Chapter Text
Simon
Penny’s dragging me to see a ballet with her. I think it’d be more enjoyable for both of us if I just stayed at home, but Penny wants me to go, so I do.
She frowns at me when I walk out of my room wearing a sweater and jeans.
“What?” I say.
“Don’t you have anything nicer?”
“No. Do I have to go?”
“ Yes. I’m not wasting the tickets, they were expensive. And you can’t just sit around crying over Agatha for the rest of your life. It’s been months. I thought you’d be over it by now.”
“Can you stop being such a dick about this? I thought everything was going alright, and then she just dumps me out of the blue and moves to California to find herself . I think I have every right to be upset about that.”
“You were fighting for ages . It’s like everyone saw the breakup coming but you. Now go get dressed.”
“Do I really have to go? Why can’t you bring Micah instead?” Maybe I can feel like shit over Agatha for one more night.
“I told you , Simon. He’s working. Don't you ever listen to me?”
“No.”
“Of course you don’t,” she sighs. “Now go . We’ll be late.”
“What are you? My mother?”
“I might as well be, considering all the parental figures in your life have been pretty shit.”
I don't try to argue with her, she hates my dad. And she’s probably right about that anyway.
I peer into my closet. “Penny!”
“What?”
“I really don't have anything nicer.”
She sighs in defeat. “Fine. We’ll be late if we don’t leave now.”
We’re late anyway. I say that it’s the traffic’s fault; Penny says that it’s mine.
She runs to the ticket box, even though she’s wearing heels and the ground is ancient uneven brick. I’m not sure how she does it. I can barely walk five feet without tripping.
The worker frowns when he sees me, but accepts our tickets. Penny was right, I should’ve worn something fancier.
Penny opens the theatre doors. When we walk in, the theatre is silent except for soft classical music. Dancers move gracefully across the stage. I trip. Loudly. Penny barely stifles a laugh and I elbow her in the ribs.
We make our way to our seats, me whispering sorry’s and pardon me’s every time I step on someone's bags or feet, Penny weaving her way through the seats without a problem.
“You’re a mess, Simon,” Penny whispers when we finally sit down.
“Shut up and watch the show.”
“You’re only saying that because you don’t want me to make fun of you.”
“Shut up,” I say, even though she’s right. Penny’s almost always right.
I look back at the stage. I have no clue what’s going on. It’s pretty, though. The dancers especially. There’s one, with long black hair, and strong legs. He might be the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen. He looks graceful and breathtaking and ruthless.
“Jesus fuck.”
“ What ?”
“He’s pretty. Really pretty.”
“Who?”
It probably would’ve been better if I just kept my mouth shut.
“Oh my God, Simon. Is it the guy with the long hair? Tell me it’s him.”
“Yes?”
She grins at me. “You have a crush .”
“Please don’t call it a crush, it's embarrassing. We’re not in primary school anymore.”
Penny laughs. “So. Do you like him or do you like-like him.”
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know that I’m clever.”
Someone in front of us turns around and very politely tells us to shut the fuck up . We both look back to the stage.
We don’t talk again until the show ends, but I can tell that Penny’s fighting hard to keep her mouth shut. But I don’t pay attention to her. I watch the dancer. He must have a lead role, he’s on the stage constantly. I’m not complaining. I could watch him dance forever.
But all too soon, the curtains close and the show’s over. Penny starts to get up and I turn to her.
“I need to go to the bathroom. Can you wait in the car?”
“Yeah,” she says.
I’m not sure where I’m going. I weave my way through the aisles of seats and make my way backstage. I don’t realize that I’m looking for the guy I saw earlier on the stage until I spot his long black hair. I’m scared that someone’s going to know that I don’t belong back here and kick me out. But nobody pays attention to me.
I follow the dancer through a maze of corridors and hallways. I have no clue how he hasn’t lost his way. I realize a little too late that it’s a little stalkerish to follow a guy I don’t know around, but by then I’m in too deep to back out.
He opens a window and climbs out onto the fire escape.
I wait a few seconds so that it doesn’t look like I was following him. Then I realize that that’s stupid because he climbed out a window onto a fucking fire escape.
I climb outside after him.
The dancer’s leaning against a brick wall, smoking a cigarette. Wet strands of his hair fall into his face. He’s wearing a tank top and old ripped jeans.
If he was pretty up on stage, it's nothing compared to how he looks right now. He’s fucking gorgeous up close. Pale skin, dark eyelashes, a fucking widow’s peak.
He doesn’t say anything. So I wait, watching him. I realize that this is probably weird too. He finally looks up and growls, “Are you just going to stand there or are you actually going to say something?"
His voice wasn’t what I was expecting. It’s low and silky smooth. He sounds like someone who should be giving speeches in front of crowds, not smoking cigarettes in an alley after doing a ballet show.
I tell him that and he laughs bitterly.
“I guess I can add you to the people I’ve disappointed by not becoming a politician.”
I wince. “No, no, no, oh god. That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean then?”
“I - I don’t know. You have a really nice voice. Just - shit,” I close my eyes. I haven't talked to him for more than a minute and I’ve already fucked everything up.
“Shit. Can we just start this whole conversation over?”
“Depends, he says, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Are you going to continue being a complete git?”
“No? Maybe? Hopefully not. I’m sorry,” I sigh and reach out my hand. “I’m Simon Snow.”
He takes one last drag from his cigarette before he drops it on the ground and stomps it out.
He takes my hand and shakes it. He has nice hands. Long slender fingers almost like a pianist’s, and his palm is rough. he has callouses on his fingers. “Baz Pitch,” he says, blowing a cloud of smoke into my face.
“The fuck kind of name is that?” I sputter after I finish coughing.
“You should hear my full name,” He says.
“I don’t even want to know the rest. What could be worse than ‘Baz’? What kind of pretentious name is that?”
He laughs at that. A real laugh this time. He takes a pen out of his pocket and reaches out to grab my wrist. My pulse is racing, I’m sure he can feel it. He writes down a number on my arm. His, hopefully.
He looks up and smiles. He has a pretty smile. “Call me,” He says. “Just, please do not call tonight. Or tomorrow. I need to shower and then sleep for at least a day. But after that,” his smile widens. “Maybe we can go for coffee? I could tell you the rest of my name, you could laugh at it. And you will, without a fail, laugh. Then I could make fun of you for following me all the way out onto this fire escape.”
I stare at him. “I. Okay, yeah.”
Then he climbs out the window. He starts walking away, but he turns around and makes a “call me” sign. I nod and he turns away with a smile.
I stand there for a few minutes after he leaves. Then I realize that Penny’s been waiting for me.
I gracelessly fall through the window. I stand up, hoping nobody saw me. There’s probably cameras. Whoever’s watching the security tapes is probably having a field day with me.
I try to follow the route we took when I followed the dancer, no, Baz . His name is Baz . I manage to only get lost a total of 5 times.
I finally walk out of the theatre and back to the car. I open the passenger side door.
“What took you so long? Did you get lost?”
“Yes. But,” I say and hold up my arm, “His name is Baz. And I got his number.”
“You didn’t,” she says, sounding vaguely impressed.
“I did.”