Work Text:
It’s a lazy Friday night when I notice it for the first time.
Baz and I are lounging on the couch, wonderfully curled into each other as we watch some musical documentary. I’m not paying attention to the documentary, though. This is because my boyfriend is currently trying his very best to be distracting. (And holy fuck is it working.)
I don’t know when he started, but Baz is pressing light kisses on my stomach, my shirt pulled up as he searches my skin. His cold hand is underneath my shirt, too, etching patterns into my chest and back. I would ask him to stop—Baz has showed me so many musical documentaries that I actually understand them, and I'm now quite interested in them—but I don't want him to. (I never want him to.)
As he continues, I realize that he lingers on a specific spot. I don’t really think about it much at the time. Instead, I try to take in the moment, basking in the soft version of Baz that I rarely get to see.
A few days later though, I can't help but notice that Baz is doing it again, this time nipping at the spot. (I don't tell him to stop, either.)
And it soon happens again. And again. And again.
Before long, it seems to happen almost every day. Consequently, I’m curious about why he seems to focus on that one specific part of my back.
In my life, I haven’t spent a lot of my time looking in the mirror. I never really had the time to. And even when I couldn't help but spare a glance, I saw nothing nothing but skin, moles, and fluctuating weight. Nothing particularly special, if you ask me.
This just reinforces my curiosity. I know Baz likes my moles—he's told me as much—but I don't think I have one there. I know my moles like map—a constellation, Baz likes to say—and I know for a fact that I don't have a mole around the side of my ribcage.
So, when Baz starts doing it again for the fourth time in the past week, I try and gather the courage to ask.
When I open my mouth, however, nothing comes out. With Baz distracting me, I find myself struggling to find my words. Typical.
Luckily, Baz notices when I tense, and stops. "Simon," he begins, mumbling quietly against my skin, "are you all right, love?"
I try to relax. I don't want him thinking I don't like it; I actually love it, but I'm just curious. When I try and start talking, I can't seem to explain myself.
As always, Baz notices. "Simon, you can tell me." Baz's voice comes out almost in a soft purr, comfort oozing from his posh voice.
After a few beats, I rehearse my words, and begin again. "It's just I— I'm curious about, uh, why you like that…spot."
Baz shifts, angling his face up towards me. I find it wonderful to see a faint red slowly circulate his face; he's blushing, and I'm too distracted by the rarity to realize Baz is looking at me in question.
He rids me of my stupor when he clears his throat. "Could you perhaps, uh, elaborate?"
"Um…." Now I'm also blushing. Shit. "My stomach—the side of it," I try. "You seem to like that spot. The spot around my ribcage."
Despite my bumbling attempt of clarification, Baz seems to get the gist. He hums in response before replying. "Does that bother you?"
"No. No, of course not," I say, pausing. "It's just...I'm curious why you like it."
"Oh," Baz says before burying his long nose into my side again. "You don't know?"
I gently dig my thumb into the faint fat of my stomach, gathering Baz's angular chin under my thumb as I direct his gaze back to my own. Once I lock my blue into his grey, I start. "There aren’t moles there. Right?”
“No, there isn’t.”
“Exactly. But what is there?”
Suddenly, I feel Baz’s cold fingers delve around the spot. Because of this distraction, I miss what he says, only catching the end of a phrase, “—mark there.”
“I'm sorry, what?”
He rolls his eyes, but his face is sporting a small, subtle smirk. “I said you have a birthmark there.”
I look at him incredulously. “A…birthmark?” I say, taking in his nod. “No I don’t.”
“Yes you do—”
“I-I would’ve noticed it,” I interrupt, “If I had one.”
Baz looks at me with a rare, soft smile. “C'mon. Get up.” I stare at him. He repeats himself, though, so he must know what he’s doing.
Soon, we’re both awkwardly getting up—our bodies were tangled, so it's a bit difficult—and Baz is leading me to the flat's bathroom.
As we reach the door, Baz speaks. “Take off your shirt.” Embarrassed—that phrase typically serves another connotation, so don’t blame me—I look at him, staring in confusion as he turns the doorknob.
He opens it, and when we walk in, he turns to me expectantly. I sheepishly shed my thin T-shirt, dropping it on the floor—I’ll pick it up later, Penny, get off my back—before I look at him with my own expectant expression. “What now?”
“Now,” he clears his throat, “look in the mirror, and try to look at your back.”
Curious, I do so, twisting my body in a vain attempt to peer over my shoulder. I don’t see anything, honestly. There's just a few scars, an absolute litany of moles, and—
Oh.
There’s a mark. A light brown, oddly-shaped mark that contrasts sharply with my tanned, tawny skin. It’s almost like a paint splatter; hideous and untidy. “What the fuck?”
Baz’s eyebrows twitch in the mirror before furrowing. “‘What the fuck’ what?”
I ignore his question to my question, instead trying to get a better look on my new discovery. “It’s a…." I shake my head. "That’s what you like!?”
“Of course.”
“Why?” I say, now redirecting my attention to him.
He shrugs—something he must've got from me, I guess—replying with an honest, “It’s nice.”
“Nice!?" I exclaim. "You're delirious.”
I hear Baz shift next to me, a slight chuckle leaving his lips as I feel his arms wrapping around my waist. “I’m not delirious; I’m disturbed,” he mumbles against my skin. “And Simon?”
I wait a few seconds before responding, “Yeah?”
“It’s not nice—it’s beautiful.”
I cut in, saying, “Fuck. You are disturbed.”
He turns me to face him, and gently presses a kiss against my temple. “Be quiet,” he retorts, a small smile gracing his beautiful and sharp features, “and let me explain. I say it’s beautiful because you’re beautiful, Simon. It’s just an imperfection—"
“An ugly imperfection—”
Shushing me, he clears his throat. “As I was saying, your birthmark is an imperfection,” he stops, and begins gliding his fingers across one of my scars. “Just like these; your blemishes. Your scars, your moles, and yes, your birthmark, are all beautiful imperfections.”
Baz pauses, taking a moment to press his lips against a mole on my neck. "Baz," I gasp.
He shushes me (again), and places a thin, elegant finger over my lips. “Your imperfections make you perfect. Because they’re a part of you.”
We stand in front of the mirror for a minute, savoring the softness that this moment is creating. He continues to trace several lines on my body, and he keeps his face tucked into the crevice between my chin and shoulder blade.
After a few beats of silence though, he starts speaking again, now gently rubbing the mark with his thumb. "Simon?"
"Yeah?"
“Have you ever heard of Stephen Hawking?”
“Of course I have,” I huff, slightly distracted.
He hums in acknowledgement. "Well, he once said that nothing in the world is perfect," he gently grasps my face, pulling me closer to him, "but you defy that. You defy a dead fucking genius, Simon Snow.”
Before our lips touch, I stubbornly manage to reply back. “Even with my ‘imperfections?’”
“Of course, love." I feel Baz’s lips brush my own. "Because you’re the world.”
And he kisses me.