Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Simon

Who knew so many people at the opera would be gagging for a drink? The queues are at least seven people deep—across the whole bar! 

Don’t these people know that I’m in urgent need of a cider? (If I can even swallow it with how tightly this flipping bow tie is choking me.) 

I’m craning my neck over everyone; balancing on the tips of the most painful, shiniest shoes known to Merlin, trying to see which queue is shortest—when a tall, black haired man cuts right across me. I’m so wound up that I snap “watch it!” into the empty air where he’d just been… and that’s when I catch a whiff of something all-too-familiar.  

My head follows the direction of the scent. 

I’d know that snooty saunter anywhere.

I’m dumbfounded for a few seconds. And then it hits me. If I don’t go after him, I might actually lose sight of him, and I can’t let that happen.

I hurry across the marble, heels grating against the backs of my too-posh shoes, and stumble in front of him in my attempt to halt his steps. 

“Baz!?” 

He stops dead, wide eyes betraying his matching level of shock before blanking off into trademark nothingness. (No, not nothing. Sharp, steel-like grey.)

“Snow,” he states, as if this is a common thing—bumping into your ex-nemesis at a fancy fucking opera house on the shittest day in all of Feb. 

He slides his hands into his trouser pockets and I run my eyes down his body. I can’t help it, he’s wearing—I swear to Merlin—a flowered tux.  

And... well.  

He’s looking really fucking good in it. So much so that my brain seems to have lost control over my speech—or, lost control of the content of my speech.  

“You look good,” I choke out as my eyes get caught on the way back up, somewhere around the flattering fit of his waistcoat. “Really good.” 

By the time I reach his face, his expression is arranged into the cruel sneer that haunted my teenage years. 

He opens his mouth to respond, but I don’t get to hear what was sure to be a scathing insult because a short woman in a light-purple dress with blonde hair appears by his side, grabbing at his arm. 

“Basil, honey? They’ve called our names for re-entry to the box.” 

I spend way too long staring at her hand on his bicep, and when I finally look back at Baz, he’s already watching me intently. He doesn’t say anything, though, so I introduce myself to the woman in an attempt to break the frosty silence. (Siegfried and fucking Roy, you’d think he’d have thawed out after all these years.) 

She grasps my hand in a firm grip, introduces herself as Elsie Grimm and, for reasons I don’t want to consider, my insides clench at the feel of the ring on her finger. 

“Well, lovely to meet you Mr Salisbury, but Basil and I have a box calling us.” She smiles at me, and I have to admit that she truly is beautiful. And she seems nice—nicer than Baz’s sharp edges deserve anyway. (Maybe he’s kinder to people he actually likes.)

“Lovely to meet you too,” I tell her, and I can’t stop myself from glancing at Baz as I finish the sentence off with, “Mrs Grimm.”

I watch him for a few more seconds, waiting. He has nothing for me but a blank stare.

After all these years you’d think he’d say something. But I’m met with complete silence. 

The one thing I could always count on Baz for was a reaction. He would never ignore me. Ever. And yet, he can’t think of a single thing to say to me now. It makes me feel physically sick. I’d take an avalanche of insults over this apathy.  

I swallow and muster up a smile for Baz—one which I'm sure betrays exactly how much bumping into him and his wife has affected me—before turning on my heel and making a quick getaway to the bathroom. 

Peter will just have to wait for his beer.

By the time I get back to our seats, I’ve worked myself up into a right state—in more ways than one.

Peter takes one look at my empty hands, frazzled hair and wet shirt (of course I got more water down myself than on my face) and rolls his eyes at me before saying, “I don’t even want to know.”

What makes him think I was going to tell him anyway? Prick.

I was hardly going to be like: “oh Peter, I just saw my ex-enemy at the bar, and he looks so incredibly fit that now I can’t think of anything else but wrapping his long legs over my shoulders.”

Obviously not. 

He gets up and shuffles past me, presumably to go to the bar himself. It’s a tell-tale sign of how much I’m clearly over the tosser that I don’t even bother to peek at his arse as it shuffles past my line of sight.

Penny insisted it was an awful idea for Peter and I to keep the opera tickets now that we’ve broken up, but honestly, it wasn’t a bad breakup. Not at first, anyway. (I’d just tried to explain that I didn’t feel it—whatever it is that I’m looking for.) It wasn’t until I managed to get some space from him that I realised exactly how much of a knobhead Peter actually is.

By then it was too late to change his name on the booking, and it cost me a shit ton of money. And I wasn’t about to let him take someone else!

I’m happy he’s left me alone to stew. Seeing Baz just now felt like a metaphorical earthquake; like he’d reached into my head with his long, manicured fingers and shook apart everything I thought I understood, leaving the contents of my brain a jumbled-up mess. And now I’m trying to piece my thoughts back together, but the parts are forming something new.

No, not new. Not if I’m being entirely honest.

These thoughts about Baz; about his glossy hair, his long legs and toned thighs, his deep voice and raised eyebrow—even his pissy air of importance—they’re all things I’ve definitely thought about before. Incessantly, at Watford.

And it’s not like I just stopped thinking about them when we left school. It took me a hell of a long time to bury thoughts about him at all—to stop expecting him around every corner. (To stop looking for him around every corner.)

I spoke at length about Baz in my therapy sessions—about my obsession and paranoia surrounding him—and never once did it hit me what was really going on. Even after I realised I was queer and dating Luke. And then Peter.

I suppose with hindsight both of them do remind me of Baz, in their way—even if they are both Normals. All three of them are silver-spooned pricks. All three of them never thought I was good enough. None of them listened to me. Luke and Peter were just lesser, shittier versions of Baz, who turned out to like what they thought I could do for them, rather than actually liking me.

Merlin. Maybe Baz was right all those years—maybe I am a moron.

Peter comes back, the second half of the opera starts, and I’m trying to enjoy it—trying to get lost in the music, the costumes, the set—but all I can think about is that woman’s hand grasping Baz’s bicep.

Married. Fuck.

Not that he’d want me if he wasn’t married anyway, even if he did like men.

I start to wonder whether maybe they’re in an open marriage... But decide quickly that way madness lies and I’d better not.

Why are you interested in him anyway? My brain asks. If he’s just like the others.

But Baz isn’t “just like” any one, is he? He’s never been “just Baz” to me; even when I thought he was plotting to kill me, I still let him draw me in back at Watford. As if he were my own shitty gravity.

I glance around but I can’t see into any of the boxes. Still, my body knows he’s here. I’m thrumming with energy; it makes me fidgety and I can see it’s taking Peter everything he has not to shout at me.

The woman on the stage is singing something to a man who’s pretending not to hear her, in a language I don’t understand, but I can figure out from context clues exactly what’s going on: unrequited love.

And isn’t that just fitting.

Peter fucks off the second the lights come on, and I can’t say I blame him. It was an absolutely awful idea to still use these tickets anyway—who decides to keep plans with their ex-boyfriend on Valentine’s Day?

Losers, that’s who.

And so, like the loser I am, I decide to while away the rest of my night at the venue bar. Blessedly queue-free this time.

“I’ll have a double whiskey please, mate,” I tell the bartender. He’s dressed in a full tux and it throws me for a second, before I remember that I’m wearing a full tux as well.

I tear off my bow tie and pop the first few buttons on my shirt. The show’s over and I’m about to get myself suitably wankered on whiskey—I reckon the time for pretending I’m put-together and posh has passed.

Speaking of put-together and posh...

“Are you following me, Snow? Five years later and you’ve still not given it up.”

His hair is flowing around his shoulders. He’s got that eyebrow raise going on. (Fuck me, has it always been that sexy?) 

(Yes. Yes it has.)

“Old habits die hard.” 

Merlin, was that my attempt at flirting? Do better, Simon. (Or don’t—he’s married!) (Oh who cares. He’s actually talking to me. I can’t walk away now.)

Baz throws an easy smirk my way and lifts his drink in a toast to that as the bartender sets down mine.

I glance at his left hand, but don’t see a ring. Maybe he doesn’t wear one? Or maybe he’s one of those people who wears it on a chain around his neck instead. I heard he’s a professional violinist now from Penny, so I suppose that would make sense. 

Penny never mentions Baz around me if she can help it. We both agreed that I would never be able to get him out of my head if he didn’t become a vetoed word in my vocabulary.

How did I not see it before?

The constant thinking about him, the looking for him… bloody fucking yearning, weren’t I.

I never saw him again after he left for Christmas. I never went back to school. 

The despair that crippled me all those years ago wasn’t just over losing my magic, losing the comfort of Watford—I’d lost Baz too.

Maybe that’s why I lift up my drink and plonk myself down next to him.

I try to smile widely at him, making sure it reaches my eyes so that he knows I’m not attempting to start a fight. (And because I’ve been told it’s charming.)

To my surprise, he smiles softly back at me. It’s a little shy and his face dimples slightly on the left hand side. (Right there, that’s where I’d kiss him, if he’d let me.)

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Baz smile. At least, not like that. Not at me. Not softly, and sure as hell never shy.

I try to think of something cool and smart to say, maybe something about opera vibratos (is that even a thing?), but I don’t need to; surprisingly, Baz speaks first.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

“I did, yeah,” I say, loud and excitable because he wants to have a conversation. I clear my throat when I remember what Peter used to say about my manners. “Yes. I enjoyed the show, thank you. And yourself?”

His brow furrows in the middle and he watches me for a second or two before responding.

“I did. A friend of mine is playing in the quartet, so I was much more interested in the music pit, but the performance was lovely.”

“You’re a violinist these days, right?”

Baz raises his eyebrows this time. He’s surprised I know. He slides into a smirk and his eyes fill with mirth and I’d give my left leg to be able to kiss his stupidly perfect face right now.

“So you have been stalking me.”

“Penny told me,” I’m quick to say. “She saw you play at the Royal Opera House last year.”

“Ah.” He smiles to himself, reminiscing on memories, I’d imagine.

“And you?” he asks.

“Oh, I work at a bakery, down in Battersea.”

“I was asking if you had seen me play, but it doesn’t surprise me at all that you’re a baker, Snow. It suits you.” He smiles fully at me again, and this time it’s a little less shy and a little more warm, amused. (Not even sadistically amused, which is still a shock.)

“Oh. Erm. No, no I wasn’t with her. Penny.”

I’m dodging the question. I have seen him play, in a manner of speaking. When Penny let slip that she’d seen him in the show, I watched almost every Youtube clip I could find. Practically studied every inch of every second for glimpses of Baz.

I also searched out his Spotify and listened to his music way more than what’s normal—listening constantly while I got on with day-to-day life at the flat. Pretty sure the hit count was just 95% me. (Once Penny realised what the music was, she vetoed that, too.) (Which was fair.)

I drew the line at actually going to see Baz play, though. Even I knew that wasn’t good for me. I didn’t need my therapist to work that one out.

He nods in response and asks the bartender to pour him another red wine.

I take the moment of distraction to get a good look at him, now that shock isn’t limiting my brain. (Now that I know exactly why I want to look.)

His flowered tux is actually velvet, perfectly fitted to his shoulders and hugging his biceps in a way that makes my fingers twitch.

He turns back to me and I notice he’s wearing black around his eyes. It makes them look even more intense. (Not steel. Deep-water grey.)

Shit. I’m so far gone.

I need to get a hold of myself, to be honest. He might not even be the same person he was then—Merlin knows I’m not. But has he changed for the better? Judging by his soft smiles and attempt at conversation, I’d hazard a guess at yes.

I swallow, already dreading how this information is going to tear apart my thoughts in the dark of night when I get home. I’m already dreading how long it’s going to take me to move on all over again—now that I know that’s what it was the first time, moving on from Baz.

I did it once. I can do it again.

Baz is ignorant to my inner turmoil, though. A smirk plays along his pouty grey-pink lips as he says, “So, that’s twice now I’ve seen you at the bar by yourself. Did you come alone?”

“So what if I had?” I snap, forgetting my manners. Peter would have kicked me under the table. But it is Baz, after all, and no matter how fit he looks, or how we’ve both “changed”, he’ll always get under my skin.

His smirk extends into a fuller smug smile at having successfully riled me up.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the kind of person who enjoys opera so much they’d come alone. On Valentines.”

I sigh. He’s got a point I suppose.

“No, I bought tickets for me and my partner, but we broke up.” His eyebrows furrow—I assume out of pity—as he takes a sip of his wine. I’m sure I add to it by following up with, “The night was proper awkward because he’s a grade A twat.”

Baz chokes on his drink when I get to the word ‘he’. 

Merlin. Really? He’s even more of a tosser than I thought.

“Didn’t take you for a homophobe, Baz,” I growl at him, making no attempts to hide my anger.

He’s still coughing but I don’t care about patting him on the back. (Which is saying something, because I’d gladly have taken any excuse to touch him barely three seconds ago.)

I’m just so fed up with apologising for myself. 

First Luke was constantly trying to make me into his version of what “queer” is, pushing me to make a decision on a label and clothing and all manner of things it was too soon for me to figure out.

And then Peter, constantly making me feel lesser than for the way I talk, or the things I don’t know.

And now Baz. I mean, Baz has always looked down on me, but I didn’t expect him to be judgemental about this.

“You know,” I snap, half slamming my drink down on the table. “I’m really done with being sorry for who I am—“

“Snow—” he tries to interrupt, but I’m having none of it. 

“I deserve to be fucking happy mate—”

“Wait—”

“And people like you make me want to—”

“Simon!” He shouts. “Stop talking!”

The fucking nerve of him. I jut my chin out, meeting his eyes to show him I don’t give two shits about what he thinks or what he’s going to say next. That is, until he says—

“I’m gay, Snow.”

I stare at him for a few seconds before dragging out a long, soft “ohhh” to hide my shock and what, I’m embarrassed to admit, might be relief.

Yeah, it most definitely is relief. 

I had half an opera to come to terms with the fact that I’m clearly incredibly attracted to Baz—that I think I always have been—and now, maybe, there’s a chance that I could convince Baz to… I don’t know. To consider staying for another drink with me, at the very least.

But there is one thing...

“Elsie?”

“Marcus’s wife.”

“Ah.”

Baz’s smile looks somewhat self-conscious, eyes dropping to the floor before raising to mine again.

I grin widely—I can’t help it—while I tip my drink towards his. “Do you want another?”

“I suppose,” he teases through a smirk.

I’m a few doubles in by this point but I’m well aware that the warmth blooming inside of me is probably due to more than just the booze.

I was right, Baz has changed since school. He’s still snarky and pedantic, he’s still a know-it-all and a show off—he’s still Baz—but, he’s also different. Like time’s filed away at his serrated edges. He’s not trying to cut me down. He’s not mocking me for who I am. He’s laughing and sharing stories and asking questions and listening to me.

And it’s all just surprisingly easy. No intensive, magickal complications. No doomsday countdown. Just two twenty-four year olds sitting at an opera bar, reminiscing on growing up together and purposefully avoiding the big ol’ elephant in the room—both of us are clearly checking each other out.

“So,” I start, rolling my empty glass between my palms, “it’s, er. It’s Valentine’s Day. How come you’re here on your own?”

He turns to look at me, and his eyes shimmer in the dangling light over the bar. Fuck, he’s beautiful.

“I’m not on my own,” he tells me, the corner of his mouth bunching as he wards off a smile.

Blimey that was smooth. I smile involuntarily, my face heating a little. I feel like a blushing maiden. I bite my lip, trying to think of something cool to say in response.

Because it’s just hit me that Baz is flirting with me. That Basilton Pitch—Ex-Enemy Number One, with cheekbones that could cut fucking glass—has been flirting with me—Ex-Shitty Chosen One with a bit of a baker’s belly—this whole evening. And so of course I have no idea how to use my words. (That shouldn’t be surprising to him, at least.)

Instead, we just sit staring at each other. It’s intense and my nerves are alight with the potential in it. He slides his finger around the rim of his wine glass and the movement shivers across my skin, raising the hairs on my arms. I’m one stray spark away from a blaze.

Thankfully, the bartender saves me.

“Excuse me,” he cuts in. I jerk my head towards him. “We are calling last orders, gentlemen. Would you like anything before I close the bar?” 

I turn to Baz to find he’s already watching me—or still watching me—and that makes me brave.

“One more for the road?” I ask him, and follow it up with what I hope is my best, dazzling smile. Say yes, say yes, say yes...

Baz stares at me for a second or two longer, as if considering my offer, before turning toward the bartender and giving him a curt nod.

We’re silent while our drinks are being poured. It doesn’t feel awkward, but I’m itching to fill it anyway. We spent so many years together in the same room not speaking; I don’t want to waste time now. But I’m too nervous. I’m not good at this dating thing. Is this a date? Can dates even be impromptu?

Baz picks up his old wine glass, tips his head back and empties it. He’s been having smalls and I don’t know him so well anymore, but it still strikes me as very un-Baz-like. Maybe he’s nervous, too?

He licks at the corner of his mouth while tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and I don’t think—because I never do—before blurting out, “Your hair’s longer!”

Baz turns to me with a raised eyebrow and a shadow of a smirk. “Astoundingly astute, Snow.”

I laugh freely at him. Baz is funny now that he’s not tearing me a new one with his sharp tone.

“I like it. Looks good,” I find myself saying. Merlin, that’s the drink talking.

“Thank you,” he responds, voice bored, but I see his hand shake a little as he takes a sip from his new glass and I think, just maybe, that my earlier observation was correct.

I make Baz Pitch nervous. 

I smirk and push his shoulder lightly. “Isn’t this the part where you’re meant to tell me how well I’ve cleaned up? Or how much I’ve grown since school—you know, extend the compliment, you git.” Yes. Okay. Good, Simon.

Baz just raises that eyebrow at me again. “Can’t have grown that much, you’re still shorter than me.”

I groan, “Baz that was awful, how much you had to drink?”

We both laugh.

Eventually, the bartender comes to tell us we need to leave. I feel his words like dead weight in my stomach.

That’s it, then.

We stand and head towards the cloakroom. (I don’t deny I take the opportunity to hang back and watch his arse in those tight trousers as he walks on ahead of me.)

We both collect our coats and I wrap my scarf around my neck slowly, in an attempt to drag this out. My partly-sloshed brain supplies that it feels like a noose. You’re running out of time. Do something!

Baz doesn’t seem to be rushing with getting ready either. We catch each other’s eyes a few times and he offers me small smiles, but he doesn’t say anything. And neither do I.

I don’t know how to carry on, now. I don’t know where to go.

Well, the cleaner is directing us out the main door, so I suppose that’s as good a place to start as any.

I follow behind Baz and he waits for me at the bottom of the steps. When we make eye contact, his face is the softest I’ve ever seen it.

Ask for his number, Simon. Ask to see him again. Say something!

But I’ve never been good with words. And Baz and I have never talked this much—neither of us have any practice ending a normal conversation with each other; they’ve always ended with fists or growling or slammed doors and sneers.

Either Baz is struggling, too, or he genuinely just doesn’t have anything else to say to me, because he walks to the kerb and holds his hand out to an approaching Black Cab.

I thought maybe we were getting somewhere. I thought he might be warming to me. Maybe not enough to truly consider me a serious option—he’s Baz, after all—but at the very least an option for now.

He turns back to me as the taxi pulls up and gives me a nod.

“This was nice, Simon.”

He offers me one last soft smile before opening the taxi door. A shiver runs up my arms and settles on my cheeks as my brain screams: stop him!

“Baz!” 

I shout it far too loudly considering he’s only a few feet away.

He turns to stare at me, waiting.

Why can’t I get words out?

I stutter and stumble my way through, “It was lovely to see you.”

It’s not what I really want to say.

I really enjoyed spending time with you. I want to see you again. I don’t want this to end. Come home with me.

He stares at me for a long moment before popping his collar and saying, “My flat’s not far, if you fancy one more drink?”

He looks cool, calm and in control, but I know him well enough to hear the waver in his voice.

Nervous. Still. 

Maybe I haven’t read this wrong at all.

I know it will do me no good in the long run. And maybe I’ll blame the alcohol when I look back with a broken heart full of regret, but the truth is: even before I downed that first drink, I knew that if he wanted me, I’d give him everything.

I must take too long to answer because Baz drops his eyes to the side and opens his mouth—I assume to backtrack—and I panic. “Yeah! I mean, Um. Yes. Yes let’s do that.”

Merlin’s balls, I know I’m bright red right now—pull yourself together, Simon.

Baz smirks, his usual easy smugness returning to his expression. “After you,” he says, eyes intense as he gestures for me to get in the car. 

He licks at his lower lip as I approach, expression wolfish. If I didn’t know better (and if I was oblivious and fifteen again), I’d insist he was leading me to my death.

Even if he was, when he looks at me like that, I’m almost certain I’d fucking follow him anyway.

Chapter Text

Simon

Baz sits facing me in the taxi but he doesn’t meet my eyes, just looks pensively out of the window. I think he’s sucking on his fangs.

I don’t mind the silence. It gives me a chance to study his face more; watching as the streetlights pass over him, highlighting his harsh cheekbones and throwing his eyes into deep shadow.

He looks every inch the cartoon villain right now, and I’m surprised by what that does to me.

Is it disturbed for Ex-Chosen Ones to think about getting off on role playing heroes and villains with Ex-Nemeses?

(I’m sure my old therapist would have a lot to say about that.)

Baz wasn’t lying, the taxi ride is over in minutes and he tells me to climb out while he pays the fare. I try to be sexy; shamelessly using the fact that my arse is in his eyeline, bending over as I slide open the door while he leans round to pay.

All my efforts are wasted though as the handle gets caught on my sleeve and I half topple to the kerb. I hear Baz’s laugh ring out from behind me and I scowl at him as he climbs out himself. (Gracefully, of course.) (Fucking typical.)

“You could try to blame the drink, Snow, but you’ve never been well coordinated.”

“You’ve seen me with a sword Baz, you know that’s not true.”

“Indeed I have,” he says, voice low, dripping with suggestiveness.

I shiver at the thought of him talking to me like that, close at my ear, breath settling across my throat...

He smirks and turns towards his building.

I follow along mindlessly; our posh shoes clicking along the pavement, and then the apartment block floor, the only sound filling the charged silence; every step feels weighted with potential.

I’m under no illusions what “one more drink at mine?” means. I might be inexperienced at casual dating, but I’m not a complete idiot. (Although jury's out on that one. Considering I am currently en route to have sex with a man I’m pretty sure I used to love. That sounds idiotic to me.)

Still, it surprises me when Baz calls for the lift and slides his hand against the small of my back to gesture for me to enter first. I’m embarrassed by the loudness of my gasp at this tiny amount of contact, and I hear the wanker chuckle softly as he follows me in, smug as anything that he’s winding me up.

He’s just as collected as ever and it’s making me even more hot. I’d love to see Baz lose control underneath me, but tonight I want him to show me how he can use that mean streak of his in other ways. He was ruthless on the pitch, I bet he fucks like it too.

He slides his arm around my waist, pulling me closer as the lift rises up to his floor. I can see him looking at me out of the corner of his eye, so I turn to meet his gaze unflinchingly.

I want nothing more than to kiss him, but I don’t lean in. The tension we’re building feels like electricity in my veins and the waiting is part of what’s making it so enjoyable.

We’re toeing a knife edge. I wonder if Baz feels the same amount of anticipation as I do? I wonder how long he’s wanted this—whether he’s been waiting for it as long as I apparently have.

The lift bell dings to indicate that we’re here and I wonder distantly if I’m always going to get turned on by the sound of a bell now, forever reminded of how fucking horny I am in this moment.

He leads me out onto a landing but I’m shocked stupid by the view in front of me; two walls are pure glass—building and streetlights spreading out in the distance like stars.

I walk over to get a better look and Baz steps up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, nosing at my neck. He smells just like I remember. He’s cold, and it’s nice against my burning skin. My breath is shaky and I’m already half hard. Pull it together Simon, Christ. At this rate I won’t last two seconds. How embarrassing that heated lift rides and London-skyline-cuddles apparently count as foreplay for me.

In all honesty, with how tightly I’m wound, Baz could blink in my direction and there’s a chance I’d blow.

I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve never wanted someone as much as I want him right now, in this moment, before. I turn in his arms, lust making me bold enough to tell him just that.

“I want you, Baz.”

He crashes his lips into mine with enough force to press me solidly against the glass. It’s messy, and enthusiastic and a railing is crushing into my lower back, but my mind clears for a brief second to supply that this is it. 

This is what I’ve been looking for.

Or, who. I guess.

I can’t remember ever feeling this turned on before. I can’t remember ever wanting someone this much. I know it’s ridiculous to start thinking about bloody “sparks” during what is clearly a one night stand, but I honest-to-Merlin feel them. All over my skin, in my nerve endings, tingling in my fingertips. It reminds me of my magic; of how we shared it, all those years ago... I shove that thought away, no use going over painful ground.

Baz pushes his knee between my legs and pulls hard at my hair; matching me moan for moan, rock for rock. It’s escalating quick, but an apartment block landing is not at all where I want to finally do this, even if the view is fucking fantastic.

I break away to gasp out “Baz?” around my heavy breaths.

He hums in response, moving to press wet mouthed kisses down my neck, rubbing his hands over my chest. His cock slides heavily against my thigh with every thrust and I’m pretty certain I have about five more seconds before I think fuck it and fuck him right fucking here.

I push at his shoulder, “Baz?”

He pulls away, black-rimmed eyes meeting mine, lips parted as he tries to catch his breath. (His lips are more pink than grey now. I did that.)

I slide my hand against his cheek and offer him a smile as I say, “I was promised another drink.”

I was going for cheeky, but my voice was definitely too soft.

I hope he didn’t take me seriously, I don’t actually want any more drinks. I’m just the right side of tipsy—enough liquid courage to slide my hand down his back and squeeze his arse through his coat as he leads us to his door.

Baz doesn’t even pretend we’re here for another drink (thank fuck)—the second we’ve got our coats and shoes off (fucking finally) he just pushes me back against his hallway wall and picks up right where we left off.

He’s so eager; hands, lips and teeth here there everywhere. Mine are, too—in his hair, over his chest, running down his thighs. He whines when I rub my hand over his stomach, so I do it again. And again. And again and again until he’s slotting his leg back between mine and rolling his hips roughly against me.

I can’t remember the last time I ached for another person this badly. And I am aching, my cock is straining against my trousers and I can feel how Baz’s is too. I run my fingertips over him lightly and I feel my own cock twitch when he moans directly into my mouth.

He’s nodding his head and rolling his hips and gasping out “please”, so I fumble with his belt buckle while he goes back to kissing me wildly. Don’t need to ask me twice.

It takes me a couple tries, but once I’ve finally got everything undone I don’t hesitate to wrap my hand around him, tugging a few times and twisting at the head, gathering the precum so my hand slides easier. Fuck, he’s so responsive. “Simon,” he’s saying, over and over into my mouth, my ear, my neck—like he can’t believe I’m actually here. I can’t believe I’m actually here.

His knees are starting to buckle so I slide an arm around his waist, manoeuvring us so I can push him against the wall instead. His head falls back, eyes half closed in pleasure; and from this angle, I can finally take it all in: Basilton Pitch, coming undone, because of me. And fuck if it isn’t a whole scene.

Hair mussed. Shirt tails untucked. Bow tie askew. Muscles tensing, chest panting, fingers gripping tightly to my shoulders—whines slipping from between his teeth.

It’s mesmerising. He’s so fucking beautiful.

I lean forward to press my lips to his and he eagerly meets me halfway; it’s deep and slow. Devouring. Baz moans directly into my open mouth again when I slide my thumb purposefully against the underneath of his head and I fully consider dropping to my knees and sucking him off instead, but that would mean I’d have to stop kissing him and I really don’t want to do that right now.

I want his hands in my hair. I want my name on his lips. I want his cock in my hand and his breath in my mouth.

This is it. What I’ve been looking for. This is it.

Baz seems to have a different idea though, because he grabs at my wrist and turns his head. I immediately stop, worried I might have done something wrong. But when I open my eyes he’s as flushed as I think a vampire can get, and he’s staring at me like Christmas came early.

“Bedroom,” he says, and I nod frantically.

He takes my hand and tugs me straight up the hall; we’re half running, to be honest, and I’m glad he’s as eager as I am or this would be right embarrassing. (Seven snakes, this is actually happening.)

Baz has barely closed his bedroom door before I’m yanking him over to the bed, sitting down and pulling him between my legs. He looks like an avenging angel with the moonlight streaming in through the window—a depraved one, with his belt and waistcoat hanging open and a telling wet spot on his boxers.

I want my mouth on him. Anywhere will do.

I lift his shirt up and kiss at his stomach, enjoying the full body shiver it pulls out of him. I get a patch of skin between my teeth and suck hard—it isn’t enough. I want to swallow him whole. I’d probably still be starving for more.

He straddles me and my cock throbs at the sight of Baz’s thighs sliding down around my hips. He’s barely fully seated before I’m pushing my lips back to his, pushing my tongue into his mouth. He’s just as rough as he kisses me back.

Baz’s hands make their way down my chest as he starts unbuttoning my shirt. I’m a little hesitant at first (baker’s belly and all that), but then he’s sliding a hand over my pecs and whispering, “you’re so fucking sexy, Snow,” against my lips and it draws a deep moan right out of me into his waiting mouth.

No one’s ever said that to me before.

It does the trick.

I’m tearing off his bow tie and clawing at the buttons of his shirt with renewed hunger—made all the more difficult by the fact that I can’t seem to stop biting and licking at his neck. (He sure as fuck doesn’t seem to be complaining, though.)

Suddenly Baz climbs off me to stand and I growl involuntarily as my arms reach forward to follow him. He breathes out a laugh and steps back; raising a taunting eyebrow before sliding his waistcoat and shirt off, letting them fall to the floor. I growl again, on purpose this time, because Baz is so bloody perfect and growling has always been the easiest way to tell him so. 

He smirks at me as he lets his trousers drop next and I stand to rush out of my own—taking off my socks while I’m at it. (I don’t mind socks staying on, but I don’t want Baz to think I’m a psycho.) 

I watch Baz whisper spells at himself before bending over to take lube out of a drawer. He throws it down onto the bed while I’m hopping on one foot, imagining the multiple ways we could make use of all this prep if I could just get my bloody clothes off.

Baz steps in close to me after I’m done, expression dangerous, hungry. (His feet are bare too, so I think I made the right choice.) He slides his hands over my hips, down towards where I’m hard; fingers slipping into my boxers, hooking around the band. Baz’s eyes are full of lust and I’m nodding before he’s even asked the question.

He wants me. Baz actually wants me. In what world would I say no?

I’m not hesitant this time; I know I’ve got a pretty decent sized cock. I see the desire in Baz’s eyes as he takes me in and, riding the high of his hunger, I reach forward and tug him closer to me by his own waistband, lifting my eyebrows in question.

He’s kissing me fiercely before he’s even got his “yes” fully out. He has to pull back and say it again, just so he’s certain I heard.

Once we’re both naked I’m pushing and he’s pulling me back towards the bed, tumbling down onto the softness together, gasping both from the fever of it and his elbow in my rib. 

Baz’s cock is hard against my thigh and mine is pressing against his hip; I hear his whimper when I fidget to get comfortable and the friction of it makes him feel good. When I make Baz feel good. 

Shit, I can’t believe I’m getting to have this.

I’m greedy beyond belief and the kiss that follows is bruising; more teeth than tongue. Baz’s arms slide around me and then he’s flipping us fast, straddling my waist.

“What do you want?” He asks. Above me. Out of breath. Eyes bright with desire.

I don’t hesitate.

“All of it.” Any of it. All of it with you.

Baz shifts forward to kiss me deeply and I make sure to slip him a fair bit of tongue. I’d fill him up if I could. (Fuck, I hope he lets me.)

But then he pulls back to press his lips to my cheek, just under my right eye. He does it again. And again. Then he slides his lips down the underside of my jaw, licking just below my ear—kisses against my throat, my clavicle, biting gently at my collarbone.

It’s torturously slow. I almost want to tell him to get on with it. To bite down. Give me some kind of physical memory of this once I’m forced to leave. But he continues on as he is; soft lips, tongue swirling, teasing fingertips tracing down my chest.

I'm gasping and squirming and so riled up that it takes me longer than it should to realise he's following my freckles and moles, connecting them with his mouth over the softest parts of me.

It makes me feel self-conscious, briefly, and then Baz starts talking and I’ve no room left for embarrassment.

“Crowley, Snow," he's saying, hands squeezing my biceps. "Look at you, so gorgeous,” he presses into my ribs. “I want you,” he tells me, meeting my eyes as he dips down to lick at a mole near my nipple.

This is not at all what I was expecting from Baz Pitch.

He’s so powerful. Strong. I’m not a small bloke and he lifted and put me exactly where he wanted me—I expected that, I know he’s a vampire. I just didn’t think he’d be so tender at the same time.

Baz has always been a muddle of contradictions for me. And here he is, making me feel... Attractive. Desirable. Sexy. I feel like I’m going to dissolve under this level of devotion.

And then he’s purposefully catching my eyes, lifting his hips and sliding his bollocks down the length of my cock and my brain blinks out—all my breath leaving my lungs around the words, “Fuck, Baz.”

I’m not going to survive this, am I?

He’s settled himself in between my legs—back arched, arse in the air, breath ghosting over my dick as black hair tickles the skin of my hips and there’s literally no place I’d rather be. At Baz’s mercy. (Haven’t I always been?)

Calloused fingers drag against my skin, connecting my freckles from knee to thigh while Baz’s other hand gets lost in the sheets. He kisses wetly in the crease of my groin where I have another mole and I lift my hips, trying to chase the feeling. Trying to encourage Baz to press his wet mouth against my cock.

I have a mole there too, and I’m just wondering if Baz has found it when he meets my eyes and swirls his sinfully wet tongue up slowly from base to tip. 

“Fuck, Baz,” I’m gasping again. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say anything else.

We both moan in pleasure when he finally licks the precum from my slit, pinning me with lustful eyes still locked on mine.

I slide my hands into Baz’s hair and gather it up so it’s out of his face; so I can see the rest of him, so I can see just how good his pouty mouth and cheekbones look between my legs. I can’t miss this.

I’m panting heavily, trembling with the effort not to just thrust my length up fully between Baz’s wet lips. But then I catch his filthy smirk right before he takes my head into his mouth and sucks, hard, and I arch violently off the mattress, eyes squeezing shut, a ridiculous pleasure-soaked growl slipping through my teeth.

The pressure of Baz’s lips. His tongue sliding at the underside of my head. His silky hair wrapped in my fists and the breath from his nose tickling at my skin. I don’t even try to contain my loud cries at the pleasure at it all; words suddenly catching up with me.

“Fuck Baz, so good it’s so good.”

More. I want to demand. Let me have you, Baz. Finally.

I fight to keep my eyes open as he gives it to me, as he slides lower and lower, letting me in deeper and deeper.

“Just like that it’s so good.”

I’m so high on it I’m actually a little scared I might blurt out something I shouldn’t.

“It’s so perfect you’re so perfect.”

I’m so lost in it that I’m rolling my hips up without rhyme or rhythm.

“So wet, Baz. Fuck just like that.”

He’s insistent now. He’s alternating the pressure. He’s wet and sloppy and eager—swallowing me down, swallowing around me. 

Usually I can last a while with a blowjob but by the time Baz’s nose is burying itself in my hair I’m fisting the sheets and throwing my head back like a wild animal, trying to keep a grip on myself, trying not to blow through this too fast.

His neighbours must be able to hear us. I’m incredibly loud, but Baz is moaning around me too, the vibrations catching me off guard every time, waves pushing me closer and closer and—

And then I notice it; his arm reaching down the arch of his spine, hand framed by his arse cheeks, fingers slipping rhythmically in between. He’s getting off on this, fingering himself over sucking me off.

Fuck. Me.

It takes every ounce of my self control not to cum right down his throat. He’s working himself open right in front of me; I can’t let that go to waste.

“Baz, wait—”

I pull on his hair and the obscene sound his mouth makes as he slides off me tests the last of my restraint; my whole body thrumming with raw impatience to cum.

His panting breath is sliding over my wet shaft and there’s tears in his eyes from deepthroating and I just. I have to have him. All of him.

I lift my chin at where his hand is still between his cheeks as I ask—beg—breathless, “Let me? Please. Let me?”

Baz presses a kiss to my hip bone, clearly catching his own breath, before nodding. When he pulls his arm in, I reach to catch his hand—the one that he’s just had in his arse, Christ—tugging him towards me. I actually consider bringing his fingers to my mouth but decide I don’t want to scare him off.

But then Baz leans in to give me a filthy kiss, all tongue and my own precum, and when he brings both hands to my jaw, I think fuck it and pull back to suck those fingers into my mouth anyway.

The look he gives me is molten. Heaving chest, eyes half closed. I moan around him just for the show of it; just to watch his eyelashes flutter, just to hear his moan in return. I try to commit this moment to memory; I don’t want to forget it, after he’s gone, not for as long as I live.

He reaches over to grab the lube, fumbling in his haste, giving me a dirty look when I laugh around his fingertips.

I kiss it right off his face. (Merlin, imagine if I’d been smart enough to do that all through school?) (Bloody idiot, aren’t I.)

Baz pushes the lube bottle into my hand and I hook my arm around his waist so I can manoeuvre him down against his duvet, pulling him close against me—I’d never fucking tire of seeing these thighs wrapped around my hips, I think, sliding my palm over one, gripping the muscle tightly.

Baz kicks my lower back with his heel in impatience. “Put those fingers to good use, Snow.”

“Your thighs, Baz, it’s no wonder I never missed a game," I tell him, cracking open the lube.

“Less talking, more—” Baz words choke off as I slide lubed-up fingers straight into him.

Watching him keen from this angle is even better than watching him come undone against the wall. I can’t tear my eyes away from how the muscles in his stomach are tensing and I splay my free hand against them, so I can feel them jolt against my palm as the rhythm of my fingers has him whining sweetly.

“Snow, Snow, Snow.” 

Baz has never said my name like that before, dripping in the right kind of heat.

He’s already so open but I’m trying to make it last. Using this as a chance to calm myself down a bit, pull back from the edge. (Fat chance, with my fingers knuckle deep in his arse.)

But if this is only for tonight, I don’t want to just barrel onwards. I want him to enjoy it.

I want him to look back on it after he’s sent me on my way and crave it. To wish I was still around. To wish it was me, instead of any other man in his bed.

I can’t let myself think about that right now.

Luckily, Baz makes switching my brain off easy; scrambling at my wrist with his fingernails, hips twitching like they’re not sure which direction they want to be going.

“I’m ready, I’m ready please, please.” 

I can’t get the words out to respond. I’m a ball of restraint and even speaking feels like too much. So I pull out and kiss him while lining myself up, swallowing his “please, Snow” right out of his mouth.

It’s ridiculous to call this moment monumental, but it feels like it. How did I not realise how badly I wanted him? All those years...

So I let myself savour it. Moving in small rocking motions as I work myself inside, filling Baz up slowly. Watching every change in expression, hearing every hitch in breath. Feeling every clench around my cock. Leading forward to kiss him filthily, filling him with my tongue too.

Seeing Baz move against the bed at the first snaps of my hips unleashes something in me that’s intense and blazing, and I try to set a pace that I hope will make Baz feel good.

It’s working, by the sound of him.

I’m biting my lips together, trying to keep my own noises to a minimum, but it’s too good, it’s too good, it’s too good. So tight, he’s so tight.

Baz’s fingers press at my mouth. “Let me hear you, Snow,” he gasps—following up with his own loud moan as my hips snap forward harshly at his words.

I let him hear me. Let myself match him groan for moan.

His fingers map my face, brushing my cheek, my jaw, just over my Cupid’s bow, slipping into my mouth and across my tongue. 

And then I’m tumbling into the moment and it’s flashes of images and sounds.

“Don’t stop touching me,” as my hand’s rub at Baz’s stomach.

Firm thighs gripping at my hips: “That’s it Snow, right there.”

Fingernails scratching down my chest: “Even better than I imagined. That’s it.”

I’m so lost in him. In these words from Baz’s mouth.

Pretty sure my pleasure’s rolling off me in waves like my magic used to, hot and thick with raw emotion. I’m not big enough to contain it. Baz’s bloody room can’t possibly be big enough to contain it.

“Fuck, you look good like this,” I tell him in return. I don’t know where it’s coming from. “Under my hands. I want all of you, Baz.” He’s panting heavily, too. “Please, give it to me.” I’m begging.

And then he flips us.

It takes me by complete surprise.

He’s kissing me before I can comment on the vampire agility in it—a good thing, it would probably ruin the mood—settling himself down onto my lap.

Baz’s eye contact is fierce as he takes me back in agonisingly slowly, bottoming out with a gasp; light and breathy.

“Look at you,” I say, echoing him from earlier, watching his eyelashes flutter, getting a front row seat to his leaking cock. “So gorgeous.”

He shifts forward and catches me with a quick, harsh kiss, before scratching his fingernails down my chest, leaning back to plant his hands on my thighs and grinding down onto me at a punishing pace—deep and all consuming.

Thighs flexing against me. Hair falling across his cheeks, mouth parted around a gasp, tight and wet and—

I can’t believe I’m here. Baz, above me, skin kissed by moonlight. Me, undone and moaning beneath him.

How is this real?

“You feel so good, Snow. Fuck, that’s so good,” Baz groans to the ceiling, rocking on top of me, throat on full display.

I sit up suddenly so that I can kiss him there. Bite him. Be closer to him. I need him under my hands. I need to feel all of him.

He wraps his arms around my shoulders, using me as leverage to grind down a ruthless rhythm as our kisses turn desperate.

I try to match him, doing what I can with my hips in this position. It seems to be working.

“That’s it Snow, yes,” Baz is panting into my mouth. “You’re so good like that.”

I’m fighting to hold back. To not get lost in the way Baz looks and smells and tastes and sounds—

“You’re so beautiful,” Baz says, hands sliding into my hair.

I don’t really believe that, but I don’t have to. I just have to believe that Baz believes it.

And with the way he’s looking at me right now, with the way he’s cupping his hand around my neck, I do believe it.

This isn’t just fucking it’s, it’s... intimate. It’s skin sliding over skin. It’s eye contact and shared breath. It’s deep desperate kisses and soft hands gliding over my chest; like he thinks having sex with me is something that needs to be savoured too.

It’s beyond what I thought it would be. And I’m so, so close to the edge.

I lick my palm and slide it down between us, wanking him off in time to his thrusts.

He’s tensing. Shuddering. “Simon,” he’s saying, over and over. “Simon, Simon, Simon,” until it blurs into moans only. Until he’s clenching me in a death grip; shoulders, hips, cock. Brows drawn together over his long nose. Breath caught around a cry of release.

He’s perfect.

This is perfect.

I want him to be mine.

And then he’s coming down from his high and shoving me back roughly against the pillows.

“Come on,” Baz demands.

He’s riding me harshly even though he must be oversensitive.

“I want you to, Snow, come on.”

It’s the first time Baz has been demanding since we got into bed.

“Cum for me, Simon.”

And it’s just right.

Baz gets up to go to the toilet while I try to catch my breath. I’m covered in his cum, and my own. Exhausted. Delirious.

I make sure to watch him walk away though, in all his arse-naked glory.

He wanders back in with a towel and I sit up, ready to catch it, but he doesn’t throw it my way like Peter used to. Baz climbs onto the bed next to me, pushing at my shoulder for me to lie down. He runs the cloth over my stomach, chest, gently over my cock and thighs... leans in for a kiss when he notices me watching his face.

I don’t think anyone has shown me this level of care before. It makes my throat go tight.

I say thank you—right before his lips hit mine—but I make sure to throw my thanks into the kiss as well, wrapping one hand in his hair, tugging him close by the waist with the other. He drops the towel and slides his own hands to the nape of my neck, giving as good as he gets, tugging on my bottom lip with his teeth.

I’m thoroughly shagged out to be honest, but with kisses like this, I’d be ready to go again in no time.

Baz pulls away from me and tugs at the duvet. “Lift up, I’m getting cold.”

I shuffle off the bed so he can pull the quilt out. I’m wondering if maybe that’s it? If maybe that’s his way of telling me I should put my clothes back on and be off.

You’ve had your tender as fuck shag mate, time to leave.

Instead, he looks up at me and winks. “Get in, Snow. The bed won't warm itself.”

He snuggles right up into me the second I do, arm moving to claim my waist, feet slotting in between mine—it’s nothing like the movies though, it takes us ages to get comfortable. Too many elbows, not enough duvet.

But once again I’m wrapped up in his smell. It’s more comforting than I’m willing to admit, now that my brain isn’t addled with lust. This was how home smelled—for eight years. I rub my nose into his head, barely managing to stop myself from biting at his hair—just to see if it tastes as good as the scent feels in my throat.

Fuck, I can already tell how bittersweet this is going to feel when it’s all over.

I consider just coming right out with it, asking what I’m meant to do now. Asking whether he usually lets his one night stands sleep over. Considering whether it’s good for me to indulge myself even if he does—should I just cut my losses rather than linger?

I know what it’s like to sleep with Baz now, but I can still save myself from knowing what it’s like to wake up to him.

But then Baz mumbles into my neck, “Don’t leave yet,” and I decide to wait just a little bit longer.

Yeah, just five more minutes. Just to pretend this is more than it is. Then I’ll put my clothes on, and go.

(Art by the fantastic it_is_twelve!!)

Chapter Text

Simon

I blink awake into a brightly lit room that’s definitely not my own. It’s tidy, for one, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have four different copies of Pride and Prejudice on my shelf.

I roll over, expecting to find Baz—he never was an early riser—but he’s not there. Instead, the quilt’s tucked in tightly at his end and his pillow has been fluffed. I think the fussy twat actually made his side of the bed with me still in it.

And then what, just left me here?

I’m half fuming. I know it was a one night stand and I probably shouldn’t have fallen asleep, but I’m not some stranger. If he thinks—

And then I hear it, smooth strings floating in around the ajar bedroom door. I recognise the piece. It’s his most famous. Top of his list on Spotify. (I shouldn’t know that.) 

The Sun, it’s called. It’s a love song, apparently. Or so an interview said. I don’t actually know much about classical music, but it’s always made me think of Watford, for some reason. Of being in Mummers, with Baz. (Although that makes sense, I guess, considering he’s playing it.)

I don’t see how it’s about love. It’s soft in places, sure, but mostly it’s intense and confusing. And a little melancholy. (Most of Baz’s original music is.)

I stand and dress and just as I reach the doorway, the piece shifts into something I haven’t heard before. It’s sweeter, hopeful. But then it’s urgent; it builds and builds and builds and builds (I think that’s called a crescendo) and then, when it breaks, I’m left a little breathless.  

You’re so beautiful.

I’m nervous all of a sudden, so I try to slip out of his room as quietly as I can—which isn’t very quiet at all, because I creak the bedroom door and bash my hip off a side table in the hall. Merlin.

Baz stops playing when I walk into the living room. He’s standing in front of the window, hair loose, feet bare. He’s got a shirt on now, which is a shame. It’s a little askew though, and I can see redness on his collarbone from where the instrument was resting against bare skin—I want to close the distance and press my lips to it.

Would you let me? Can the person I am in the daylight kiss the person you are?

He’s watching me blankly, but I’m certain it’s not apathy anymore. It’s an act—like when an animal feels threatened and it plays dead. I take a deep breath and offer him a wide grin. He blinks rapidly and then, finally, smiles back. It’s more hesitant than mine, but that’s okay.

He starts packing away his violin and I rush to tell him to stop.

“I liked it! Is. Er. Is that new? The song.”

“I like to make the most of inspiration when it strikes.” That’s sort of dodging the question.

“I recognise the beginning,” I push, blushing a bit at the admission. “The rest is new, though, right?” Inspiration...

Baz looks kind of embarrassed too. “I’m adding a second movement,” he says, fiddling with the bow in his hands. “The story ends differently now.”

I swallow and see his eyes dart down to watch. Even better than I imagined.

Is he talking about us?

“Ends?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Just sucks on the place where I think his fangs go. Then, out of nowhere, he says, “Well I suppose you’re hungry. I doubt I’ve enough eggs to sate your appetite but I can try,” and walks off towards the kitchen.

He’s offering me breakfast. That’s a good sign, right?

I hear my phone ringing and I go to search around for it on Baz’s bedroom floor while he fries up the eggs.

It’s Penny. I ignore it. I can’t concentrate enough for an interrogation right now.

She immediately texts. Please don’t tell me you slept over at Prick’s house?

Well. I slept over at a prick’s house, but that’s not who she means. I pocket my phone and walk back out to Baz, the smell of breakfast on the air drawing me in—he’s making bacon, too. (He’s fucking perfect.)

Baz is humming to himself when I get back to the kitchen, hips swaying slightly to the radio—I think I recognise the song: Tell me something good...

Fingers slipping into my mouth. Across my tongue. Let me hear you.

Fuck.

I'm not sure if Baz will want anything serious with someone like me, but after last night, I’ll probably just let him tuck me away in his jeans pocket; let him use me when and how he pleases.

Jeans.

Baz is wearing jeans. How have I just noticed?

I’m still staring at how snug they are over his arse when he turns around to dish out the bacon. He doesn’t miss it, just raises his eyebrow at me and slides the plate across the table.

Oh well. No use now in pretending every marbled inch of him doesn’t turn me on.

I pull the chair out noisily, already piling everything between bread before my bum has hit the seat. (There’s more butter on mine than his. Told you, he’s perfect.)

This is exactly what I needed. My head’s feeling foggy as hell but I can’t even blame the hangover—last night was an emotional bender, not an alcoholic one. 

“Mmmm,” I say, around a mouthful of sarnie. “The bacon’s crispy. Spot on, mate.”

“I’m not going to eat flaccid bacon, Snow. I’m not an animal.”

I watch intently as Baz actually takes a bite in front of me. Now that is new.

I don’t mention it. I don’t want to risk him clamming up. There’s so many things I still want to say. But I don’t say any of them. I just talk about work and eat my breakfast. (And try not to think about kissing him.)

It’s not the easy back and forth that we had last night, because I can’t sit here and ignore the tension between us both. It’s just as charged as it always has been, but I suppose I’m reading it differently now.

It’s in the way I catch him watching my mouth while I’m talking. It’s in the way he’ll poke at me, teasing because he likes it when I snap back. It’s in his mask of indifference when I say something even slightly nice to him, and I think it makes him shy.

It’s in the way we’re both skirting around what happened last night; the way he slept in my arms.

Time’s ticking on and I don’t want to overstay my welcome, but I could never forgive myself for leaving now; not without trying to talk about it. Not when we’ve wasted so much time already.

Don’t leave yet.

Baz stands to clear our plates and I follow him over to the sink, unhooking the tea towel from the cupboard door and smiling at him pointedly.

He raises his eyebrow at me. “Someone trained you well, I see.”

I flick the towel at him and he actually yelps as the snap collides with the back of his legs. 

He rolls his eyes at my laughter. “I take it back, you’re just as feral as before.”

He doesn’t see my smile. He turns to the sink, muttering about my oafishness as he dons rubber gloves. (Of course Baz uses washing up gloves rather than just letting his hands get chapped.) 

This is the kind of mockery I like, the kind of back and forth I’ve missed so much.

It’s different to the way Peter used to rib me—casual cruelties wrapped up to look like jokes. (I’m not sure he ever really liked me at all.)

Baz scrubs at the greasy pan and I’m barely even concentrating on what I’m doing. I want to lean over and kiss him, press him back against the sink. Have him snap at me for getting soapy water all down his clothes. Go back into the living room and have him play for me properly.

Is that what my life might have been, on the road not taken?

Skin sliding over skin.

Hands sliding into my hair.

You’re so beautiful.

I thought last night would be fast and dirty—clothes tearing, bed shaking, all our past aggression heading off at rough sex. I thought he’d make me beg; tease and tease and tease until I was stupid with want. And he did, and I was, but it wasn’t... It... He… 

I glance over at Baz—gloves all soapy, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair wavy over his shoulders—and I decide I can’t wait any longer.

“Last night,” I say, “it was great.” Okay, that’s a start.

Baz nods at me. “Yes, I always have a good time at the Coliseum.”

The venue? I put down the plate I’m drying and turn to look at him. 

“Right. But also coming back here, with you.”

I catch Baz’s slight smile, even though he tries to smother it, and that urges me on a little further. I nudge my shoulder into his and he smiles properly at that—although he frowns afterwards, like he’s annoyed at his own face’s betrayal.

“Don’t you think?” I push.

He sighs, like he’s exasperated, but there’s amusement playing across his lips. “Yes,” he allows, turning to meet my eyes. (Sea water grey, this morning.) “It was great.”

Somehow, when he says it, “great” sounds like it’s dripping in innuendo.

That’s it Snow. You’re so good like that.

My face gets all hot and I’m feeling the ghost of his teeth against the mole on my neck and maybe that’s why I blurt out: "It wasn't. Um. It wasn't what I expected it would be."

Baz reels back like I've just slapped him, and then I hear what I've just said.

“No! No. I mean.” I pull at my hair. What do I mean? “I just meant that it was… intimate,” I finish, lamely, eyes squeezed shut, face on fire. (I feel like a teenager who still giggles at the word bumhole.)

“Yes, sex usually is,” Baz says, and I can tell from his tone that his eyebrow has gone all pointy.

I open my eyes and confirm that I was correct. He’s taken off the gloves, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed tight over his chest, watching me struggle.

Merlin, he’s going to make me spell it out for him, isn’t he? He always was difficult. (It still makes me want to tackle him to the ground.)

This is going to be mortifying if it all goes tits up, but here goes nothing.

“Would you want to do it again?”

He drops his eyebrow and considers me coolly, before finally asking, “Sex?”

“Well, yeah—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I close my mouth and just look at him, wind stripped from my sails.

“It’s not that I didn’t think last night was great, it’s just that—” He picks lint off his jeans before looking back at me and saying, coldly, “I don’t think we should do it again.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

But.

“But.”

I can’t have got this wrong…

This was nice, Simon. Don’t stop touching me. Don’t leave yet.

“But,” I try again, “you invited me—”

“We’d been drinking—”

“And the things you were saying—”

“Emotions were running high—”

“But the way you held—”

“It was a one time—”

“It doesn’t have to be!” My voice is too loud for the kitchen and my cheeks burn with embarrassment, frustration. His voice is devoid of any emotion at all and I don’t even know who he’s trying to convince: himself, or me.

Jesus Christ. Is this how Baz Pitch finally fucking kills me? Stubbornness. A tender shag and a shattered heart.

I don’t believe him. Not for one second. Not with the way he was looking at me, holding me. Not with the things he was saying.

Fingertips tracing down my chest. Soft lips following my moles. Look at you, so gorgeous.

This is it; what I’ve been looking for. I’m not giving it up.

He’s staring at me with slightly narrowed eyes. Jaw clenched. The picture of a man who won't be swayed. Well tough shit. I’m just as stubborn as you are, you tosser.

I’ve never backed down from him, and I’m not starting now. 

I walk over to the kitchen table, pull out a chair and settle myself into it. I’m going to fight. And I’m done hoping he’ll read between the lines.

“That wasn’t just fucking,” I say, bluntly. “And it didn’t feel like a one time thing. We need to talk about it.”

He sighs. At the situation. At me. But he follows me over to the table and sits across from me anyway. His face looks a bit pained, and I almost take it all back. Bantering is great, but fighting with Baz doesn’t feel like it used to.

“Since when do you want to talk?” Baz asks. “It’s been five years and you’ve never tried to talk to me.”

“I’m trying to make that right.”

“With casual sex?”

He’s looking at me like I’m the moron, when he’s clearly misunderstood everything I’m trying to say.

Siegfried and Roy, we’re so bloody bad at this.

“No! I’m asking you out, you pillock.”

“You are?” He looks like the idea might offend him. Or like he can’t believe his luck. (It’s really hard to tell his sneers apart sometimes, and I’m five years out of practice.) (I want to re-learn every inch of him.)

“Yes. You know. On a date, like real people do. Watch a movie or...” I grasp at the air and trail off, because he’s staring at me blankly. Shit, he might actually be turning me down. Again.

I start rambling. “It doesn’t have to be the cinema. We can go to a restaurant, or grab coffee, or go on a bike ride”—he pulls a face at that—“or go to a play! Or more drinks, I—”

“Slow down, Snow.”

I don’t want to slow down. 

“There’s something here, Baz.” I think I might be pleading. Fuck. “Just, let us have this—”

“Simon.” He says it like: Stop.

No. I just found him again.

“Don’t you want to see how far this can go?” I push.

“But what if it doesn’t?” He snaps at me, voice and face heavy with emotion—finally taking off his bloody mask. “I can’t do this if it’ll just… wear itself out.”

And then I think I finally understand all of Baz’s reluctance. 

“You don’t think I’m serious.”

“How can you be, off the back of a one-night whim, Snow.”

I stand up and pull my chair round to sit in front of him. Then I take his hands in mine—surprised that he actually lets me, in all honesty. They’re cold and I rub at his knuckles.

“Don’t be daft,” I tell him. “I was obsessed with you when we were kids, you know that.”

“You thought I was plotti—”

“Yeah,” I cut him off. We’ll have to drag up the bloodsport of our school years eventually, but I don’t want to do it now. I want to focus on the potential for a future. “But even with the truce, I thought about you incessantly. And I couldn’t stop, after I left. I missed you.”

I was a mess, I don’t say, because I don’t want to come across as pathetic. But I was.

He cocks his eyebrow at me and just stares.

“Are you saying you liked me, in school? When we were enemies?” He says it like he thinks it’s ridiculous.

I lift my chin at him. “Are you saying you didn’t?”

That shuts him up. He narrows his eyes at me petulantly and pouts a little. It’s cute.

“You can’t tell me you didn’t want it, Baz. That you don’t still want it. Not after last night.”

He’s quiet, looking at his knees. Then he furrows his eyebrows and takes a huge breath in. “For a long time,” he says eventually, voice soft.

I squeeze his hands. “Me too.”

His flicks his eyes up to mine, studying me. I let him look. 

My heart’s on my fucking sleeve, Baz. I want it to be yours. “I want to try.”

“I’m not who I was then,” he says, one last attempt to push me away.

“No, me neither. Thank fucking Merlin.”

He huffs a breathy laugh and rolls his eyes at me. 

“You’re still you, Baz, I saw that last night. And the rest, I want to learn.”

He tugs on my hands a little; not trying to pull away, just to feel the weight of me, I think.

I want to kiss him, in the daylight. On the street. In a bar, in a park, after his shows. When he’s practicing. I want to kiss him.

This is it, what I’ve been looking for. This is it.

Baz shakes his head. “You’re still a nightmare, Snow,” he says, a small smile on his face. “But we can... try this, if you want to.”

I do.

I grin at him, wide, like I did this morning—like I did at the bar—and this time, Baz grins back.

He’s gorgeous.

And he wants to try.

Enough talking.

I lean in and he meets me halfway. It’s not raging or rushed or desperate—it’s soft. And relaxed. And right.

Okay, maybe it is a little desperate. But that’s not just me—Baz is pulling on my hair and half climbing into my lap and I’m not sure this chair can support the weight of two grown, ready-to-go-at-it men.

So I slow us down—try to savour it like I did last night. Not because I’m worried that we don’t have much time together, but because now I know that we do. 

This is happening. We’re getting to have this. We’re going to try.

His hair is silky in my hands, his lips are soft under my teeth. His small gasps are music to my ears.

“Baz?” 

“Hmm?” he asks. It vibrates against my mouth.

“Will you play for me?”

He looks happy when he pulls back, there’s no other word for it—smile light and easy. (And a little smug.) He nods and takes my hand and tugs me towards his living room.

There’s no running down the hallway like last night, but the moment still feels charged with potential, sparks tingling in my fingertips where they rest against Baz’s skin. Like when we shared my magic.

“Play the star one you wrote for The Tower,” I say, without thinking. I’ve always liked that one—Among Stars—and now I think I know why.

Baz turns to me with a smirk, eyes practically twinkling. “Thought you hadn’t been to my shows?” There it is—his sharp wit, followed by his sharp eyebrow.

“I haven’t.” I lean in close to him. “You have everything on your Spotify.” I’m rubbing my hand against his stomach, watching his eyes slide shut. “And I may have watched a lot of Youtube,” I concede.

He laughs, his grin wide. He’s so fit.

“Pity. You don’t get anywhere near as good a view.”

“Give me a show now, then.”

I push some of his hair back from his face, slipping it behind his ear so I can have better access to kiss up the side of his neck.

“I can’t play like this,” he protests, tipping his head to give me better access anyway.

“Call yourself a professional.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He pushes me off him then and points to the sofa with one eyebrow raised. Sit down, shut up. Gladly.

And then he starts playing.

It’s different than when I used to sneak peeks at Baz playing through the window at school; he’s different, and I never got to see it—five years of changing, of progress. But I won’t miss out on any more, not if I have any say in it.

So I watch him.

Hair loose. Feet bare. Cheekbones kissed by daylight. He’s relaxed in jeans and lost in his music—soft smiles and fluttering lashes.

I’m spellbound. He’s so bloody beautiful.

And I think he might be mine.

Among Stars finishes and he slips into The Sun, slips out and lets it build and build and build and peak and then… he cracks his eyes open to look at me, and keeps playing.

Inspiration.

A second, third, fourth movement.

A prologue, not an ending.