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I [nightmares]
Baz wonders how he’d let it come to this.
Simon’s shivering in his bed, head tossing this way and that, whimpering softly. Baz can make out his eyes moving under closed eyelids, Simon’s breath coming in uneven gasps.
“No… please, no…anything…”
Baz is standing over him. He kneels down next to the bed, cups Simon’s cheek in one hand.
“Simon,” he whispers. “Simon, love, wake up.”
Simon sits up with a jerk, clutching fistfuls of the blanket, stares down at Baz, breathing heavily. His lips are parted slightly, and golden locks of hair, matted with sweat, frame his face. A fine sheen of sweat formed across his temple and brow. Tears have run down his cheeks, staining silver tracks along his face, glistening in the soft moonlight.
I’m so sorry, love.
Baz takes Simon’s face in his hand again, his thumb stroking Simon’s cheek.
“It was only a dream.”
Simon doesn’t say anything. Baz sits up, next to him, and pulls Simon to him, lets him bury his face against his chest.
Simon’s crying.
Baz slips one hand under his shirt, moves his arm across the bare skin of Simon’s back in circles. He can feel the knobbly ridges of his spine under his palm. He cups Simon’s face in his other hand, holds him against his chest. He presses his lips to the top of Simon’s head, against his wiry, tinged-silver-by-moonlight hair, and rests his chin there.
“I’m here now,” he says gently. “It’s over, you’re safe.”
“I’m here, you’re safe.” (it’s all he can say.)
Baz feels his heart splinter as Simon weeps in his arms.
II [midnight conversations]
When Simon finally slows down, the dark sky has started to lighten up, just a little. The moon is luminous and large against the gray of the sky.
Simon lays his head against Baz’s heart, eyelids heavy, worn out and half-awake. Baz holds him close.
“Is it- Since when did this start, Simon?” he asks him, softly.
“While ago,” Simon says into his shirt. Neither of them are strangers to nightmares.
“Do you dream about – him?”
“Sometimes.”
Baz feels a tremor go through him.
“Sometimes it’s – other things. All the things I – killed. When it was just me, all along. They were all my fault.” Simon’s voice is low, unsteady. “When I wake up, there’s a split second, I forget, Baz. And then I have to remember – I lost – I don’t have my magic anymore. Every day.
“I don’t know what ‘m s’posed to do anymore,” he mumbles into Baz’s chest.
Baz is quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a lone bird calls out a long, shrill cry into the empty night.
“Simon,” he says, finally, “we’ll figure this out. I’m sorry –“
“S’not your fault.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t know sooner – I should have, love.”
A sudden wave of guilt comes over him – he’s been at university, taking tests, worrying about grades, like a mundane, for Crowley’s sake – and Simon’s been like this the whole time. The sinking realization that Simon’s been withdrawing, gradually – sleeping through the day, not talking to him or to Penny, not wanting him over – not because, as Baz had assumed, Simon had grown tired of him, but because he’s just been so lost. And Baz had tried, he’d tried to get Simon out of this rut, then he’d thought it was probably him that was causing it.
“I’m your bloody boyfriend, Snow. And I –” Baz catches himself, swallows.
“I care for you, deeply. So we’ll figure this out, alright, love?”
Baz kisses Simon’s temple.
“Okay,” Simon whispers back.
“Sleep now, Snow. I’m taking you out tomorrow.”
Baz sees Simon staring out into space.
“Rest,” he says softly. “I’ll be right here.”
Simon’s wound his fingers through Baz’s. His free hand lies across Baz’s waist. Baz is running his fingers through Simon’s hair. He feels Simon relax against him, just a little.
Simon closes his eyes. Baz waits till his breathing evens out, deepens; until he feels Simon’s heart slow down; then he presses a last kiss to his hair and lets his own eyes close.
III [waking up]
When Simon wakes, he’s alone in his bed. He feels somehow better than he has in a long time – he’s slept well, he realized, actually rested.
Some hazy memory of Baz whispering to him last night dangles just beyond his reach – he’s not entirely sure he didn’t dream it.
“Morning.”
There. Baz is leaning against the doorway, casually gorgeous – like a model pretending to be a regular person.
“Feeling better, Snow?”
Simon blinks. “Hnh.”
Baz strolls into the room and towers over Simon’s prone form, arms crossed.
“We’re going out today. Better get your arse out of bed now.”
Then he bends down and kisses the tip of Simon’s nose. Simon makes a startled noise, but Baz doesn’t miss the smile starting to spread across his face. Not to mention the slow blush.
Baz smiles another small smile – these are precious and few, and only for Simon.
“Well? Carry on then, Snow.”
IV [wandering across a cityscape]
i
They wander across London the entire day. Baz takes Simon to the library first, and makes him go through a stack of career guides Simon’s own height. Simon looks lost at first but warms up to it, pulling up some options and putting back others.
“Feng Shui Consultant, huh. I guess I could do that.”
He meets Baz’s eyes, then they both burst out laughing.
“How about a “professional flavourist”? It fits your personality perfectly, Snow.”
“Well, I think I know what I’m meant to do then.”
Then again, more serious now, “Baz, I don’t know – I mean, how will I -”
He stops, struggling to get the words out.
“I’m listening, Simon. Tell me.” Baz is sitting across from Simon at a small coffee table, a stack of books up to his chin between them. They’re in a secluded corner, an islet between two large shelves piled floor to ceiling with thick tomes.
“It’s just, you have so much to do, and I don’t want to keep you back-”
“Let me stop you there.”
“No, you don’t understand-”
“I understand perfectly, Snow. And don’t go thinking so highly of yourself; I won’t be holding myself back for anyone-”
“But you are! You were supposed to be at your test today, but you’re here with me-”
“I’ve arranged for it, Simon. I’ll be taking the test later.”
Simon’s frowning at Baz, his jaw clenched- almost like he’s biting down his words. Baz knows it’s hard for him to say what he’s feeling, but all he can do is wait. And try.
He takes one of Simon’s hands between his own.
“Simon, love…it’s going to be hard, I can’t say it’s not. But…I always want to be there for you. With you, every step of the way. If you’ll have me. It would be my deepest pleasure, Simon Snow.”
Simon’s expression softens.
“Of course I’ll have you, Baz.”
“And also,” Baz pauses, narrows his eyes at Simon, “I’ve been head over heels for you since fourth year. Don’t you know I’m in it for the long haul now, you git?”
Simon laughs, a genuine, surprised laugh that fills Baz with warmth. He drinks it in, smiling – Simon’s laughter, so rare now.
Simon keeps coming back to Restoration Ecology - how to fix up places when man is done destroying them, get them to heal and breathe life back into them. And aviation – (with the wings still sticking out of his back, he did seem to have a preoccupation with flying) - planes and building them and flying them and how you might get paid for that.
Baz remembers it’s something Dr. Wellbelove might have said, about Restoration Ecology – how it might be healing for Simon. They walk out of the library late afternoon, Simon with an armful of books about planes and ecology. It’s raining, a light drizzle, the clouds laden and heavy grey above them, blocking the sharp rays of the noon sun.
Baz loved this city sometimes.
ii
Baz realizes that Simon hasn’t really been sightseeing much after they moved – what with having an ongoing identity crisis and all. So he leaves plenty of time for them to traipse about and really get to know the place – they stroll down an avenue, lined by lush pink springtime trees, hand in hand. Baz tells Simon about all the things he’s wanted to so badly, for so long - not even big important things, just little details like how his favourite professor announced her marriage to her wife (smiling giddily all the while) and how that – just for a moment – filled Baz with hope. How he’s been studying and acing so many of his classes, but always feels like he should be doing more. How he’s been exploring his magic now that they’re in a new place.
He glances at Snow at that, worried for an instant he might have brought up troublesome memories. But Simon’s looking at him with wide, interested eyes, open and relaxed, his fingers easily intertwined in Baz’s. Baz smiles back at him softly, a smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes.
They walk on in comfortable silence for a while. Simon savours this feeling – this easy camaraderie with Baz, after such a long time (not that they’d been very friendly at all, but they’d been there for each other when it mattered, and that meant something to Simon.) He knows he’s got a rough road ahead – he doesn’t quite want to think about it yet. For right now, he’s content to hold Baz’s hand and walk down this bright pink avenue (now that Simon noticed, it really was pretty, the street with cobblestones and the trees leafless, holding up armfuls of pink and yellow and orange flowers) in the light rain, as if without a care in the world.
“Scones!”
Simon pulls Baz into the stately café before he has a chance to object. Baz is laughing. The scones had been displayed rather enticingly by the window – glazed with butter, warm, promising that elusive saltiness and delicious crumble.
They sit at a quaint wooden table for two right by the large glass window, Simon hoarding a small fortune in scones. He looks so pleased with himself – like a puppy that finally caught its own tail. Baz can’t help but let himself stare, at Simon like this – like he’s just a regular nineteen-year-old boy, carefree, basking in the moment’s easy cheer.
Baz takes Simon’s hand over the table.
“Si?”
“Hm?”
“Never feel like you’re not enough. With or without the magic.”
Simon smiles at Baz, a soft, open smile. It makes his heart skip a beat. “Okay.”
They watch the people bustling across the street on the other side of the glass, the rain pattering down softly on the cobblestones, against the glass, onto eager bunches of pink and yellow in the trees. Hope blooms, a tiny, tiny thing in their hearts. A start.