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Simon
I don’t know how it happened. I still stutter when I speak. I still have trouble with words. They get stuck somewhere between my brain and my mouth when I try to talk. But it’s different when I sing. I don’t know why.
I like music. It’s relaxing. I’ve discovered that it can be funny too. Growing up in care and then living with Watford’s technology ban, I never got to develop my own taste until more recent years. Listening to the radio while we were driving across America was fun though. Some of that stuff is still in my playlist (I keep Horse With No Name in there just to fuck with Baz), but I’ve since discovered more kinds of music that I like. Sometimes, I stumble across it online and sometimes, I happen to like the music in whatever show or movie I’m watching. It all gets dumped into one big playlist that I shuffle through on a bluetooth speaker when I take a shower and get ready for bed.
I sing with my tunes while I’m in there. Why wouldn’t I? It feels good and there’s no one to hear but Baz. He doesn’t mind. He’s told me that for someone who has so much trouble speaking, I am a surprisingly good singer. I don’t stop singing until it’s time to leave the bathroom. I sing while I dry off, while I get dressed, and while I brush my teeth. I’ve been doing it for long enough that the toothbrush is no trouble, really. I still have trouble speaking sometimes, but toothbrush karaoke is a regular part of my life now.
Baz
I don’t know how Snow doesn’t get cavities. I don’t think he brushes his teeth at night. He’ll eat scones and whatever other pastry he can lay his hands on and then leave it rotting his teeth all night. I know he at least brushes in the morning, but that obviously isn’t enough. I know he isn’t brushing at night because I can hear him singing in the shower. He doesn’t stop when he shuts off the water. He keeps going until the moment he leaves the bathroom.
This has to stop.
It’s disgusting and unhealthy.
I haven’t wanted to bring it up because Snow is a grownup. He’s old enough to make basic decisions about how to take care of himself. He’s faced enough scrutiny and judgment. But I don’t want his luck to run out. I don’t want him to have to deal with fillings, and I definitely don’t want him to face any more serious health problems just because his oral hygiene sucks.
Today’s the day. I’m going to confront him about it.
There isn’t anything special about today. That’s the point. It wasn’t a horrible day or a perfect one. It was just a day. It came and went like any other, so there’s nothing to make worse and nothing to ruin. I’m going to do it. It might not be fun, but it has to be done.
Simon
I luxuriate in the shower, savoring the steam and the way it keeps my throat and vocal chords moist while I’m singing. The steam fogs up the glass over the clockface, so knowing roughly how many songs have played is the only thing that helps me keep track of time. I play five tracks in the shower, another one while I dry off and pull on some trackie bottoms, and one more while I brush my teeth.
When I’m done, I head to the bedroom. Baz is reading in bed. I crawl up the duvet and push his book down, leaning in for a kiss, but Baz stops me with one finger on my lips.
“Forgetting something?” Baz says.
“Ummm… What do you mean?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Dental hygiene is not optional, Snow.”
“Obviously?”
“Twice a day. Not just in the morning.”
“I know,” I frown. “What’s your deal, Baz?”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “My deal is that you’ve clearly not been brushing in the evenings. You’re going to get cavities.”
“What are you talking about?” I blow in his face. “See? Minty fresh.”
He rolls his eyes. “Mouthwash doesn’t count.”
“Baz!” I say. “I brushed!”
“I literally heard you singing with your music from the moment you got in the shower until the moment you walked out of the bathroom, Snow!”
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Baz frowns.
“Just because I’m singing doesn’t mean I’m not brushing, Baz.”
“Great Snakes, Simon! What do you take me for?” He’s still frowning and now he crosses his arms too. “You expect me to believe that you’re singing all of the lyrics with a toothbrush in your mouth?”
I raise my brows in challenge. “Yes.”
“Prove it.”
Baz
“Okay, I will.” Snow smirks at me and hops off the bed, walking back to the bathroom.
I roll my eyes again, but I get up and follow him. I watch him reconnect the speaker to his phone and scroll through his playlist. I’m sure he must be trying to find the easiest song possible for this impending trainwreck.
A mocking grin spreads across his face when he finds what he’s looking for. He spreads toothpaste on his toothbrush and presses play. I was expecting something with slow, simple lyrics. I was not expecting him to turn on Which of the Pickwick Triplets Did It?. (We’ve been watching Only Murders in the Building lately.) Simon gives me a wink and starts brushing his teeth as he sings:
Three little babes in their bassinets
Angelic little triplets or triple threats?
They might have fooled the others, but they won't fool me.
It's time to give these teething, seething three
The third degree!
I arch an eyebrow and lean on the doorframe. This is going to be a disaster. I almost wish I’d brought my phone with me to film it.
Which of the Pickwick triplets did it?
Who of the crew could commit this crime?
Might a little brat make a mommy go splat?
It's a story pretty gory for a nursery rhyme.
Which of the Pickwick triplets did it?
Which of the spawn had the brawn to kill?
Will a baby get tried for matricide?
Coochie-coochie-coo, time for you or you or you to admit it.
So quick as a whip gotta pick which Pickwick triplеt did it.
What. The. Fuck!
How in the name of Merlin is he doing this? This is Simon Snow, the man who stammers when he tries to order fish and chips. The man who growls when his words fail him. And now he’s singing a patter song. With a toothbrush in his mouth!
Penelope in pink surе is making quite a stink.
Is she trying to throw me off the scent?
Though she bats her little eyes, is she a killer in disguise
With a diaper full of criminal intent?
Simon takes a moment to spit between stanzas, but he somehow times it perfectly so he doesn’t miss a note. Who even is this man?
Preening Patrick is pernicious with an appetite so vicious
He would bite the hand that feeds him with a sneer.
But could that rotten tot be behind this evil plot
Baby-stepping towards a murderous career?
Simon wasn’t kidding. He’s really doing this. He isn’t just brushing his molars to leave room for his tongue and lips either. He’s scrubbing every tooth from every angle.
Pouty little Paco's looking coy, but he's a bad, bad boy.
Could Paco's passion prove apocalyptic?
With his paci' and his rattle, did this pisher go to battle,
Proving he's the perp amidst this Pickwick triptych?
Simon looks me in the eye when he brushes his tongue, still rattling off the lyrics. There’s barely any difference. Only a precious few consonants get lost.
In this picaresque puzzle of the Pickwick pack,
Will a lighthouse shed some light
On which kid gave ol' mom a whack?
There's an infant to indict.
I'll book this little crook tonight.
He spits again and winks at me in the mirror. If he can do this with a toothbrush, what else can he sing around?
But
Which of the Pickwick triplets did it?
Who of the crew would commit this crime?
Which little brat made mommy go splat?
Which crib, which sib will be doing hard time?
Which of the Pickwick triplets did it?
Which little putz had the guts to kill?
Like a forensic pediatrician, I'll complete this inquisition.
I will name the neonatal from the cradle that proved fatal.
I will find the perpetrator who did murder to their mater!
Simon finishes brushing and takes advantage of the pause to rinse his mouth before finishing the song unencumbered while he rinses off his toothbrush.
Or
Coochie-coochie-coo
What if none of it is true?
Has my inspection been too cursory
Should I look outside this nursery?
What if none of the Pickwick triplets did it?
Who'd have had a menacing motive and hid it?
Who? Who? Who? Well
I pick you!
He smacks his toothbrush against the edge of the sink to get excess water off of it in time with the last three words and then drops it in the cup on the counter before turning to me with the cockiest smirk I’ve ever seen.
Simon
Baz looks like I just dropped a dictionary on his head. He’s leaning on the doorframe, his jaw dropped and his eyes wide. Then he turns on his heel and walks back to the bedroom without a word. I take a moment to dry my mouth on a towel before following him.
Baz is sitting on the edge of the bed. There’s a pillow on the floor between his feet.
“So?” I say. “Do you believe me now?”
Baz doesn’t answer my question. He points to the pillow on the floor. “On your knees, Snow,” he says. “God Save the Queen. Now.”