Work Text
December 2022
SIMON
I walk through the door and Baz's got the fire on.He's got Taylor Swift on, too.It's that one song—the one what's about the length of three that Baz really likes. (It’s one well long song, I mean.) (I'm sure there's three other ones he likes too.) (I know there are; this isn't the first time I've walked in on him singing to Taylor Swift.) (He would absolutely deny it.)Yeah, I've walked in on Baz singing. Or I've sort of walked in; I've not rounded the corner yet because I'm afraid he'll stop if he sees me.His voice is incredible. Why is everything he does incredible? (It's especially good when he thinks no one's listening. Deep and vulnerable and just good. It’s like this lovely thing just rumbling through him. And me.) (Guess that makes me vulnerable, too.)I've not seen him today. Not besides seeing him sleeping when I was getting ready for work. He’s lovely when he sleeps. He looks peaceful, and the cat lays on top of him, and it just gives me a moment to watch my family. To be happy.Anyway, I've not seen him since. I've a mind to—"Restart it, would you?" I ask as I pop into the kitchen. He jumps, and his eyes get big, and he says Snow all annoyed-like.I laugh."It's not funny, Snow," Baz says. He's still cool about it, even as his cheeks go red. He hates that I’ve caught him with his guard down; I know he does. (I like catching him that way. Sometimes he lets himself be caught. I'm hoping now's one of those times.)It smells like a five-course, five-star restaurant meal in here. He’s been working away at something delicious while he’s been putting on his own private concert. I could tell him he shouldn’t have, but who am I to turn my nose up at good food? (I wouldn’t. And he knows I wouldn't.) I’m sure it’ll be incredible.Why is everything he does incredible?Right.“‘M not laughing at your singing,” I tell him as I sidle up and slide my arms around his waist from behind. I hook my chin over his shoulder and give him a nudge. “It’s the jumping for me. Seven years on and you’re still surprised.”“You’d be surprised,” he starts, “if you were certain you were alone and then a lumbering, bespectacled buffoon walked in on you.”I press a kiss into his neck. (He’s got his hair back in a low knot, so his neck’s prime game. Well attackable. Well bloody kissable.) He flinches, but I think it’s one of the good ones—the sort you get with a tickle. “Acting like I’ve caught you wanking, you are,” I tell him. Even his neck’s gone pink at this point.He goes a bit stiff in my arms. “It’s about as bad.”“You’ve never let me catch you wanking—”“Of course I haven’t,” he scoffs back.Bloody well love this, I do.The music’s still going. I give my hips a sway, then another. (I’m trying to take him with me.)“Restart it, would you?” I ask again.“Why.”I keep on with my swaying. “Y’know why, you git.”I almost hear him roll his eyes. I almost hear his heart jump, too. (Seven years on, I know what sets his heart to jumping.) (Most of the time.) (He does still manage to be a complete enigma sometimes.)“This isn’t even the song—”“S’what? Practice is practice.” I coax him around in my arms so that he’s facing me. It puts my eyeballs right in line with his nose. (Bloody three inches.) “Besides,” I say, and I’m well chuffed because his skin’s still burnt crimson, “I like it. Dancing with you.”Seven years on, and I’m still making him blush like that.
BAZ
This man is an absolute nightmare.And an absolute god-send.I’m not sure which is worse.He wants me to dance with him. To this song, no less. Ten minutes of vulnerability. Ten minutes of torture.I want to do anything but this, so of course I can hear the more mature, therapised version of myself in my head: dance with your fiancé, Basil.My fiancé.Right, yes. Fine.
Breathe. Two. Three. Four…
“Alexa,” I say, because Snow won’t. He’s too endearingly concerned with consent. A good thing, yes, but it drives me completely mad. “Play All Too Well (10 Minute Version).”I listen to her parrot the title back at me and feel another rush of nerves paint my skin red, then another as the romantic notes begin to play.I swear I’m shaking as I set a hand on Simon’s shoulder. As we join hands and I feel the slight chill of his engagement ring against my finger. As his other hand comes to rest against my waist.I’m looking anywhere but in his eyes, and he’s being patient. Lovely as ever.He squeezes my hand, my waist. “Nervous, yeah?”“Erm.”“Right, yeah. I…me too, I mean. Not the same, just. Y’know.”I do look him in the eye then. They’re blue and beautiful and unguarded—save by his disgustingly attractive horn-rims. Seven years on and he barely wears his contact lenses anymore. He knows how much those damnable glasses affect me. Though to be fair, it could be due to laziness on his part. One never can tell.Except one can, especially when the subject in question is staring one down with a smoulder. Lifting his eyebrows in an attempt at feigned seduction.What a loon.I monologue about this man being a complete disaster of a human being, but perhaps I should be honest for once: I’m projecting.
SIMON
I walked through the door with you, the air was cold
But something ‘bout it felt like home somehow
Baz and I curl around each other as the singing starts. His face is nestled in next to mine, and I feel it—the bit of beard that drives me mad.
And I left my scarf there at your sister’s house
And you’ve still got it in your drawer, even now
The beat picks up, and I think about that old Hufflepuff scarf he used to wear—the one that’s still hanging in the wardrobe because Mordelia gave it to him, but he won’t wear any more because JK Rowling’s a twat.I think about the other scarf—the blue one he keeps in a box in the top drawer on his side of the bed.
And I know it’s long gone and that magic’s not here no more
And I might be okay, but I’m not fine at all
“Sad song, this,” I say. It’s almost a trick, like the beat doesn’t realise it’s supposed to be sad."It's a song about feeling your feelings.""Thought it was a song about Jake Gyllenhaal."Baz rolls his eyes. (I swear the light from the fire’s crackling in them.) Then he says, "Yes, well. Allegedly. What have you been doing in your spare time, researching Taylor Swift's old beaus?""Actively Googling your interests, actually."I’m not sure if he’s blushing again, or if he’s just never stopped this entire time."I wouldn't call it an interest," he mumbles. "I enjoy the song—""Yeah, whatever."
Photo album on the counter, your cheeks were turning red
You used to be a little kid with glasses in a twin-sized bed
And your mother’s telling stories ‘bout you on the tee-ball team
“Relate to this, I expect,” Baz says.“What’s that?”“Dear Lucy. Telling stories about you. I recall one specifically. Bare arse. Dog flap—“Fucking hell, now I’m blushing. The knobhead got me back. “We don’t need to talk about that just now.”
BAZ
That night—Lucy telling stories about Simon—that was the night it all started in earnest.
And then you wondered where it went to as I reached for you
But all I felt was shame, and you held my lifeless frame
I suppose it is a sad song.And, unfortunately, relatable.How many times has Simon wondered where my love went to, where I went to? How many times has he watched me hold a blank stare? How many times has he seen me in a room when I’m not really there, when my mind is miles away? How many times has he thought he lost me to this, to my own demons?I’m still complete shite at expressing my feelings. Hell, I barely know what I’m feeling the majority of the time. Still, even after all this time and therapy. But I try to show him what he means to me in other, smaller ways.Like the hideous socks I’m wearing.“I hope you realise the magnitude of my feelings for you,” I tell him. “I’m wearing polyester.”Simon’s eyes roll, and then he lifts my arm above our heads and sets me to spin. I do. I spin, and I smile, and when I come back into his arms, he takes my hips and pulls me in.Well. Whatever it is he wonders, he still keeps me close. He’s so much braver than me when it comes to this.To love.
‘Cause there we are again in the middle of the night
We’re dancing ‘round the kitchen in the refrigerator light
I’ve always envisioned this moment.I can’t believe it’s happening. Of course Simon bloody Salisbury would do this to me—render a Taylor Swift lyric true.Ridiculous.Romantic.I hate him.
SIMON
And there we are again when nobody had to know
You kept me like a secret but I kept you like an oath
Sacred prayer, and we’d swear to remember it all too well
Like an oath. I think that’s my favourite part.“I think that’s my favourite part,” I tell Baz.“What.”“That line. I kept you like an oath.” I squeeze the dip of his waist. (I’ve a mind to take this jumper off him later. The shirt underneath as well.) “Well romantic. And it reminds me of you.”“Of me.”“Yeah, you. Who else? Not like I’m over here oath-ing over Dev or something.”Baz wrinkles his nose. “If that were the case, Snow, you’d be oaf-ing.”That makes me laugh. (I don’t know how Niall does it, personally.)
Like an oath.
I knock my face against Baz's, just lightly as I turn us some more. “Do you remember Drops of Jupiter?”“Hm. What about it, Snow?”“That night. You were away at your parents’, remember? I seduced you with—wotsit—lyrical analysis.”“You most certainly did not—”“Yeah. You said so yourself.” He doesn’t say things himself, not very often, anyway. So of course I remember, even seven years on. “Probably have a screenshot of it somewhere.”“Tell me,” Baz says, and I think he might be being cheeky with his word choice. Oh. Yep. I sneak a glance, and his lip is cocked up on one side. Little cheeky smirk. (I’d like to kiss it off him.) “Was that before or after the attempted phone sex incident?”I can’t believe this. He must really want to embarrass me; otherwise he wouldn’t say anything. Talking about that embarrasses him way too much. His lisp is even coming out.“Your lisp is showing,” I tell him, and before he can say anything back, I kiss him.
BAZ
He kisses me like he has all the time in the world, like it’s not terrifying to bare his heart this way. To give it his all.And I let him in. Even if I’m cautious, I let him in. It makes my heart sing louder than this song. And then it beats, and beats, and beats—
Maybe this thing was a masterpiece
‘Til you tore it all up
Running scared, I was there
I don't love him. It sparks through my mind with the bite of anxiety on its heels.Maybe, I think. And then I move closer to him. There's a moment where my nerves peak, but then they flatten into the warmth of the moment.I rest my face against Simon's.I breathe.I sigh.I’m glad I didn’t run scared in the end. The thought of what would’ve happened if I had—fuck, it’s completely terrifying.
It was rare, I was there
I remember it all too well
Wind in my hair, you were there
You remember it all
Down the stairs, you were there
You remember it all
What would I be doing now? Sitting alone somewhere, imagining another life where Simon Salisbury and I dance in a kitchen—in our kitchen—remembering the short time we spent together? Imagining and remembering everything I’d lost. What I’d given up.But I didn’t. I was brave and true—that’s what Simon would say, anyway, the romantic sod. He does love his stories of heroes and courageous knights.I’ve never felt brave, but the truth is what I make it.
And did the twin flame bruise paint you blue?
Just between us did the love affair maim you too?
I remember it all too well—a stormy night. It’s so clear, but I don’t want to think about it. So of course I do. Tears, raised voices, the threat of my own mind looming and burning and breaking—What it made me do.I wasn’t brave that night. I broke that night…“Are you sure?” I say.“What’s that?”“Are you sure you want to do this?”“Do what?”He’s going to make me say it. “Get married. To marry me, specifically.”“Don’t be daft. Your brain’s being an arsehole.”“Simon—”“Baz. Stop. It’s insulting.”I bite the inside of my mouth. I have no insults—no purposeful, playful ones, anyway. There’s nothing I can say.“I don’t want any more outs,” Simon tells me. “If I didn’t want to marry you, I wouldn’t’ve asked.” He shakes his head and sighs. “Sweetheart. Can we just dance? Please.”Shame. That’s what this feeling is. (I know it all too well.) “Yes. Fine, yes.”I feel like I’ve ruined things. I have ruined things; I ruin everything.
Ground yourself, Baz.
Breathe. Two. Three. Four.
I still remember the first fall of snow
And how it glistened as it fell
I can still see him, eighteen years old—just a boy really—stood there outside my front door, flecks of snow glistening in his hair. That soft, shy smile. Sack of scones in hand.He was so lovely.And now…There’s a whisper in my ear. “Like an oath, remember? I don’t want anyone else. Just you.”He’s still here. He wants to be here, with me.I feel the warmth of the fire. Of Snow—of Simon—in my arms.My feet are stepping slow against the tile in a pair of hideously beautiful dinosaur-print socks. They were given to me seven years ago, and I’ll never tell him they’re my favourite, though I’m sure he’s deduced.Sandor is purring at our ankles, the little menace.And the smell—"Fuck's sake, my roast is burning—" I almost jump out of Snow's arms, but he pulls me in closer. I actually laugh. It's an art—letting the little things go. A years-long practice.“You made me roast beef?" His grin blinds me like the sun. "Fuck, I love you.”Sometimes those words still make my heart jump."Happy anniversary, Simon."“I’ll say.”I quirk an eyebrow at him. “I’ve burnt it, Snow.” Bloody hours it took me, too. Fuck.He steps me back until my arse hits the stove, then he leans over me to turn off the oven. “I’ll bet it’s perfect. Or imperfect. I mean, doesn’t have to be perfect—““We don’t have to turn this into therapy,” I tell him. I could make so many self-deprecating remarks right now.I could, but I breathe instead.Perhaps the roast isn’t too terribly burned.
SIMON
Baz gets on some tangents sometimes, I swear. Or his brain does, I guess.Don’t want to get married—what a tosser. He’s mad. He drives me mad.Also, I’m now distracted by the promise of imminent roast beef. I don’t give a flying fuck if it’s a bit burnt. I’m sure it’s fine, anyway.I’ve still got Baz pinned up against the stove. That’s a bit more pressing.I’m just now realising the song’s over. It’s so quiet I can hear us breathing.I pull back so I can see him. The firelight’s gleaming gorgeous on his skin. Bits of his hair are framing his face. He’s flushed, and I don’t think it’s from the dancing.Suddenly I don’t want him all buttoned up, so prim and proper.“Hey,” I say.“Hello, Snow.”“D’you…fancy an appetiser?” I shrug.“Fuck’s sake, Simon.” He’s all exasperated and embarrassed, looking away and running a hand through the front of his hair. But there it is—a smile.“What, you look good.” Seven years on, and it’s like he just keeps looking better, honestly. Fuck.“Since when do you put a roast on hold?”“I’d choose you over a roast any day.”His eyebrow tries to attack me.I grab his hips and pull them to mine. “Well, I would.”He breathes in and slowly brings his arms around my shoulders. “I suppose dinner can waita bit longer.”Afterwards, in the dark, when his walls are down and his hair spills like ink against our pillows, I hear him whisper, "Like an oath, Simon."And I smile.