heading back into the back room.
His next client is also a first-timer – another love reading with the Rider-Waite – and his last client of the day is late. Baz tries to make up for lost time, but Julie keeps him with questions about the symbolism of salamanders and lions.
It’s nearly seven when he finally heads out, bag slung over his shoulder. He’s halfway down the stairs when he hears his name.
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“Baz!”
Goddamn.
It’s Simon Snow.
He’s loitering at the back of the building, hands jammed in the pockets of his baggy, low-slung jeans, hair tucked under a Predators cap.
Baz clocks his heart speeding up. Stupid, stupid, he tells himself. Simon is just a boy. A hometown boy. A straight boy.
Simon comes to meet him at the bottom of the stairs.
“Hi,” Baz manages.
“You hungry?”
“What?”
“I’m starving,” Simon says. “You want to get pizza?” He inclines his head in the direction of the building Baz just exited.
“You want to get pizza?” Baz repeats.
“Yeah, unless – do you not eat pizza?”
“No, pizza’s good. Let’s get pizza.”
Simon lopes towards the back entrance of Pizza Perfect.
Baz hitches up his bag and follows.
Simon holds the door open for him. “What do you usually get?”
“I don’t – I’ve never been in here before.”
“Seriously? Are you sure you eat pizza?”
“I just – not often enough to have a regular order.”
“Alright. I can just order?”
“Sure.”
Simon orders an extra-large pie and a couple of beers and leads Baz to an empty booth in the back, next to a window overlooking 21st Avenue.
“You’ve really never been here before?”
“No.”
“You work right upstairs…”
“What are you doing in Nashville, anyway?”
Simon leans back and slings his arm along the top of the booth, tipping his head to the side as he regards Baz. “Am I not allowed to be in Nashville?”
“I’m just curious…you already know I’m working as a tarot reader.” Baz blushes. He sounds pretentious as fuck.
“You’re a great tarot reader.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw you read Penny’s cards! And then you did that one for me – I’m sorry I made you late. Penny shouldn’t’ve asked you to read for me.”
“It’s alright. How do you know Penny?”
“We met at MTSU. Freshman year. She felt bad for me because I was holding my Greek textbook upside-down.”
“Why were you taking Greek?”
“Fuck if I know. Dropped that class as soon as I could. They have New York-style pizza here, you know.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s good.” Simon grins up at him. It’s positively unfair, how cute he is. All those freckles scattered across his cheeks, like he spends every day in the sunshine.
Baz wants to ask, what is happening here? Why are you even talking to me? But he can’t come up with a way to ask that doesn’t sound suspiciously, desperately needy.
“You ditched the trench coat?” Simon asks. I guess that’s one way to bring up the past, Baz thinks.
“I still have it,” he admits. “I just – grew up, you know?” He cringes at how silly that sounds.
“Yeah.” Simon’s eyes dart down for half a second – is he looking at the table? at Baz? – before flicking back up to Baz’s eyes. “You sure did.” Simon smiles. “You reminded me of a bat, with that coat flapping around behind you. Like a cape. Like Dracula.”
Simon noticed – all that, about Baz? Baz glances away for a moment, like he’s checking on the progress of their pizza. He turns back to Simon and hears himself blurt out, “Well, you’re all Abercrombie and Fitch, aren’t you.”
“Nah, man, I won’t ever shop there. Do you know they don’t even sell Penelope’s size?”
“Huh. That’s–”
“Fucked up, right.” Simon takes a drink of his beer and looks back at Baz. “I always thought you were so cool, you know.”
“Shut up. Your friends used to call me a faggot behind my back. You didn’t even know my name.”
“Tyrannus?” Simon smirks. “You weren’t as invisible as you thought, Baz.”
Baz rolls his eyes.
Simon frowns, lines creasing between his eyebrows. “I’m sorry about Gareth. He’s still an ass.”
“That’s–” Baz pauses. “Thanks.”
Simon shrugs.
“You thought I was cool?”
“Everyone thought you were cool, Baz.”
“No, they didn’t.”
“Fine, then. I thought you were cool. You were so…mysterious. And you had that one shirt that scared the hell out of me.The one with all the skulls and shit.”
Baz laughs. “The catacombs of Paris?”
“Sure.”
“I didn’t know you even knew my name.”
“Did you want me to know your name?” Simon’s eyes are sparkling. Baz has to look away; he stares out the window instead, blindly watching traffic swoop by. This is going much better than he could’ve dreamed. It feels like a dream, like something unreal.
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Baz jumps at the sudden pressure of a hand on his forearm. He turns his head back; Simon is touching his arm.
“Pizza’s here,” Simon explains.
An enormous pizza has been placed between them, hovering over the table on a metal stand.
“You can’t just grab people when you want their attention,” Baz says, blushing. Fuck, he’s blushing.
“You sure?” Simon asks. He doesn’t move his hand. His eyes are now more pupil than blue.
“Pizza’s getting cold,” Baz whispers.
The corners of Simon’s eyes crinkle into a smile. He draws his hand back, his fingertips raising goosebumps in their wake.
Simon Snow eats like a wild dog. He takes the most enormous bite of pizza and asks, with melted cheese stringing from his lips, “How long have you been doing this tarot thing?” Which might have sounded deprecatory coming from anyone else. But from Simon’s hungry mouth and eager eyes…
“Since–” Baz counts in his head, reaching for a piece of pizza. Steam rises from where the cheese is trying in vain to separate from the rest of the pie. The smell is making his mouth water. “About a year, almost. Started with a little table down by the river.”
“Aw.” Simon reaches out and rips the strings connecting Baz’s slice to the rest of the pizza, then shoves his cheesy fingers into his mouth. “I would’ve liked to’ve seen that.”
Baz takes a bite of his pizza to distract himself. “Oh. Wow.”
“See?” Simon’s grinning knowingly. “I know what’s cool.”
Baz rolls his eyes. “What about you, what are you doing?” He’s talking with his mouth full, which is a ridiculous thing to be self-conscious about in front of a boy who’s just deep-throated his own pizza-grease-covered fingers. And yet.
Simon is halfway through his second slice of pizza. “Construction. I’m working for Gareth’s dad, actually.”
“Gareth…”
“Yeah, but he pays me alright. It’s good work, I like it.”
“That’s good – but you went to MTSU?”
“Bout a year. It was ok. I figured, I wanted to work in construction anyway, I ain’t gotta stay in school for that.”
Baz laughs. “You’re smarter than me, then.”
“No way. Didn’t you go to Vanderbilt?”
“Yeah, I did – but there’s not a lot you can do with a degree in Classical and Mediterranean Studies.”
“Huh. Is that something to do with food?”
Baz laughs.
“See, you’re so smart, I don’t even know what your major means. But yeah, I guess you don’t need college to be a tarot genius.”
“Tarot doesn’t pay the bills,” Baz admits.
“What does, then?”
“I’m a telemarketer.”
Simon cracks up. “No way! You’re one of those assholes who’s always calling at dinnertime!” He slaps the table gleefully. “How’d I turn out to be the smart one, and you turned out to be the asshole?”
“It’s not funny!” Baz protests, between gasps of laughter.
“I’m just yanking your chain.” Simon takes another piece of pizza and smirks across the table at him. “You can interrupt my dinner anytime you want.”
Baz raises one eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Simon says softly. “Just like that.”