Chapter Text
PENELOPE
I admit it: I panicked.
After the week I’ve had, I don’t think anyone would blame me for panicking when my brother called to tell me that Watford was on fire. I’ve been constantly on edge the last few days, so of course my first instinct was immediately to spring to action. Except in that moment, in that rush of fear and dread, I didn’t stop to think… what action? What can we do, halfway across the world? We can’t make our plane leave sooner and we can’t make the flight faster. And even if we could, then what? Premal called simply to let me know that our mother’s place of work was on fire, to keep me informed, not to ask me to immediately come back and handle the situation because no one else could possibly do so. Being Simon Snow’s sidekick dread companion for eight years has made me think that all of the world’s magickal problems are mine to solve, but they aren’t. This one isn’t, especially not when I’m still on a different continent.
But it took me a while to think of all of that, and instead of a calm and rational response I simply managed to stress everyone out for no reason. That isn’t like me at all, but, again, after the week that I’ve had? That we’ve all had? I can’t even by angry at myself for failing to keep my cool.
Except for the fact that I’m pretty sure I interrupted something between Simon and Baz on the beach. I didn’t really notice it at the time, but as we packed and made our way to the airport, the strained silence and distance between them became increasingly obvious. More obvious than usual, I mean. I know things between them haven’t been exactly sunshine and rainbows for a while and Simon has had a closer relationship with the couch and dry cider than with Baz for weeks now, but I thought that the change of scenery may have actually done the trick. Or done something, at least. I don’t remember the last time I saw them kiss the way they did after the renaissance fair. I thought… I don’t know. I don’t actually know anything about how relationships are supposed to work, do I? But I remember the way they were looking at each other on that beach, and I can see the way Simon keeps carefully avoiding Baz’s eyes, while Baz looks at him like he thinks it’s his last opportunity to memorise his features.
I wish I could go back in time and stop myself from interrupting them. Perhaps they would have talked things out by now, Chomsky knows they need to. But instead, here we are. Stuck at the airport because our flight is delayed (of course it is), with Simon and Baz seemingly determined to put as much distance between themselves as possible. Even Agatha and Shepard have noticed something’s wrong (more wrong than usual) - they haven’t said anything, but I can tell.
Simon has been standing by the windows for at least an hour now, watching planes taxiing on the tarmac without moving a muscle. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so still. Baz is sitting on the floor, seemingly messing with his phone but really just watching Simon and looking greyer than ever, even though I know for a fact he fed just before we left for the airport. It hurts to share the same space with them. Where are the times when their constant flirting drew me up the wall?
SIMON
“Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?”
“Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?”
“Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?”
BAZ
Bunce sits down next to me, stretching out her legs to keep people from looking up her skirt. Skirts are such an impractical garment, really. Why would anyone want to wear something that you have to constantly check to make sure your underthings aren’t showing? But it’s part of Bunce’s look, I suppose. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in trousers. Have I? Perhaps I have, I just never gave it much thought. The only reason I’m thinking about it now is to avoid thinking about other things. Like the reason why Bunce decided to assume this uncomfortable position on this disgusting airport carpet to sit next to me. I knew she would. I’ve seen her watching us.
Well. Watching me and watching Snow. Not really an us anymore, is there. He hasn’t even looked at me since the beach.
Bunce nudges me with her elbow and pushes a bag of chocolate-covered cherries into my line of sight. I take one because taking one is easier than telling her I don’t want any. Sour sweetness explodes on my tongue and I nearly gag because Simon would love it. He loves cherries.
“I’m sorry if I interrupted something earlier,” she offers quietly.
I shrug. I think I finally get why Snow speaks in shrugs all the time -- sometimes it’s the only way to react without throwing up.
I watch the tense line of his shoulders and wish I could ease the knots out with my fingers.
“Do you… want to talk about it?” Bunce asks, a little awkwardly. She’s not exactly one for emotional heart-to-hearts.
“Shouldn’t you be asking him that?” I counter. I can’t say his name. “ He ’s your best friend.”
“But out of the two of you he’s the one less likely to be willing to talk. Besides, you’re my friend too.”
I take another cherry. They taste like a happy Simon who’s eager to kiss me.
“He was going to break up with me,” I say, because if I say it out loud maybe I’ll finally stop clinging to hope that it isn’t true. It is -- I saw it in his eyes, clear as day. He’s hurting, and somehow I’m making it worse. “That’s what you interrupted.”
SIMON
But he won’t be happy anywhere with me either. He isn’t. How could he be, when all I do is make him miserable and drag him down? He’ll get over it. Over me. I bet it won’t take all that long either. He’ll meet someone else. Someone like Lamb --- no. Someone better. Someone worthy of him. Someone able to give him what he deserves. Someone who’s more than just an empty shell.
He’ll forget about me, and he’ll be happy.
PENELOPE
“What?” I almost yelp, jerking away from Baz. “No. That’s not -- it can’t be. He loves you, why would he break up with you?”
Baz starts and looks at me for the first time, his grey eyes dull with pain. “Did he… tell you that?” he whispers.
It’s evident that he never told Baz that, that’s for sure. I want to swallow my tongue. “He didn’t have to,” I admit. “It’s obvious that you love each other.” Or it used to be. Now… well.
Baz scoffs and looks away from me again. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it, Bunce. You’re not exactly an expert on relationships.”
His words sting, but -- he’s right, isn’t he? What do I know?
“Sorry,” he murmurs almost immediately. “I didn’t mean… Sorry.”
I shake my head, trying to push thoughts of Micah out of my mind. Nothing can be done about that, not anymore. But perhaps something can still be done about Simon and Baz.
“No, you’re right. I’m not. But… you do love him, don’t you? I’m not wrong about that.” On love’s light wings doesn’t lie.
He says nothing, which is answer enough.
“Have you told him?” I ask gently, even though I think I know the answer to that too.
“I don’t think he wants to hear it.” His eyes fix on Simon, who’s still leaning against the railing, looking out at the runway. I imagine him turning away from the glass, looking at Baz and walking towards him like Baz is a beacon guiding him home, but he doesn’t.
“I think you should tell him,” I say to Baz. “How is he supposed to know if you don’t tell him?”
“You just said it was obvious.”
I raise an eyebrow. (Baz doesn’t see, he’s still looking at Simon.) “This is Simon we’re talking about,” I point out. The corner of Baz’s mouth twitches weakly.
He sighs deeply. “I don’t want to… push him. Make him feel like he has to say it back.”
We both watch Simon for a while. I realise I really don’t know anything about love at all. I treated it like a certainty, like a matter of course. Of course I love Micah. Of course Micah loves me. Of course Simon and Baz love each other. But it’s not like that at all. It doesn’t happen because it’s convenient, because it fits in with the plans you’ve made for your life. Because you think it makes sense. I thought Micah and I made sense. And I thought Simon and Baz made sense. Ever since that moment I realised they were together, it felt like puzzle pieces that I didn’t know were puzzle pieces were finally falling into place. I still think that.
“If you think he wants to break up,” I say slowly, “what have you got to lose?”
Finally, they announce that our flight is boarding.
BAZ
This flight is even worse than the first. Mainly because Simon went to considerable trouble to make sure he wouldn’t be sitting next to me. So now I’m squashed between Bunce and Shepard (again), and Snow’s across the aisle next to Agatha. That’s all right, I’m used to being jealous of her, I’ve had years of practice. I just never thought I’d have to be again. I never thought I’d be jealous of anyone simply for sitting next to him. (Well. All right. I have in fact been jealous of people sitting next to him many times. But not like this.)
Would it really be so much to ask for him to sit next to me? People sit next to complete strangers on flights and they cope, but Simon Snow can’t sit next to me. Even though he hasn’t broken up with me yet . I could have pretended to fall asleep on his shoulder again, stolen this one last moment with him. But no. I don’t get to have that, because he’d rather sit next to his ex-girlfriend than have me touch him, even just a little.
I pretend to fall asleep anyway, to avoid the cruel world and the waves of sympathy wafting off Bunce (and to avoid potential arguments she and Shepard might get into). I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want to have a reason for needing sympathy. I think I doze off, because an indeterminable amount of time later I become aware of empty space next to me and I open my eyes to find Bunce gone, probably to join the endless queue for the loo.
The lights in the cabin have been dimmed, it’s apparently nighttime. When I turn my head I have an unimpeded view of Snow, watching another pointless action movie. The light of the screen illuminates his face, making his moles stand out.
He’s so lovely. Even when he’s breaking my heart, I want to keep looking at him because he’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. (I’m clearly distrubed, what else is new?) I’m used to that. Wanting him from a distance, wanting him while he doesn’t want me. It’s all right. It’s all right.
Perhaps he can feel me looking, because he turns his head and glances my way. His gaze meets mine for a split second, skittering away immediately. But then he looks back again, and meets my eyes fully for the first time since the beach.
Even with my superior vision, it’s hard to read his expression in the dimness of the cabin. It seems pained, almost as heart-broken as I feel -- but that could be just the play of light and shadow on his features. Then his face softens, and he looks at me like… like it’s almost a year ago and we’re in his bed, curled up in each other’s arms, fumbling and a little bit terrified and utterly uncertain how far we want to go, but so, so certain that we want to be there, together. His lips press together and then part, like he’s soundlessly whispering my name.
I don’t know what it means. How can he look at me like that, with such tenderness, when he’s made it abundantly clear he doesn’t want me? Is this some kind mid-flight, middle-of-the-Atlantic thing? Your life is temporarily put on hold, stuck in a limbo where nothing seems quite real and the passage of time is a meaningless construct, so you can do things you normally wouldn’t, like make your still-but-not-for-long-anymore boyfriend feel like you might actually still want him after all. It doesn’t count. Like anything that happened between us on this god-forsaken trip to America doesn’t count. I got to be kissed breathless by Simon against the boot of a Mustang, I got to hold him in my arms under an endless sky, but it doesn’t count. It was just a brief respite from our real lives, where the gulf between us keeps getting bigger by the minute and he’s going to break up with me the second he musters the courage and no one interrupts him.
A tear prickles in the corner of my eye. Simon unbuckles his seatbelt, and for a second I'm convinced he's going to cross the aisle, sit in Bunce's seat, take my head in his hands and wipe the tear away with his thumb. But he doesn't, of course he doesn't. He breaks eye contact, gets up and walks away down the aisle without a second glance. As if that soft connection between us hadn't happened.
Bunce is right - I really don't have anything to lose. Not anymore. And if we're doomed, at least I'll know I didn't keep the most important thing in my life from him.