Chapter Text
Baz
It’s what must be the bleakest Saturday night of the year. The rain is falling heavily outside and the windows are almost completely frosted. Blurry yellow and red lights glow through the windows from the outside and the rain is so heavy that I already know it’s going to be impossible to leave the Club before 2 a.m. It’s absurdly cold, and my suit jacket is barely keeping me warm.
If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m playing, I’d be freezing completely. I breathe in and clasp my hands together, as the clinking of glasses and chatter are filling the atmosphere while I prepare for another piece.
The regulars are scattered around, some of them are chatting at the bar, probably having the same conversation they had last week, and some of them are sitting at their usual tables, looking bored. I wonder how they find it enjoyable to come here every weekend, wearing stiff suits, ordering the same drinks and then having the same conversations over and over again, attempting to talk over the sound of the poor bloke playing the piano.
I’m the one who’s been playing here every week for over a year now. This is sort of a side job and I do it mostly to keep myself sane. If I didn’t, I think I’d go mental. The money it pays goes straight to my account, where it mixes with my mostly-untouched trust fund. I don’t even need the money I’m getting paid. I just do this on the weekends to take my mind off of Grad school.
Music has kept me sane for as long as I can remember. Sure, there’s been people, but the piano was my first love.
I had my first lesson at four. I could play a proper piece before I could actually write full sentences. And here I am, playing bloody “Piano Man” and any other songs that members request every Saturday. Sixteen years of classical training resulting in me playing covers of ballads the general public loves.
My sets usually start with what I want to play.
I usually open with a few Nocturnes while people start shuffling in. (It’s also a good warm-up after a long week.) Then I move on to instrumental versions of the music that I enjoy until requests start coming in, scribbled on the back of business cards, or on the thick, heavy cards the Club gives its members to request songs.
I usually know by heart how to play what they request. If I don’t, I can usually figure it out in under ten minutes by ear.
This is the sort of place where you need an invitation to join. The crowd consists of old money types, who are stuck with their choices, evident in their lifeless eyes. Most are the drink-to-forget types. It’s the kind of place where real feelings and conversations aren’t allowed. Where it’s worse to be queer than to cheat on your long-time spouse. (If they only knew). I’ve seen everything here and it’s really no surprise my Father is a member too. Thankfully, he only comes on Sunday for lunch. He says drinking on a Saturday is too common for him.
I try not to mix with anyone. I get in just before nine, play my set, out around midnight, straight to my car and then to my empty flat only if I’m not feeling a midnight curry.
The stability of having a job to look forward to makes the monotony of my life bearable. Not that I don’t like my degree. I love Economics. And I love the dissertation I’m working on. I just hate spending all day in my flat, reading paper after paper for my research topic and then writing about it some more.
It’s not that my life is bad. My family is nice, although I don’t see them much, and I’ve had my two best mates, Dev and Niall, since we were in school. People love me here too. I think some of them come just to hear me play. And I graduated top of my class in my master’s- it’s just- that’s it.
There’s nothing else going on for me. I’m perfectly comfortable. It’s a good life, it really is. But I’m just not excited about it. I can’t even remember what butterflies in my stomach felt like. In a way, I’m just like the regulars, I’m here every weekend, trying to forget about life for a while.
I am Basilton Pitch. I am the heir of one of the oldest, wealthiest British families. I've been on this earth for 25 years, and nobody’s ever loved me.
Sure, I’ve gone on dates, made out, had sex but I don’t think I’ve ever really been loved. I’ve had two serious relationships and two messy breakups. I have a tendency to be the one who’s madly in love and then it gets too much for them. It always end with me asking questions to the ceiling for endless nights after I’ve been dumped, so I decided to stop trying altogether.
Being alone used to bother me when I was younger, when everyone in grade school or university started pairing up and I didn’t. But after a while, I decided it was for the best.
I’m just finishing “a thousand years” (my choice), when I see Ebb, one of the regulars, walking towards me, the top of her pale blue dress hiding under a darker, satin shawl. She places a coaster and a beer on my piano.
I’ve seen her every Saturday since I’ve been here. She usually sits at the bar, nursing a double whiskey on the rocks. I try not to mingle, but during this time we’ve had a few chats, and she always insists on buying my drinks for me. When my Aunt Fiona is here, they usually sit and converse all night. I think she once mentioned they went to boarding school together.
Of course, I also went to boarding school, with Dev and Niall. It was a good experience, but I always cared too much about school to properly enjoy getting pissed and partying like everyone else did.
Most of the regulars are over forty, and Ebb is no exception. There are a few younger clients, probably my age, but they come and go as they find partners, no longer needing the bar as their security blanket.
Ebb places a hand on my shoulder, “Rough night, eh?”
I frown and shake my head before replying, “I don’t think so.”
She gives me a smile. She always seems like she’s miles away. “I think rain makes everyone melancholic, Baz.”
“Cheers,” I take a sip of my beer, letting the cold liquid cool my throat, “No, I think I’m just tired, really.”
She shakes her head and gives me an almost motherly smile. Although I doubt I could really recognise one if I saw it. My mother passed away when I was only five. It’s been a while since someone has given me anything remotely close to motherly affection.
“The owner’s son is here.”
I lift one of my eyebrows. I really don’t give a shit if another fresh-out-of-Cambridge brat decided to join this hellhole of a club.
She tilts her head to the side, trying to point at him. I think about ignoring the gesture, but I take a quick look anyway since she’s pinning me down with her piercing blue eyes.
He’s far away, alone at a table in the back corner, making it difficult to see him properly. Fit. Broad shoulders. Bronze, curly hair. He looks around my age, give or take a year or two. Definitely the type of dude who can get girls faster than you can say “let's go out”.
He's staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows as he fiddles with the knot on his tie.
“He looks out of place,” I say, as I start randomly playing a few notes of a piece that just came to mind.
She shakes her head as she grins and turns around, leaving me to go back to my reveries. I brush the thoughts of his boring blue eyes out of my head.
Another Cambridge brat, fresh out of uni, looking for someone to marry, then pop out a litter of blonde, spoiled rascals.
I roll my eyes because I think that’s what Father would have wanted for me. I did go to Oxford, though. I suppose in some ways I am also an overindulged brat. It’s just that I could never give Father the perfect British family. Not in the traditional way that he wants, anyway.
He used to be worse about my queerness when I was still in school but I think after a while he came to terms with it. Sometimes he and my stepmother, Daphne, even ask if I’m bringing someone home for the holidays.
The answer is always no.
An hour or so later, I’m done with my set and the rain is still coming down hard, so I decide to sit at the bar for a while until it’s safer to leave. Rhys, the bartender smiles as he opens up another beer for me.
He places it on the marble counter, “Are you staying until close tonight?”
I sneer, “I don’t think it’s possible to drive right now,” and then as an afterthought, I add, “I’d be in bed right now on a normal day.”
He scrunches up his nose, “Yeah, you’re telling me,” He grins, “although with how much Davy is paying me, I think I’d need to work five more hours to make ends meet.”
Rhys is your typical blonde, overeager green-eyed uni student. He’s paying his way through school by working a bunch of odd jobs. It's times like this, he’s good company. He’s overall polite, quick with a joke and tends to mind his own business, which is why I like him. It’s also pretty obvious that there is somewhere else he’d rather be. I hope he gets to where he wants to be someday.
I take a sip and look around. Although it’s late, it’s still crowded, laughter and chatter louder than before, probably due to the number of drinks that have circulated during my set.
The owner’s son is still in the corner, although now Davy is sitting with him. They don’t look like they’re having a good chat, though. He’s flushed, raking his hands through his curls, practically pulling at them every now and then.
I thought those kinds of emotional outbursts weren’t allowed here.
Rhys gestures his head towards them. “He’s going quick with his drinks, that one.”
“That’s Davy’s kid, isn’t it?”
“Mmmhm,” Rhys takes a glass from behind the counter, and starts preparing a Mojito for an old man who’s sitting just to my right, “Yeah, foster kid.”
I don’t say anything as I take another long drink of my beer. “I hear his name is Simon Snow,” Rhys adds as he shakes his head.
I raise an eyebrow at the ridiculous name. “That’s odd. That he’s a foster kid, I mean. He looks like Davy.”
Rhys shrugs as he mushes mint leaves at the bottom of the glass. “I guess so. There’s nothing special about either of them, though. He’s just bringing him here in hopes he finds someone to settle down with.”
I cringe internally and bite my lip, “Yeah, I figured,” I turn to look at this Simon guy, and find him already looking at me.
He’s blatantly staring, his mouth slightly open. Fuck. His tawny skin glows softly under the dim, yellow lights. His blue eyes eagerly go up my body until they find my face. I hold his gaze for a second, then I lift my chin up and sneer. His cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink, and then he looks down at this glass, fiddling with his tie again. I know the intimidating, I’m-richer-than-you dance too well.
I don’t look at him again.
I hate the way my heart started racing when I caught him staring. I hate the way he reminds me of someone I once loved.
*-*-*
I’m putting my coat on downstairs, after waiting almost an hour for the rain to let up. A petite woman opens the door to the street, and stands in the doorway as she fumbles in her Chanel purse for her car keys, and the cold air rushes in through the small lobby. That's when I spot him. Alone, standing under a lamppost, probably waiting for the valet to bring his car around.
I step out and hand my ticket to the valet. Simon Snow whips his head around so fast, it wouldn’t be surprising if he tore a muscle. I ignore him as I place a smoke between my lips, although it’s still raining softly.
I cross my arms over my chest, trying not to shiver. I hate that I’m always unreasonably cold. The hot smoke makes my chest feel warmer.
I notice his top button is popped open and his blue tie is now wrapped around his fist. Definitely not used to suits and the like, then. Now that I’m seeing him up close, his tawny skin is splattered with freckles and moles, and for a split second, I imagine myself kissing the one on his left cheek, just under his eye.
He’s fumbling with his phone, still leaning against the lamppost. I think he’s too pissed to stand upright on his own. A car pulls up, disturbing the quietness and parks right at the curb. Snow looks at it, then back at his phone. Before he climbs into the car, he gives me one last look.
An uber, I think. I can’t help the strange feeling in my stomach as he’s still staring through the window at me, smiling faintly as the driver takes him away from me.