Chapter Text
Simon despises Bad Blood.
The premise is stupid enough to begin with, and it just gets more ridiculous each episode. What’s worse: after only a season and a half, the fanbase is absolutely rabid. It’s impossible to be ignorant of this show, even if you try. (Simon has tried. Oh, but he has tried.) The whole world is cursed to know all about how sexy and mysterious and misunderstood Ambrose is. Every person must be bludgeoned with the awareness that Ambrose and Marina’s relationship is a farce, because Ambrose really belongs with Tomasso, the vampire played by an actor twenty years his senior.
“Age means nothing to vampires,” Shepard says, again, as Simon wrinkles his nose.
“But Ambrose is actually eighteen. And Tomasso is, like, over a hundred!”
“He’s only in his sixties, thank you very much.” Shepard throws a piece of popcorn across the couch. “It could be worse. Marina’s ex-boyfriend was four hundred.”
“Don’t remind me,” Simon says, glaring as Ambrose’s brooding face fills the screen. His hair is literally always in his eyes. Is that supposed to be sexy? It isn’t. It’s annoying. With the budget this show has, they should really get better people in hair and makeup. And maybe if they got better writers, someone would finally decide to kill Ambrose off for good. (He’d already died once at the beginning of season two, but was resurrected the next week. Simon’s highest high and lowest low.)
“I don’t deserve you,” Ambrose whispers to Marina as she cries, grey eyes full of angst. “I’ll never deserve you.”
The scene cuts to Ambrose walking away from Marina’s parents’ house, cape billowing in the wind. It’s raining, because of course it is. Ambrose makes it a few blocks before he finds shelter at a bus stop and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.
“Ambrose, you’re flammable!” Shepard gasps.
“Please, please, please…” Simon mutters as Ambrose lights up. He stares at the cigarette, letting it burn down to the filter — millimeters from his flammable, vampire fingers — before tossing the butt into the rain. It’s the most unnecessarily dramatic two minutes of television Simon has ever seen. Shepard is beside himself in tears.
A dark, expensive car rolls up to the bus stop. The window comes down. It’s too dark to see inside, but Ambrose’s face cracks with relief.
“Get in,” Tomasso says from the car. The credits roll. One more week until the finale, and then the fanfare would start to die down again. Simon couldn’t wait.
“I don’t know how you can hate this show,” Shepard sobs. Simon shrugs, grabbing his beer and standing up.
“I don’t like shitty television,” he says, and Shepard accepts it, like he always does.
That is, until Penelope Bunce comes for a visit.
It’s hard to explain, but Simon just sort of ended up in Los Angeles. His shit job at a shit company in London had offered him the transfer a little under a year ago, and he’d been just depressed enough to accept the offer. That’s all.
It’s been good, though. He likes California well enough. It’s sunny, which is nice. Shepard’s a cool roommate, despite his shit taste in television. He doesn’t mind all the driving, and he makes enough money that his car is actually pretty sweet. Agatha lives only a couple hours south, and Simon likes hanging out with her girlfriend.
Penny held out on coming out to the States because she was mad at him for leaving so abruptly. That was fair, though. They’ve talked about it. After Simon and his therapist talked about it. After Penelope bullied him from afar into getting a therapist. So they’re good, now, he thinks. Better. Trying. They’ve been in each other's lives since they were eleven. It’ll probably take more than some maudlin miscommunication to burn nearly twenty years of friendship to the ground.
It’s only been a few hours since she landed, and her and Shepard have already hit it off. It’s unlikely Shepard knows this, because she hasn’t stopped berating him since they picked her up from the airport. But that’s just how Penny expresses herself. He’ll catch on eventually.
They’re walking to the car after getting lunch when Shepard calls “Hold on!” behind them. Simon turns to see Shepard taking a selfie with a billboard that has Tomasso’s smug face plastered across it. He’s too pretty to be such a morally ambiguous character. It’s creepy. And it’s creepy the way he’s always trying to “mentor” Ambrose. (Even though Ambrose deserves to die.) (It’s the principle of the thing.)
“Ew,” Simon says, making Shepard cackle.
“Should I get a photo of you with him too?” he asks. “Or maybe we can find one with your true love, Ambrose.”
Penelope snorts at that, and Simon sends her a warning look.
“Do you watch Bad Blood?” Shep asks her.
“Out of obligation,” Penny replies with a smirk.
“It’s the same for Simon,” Shepard nods sagely, winking at Simon. Simon shoves his shoulder, turning back to walk toward his car. “Despite his hatred for stupid TV, he watches it with me. The best roommate I could ask for.”
“Oh, that is not why Simon hates Bad Blood,” Penelope says, and Simon whirls on her.
“Don’t,” Simon says, leveling a finger at her.
“Simon loves shitty television,” Penny informs Shepard, ignoring him. (This is why he left London.) (That’s not true.) (Actually, Penelope ignoring Simon’s word was part of their whole thing. But they’ve talked about it. They’re working on it.) (They’re probably going to have to talk about this.) “You should have seen him at the height of his Teen Wolf phase.”
“Teen Wolf isn’t shitty television,” Simon argues. Shepard’s brows are sky high.
“What about Riverdale?” Penny shoots back.
“Archie is a classic.”
“You can’t defend Pretty Little Liars.”
Simon really can’t. He sees it in her eyes when Penny knows she’s won.
“Then why do you hate Bad Blood so much?” Shepard asks. He looks a little hurt, so Simon unlocks the car door and slides inside where he can’t see his face. What Simon can’t see can’t bother him. See, this is what talking about Bad Blood will do to a person. All his therapist’s hard work, swept away.
Penelope drops into the passenger seat. She doesn’t complain that it’s on the wrong side, since she has already said it five times in the last three hours, but she implies it with the way she passive-aggressively buckles her safety belt. Shepard squeezes his way into the tiny backseat, knees nearly poking out his eyeballs.
“Are you going to answer the man’s question?” Penelope asks. Evilly. Why is she so evil today? Is it the jet lag?
“Why are you so evil today?” he asks her.
“It’s the jet lag,” Penny says.
“Simon,” Shepard whines, and Shepard is the opposite of evil, which makes Simon feel super bad. It’s like he kicked a puppy or something, instead of withholding information on a subject that makes him feel wiggly and hollow and angry and lost and so much that his chest may implode.
He pulls out of the parking space and takes out the nebulous emotion on LA traffic.
“So you know the actor who plays Ambrose?” Simon says, voice tight.
“Basilton Pitch,” Shepard says dreamily. Simon snorts.
“Basilton,” he whispers mockingly under his breath. Penny laughs. Simon gives her the finger without looking away from the road. “Well, Penny and I sort of know him.”
“Holy shit?” Shepard says, leaning up between the seats.
“Sort of?” Penny pushes. Simon rolls his eyes, feeling his cheeks heat up.
“Yeah, we were, like, friends, I guess. We went to uni together.”
“You’re friends with Ambrose?” Shepard yells in Simon’s ear. Oh, yeah. Simon’s in tomato mode now — he can feel the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He turns the AC up.
“Not with fucking Ambrose,” Simon snaps. “And anyway, that was a long time ago.”
“For you,” Penny says to Simon, then turns in her seat. “I’m still friends with Ambrose.”
“Wow,” Shepard says, sitting back in his seat. “I feel kind of starstruck. Wait, is he actually dating Tomasso in real life?”
Simon chokes a bit. He changes lanes on the highway even though he doesn’t have to, cutting off a big white SUV with a Trump sticker. It makes him feel a little better.
“God, no, he’s not dating Lamb,” Penny says. “He’s not dating anyone.”
And that emphasis, that sly “gotcha” tone, that insistence that Simon open the lid on this box that he’s worked so hard to keep shut, that smug knowledge of Lamb and who’s dating and who’s not — that was Simon and Penny’s main problem.
“Let it go, Pen,” Simon says. He’s keeping his voice calm. He’s being so cool and chill about this. He is literally handling it all so well.
“Are you feeling okay, Simon?” Shepard asks, reaching around to put the back of his palm on Simon’s forehead. Simon swats him away, channeling his energy into the impossible task of finding street parking in a three block radius of their apartment.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simon says. “I’ve never been more fine in my life.”
“Right,” Shepard agrees, then launches into a story about a weird customer interaction. He has a lot of those, since he works at an art store. There are just exponentially more weird customers by default.
Penelope is mysteriously silent, which does not bode well for Simon.
She holds her tongue as Simon wedges his way into a nearly-too-small parking spot, as they walk the four blocks to the building, as Simon and Shep give the grand tour. She nods politely as Shepard explains the mural he’s painting on their living room wall, an abstract and colorful monument to cryptids everywhere. She tells Shepard to “have a good shift” when he realizes he’s going to be late to work and darts out the door.
Then, she turns to Simon, and it’s like slow-motion. Like he’s in a movie and he’s about to get shot. But instead of a gun, Penny’s wielding big brown eyes full of concern and love and an inability to stay out of Simon’s business.
“Please don’t,” Simon tries.
Penelope shakes her head. She points at the door.
“He’s your closest friend here,” she says. “It is insane to me that you’ve been watching this show all year with him, yet he doesn’t even know.”
“Because it doesn’t matter,” Simon says, throwing his arms out. “He doesn’t have to know because it doesn’t mean anything! I’m over it. Why would I tell him about something that’s not even a blip on my radar?”
Penny’s frown deepens.
“You’re telling me that you glower at his face on the television once a week, from the same city, and you’re over it?”
“He had nothing to do with me moving here.”
“So you’ve said. I still don’t believe it.”
“Okay, well you don’t need to. It’s still true.”
“Simon,” Penny says, exasperated. She sits down in one of the dining room chairs, bringing her hands to her temples. “It’s just hard to watch you both do this.”
Simon’s anger evaporates.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Sure,” Penny says without sincerity. “Then it’s hard to watch him, at least.”
Simon stiffens, looking out the window.
“I don’t care.”
Penelope sighs. It’s quiet for a moment.
“Do you want me to go stay with him tonight?” she asks, and Simon really really doesn’t. He’s missed her so much. And even though he knows she shouldn’t have to choose a side, he hates the idea that she’s still in touch with him.
This is the part where he tells her all that. This is the part where he lets her carry a little bit of the unwieldy weight crushing down on his shoulders. This is the part where he reaches out for a hug that will temporarily fill the now-empty chambers of his heart, will make him feel a little bit more whole.
Instead, he just shrugs. She grabs her bag and her phone, kisses him on the cheek, and then she’s gone.
Simon is watching Bad Blood reruns, three beers deep and counting, when Shepard gets home.
“Where’s Penelope?” he asks, kicking his shoes toward the shoe rack. Simon uses his beer hand to point at the television, currently fixated on Ambrose’s face. He’s smiling — a rarity on the show. It’s the worst part about Ambrose, how little he smiles. People in online forums say that it makes his smiles more special. Simon doesn’t get it. That’s the kind of smile they should want to see every day. It’s the kind of smile that makes you want to do the stupidest fucking shit just so you can coax it out. Like sticking Pringles in your mouth to make a duck bill, maybe. Or spending a month’s worth of pay on tickets to a football game for a team you hate. Or tugging someone’s face toward yours by the chin only to lick a line up their long, crooked nose then run away laughing.
Yeah. Stupid shit.
“This show is fucking idiotic.”
“So you’ve said,” Shepard says, dropping onto the sofa next to him. “I can’t believe you know him.”
Simon hums, tearing at the label on his beer. They watch in silence as Marina steps up to Ambrose, laughing, and pulls his face toward hers. She doesn’t lick his nose. They kiss, and it’s passionate and perfect and so fucking shallow. Simon thunks his feet up onto the coffee table with force.
“We dated,” he says. Ambrose pushes Marina against a brick wall, taking control of the kiss. It makes Simon snort.
“Oh,” Shepard says, turning to look at Simon. Simon keeps his eyes on the television as Ambrose’s hands slide down Marina’s sides. She has her fingers placed daintily on his cheeks, ignoring the silky hair that is, predictably, in his face. If she’d just reach up and tug a few strands, she’d have Ambrose melting against her, gasping into her mouth. If she shoved at his shoulders, he’d fall easily to his knees. He’d look up at her in awe, swollen lips parted. (Hair in his face. Always.)
Maybe not, though. Ambrose isn’t Baz.
Ambrose is pulling a blushing Marina into the bedroom, a wolfish expression on his face. Shepard turns the TV off.
“For a long time,” Simon says, staring at the black screen. “We were together for seven years.”
“What happened?” Shepard asks. Simon can see their reflection warped on the television screen. Shepard’s expression still reads as gentle and worried, even if one of his eyes is way bigger than the other.
“He got his break,” Simon explains, flicking a shred of the bottle label to the floor. “He had to move. We decided long distance would be too hard.”
That’s not all true. Baz had already mapped out the best regular flights from Heathrow to LAX. He was talking about weekend trips in the middle, and FaceTime date ideas he’d found on Pinterest. It had all filled Simon with dread. Baz wasn’t taking any of it seriously. As silly as the role was, everyone knew Bad Blood was going to be huge. Baz was the exciting, fresh face joining a star-studded cast for the most audience-friendly, sexy teen vampire show in history. Simon wasn’t going to let him blow it.
And Simon was right, wasn’t he? Look at Baz now. Basilton Pitch, vampire heartthrob.
“That’s it?” Shepard asks. “The distance?”
Simon finally meets Shepard’s eyes. His eyebrows are knitted together.
“I mean, yeah,” Simons says. “It was a pretty big distance.”
“Sure,” Shepard says, nodding slowly. “But you’ve lived thirty minutes from Hollywood for the last ten months.”
“It’s not that simple,” Simon says, looking away again.
“Oh my god, Simon,” Shepard says, standing up. He’s got one hand on his hip, using the other to jab a finger in Simon’s face. “Is this why you never go out with me? Because you’re yearning for Basilton fucking Pitch.”
“Basilton,” Simon mutters, mockingly. Again. Shepard raises his eyebrows at him. “I’m not fucking yearning for Baz.”
“Ooooh, nickname,” Shepard coos, briefly distracted. “Wait. No. You’re definitely yearning. I’m initiating the Simpard For Life No Bullshit No Exceptions No Questions Bro Code.”
“Nooooo,” Simon whimpers, covering his face with a pillow. “That’s dirty, man.”
“The code is the code,” Shepard says, tugging at the pillow. “You signed the contract. With your blood.”
“I knew the blood thing was too far,” Simon mumbles.
“Do you solemnly swear to give me the whole truth, nothing but the truth, all the truth, only the truest truth of them all?” Shepard recites. Simon lifts the pillow and nods weakly. The code compels him.
“Do you still have feelings for him?” Shepard asks. Simon lets his eyes roam to the ceiling and takes a deep breath. He lets all the anger and the self-loathing and the grief and the fucking yearning bubble to the surface, lets his hurt and his emptiness and his loneliness crawl up his throat. He chokes on it.
“Yeah.”
“Right,” Shepard says. He’s got both hands on his waist now, one hip cocked out. It’s his thinking pose. His foot taps a few times. Thinking taps. Ideas are incoming. Simon waits for them in misery. “I’m going to stow away the fact that I’m freaking out over this for now. Because, like, my roommate and Basilton Pitch have a movie-worthy romance that I didn’t know about. So I’m totally freaking out.”
Simon squeaks.
“Stowed away!” Shepard says, hands in the air. Simon thinks he is miming stowing — there’s a lot of waving around. Stowing is not concrete enough an action for an easy charade. “Stowed. Success. Okay. Dude, ready for some truth in return?” He waits for Simon to nod. “You gotta go for it. If you’re yearning, if you’ve been yearning this whole time, then you gotta at least try. And now you know he’s single! You gotta do something.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“What do you usually do when you don’t know what to do?” Shepard asks.
Simon pauses, then calls Penelope.
“Are you with him?”
“No, I’m actually at Lizzo’s house,” she says. “Harry Styles is here too. I showed him your picture and told him you had a crush on him. He was really nice when he let you down.”
“Penny,” Simon whines. “Also, if you ever meet Harry, make sure you show him that one of me from rugby.”
“You’re like, nineteen in that photo,” she says. “It looks nothing like you now.”
“I’m hot in that photo.”
“I’m not doing this. What do you want, after you so rudely kicked me out of your house?”
Simon takes a deep breath. Shepard gives him a thumbs up. He rolls his eyes, putting his beer down on the coffee table and heading to his bedroom.
“I’m sorry,” Simon blurts. “I know you mean well. And it freaks me out when you confront me like that, which you already know I don’t like. But also, you’re right.”
It’s quiet on the other end of the line for a moment.
“Hold on,” Penelope says. “I’m going outside.”
There’s more shuffling, some slamming. A bit of bashing that is almost concerning. Penelope is a little out of breath when she speaks again.
“Tell me what I’m right about.”
“I’m not over it,” Simon says. “Shepard says I’m yearning. I miss him and I think breaking up with him was the worst mistake I ever made. It drives me insane that you guys still talk, not because I’m angry with you, but because I’m jealous. I’m so jealous and so yearn-y and I don’t think I’m ever going to get over it.”
“Okay,” Penny says, and Simon can hear her brain working. “Okay. What are we going to do about it?”
“What can we do about it? I already fucked it up. Now I just have to deal with it.”
“You’re a dumbass,” Penny says. “If you think you fucked it up so bad, try to fix it. What are we going to do?”
Simon doesn’t know what to say. Penelope is the one who comes up with plans, not Simon. He’s not really sure how to go about starting the brainstorm.
“I could… write him a letter?” Simon asks. Penny huffs. “Or maybe an email?”
“Never mind. I’m sending you the address then Ubering to yours. Will Shepard be home to let me in?”
“What, now?” Simon asks, looking down at his ratty trackie bottoms and sweat-stained T-shirt. His phone buzzes in his hand with Penny’s text.
“My Uber will be here in 3 minutes. I should be to yours in less than twenty. Isn’t it nice how close to one another you guys live?”
“Penny,” Simon says, desperate.
“You’ve got to do the work from here, Simon,” she says. “You got this.”
She hangs up, and Simon stands frozen for a moment. Then, he moves.
Christ, what do you wear to a famous actor’s flat? Can Simon just wear, like, jeans? Should he wear a shirt with a collar?
It’s fucking useless, this train of thought. It’s a waste of time. He’s going to see Baz, who has quite literally wiped Simon’s arse for him before. (Listen, the flu got him bad that year. There were no boundaries left uncrossed. It was surprisingly less mortifying than he’d assumed it would be — as Baz had continually pointed out, he was already well-acquainted with Simon’s arsehole.)
He changes, but just into clean sweatpants and one of his nicer T-shirts. It’s got the type of sleeves Baz always used to tell him to buy — none of that baggy too-the-elbow shit. Baz might have bought him this shirt. He can’t remember. Would Baz? Is that weird?
It’s all weird. He decides he doesn’t care. Baz probably picked out three-quarters of this wardrobe.
He leaves the room before he can second-guess himself again. Shepard is waiting by the door.
“Bro,” he says, holding out a fist. Simon bumps it. Then they clap their free hands three times. They both take a bow and say, in sync, “I don’t mind if I do, good sir.” Simon spins Shep, then Shep spins Simon, then they both do a jazz square that ends with them holding jazz hands. They chest bump with a loud grunt and separate for air guitar solos. “Everybody wants to rule the world,” they sing. Then they point to each other, air mics to their mouths — “You’ve got that one thing,” they sing, then spin in a circle. Back to back, they pull out finger guns, shoot them into the distance with a shouted “Bang!” then blow the smoke off the barrel. They jump apart suddenly, crouching and pointing the guns at each other, “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us,” then straighten up and holster the guns with a big Santa Claus, belly-rubbing laugh, “Ho ho ho.” They hug. They part. They shake right hands, then left hands, then they boop each other on the nose and go for that final fist bump with a shouted “Bros for life!”
Simon lets the high of the handshake push him out and down the street to his car. He lets the One Direction song now stuck in his head tune out of the panic he feels when he copies the address from Penny’s text into his GPS app. “Get out, get out, get out of my head,” he whisper-sings, secretly hoping the song stays in his head for the rest of his life. No more thoughts. They are scary. Only boyband. Boyband is safe.
One Direction does not save him as he drives into the hills. It cannot combat the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he pulls into a small driveway on a quiet street. He gets out of the car, and there’s no security guard or laser beams he has to navigate to get to the door. It’s just a house. A nice one, but small and cozy with warm, stucco tones and potted desert plants in a tasteful gravel garden.
Simon debates whether he should knock or ring the doorbell. Apparently he takes too long, because the door swings open on its own.
It’s Baz. And he’s just — he’s him. He’s wearing an old Watford football hoodie and black jeans, socked feet tucked into a pair of pink slippers. (And, oh, it’s fine Simon wore the shirt, since he got those slippers for Baz a few Christmases ago.) His hair is pulled up, but strands have fallen predictably out of the elastic to float around his face in pretty waves.
Baz’s expression flashes from nervous to frustrated to sad and back to frustrated. He raises a singular eyebrow at Simon, waiting for him to speak. Simon’s always wondered why the Bad Blood showrunners didn’t capitalize on the eyebrow thing for Ambrose’s character. He’s eternally thankful they didn’t.
“Baz,” he says, because that’s where his mind’s at right now.
“I can’t imagine why you’re at my door past midnight on a Thursday,” Baz snaps back. He just heard that voice on the telly an hour ago, but it was nothing like this. These words send a shiver down Simon’s spine.
“Penny didn’t tell you I was coming?”
“She did,” Baz says, leaning against the door frame. “She did not explain why. Apparently, that’s your job.”
“Okay,” Simon says. He crosses his arms, then remembers the training at work where he learned that makes you look defensive, and puts his hands in his pockets instead. “That makes sense.”
Simon opens his mouth and closes it a few times, thinking he probably should’ve spent more time on the drive over thinking about what he wanted to say. Shot me out of the sky, you're my kryptonite, his brain supplies helpfully. Baz sighs, his expression softening, and Simon’s heart makes an escape attempt through his rib cage. Baz steps back in the doorway, holding it open and gesturing for Simon to come inside.
“Do you want a drink?” Baz asks. He leads Simon into the kitchen. It’s very green, and it would probably be Instagrammable if Baz was capable of keeping anything tidy. As it is, dishes and notebooks are strewn about. Simon can see five glasses of water from his view into the open concept living and dining room, abandoned by Baz, forgotten about in favor of a fresh new thing.
He looks at Baz, who is still single. There’s been rumors. There’s been Lamb. But Simon knows Baz, and he knows that water cups aside, he’s never been one to get caught up in something shiny. Baz is a romantic. He wants the long-haul. He wants the holding-wrinkled-hands-on-a-porch-swing ending. And Christ, Simon wants back in on that future.
“I live in LA now,” Simon says. Baz pauses, his hip holding the fridge door open as he holds a cup up to his Brita water dispenser. He recovers quickly, stopping the glass from brimming over and sliding it onto the slate-grey kitchen island near Simon. He takes a sip, just to be polite.
“I’d heard,” Baz says. He fills the second glass, then moves to stand at the opposite side of the island, leaning on his elbows. “Not from you.”
Simon winces.
“It was my company,” Simon says. “Sort of random, really. Well. Not really. When I saw the opening in LA, I begged them for it.”
“Well, congrats on succeeding,” Baz says. He’s got that “we’re pretending I don’t give a fuck” mask on, looking at a spot over Simon’s shoulder — as if Simon doesn’t know all his tells, even after nearly two years. You haven’t changed that much, Pitch, Simon thinks. More than me, but so much less than I thought you might.
“Thanks,” Simon says. “But I didn’t. Succeed, that is. I got the job, and I got out here, and then I chickened out.”
Baz’s eyes snap to Simon’s face, full of warning. Simon swallows, then rallies the chaos he’s been carrying with him since they’d last seen each other, since they’d screamed and cried and sagged, since Baz finally gave up on convincing Simon to not give up.
“I wanted to reach out,” Simon says, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve always wanted to. Like, from the day you left.”
“I didn’t leave,” Baz whispers. “You pushed me out.”
“I know,” Simon says. “But, like, can you blame me? Look where you are now. You have billboards. You have a green kitchen!”
Baz snorts, dropping his face into his hands and shaking his head.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Simon,” he says. “I never cared about that.”
“That’s bullshit,” Simon calls. “You wanted all of this. This is your dream, Baz. Don’t lie to me and pretend otherwise.”
Baz’s head whips up, eyes fiery.
“Don’t pretend you know what I want,” Baz says. “You know nothing if you thought this was what I wanted. I wanted to act, I wanted to come to LA — of course I wanted all that. Of course I love my green fucking kitchen. But I didn’t want any of it alone.”
His voice cracks on the last word. Simon feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.
“What if I’d held you back?” he whispers.
“I don’t know how you could’ve,” Baz sniffs, dabbing his sleeve at his eyes. “I’m very good at what I do.”
“I really hate Ambrose,” Simon admits. “He’s nothing like you.”
Baz lets out a watery laugh.
“That’s the point,” he says.
Simon lets that laugh bolster him. He puts his barely-touched glass down (another victim, another soul lost) and rounds the island to stand next to Baz. He wants to touch him, but he doesn’t feel he has the right. He wants to gather all of Baz’s gangly limbs up in his arms and convince himself that Baz is a real, solid thing — more than the pixels and posters he’s been clinging to.
Baz turns slightly, straightening up so that he can assert his three inches over Simon. Tosser. Simon holds a hand out in the space between them, and Baz looks at it dubiously.
“Can I…” Simon trails off, unsure what he’s asking for. Baz nods anyway, so Simon takes Baz by the elbow and tugs. Baz falls against him easily, melts against his chest, rests his cheek against Simon’s shoulder, lets Simon snake his other arm around his waist. He sighs, and Simon could cry at the familiarity of the sensation of it between their chests. It shouldn’t be so easy still, to fit together like this. He burrows his nose against Baz’s hair, inhales the citrusy scent, and he feels like he’s coming home.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. Baz shivers.
“You have to specify,” Baz whispers. “So that I know what I’ve forgiven. Otherwise it means nothing.”
“I’m already forgiven?” Simon asks.
“Unfortunately,” Baz says, turning his face into Simon’s neck. “But specify, so I can see how pathetic I’m being.”
“I’m sorry I made a decision for you,” Simon says. “I hate when Penny does that to me. I had to get therapy over it.”
Baz snorts.
“I’m sorry if I ever made you think I didn’t want what you wanted,” Simon continues. “I’m sorry if I made you think I didn’t want you, because all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”
“That’s so cheesy,” Baz says. Simon squeezes his arms.
“The cheesiest,” he agrees. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come and try to fix it.”
Baz is silent for a while, but Simon’s all too aware of his presence — his warm breath on his neck, his heavy weight on his chest. Simon’s nerves have been rubbed raw, away from Baz from so long, and this moment is a balm.
“Do you feel very pathetic?” Simon asks.
“Not any more than usual,” Baz says. He yawns, standing up so that he can see Simon’s face, but not pulling away from the circle of his arms.
“I love you,” Simon says, even if he’s not really sure he’s allowed. “I never stopped.”
But Baz smiles at him, and Simon would repeat himself until his voice gave out if he could keep that look on Baz’s face.
“Me too,” Baz says. “Me neither.”
“Can I kiss you?” Simon asks. Baz answers by leaning in. There’s no dramatic rain. There’s no perfect angles or dainty fingers. There’s just Simon and Baz, fitting together the same way they have since they were eighteen. Baz tastes the same, feels the same under Simon’s wandering, desperate hands. Well, mostly the same — he thinks Baz’s hair might’ve gotten softer. Hollywood magic. He tugs, and Baz gasps into his mouth.
They part then, overwhelmed by the suddenness and and the rightness and the oh-my-god-it’s-been-so-long-ness. Baz rests his forehead against Simon’s and closes his eyes, heaving deep breaths. His cheeks are wet. Simon swipes his thumbs across them.
“I’m exhausted,” Baz finally murmurs. “I’ve been up since four in the morning.”
“Oh,” Simon says, releasing Baz’s waist and stepping back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”
“No,” Baz says, reaching out for Simon’s hand. “That’s not what I meant. I just— We have a lot to talk about, but I don’t have it in me right now. Will you stay tonight?”
“If you want me to.”
Baz tightens his grip, crushing Simon’s fingers.
“Not what I asked,” Baz says. “Don’t do me favors. You’ve proven that doesn’t work. Do what you want, and I’ll do the same. We can just hope it aligns.”
“Baz,” Simon laughs, stepping closer again. “I want to never leave again. Not unless you want me to go.”
Baz rolls his eyes, but his chin wobbles. Simon cups it in his free palm, holding it steady, and leans up to kiss his cheek.
“I think we can make that work,” Baz says with a sigh. He tugs on Simon’s hand, leading him out of the kitchen. “Come on, then. Let’s go to bed.”
-
“Are you sure this fits right?” Simon asks, lifting his arms awkwardly above his head. Baz stands in front of him and pushes his arms back down.
“It’s supposed to be a little snug,” he says, smoothing his palms over the shoulders of Simon’s fancy new grey suit jacket. “Slim-fitting, to show off your physique.”
Simon snorts, a hand clapping against his own stomach. Baz’s fingers walk their way down to Simon’s midsection. He takes the flesh at Simon’s waist in handfuls through his shirt, rubbing his thumbs lovingly into his skin. Baz uses his grip to pull Simon flush against his chest, craning his neck down to peck Simon’s lips.
“Ugh,” Penelope says from across the room. “I did not miss all the canoodling.”
Baz flips her off but takes a step back, leaving Simon blushing and a bit breathless. The last few days have made Simon feel a bit like he’s eighteen again; every touch and interaction with Baz is new and exciting. But at the same time, Simon feels every minute of the near decade they’ve known each other — the comfort, the familiarity, the pain, the longing. He can feel the weight of the heavy conversations they had over the weekend, and the one’s they still need to have in the coming weeks. It’s a lot. Simon will never get enough.
“I never imagined Simon as such a PDA person,” Shepard muses. “But then again, I didn’t imagine him as a person who dated at all.”
Baz looks up from where he’s adjusting his cuffs to smirk at Simon. He looks so stupidly good in his red floral suit. Very vampy, which Simon supposes is fitting. The Ambrose stans are going to lose their minds.
“You don’t even know, Shepard,” Penelope groans. “They’re incapable of keeping their hands to themselves.”
“Get used to it,” Simon says, reaching out for Baz’s wrist. His smirk softens, and his eyes fall shyly Simon’s fingers.
“I think it’s cute,” Shepard says, winking at them.
Baz’s phone buzzes, and he pulls away from Simon to check it.
“The car is downstairs,” he says. Shepard whoops and heads for the door. Penny follows him with an eye roll.
Simon stretches his arms out again, feeling the non-stretch of the jacket, suddenly nervous. Baz raises an eyebrow at him.
“It’s just a car,” he says.
Simon laughs, scratching the back of his neck.
“It’s not the car.”
Baz nods, frowning.
“We don’t have to do this tonight,” he says. “I can go on my own, and we can talk more about how we want to go about it.”
“No,” Simon says, stepping forward to take Baz’s face in his hands. “It’s not that. I’ve never minded people knowing I’m yours.” He feels Baz’s cheeks heating up under his palms. He smiles. “And I’ve missed enough of your milestones. I’m just nervous that it’ll be posh, is all.”
“You’ve survived holidays with my parents,” Baz reminds him. Simon winces in agreement. “A Hollywood finale premiere will be nothing compared to that. As soon as people start drinking, it’ll devolve into the equivalent of a uni party. Except they’ll be spilling hundred dollar tequila on thousand dollar shoes.”
“Christ,” Simon says, laughing. He squeezes Baz’s cheeks together a bit, just because he can. “It’ll be good. Don’t worry about me.”
Baz leans down again, and Simon slides his fingers up into Baz’s hair when they kiss. They’re interrupted when Simon’s phone starts blaring “Don't Stop Believin’.”
“Stop snogging and get down here,” Penelope snaps when Simon answers the call. She hangs up immediately.
Simon grabs Baz’s hand with a smile, and they obey.
Once settled in the SUV, Baz turns so that he can see Penny and Shepard in the way back.
“Say them again,” he says. “The three rules of Not Embarrassing Baz.”
“No taking sneaky pictures of Baz’s coworkers and tweeting them,” Penny says, crossing her arms with a frown.
“No fawning over Baz’s coworkers,” Shepard says. “If you can’t not fawn, then don’t interact with Baz’s coworkers.”
Baz turns to Simon.
“No looking so devastatingly handsome that Baz embarrasses himself in front of his coworkers,” Simon recites with a grin. Baz huffs, turning back around in his seat and looking out the window.
“You’re doing a terrible job, Simon.”
“It’s okay, man,” Shepard says, punching Simon’s arm. “I’m probably going to break my rule too as soon as I see Lamb. My beloved.”
“Ridiculous,” Baz mutters. “I’m going to regret this so hard.”
“Sorry, Baz,” Shep says. Simon turns to look at Shep. He does not look sorry at all. “I just care so much about these characters. I want to bundle you all up in blanket burritos and ship you off to a cozy cabin in Vermont where you all can sip hot cocoa and talk about your feelings.”
“I’m certain that fic exists on AO3,” Penny says.
“What exists on what?”
“Oh, Shepard,” Penny says, steepling her hands over her mouth like she’s about to say a prayer. “I have so much to teach you.”
“I hate this conversation,” Baz says.
“Ooooh, Baz!” Penny leans forward. “Did you read that Ambrose x Reader smut I sent you? That shit was batshit. But I actually found a lovely Ambrosso soulmate AU last week. Fucking literary. Described your eyes as a deep-water grey — a mix between dark blue and dark green.”
“They’re not wrong,” Simon says, elbowing Baz in the side. He continues to act annoyed, but Simon sees the smile tugging at his lips. When they arrive, the driver comes around to open the door for Baz. (Which is so weird. But Baz says it’s weirder if you don’t just go with the flow.)
Baz gets out first, and it’s a flurry of cameras flashing and his long, silky hair glistening in the lights. He waves to the crowd before turning back to the car, holding his hand out to Simon.
“Ready?” Baz asks. He looks nervous — as if there was any place Simon wouldn’t follow him.
Simon won’t make the same mistake twice. He takes Baz’s hand.