All I Ever Wanted was the World

by facewithoutheart, yellobb

Summary:

Simon finds himself at the Wank of England, Vauxhall’s infamous gay pub. Ruled by drag queen Baz Pitch aka Tyra Fangs, and staffed by lovable queer misfits, many lost souls have found themselves within its dark walls. But Simon’s not just another lost soul, and Baz is more than the sparkling gowns he wears as armour, and together they may build something better than a place to grab a pint.

Notes:

A huge thanks to my artist, Macey, for being such an amazing talent. I feel honored that you picked my fic concept, and have really loved seeing the progression of Baz as Tyra in your hands. It feels serendipitous that you ended up as my collaborator, with our shared love of Chrissy <3 I just reread your comments from your first read and it’s incredible how often you just got what I was trying to do with this fic. I’m so excited to keep working with you.

To Marta, my biggest Drag Queen Baz enthusiast, I dedicate this fic to you <3 may it give you all the queer joy you need and deserve.

More thanks to Em, my master-beta, who even edits my summaries ;). Also thanks for inventing Tyra Fangs as Baz’s drag name and planting this idea in my head.

Shout-out to everyone who had to witness me trying to perform Baz’s drag number this past weekend; my thighs were not prepared for the level of burn that performance requires.

And of course big hugs & thanks to the COBB mods, Autumn and Kal. Y’all are amazing; thanks for everything you do!

 

Obligatory Playlist

Chapter 1: Drippin’ Diamonds

Notes:

Chapter title and intro lyrics from I’m So Hot by Chrissy Chlapecka.

I'm dripping diamonds know you want a taste but
why? Why would I bother with touching anybody else?
(Cause I'm)
I'm so hot I'd fuck myself.

 

“The thing you need to know about Baz,” Dev says, mini-skirt stretching over his glutes as he weaves through the crowd, “is that he’s a Pitch.”

“A bitch?” I have to shout so he can hear me. An hour from showtime and already the Wanker’s so packed there’s barely room enough to breathe let alone walk.

Dev shoots me an unimpressed glare over his shoulder. “A Pitch,” he repeats, rolling his eyes, fake eyelashes fluttering. “Christ.” He elbows a leather-clad butch aside; she Oi!’s but moves aside without further complaint. “You’re not half-pathetic,” Dev says, though he hooks his arm through mine to bring me beside him, his stride never once faltering for the pity.

“So I’ve been told,” I reply, leaning into him. 

Even with four-inch heels, Dev doesn’t quite match my just-shy of six-feet frame. (Okay, two inches shy, but who’s counting?) Still, I find myself comforted by the set of his jaw, the swell of his biceps. The way he twists through dancing customers with the grace of a dancer without ever having to adjust his flimsy crop top.

I know what I look like and maybe that’s comforting, too; the contradiction of it. Me, with my still-bloody knuckles, pulled against the side of a guy who, when bare-foot, wouldn’t crest my shoulders. 

When Dev pushes me through a black velvet curtain, I feel like I take my first clean breath. 

“Not a fan of crowds, hmm?” Dev doesn’t pause to let me answer, just pats my arm gently. “We’ll work on that.”

“Who’s this we?” a voice calls out from a nearby room.

“Penny!” I shout, releasing Dev’s arm and throwing open the closest door and, again, my lungs fill with relief at the sight of her: red hair, pleated skirt, knee-high socks, and those shiny leather shoes that have a girl’s name I can never remember.

Penny looks me over then tuts, pulling me into a hug. “Still haven’t bandaged those knuckles?”

I squeeze her tight, marvelling at the fact that someone I met three days prior can feel so familiar. “It’s not as good when I do it.”

She pulls back, brown eyebrows raising and I know she sees through me, just like she did when we met on the bus and I told her I couldn’t hear her, even though my earphones weren’t plugged in. “You’re not half-pathetic, Simon.”

Dev barks a laugh from his lean against the entrance. “So he’s been told.”

I shrug as Penny releases me from her grasp. Of all the things I’ve got to be ashamed about, this isn’t one of them. Hard to feel shame over facts. 

“You’ve got this, then, Penelope?” Dev asks.

Penny waves him off, grumbling to herself as she digs through a series of cupboards, doors slamming and objects clattering in her wake.

With one wink in my direction, Dev pushes off the doorframe and disappears into the dark backstage.

It’s not quite the handoff I expected on my first night, but I suppose the Wanker lives to subvert my expectations.

“Ah hah,” Penny cries out, hoisting a first aid kit overhead. “Here it is. Take a seat.”

I flop onto the rose-patterned sofa. Penny sits beside, waiting until I turn to face her before taking my hands in her own. She runs a finger over my nails. 

“You painted them?” She smiles.

“You inspired me.”

Her gaze turns a bit watery as she takes in the black, grey, white and purple pattern. “So I have.” After clearing her throat, she dresses my wounds in silence, finishing with a satisfied, “There.” She pats the back of my hands. “Are you ready for your first shift?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

Her eyes narrow. “Simon–”

Two knocks sound at the doorway. A deep voice says, “I’m here to collect our sacrifice.”

“Not a sacrifice,” Penny smooths out her skirt as she stands, “and you know you’re not supposed to be back here, Shepard.”

“When has that ever stopped me?” He grins, adjusting a pair of Lennon glasses with one hand as he waves at me with the other. “Hi! You must be Simon. I’m Shepard.”

“Hey,” I stand and hold my hand out to him, which he takes with three strong, but not overwhelming, shakes, “nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He jerks his head back toward the main room. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Penny grasps my arm just before I step out behind Shepard. “Wait. Simon, about Baz–”

“Another warning?” Geez, what’s the deal with this guy? “I’ve punched bigger tools, Penny.”

Her eyes drop down to my hands before flicking back up to my face. “Okay, but maybe try not punching someone, just this once. Especially since this one’s, you know, your boss.”

“And here I thought you were my boss,” I laugh, running a hand through my curls. At her frown, I add, “Look, I know we just met, and you’re taking a big chance on me–” she opens her mouth to object and I power through “–but you gotta know, I’d never take a swing at a guy unless he’s earned it.”

“You’ve got quite a few calluses on your knuckles that say otherwise.”

I keep my eyes trained on hers, though they want to dip down to where she’s wearing a purple gemstone set in gold on her finger. To where she’s dyed her hair red with no sign of the original brown roots. To where her leather shoes are shined to perfection, no stains on her white socks, no scars on her brown knees.

Penny’s a decent sort; she can’t conceive of a world where a boy might have to repeatedly raise his fists in defence. It’s what I like about her; the world needs more naive optimism.

But like many things Penny wears, that’s not a luxury I’ve ever been able to afford.

I pull at one of her curls, resisting the urge to make a silly boing noise as it bounces upward when released. “I’ll do right by you,” I promise, “you know I want to earn this job.” 

By the slight nod she gives me, I think she hears what I mean; that what I really want to earn is her trust.

“Okay,” she sighs. “I’ll see you after?”

“Yeah, go wrangle your talent.”

That gets me an eyeroll. “Oh god, please don’t ever call them that to their faces. Their egos already take up half the Wanker’s air.”

“Only half?” 

“Go,” she laughs, pushing me out of the room, waving as she crosses into the next one over. Before I can catch a peek inside, she shuts the door, blood red with the name, Tyra Fangs, surrounded by a gold star.

I turn to see Shepard’s down at the curtain, holding it back for me. As I walk toward him, I can hear the roar of the crowd getting louder. I try to remember everyone out there’s like me: a lost soul looking for something bigger. That it’s not the crowded school hallways or care home dorms where being different gets you a target on your back, a black eye. A broken nose.

Shepard frowns. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” I grin and follow him out.

 

Shepard disappears into the crowd shortly after introducing me to the evening shift bartender, a tall ginger named Niall with a they/them button proudly displayed. 

“Nice nails,” they grin, holding the swing door open so I can step behind the bar counter.

“Thanks.” I take a second to look around; it feels more manageable from back here, where there’s a row of solid wood between me and the pulse of a hundred strangers. “Don’t know how long they’ll last, though. I tend to pick at them when I get nervous.”

“Well,” Niall says, walking over to a low cooler and pulling out three Stellas, “I won’t say, don’t be nervous, because that’s never helped a soul before.” They pop open the lids with three swift movements of a bottle opener. “So I’ll do you one better. Cheers,” they say, passing over one of the bottles and clinking the neck once it’s settled in my hand.

“Cheers,” I say back, raising it up before downing half in one gulp.

Niall laughs, “All right! That’s the stuff.” They hand the third bottle over to a woman who’s just sat down at the counter. “This here’s Pippa. She works days.”

“Hullo,” she smiles. “Would that make you Simon?”

I nod, taking another sip before replying. “You come here when you’re not working?”

She and Niall exchange a look.

“What all do you know about the Wanker?” she asks.

Niall raises an eyebrow at her. “The Wanker? No, no. What I need to know is, what do you know about Baz? See, the thing you’ve got to know about Baz–”

“Is that he shouldn’t see you drinking on the job,” a woman with a pompadour interrupts. “Niamh,” she introduces herself, not waiting for my name before turning back to Niall. “Are we cutting off the door?”

Niall makes a cursory scan of the audience. “What’s the count?”

“Ten away from capacity, but there’s a hen party trying to get in.”

Niall, Pippa and Niamh make identical faces of disgust.

“What’s wrong with hen parties?” I ask.

“Straight women,” Niamh says, while Pippa adds, “Cis, straight women.” 

“Penis crowns,” Niall states, a smile tugging at the corners of their lips.

Niamh rolls her eyes. “Except you love penis crowns.”

“I am but a simple person of pleasure.” Niall releases their full grin. “Let them in.”

Niamh turns away and stomps toward the front door while Pippa groans.

“We’re not in the business of discriminating.” Niall boops Pippa’s upturned nose. “Spread the love, my dear.”

“You’re not the one they’ll be glaring at in the bathroom,” she replies.

The hand not holding my beer clenches into a fist. “Would they really?”

“Down boy,” Niall coos, plucking the empty bottle out of my hand and tossing it into the nearest bin. “We’ve got unisex stalls.” Their eyes linger on where my arm’s still flexed with tension. “Penelope did say you were a fighter.” They lick their lips. “Pippa, remind me to do something about our Simon’s outfit.”

“What’s wrong with my outfit?” I frown down at my black shirt and baggy jeans.

“What isn’t wrong with your outfit?” Niall tuts.

From down the counter, someone taps their credit card on the sticky wood. “Niall, baby, I’m dying of thirst here.”

Sighing, Niall turns to the impatient customer. “We start serving liquor at eight on nights when Tyra performs more than one set, Gareth. Three years you’ve been working here; you think you’d know this by now. Flag down Trixie if you’re so thirsty.”

Gareth (I guess) sighs dramatically. “Trixie hates me.”

“Well,” Niall shrugs, “it’s not my fault you hit on her girlfriend.”

“Come on,” he pouts, “it’s nearly eight now.”

“Ah,” Niall waggles their eyebrows, sing-songing his taunt, “but it’s not eight yet!”

Gareth pulls on another layer of pout.

Over by the entrance, the doors open with a loud, high-pitched woo which is quickly echoed by a chorus of similar cheers.

“Well this calls for a rule bend,” Niall mutters under their breath, making the sign of the cross like they didn’t specifically invite this chaos. They dip down under a counter and pours four shots from a bottle of mysterious rainbow liquor. “Bottoms up.”

“And tops,” Gareth winks before downing the liquor.

“And verses,” Pippa says just as I’m swallowing so some of it goes down the wrong pipe.

Niall pats my back. “Poor Simon. I saw you hitching a ride on Dev’s short, short, skirt earlier. Do you need me to call back your emotional support straight?”

“Straight,” Pippa mouths while making air quotes.

“Spicy straight is still straight,” Gareth argues, clacking his empty shot glass on the counter while puppy dog pouting at Niall.

With an impressive eye roll that ought to be studied in a class of passive aggressive facial expressions, Niall grabs the rainbow liquor and pours Gareth another shot. “Last freebie,” they warn with a pointed finger. “Now, Simon. What’s your deal?” Their eyes land once more on my nails. “Shall I pull you an ace badge?” 

I glance over at the tub of various flags and pronouns over by Pippa’s elbow, feeling slightly nauseous at the thought of wearing something so personal pinned to my chest. “Actually, I painted these for Penny.” I pick at where some of the paint’s stuck on my pinky cuticle.

“You don’t have to be queer to work here,” Pippa says, her eyebrows drawing together. “I know Niamh and I were judgey earlier, but we’ve badges for allies, too.”

“Thanks,” I smile weakly. “But it’s not really… I don’t…”

“Oh, shit!” Gareth shouts, leaping off his stool. He pulls out his mobile, silencing the blaring alarm that’s sending several glares our way. “It’s almost time for the show.” He salutes then skips into the crowd.

“Worst sound tech we’ve ever had,” Niall confides in me, passing over a green apron. “Not like that’s saying much. It’s hard to keep talent when they’re pitted against Baz.”

“About Baz–”

“No time,” Niall interrupts me, ringing a bell overhead. Ding! Ding! Ding! “Back bar’s open!”

I tie the apron tight behind my back. “How can I help?” To my surprise, the distant thudding of shoes in our direction hardly makes my pulse rise; there’s something safe about being behind the counter.

“Well,” Niall swipes a wet towel across where our shot glasses have left small rings of sticky residue behind, “Penny said you haven’t done this before.” They raise one hand against the impending crowd and jerk their chin in my direction. “Lift that keg for me, yeah?”

I look around until I see what they’re gesturing toward. When I find it, I lift the keg with one hand and catch it in the other hand with a small grunt. “Where do you want it?”

A swallow works down their throat. “Dear god,” they whisper. 

Pippa releases a low whistle.

“Niall?” I repeat, holding the keg against my chest despite the condensation starting to bleed into my shirt; I guess it’s full. “Where do you want me to put it?”

“Stop talking,” they say, closing their eyes for a second as if pained. “Just,” they wave a hand at my feet, “set it back down.”

I do as they say, starting to feel a little strange at how quiet the bar’s gotten.

Someone clears their throat on the other side of the counter. I look over to see one of the hen party gals holding up a fistful of quid. “How much to make him lift that keg again?”

“The horror of me learning I can relate to a hen party girl,” Pippa mutters.

Niall’s eyes seem stuck on the place where my shirt’s wet with condensation. “He’s not a circus animal.”

I frown down at the keg by my feet. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, sweetie,” Niall turns to the gathered patrons and snaps their fingers, “they did.” They make a shooing gesture. “Off you go. Find your seats before Tyra comes out and asks why no one is shivering with anticipation for her performance.”

A grumble sounds from the crowd but they do as instructed, save a few brave souls who bump up against the counter with their wallets in hand. One customer clears their throat pointedly and Niall narrows their eyes.

“Not now,” they say.

“But you rang the bell!” the customer argues.

“And you objectified my barback, so you can wait thirty more seconds to order,” they instruct the customer then turn to me, pointing at items as they explain: “Glasses, garnishes, straws and napkins. Flirty cocktail skewers and tacky umbrellas. Keep me supplied and you’ll do fine.” I nod along; seems easy enough. “Fruit’s in the fridge, extras are in the storeroom.” Their eyes fall to my shoulders. “I don’t expect you’ll need help lifting the boxes.”

“I can manage.” Up on stage, the curtain’s rustle draws my eyes. For a moment, I see a flash of black hair. A long, tan leg. 

Feedback sounds from the speakers. We all wince; Niall plugs their ears. 

“Ten minutes!” Gareth’s voice crackles. The Wanker lights flicker in warning. “Only ten minutes to showtime so grab your drinks while you can.”

Niall tosses a white towel at me; I catch it and shove it into my back pocket. “That’s our cue,” they wink.

Excitement shivers through me. The crowd builds to their earlier roar. Gareth puts on a pop song that everyone seems to know, starting a haphazard singalong. Niall opens the top four buttons of their shirt and leans over the counter to take orders. I look over at Pippa. She gives me an encouraging smile and it’s just the strength I need to start inventory of the items Niall pointed out.

Easy enough, I remind myself as I pull out a cutting board. It’s not like I haven’t faced taller tasks. After all, slicing limes is hardly on a scale to picking fights. But it’s difficult to convince myself of my own capability under the pressure of wanting to make Penny proud. Hell, under the pressure of wanting to make myself proud.

Gareth, in a moment of clairvoyance, changes the background song to ‘Under Pressure.’

I release a low groan and a hand squeezes my shoulder. “You’re doing great,” Niall whispers. Then, in a louder voice, “Now get that sweet arse down to the storeroom. We need more napkins.”

The queue of customers cheers at the mention of me performing another lift and I can’t help but smile.

 

“Behind!” I warn as I scoot past Niall with a replacement jar of maraschino cherries. Christ this crowd likes drinks with grenadine.

“Thanks, sweetie,” they say when I set down the glass.

“Niall, baby,” Gareth says and the whole bar counter groans.

“Get back to your sound booth!” 

“It’s intermission!” Gareth argues.

“He doesn’t deserve a cocktail.”

“One more whine of speaker feedback and I’m heading home to watch Drag Race,” a customer warns, “I swear it!”

Niall clutches their chest in mock outrage. “Blasphemy. And,” they reach out and snatch back the glass of wine the customer’d been served, “no drinks for people who compare us to that show.”

“I already paid— no, ” the customer looks on in horror as Niall passes over the wine to Gareth, who takes it with a shoulder-shimmy of superiority. “You bitch.”

“Mmm,” Gareth mmm’s, sipping deeply, “tastes like victory.”

Niall rolls their eyes then turns to me. “So,” they snap a towel at my side. “Tell us what you think of the show so far.”

My eyes dart to our customers, who are pulling off the difficult move of looking at me while pretending not to. “It’s nice.”

“Nice.” Niall repeats, then shrugs. “I suppose Deva’s set is a bit avant-garde.”

“I liked her ‘Seagulls (Stop It Now)’ dance.”

Niall nods. “How she manages to make Yoda sexy—”

“I know!” I grin. “And Ken Tuckyderby’s rendition of ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!’” I fake a faint, then right myself with a laugh

“So not just nice,” Niall smirks.

I wring my towel, wincing when a bit of cleaning solution hits my trainer. “I thought nice was a good thing.”

Overhead, the lights flicker. Niall’s movement starts to blur as they work to fill the drink orders still flying in.

“End of intermission,” Pippa informs me. “That means Tyra’s up next.”

I nod. My throat suddenly feels tight and I’m sweating a bit more than I was earlier, despite the fact I’m mostly staying out of Niall’s way until they slow down enough for me to count what needs restocking.

I’m nervous, I realise, which is strange since I’m not the one performing. For all I’ve heard about Baz, no one’s given a descriptive phrase for Tyra other than she’s his drag queen alter ego.

Then, the lights dim. “Aaaand now,” Gareth does seem to have fixed the feedback issue, although the speakers still crackle ominously, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Tyrrrraaaaa Faaaaaaangs!”

A synthetic beat repeats as a tall queen walks onstage. She’s got a long, blonde wig pulled up in a ponytail and a brown fur coat with pink trim wrapped around broad shoulders. The only parts of her body not covered are a pair of white, go-go boots which stop just below the coat hem, mid-thigh, leaving the barest sliver of tan skin revealed underneath.

I gulp.

Bum-bum, the drums sound and Tyra throws open her coat to reveal miles of tan skin, coarse, dark hair, toned muscles and, oh god, a ruby-red bat dangling from her perfect belly button. “When I wake up alone, I can hardly take it,” and Tyra spins so every member of the audience can take in her tiny, tiny, pink bikini, “’Cause I just can’t believe I get to see myself naked.”

I work in earnest not to swallow my own tongue.

“’Cause I,” Tyra’s coat drops to her elbows, “ I’m my type,” she drops her hips low, “I don’t try,” she drags her hands over muscled legs, “and I know just what,” across her still-hairy stomach, “I like,” over the flat triangles covering her nipples, “do you know,” up the glitter coating her neck, “no, you don’t,” into her wig as she slowly stands.

Christ.

She flips her hair over one shoulder and pouts, “So why would I waste my goddamn time?”

As the chorus plays, Tyra stomps into the audience, flicking her hand at row after row of outstretched quid, deeming none of them worthy of her grasp and even without the performance I’d be blushing at this song’s unapologetically sexual declaration of self-love. But it ascends to a higher form of adoration in the hands of Tyra. 

It’s in the way her thighs jiggle with the force of each white-heeled stomp. It’s in the way her abs flex with every squat and stretch. It’s in the way, sweet mother of all that is holy, she lifts her coat up, shimmying her arse to the words, “Wanna see my mini-skirt and hot, pink thong?”

“Is that so wrong?”

“Is that so wrong?”

She plucks two penis-crowned partiers out of their seats and uses them as pseudo stripper poles, but nearly falls out of her spin when something in the distance catches her eye. Something in the bar’s general vicinity… something dangerously close to where I’m standing. I look side-to-side but no one’s behind or beside me.

Oh no.

My finger lifts on its own command and points squarely at my chest, jaw dropping open as I mouth: “Me?”  

Something predatory falls over Tyra’s face. She starts in my direction, leaving the hen partiers in her wake as she takes the time to once again drop and rise with the bridge, her hands dragging up her inner thighs as she mouths along to the chorus, “Between my thighs, I’m drippin’ diamonds,” she drags her thumb down her tongue, “know you wanna taste but why,” she flicks her hair, “why would I bother with touching anybody else?”

Suddenly, she’s right in front of me, leaning her whole body over the counter in a move that shouldn’t be graceful for the lengths she’s going to reach me, to run a finger down my still-wet shirt, to slap one of my hands holding the bar towel. It falls where I’ve unconsciously wrung out all its moisture into a chemical-scented puddle on the floor with a sad, wet pffflt.

“When I’m so hot I’d fuck myself,” Tyra sings along and with a whoosh of perfumed air she spins back into the audience.

 

Deva takes the stage after Tyra, performing along to Chocolate Rain with zero hints of irony. I keep my eyes firmly on the limes and lemons I chop up for Niall, hoping that citrus spritz can erase the lingering woodsy scent Tyra left behind. Instead all it does is mix together in some form of aerial aphrodisiac that has me on edge until Gareth announces Tyra’s back on for the finale.

I shouldn’t look up; I won’t. We’re running low on napkins and cherries and…

“Every day is so wonderful…”

My head lifts and swivels toward the stage.

“Then suddenly,” Tyra runs a white gloved hand down her sternum, “it’s hard to breathe.”

Same.

For this performance her blonde wig streams down past her shoulders in loose, voluminous curls which nearly serve as a cape. Her gloves run up to her elbows and her champagne-coloured dress has a slit up her thigh so daring I can see the garter holding up her nude stocking.

The audience sways along as Tyra remains seated in her stool at centrestage, eyes closed as she mouths the words. When the song builds toward the chorus, voices across the bar start to sing along.

“I am beautiful,” they say, all different pitches, all different strengths, “no matter what they say.” Niall and Pippa join in with, “Words can’t bring me down.”

It’s some kind of magic, the way none of the voices are Tyra’s and yet every word seems to come from her mouth, swirling, captivating. I’m transfixed: watching her near motionless under the spotlight and still holding my heart in her hand.

She lifts it overhead. “So don’t you bring me down today.”

The music picks up and Tyra stands, leaps down from the stage, strutting through the audience, still not gathering any of the cash offered. Her movement shows off the fabric, how it glistens under the lights and flows with her long strides. 

Niall bumps my shoulder with theirs. “She’s something else, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” I reply, though it feels like an understatement. “Does the bar always slow when she performs?”

Niall nods. “No one wants to interrupt a Tyra performance.”

Pippa shushes us, proving Niall’s point. I mouth sorry at her and elbow Niall in the ribs.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” I whisper.

They waggle their eyebrows mischievously and I laugh, drawing another glare from Pippa. And the guy sitting next to her. And the guy sitting next to that guy.

And then Tyra herself who’s back on stage, mouthing another, “ You are beautiful,” in our direction with a tightness to her jaw implying the complete opposite sentiment.

I hunch my shoulders, feeling appropriately chastened. Hopefully the stage lights wash me out enough so she doesn’t know I’m the arsehole interrupting her performance. “I’ll go stock up,” I mutter to Niall, then retreat to the storeroom where hopefully I can’t do any more damage.

I only re-emerge after what sounds like Tyra’s second standing ovation, nearly dropping the boxes of cocktail skewers, olive jars, and tiny umbrellas when I see the grim look on Penny’s face from the other side of the counter.

“Come with me,” she says. “Baz wants to talk with you.”

Well. It was nice while it lasted. 

With a sharp nod, I drop the boxes on the floor and tuck them away. I probably should say something to Niall and Pippa; they’ve been so welcoming. But I want to rip the plaster off first.

Inspect the wound later.

I run a thumb absently over the bandages I’m still wearing as I follow Penny back to the back room. “In here,” she says, gesturing toward the room she’d disappeared into earlier.

“Are you not coming inside?”

She gives me her best, “Oh, Simon,” then opens the door and shoves me through.

I skid like a newborn deer upon entrance. “Hi,” I say, jolting when the door slams shut behind me.

“Mr Snow.” Baz’s voice is deeper than I expected; lyrical, almost. He keeps his back toward me but I can see his face reflected in the vanity mirror. There’s a floral kimono covering his gown (I can see a flash of champagne from underneath patterned silk). His wig has been placed on a dummy head near his left elbow. Without the blonde curls I can see his sharp widow’s peak and thick, black hair, kinked from being pinned up.

He’s still got on his makeup from earlier and it’s easier to admire the artistry under normal lighting: how he’s highlighted his natural features while softening some of the more masculine ones with sharp sweeps of colour and shading.

I’m particularly struck by the way he’s lined his lips to make them more heart-shaped.

“You wanted to see me?” If I don’t move a muscle maybe he won’t mention how my voice cracked in the middle of ‘wanted.’

He smirks. (Bastard.) “Have a seat.”

There’s a velvet bench pushed against the wall opposite his vanity. I sit down with a wince; it’s the most uncomfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever experienced. Which is saying something, considering I spent eleven years of my life sleeping on government-issued mattresses.

For several long minutes I watch as Baz combs out his hair with a thick brush, turning it even shinier than before. Then, he plucks off his eyelashes in a swift movement that makes me shudder in sympathetic pain. He uses five pre-moistened wipes to remove his makeup and there’s still a trace of it lingering. A bit of glitter on his cheekbones. A smudge of liner beneath his eyes.

A faint trace of a heart drawn around his mouth.

“Not uncomfortable with silences?” he asks, one dark eyebrow sharply raised.

I shift in my seat. “Not normally.”

“So it’s just my performance, then?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

His lips press together. With some effort, he curls them into a cruel smile. “Earlier. During my Christina Aguilera.”

Ah. “About that–”

He waves a hand and I bite my tongue.

Literally; I taste blood.

“No matter.” He spins around on his stool, crossing one long leg over the other.

He’s got blue eyes so pale they’re almost colourless. Grey. I focus on his pinprick pupils; anything to force my eyes away from how he’s chosen the slit-side leg to cross over, revealing more and more of his strong, hairy thigh as the fabric drifts upward.

He’s still wearing the garter.

“It seems you’re not always so fickle in your attention.”

I swallow my urge to argue; I’d been complimenting him, the vain fuck. You’d think he’d understand that. “I know how to make eye contact.”

He raises his eyebrow again, shifts his top leg.

Bares a few more millimetres of skin.

Unlike him, I’m not able to raise one eyebrow. I can, however, keep my eyes trained on his. From the way Dev said, “He’s a Pitch,” and how Baz is able to sit on a backless stool with the posture of a steel pole, I can only guess he wasn’t raised with foster fathers who grabbed his chin and shouted, “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

If this is a staring contest, I aim to win.

Finally, Baz’s eyebrow relaxes. He stands with a swish of fabric, another woosh of his perfume. Cologne.

Whatever.

He steps behind a privacy screen and begins undressing in earnest. “If you’re uncomfortable, keep it to yourself.”

I furrow my eyebrows. Does he mean…

“I can’t force tolerance on you,” oh, “but Penny says you’re desperate for the money, and I’ll not throw anyone out on the street if I can help it.”

It’s not the first time someone’s made an unfair assumption about me.

When Baz steps back out, he’s wearing a pair of dark wash jeans and a solid black button-up. (I find myself missing the gown. It felt more… him.)  

He rolls up his sleeves. “So do your work,” he says, “use people’s preferred pronouns and keep your ignorant thoughts to yourself.”

My jaw tightens, but I keep my hands relaxed on my thighs.

“Three months.” He sits back on his stool, carefully rolling on his socks, and then sliding his feet into a pair of worn but well-shined leather shoes. “Three months,” he repeats, “and then we’ll reassess.” He stands and extends his hand.

I stare down at it, then my eyes drift to the pile of polish I’d stress-picked off my nails and dropped onto his carpet in a pile of black, grey, white and purple flakes.

But I’ve long given up the game of proving myself to someone determined to see the worst in me, so I take his hand and squeeze it tight-to-breaking as I give him three, fair shakes.

“Consider it a deal.”

 

Penny breathes a sigh of relief when I come out the other side, giving me a weak smile but a stronger side hug. “Yeah?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I let my head drop to hers for a second.

“Come on,” she says, tugging at my wrist, “let me buy you a drink to celebrate.”

Then the night blurs into a series of scenes: Gareth getting a roasting at his inept hosting, Pippa making reluctant friends with the bride-to-be, Niall teaching me how to make a Wank Off, with Penny laughing as I sputter down the semen-adjacent texture.

“Tastes like pineapple,” I admit, to the resounding cheers of every witness.

Baz doesn’t come out, but no one’s expecting him.

“Not when he’s in a mood,” Dev drawls, rolling his eyes and ordering another round of Wank Offs.

Niall gives me my own set of keys at closing, (Shepard squawks indignantly, like his regular status should earn such a privilege), then nearly cries from relief when I offer to lock up. (Shepard, I note, doesn’t make the same gesture.)

It’s only once I’m alone that I dig inside the bucket of badges Niall pointed out earlier, not really expecting what I find inside: a small, rainbow button with a white question mark set at its centre.

I pocket the badge for later and take one last look around.

Without the bright lights and a pulsing crowd, it feels less intimidating, but also just… less. Less vibrant, less enticing. Less like home and more like a building. A beautiful building, with dark wood accents and red velvet textures and polished copper highlights. But just a building nonetheless.

I know better than anyone that a house without love is hardly a home at all, but it’s never felt more poignant than standing here, inside the Wanker, as it’s empty and slowly chilling from the advancing night.

Like earlier I find myself short of breath.

Then I notice a sliver of light peeking out from behind the back curtain, down the hallway lined with dressing rooms.

Something about that light pierces my heart. Makes me feel just a little bit warmer.

Maybe there’s something inside the bank even when it’s empty. Something that persists because of, or despite, the waning crowds.

Something that might, someday, feel just like home.

Notes:

A full keg is about 160 lbs or 70 kgs, fyi.

Credit to Jess for hearing this chapter and immediately clocking Simon as demisexual, even though that was accidental, I think it really fits this fic and I’m weaving it into his narrative.

I regret that this fic may take some time in getting updated, as I’m trying to work up a backlog before posting. Thanks to everyone who read this chapter and I hope to have more for you soon.

Chapter 2: The Rise and Fall

Chapter by facewithoutheart

Notes:

*taps mic* is this thing still on?

I’m back, and really hoping to finish this fic before COBB 2025 but it’s been slow moving. Chapters through 4 are written and I’m working on 5… the action for this chapter and the next one are pretty self-contained, but posting will still be sporadic until I get 5-8 finished because I imagine those events will bleed into one another more and I hate leaving cliffhangers. I just couldn’t sit on this chapter any longer since it features the song that inspired this fic.

Big thanks to Em for continuing to stick with me on this fic, and Jenny for always whispering in my ear that this fic exists.

And of course a big thanks and hug to my artist Macey for bringing Tyra to life, as well as chibi Simon who lives in the front pocket of my heart.

Chapter title from Primadonna by Marina and the Diamonds

Living life like I'm in a play
In the limelight, I want to stay
I know I've got a big ego
I really don't know why it's such a big deal, though

 

“But it’s brunch-time,” I pout, staring down at the takeout menu Pippa’s shoved in my hands.

“Exactly… The show starts between breakfast and lunch, and you can eat during. See? We have all these menus for local restaurants.” She tilts her head, then shakes it. “Sorry; I’m not sure which part’s confusing?”

“The part where we don’t actually serve any food.” My stomach grumbles on cue.

Pippa’s eyes flick back to the paper I’m holding. “Okay,” she takes a deep breath, “but you can order food.”

I collapse against the bar counter, groaning into my elbow. “It’s not the same and you know it.” 

It’s probably not a mark in my favour that I’ve had this argument with Penny, and Niall.

And Shepard. And Dev.

Maybe Baz was right; maybe I’m not cut out to work Drag Brunch.

Except Keris is sick and Trixie’s taking care of her. Which leaves me the one employee not performing who’s available to wait tables. Penny doesn’t do table service, and neither does Niamh, and Pippa’s working the bar, and Niall’s gotta sleep sometime, and heaven forbid we assign Gareth another task, and…

I’m spiralling. I know I’m spiralling but I can’t stop.

I’m so hungry.

Baz slaps ten quid down on the counter in front of me, startling me out of my arm’s cradle. “Go buy yourself something from Pret before your shift.” For a second, I think maybe we’ve overcome our month-long animosity, until he adds: “I can hear your fucking stomach from backstage, and if unwanted noise from your direction upsets another one of my performances, you’re fired.”

“But—”

He holds up three fingers to symbolise my months of probation, then curls down two until only one remains. “I’m sure that’s maths even you can manage.” Then he spins away and stomps backstage.

It doesn’t have quite the same effect when he’s in his civies.

“Fuck me,” Niamh laughs, “I thought Ags was exaggerating.”

“Nope,” I reply, trying to deep-breath my way out of fight mode, “it’s the most fundamental of Wanker truths: Baz hates me.”

She gives me a slow scan, more scientific than appraising. “But you’re exactly his type.”

I scoff. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay.” Niamh shrugs. “So what did you do to piss him off?”

Somehow it doesn’t feel right explaining. I’m sure we both come off wrong with it, but I don’t like speaking for other people. “Ask him.”

“Not really that interested, actually.” She pushes off where she’s been leaning against the counter. “Do you use those or are they purely for show?”

I glance at where her gaze falls. “My arms?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Your muscles,” Pippa explains, sending a glare to Niamh. “Be nice to him. He’s a sugary-sweet cinnamon roll, too pure for this world.”

“With an underdeveloped sense of self esteem,” Penny adds.

“But oh boy are those muscles fully developed,” Shep says. “You should have seen him lift a keg at his barback debut.”

I frown. “Were you even there?”

Shep waggles his fingers and tries to make a mysterious face. It comes out earnest, like all his faces. “I’m always there. Woooooo…” he fades out his own sound effect as he slowly backs away.

“A complete embarrassment, that one,” Penny says, “I don’t know why we let him in.” 

Though I can’t help noticing she watches him walk away longer than is strictly necessary.

I turn back to the bar and startle when I realise Niamh’s still there. “Fuck me,” I gasp, clutching my chest.

“No thanks,” she grimaces. “About your muscles. Can I call on you if things get hairy?”

“At the brunch without brunch?”

“It’s got bottomless mimosas!” Pippa argues.

“Yes, but does it have topless mimosas?” I grin.

“No,” Niamh, “Nope,” Pippa, “Nuh uh,” Penny and “Think again,” Agatha chime in unison.

Shit, when did Agatha get here?

“That’s cultural appropriation.” Pippa grabs the paper menu from my grip and swats me over the head with it. “You can be sub or dom. Or switch,” she winks, “but leave the bottoms and tops to us queers.”

“Noted,” I nod solemnly. Inside my pocket, the badge I’ve yet to wear feels like it’s burning a hole through the fabric. “Is there a manual I can study?”

Pippa’s bottom (lower?) lip wobbles. “Pure, innocent cinnamon roll.”

“Yes,” Niamh’s face could be a carving, it’s so stoic, “he’s the most crime-free of all pastries. Now about your muscles—”

“Yeah,” I interrupt, “they’re yours if you need them. Though I’m not sure why you’d want doubles.” I let my eyes linger on her own, not insubstantial, biceps. (I’m not dumb enough to touch; I may have established friendly relations with all the Wanker employees, save Baz, but no one besides Agatha touches Niamh.) (At least, no one who wants to keep their face intact.)

“I’m a lesbian,” she reminds me, for the seventh time.

(See, Baz? I can do maths.)

“Thank you for trusting me with that,” I say, and something warm inside my stomach grows when everyone, Niamh included, laughs at my joke.

“And can someone fucking call Gareth?” Baz shouts from backstage, interrupting our laughter. “He’s late. Again!”

Can a curtain actually slam closed? I wonder, as the warm feeling from earlier freezes into ice.

Though I don’t speak my question aloud, Baz endeavours to answer it anyway with a pissy thwap of velvet.

 

One coronation chicken and vinegar crisps later, I flit amongst the tables, gathering orders to take Pippa.

“Here,” she says, wiping sweat off her brow as she hands over another pitcher of mimosas.

“Is Tyra up next?” So far, it’s been a Ken Tuckyderby show. With his cowboy shtick he doesn’t need much time for costume changes. He simply swaps out the hat for a wig, flips over the reversible vest, grabs a whip or a lasso or, on one memorable occasion, an inflatable horse named Freckles, and voila: new persona.

Pippa nods. “Tyra normally only performs one show at drag brunch. Says the audience is too drunk to appreciate her artistry for longer.”

“Ken’s artistry, on the other hand…”

Pippa leans over and pats the hand closest to her. “Petty’s not a good look for you, dear.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I pull my hand back and rub my neck, “you’re right. While I’m being judgy, though, is there a reason Niamh’s not at the door?”

“Because she’s not working today,” Pippa says, nodding at a customer trying to catch her attention. “Do you mind if I—”

“Go,” I wave her off. I pick up the pitcher and walk back toward table five, shaking my head. Fucking Niamh; that’d been a clearer answer than “I’m a lesbian” as to why she was asking about my muscles.

Table five’s a group of men who look more trouble than queer. I don’t like to judge on appearance but our pitchers are reasonably priced on Saturdays and not one of them took a badge upon entry. Not that it’s required, of course; I’m proof of that. But the sorts of people who frequent the Wanker really like them. So. It’s not wrong, just… abnormal, a bit.

They’re on their third round.

(I’m keeping an eye on them.)

I set down the pitcher. “Have I given you a takeout menu yet? In case you need food to soak up the booze.”

Cosplay Dean Winchester waves me off. “I’m on a liquid diet.”

His two mates (Larry and Curly to his Moe) laugh emphatically.

“Hah, hah. But really if you get hungry, let me know. There’s also a Pret ’round the corner. Carl’s Jr, Maccy D’s…” I should probably be more worried about the fact I’ve memorised all the nearby food places.

“We’re fine,” Curly (shaved head) says. “Now, run along.”

Something in his tone makes me grit my teeth but it’s fine. I’m fine. There are other tables.

Next over at six, I smile at a group of teens who barely made the age cutoff. They’re only on pitcher two, and keep refilling on water but I’m happy to keep them hydrated. 

“How are you liking the show?” I ask.

A purple-haired girl bounces with excitement. “It’s amazing. Is Miss Fangs up soon?”

Miss Fangs. Christ, that’s cute. “Yeah, she’s up next.”

There’s a snort from table five: Curly. Why am I not surprised?

I ignore him. “Have you ordered any food?” (I’m one-track apparently, but sue me if I like to make sure my customers are fed.)

Bangs with glasses shakes their head. (See? Badges.) “We ate earlier. On a uni budget, you know.”

I nod, though I don’t really. “Well, save your cash for after the show. Tyra doesn’t take tips during her performance.”

All six kids nod solemnly; my heart grows three sizes when I realise one of them has opened up their mobile to set a reminder. “Tip Miss Fangs,” it says, with a timer for twenty minutes.

God, I love the next generation.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I say, spinning around to bite my own finger to stop from squealing at how cute they are.

I see Pippa hold up her ten minute warning (Gareth’s too hungover to announce it himself, apparently). I’m about to head in her direction when I hear a sharp, “Oi! You.”

I may not wear a badge but I do wear a name tag. I take a deep breath before turning back to table five.

Shaved-head Curly holds up the (how could it possibly be already) empty pitcher. “Another?” There’s a challenging look in his eyes, like he knows he’s pushing my limits. But they’re big men, and adults aside, and none of them seem to be slurring.

I give him a sharp nod and head to the counter.

 

Nine minutes later, I duck behind the sound booth. 

Gareth laughs at me. “Hiding from someone?” 

I grumble my discontent, but then he hands over the flask he keeps in his pocket and all is forgiven.

“Are you more worried that she will bite you or that she won’t?”

“I’m just trying to stay out of trouble,” I argue, taking a sip of his cheap whisky. I wrinkle my nose and hand it back to Gareth.

He shrugs and takes his own swig before stowing it away. “You won’t change anything from back here, love. It’s in the audience where Tyra wants you.”

“I doubt that.” I peep my nose above the counter. “Did you do the cue?”

Gareth curses and flickers the lights.

I snicker. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the cheapest. Besides, it’s not like this is my day job.”

“What is your day job?”

But then he’s shushing me and calling into the speaker, “Tyyyyrrraaaa Faaaangs!”

Tyra struts onto stage while I slowly peek out from the booth, hooking my nose and fingertips over the wood. 

Today, she’s wearing a satin and pink number, sweetheart neckline, matching pink gloves and swarovski crystals. She stands with one arm stretched overhead, fingers fanned out, as she waits for Gareth to meet her cue. Which he does. 

Three seconds and two teeth clenches later.

“Primadonna girl,” the singer croons while Tyra mouths along, eyes closed, slowly bringing her hand down to clench a fist at her sternum, “all I ever wanted was the world.” Gloved fingers drag up her neck and over her cheeks as she drops her head back and if I hold my breath I can almost hear the way fabric rasps over Tyra’s ever present stubble. 

“I can’t help that I need it all,” her eyes fly open, gaze locking immediately on the back wall, right where I’m hiding.

(Fuck how she always finds me.)

She extends her arm, out instead of up, crystals catching on the spotlight, twinkling as she points toward Gareth. “The primadonna life, the rise,” she snaps her finger, a rehearsed cue I haven’t memorised, “and fall.”

She flicks her hair, “You say that I’m kind of difficult,” she pouts, “but it’s always someone else’s fault,” she circles a pinky in the air, “got you wrapped around my finger,” she smirks, “babe,” Gareth shoves me arse-first out of the sound booth, “you can count on me to misbehave.”

Shit.

The music picks up for the song’s verse, Tyra’s heels stomping in my direction, the beat growing louder as she advances.

I fumble onto my knees for her arrival.

“Would you do anything for me?” I tilt my head back to see Tyra backlit by the overheads. She cards her satin-covered fingers through my curls, “Buy a big diamond ring for me.” 

I can see the moisture of her lipstick glisten right before she leans in, whispering the next lyrics in my ear, “Would you get down on your knees for me?” I can actually hear her lick her lips. “Pop that pretty question,” her grip tightens, “ right now baby.”

And as soon as she’s pulling my hair, she’s pushing me back on my arse. She’s gone, stomping across the room, away from me and toward some other victim. 

I’m left jaw open, on the floor, knees spread, arse aching. Caught in her orbit and falling into her gravity.

I blink and Tyra’s back on stage, flexing her biceps, pink lips kissing them while she confesses, “I know I’ve got a big ego,” she winks and it lands like a punch to my solar plexus, “I really don’t know why it’s such a big deal, though.”

I manage to peel myself off the floor and crawl back to the safety of Gareth’s booth. He’s laughing at my pain, the bastard, while Tyra feigns ennui to the tune of, “chore, chore, chore.”

With a sigh, I slump over the edge of his booth and rest my chin in my hands. (“I want more, more, more.”)

There’s a light in Tyra’s eyes and I know it’s not the twinkle of a spotlight; Gareth can’t even operate ours. Niamh and I have to muscle it into place before her performances, marking gaffer’s tape X’s where she ought to stand for best illumination.

No, it’s Tyra. It’s Baz because even under her persona, even in stage make-up, glitz and glitter, I can never forget who truly wears the gown.

Who holds the audience at the centre of her… his satin-palmed hand.

Well, most of the audience.

I’ve been so entranced by her performance that I haven’t noticed the caveman grunts of table five trying to catch my attention, one empty pitcher and two rude fingers in the air.

With an eye roll I slink over to the bar counter, trying to duck behind tables to avoid Tyra’s glare. (I feel it anyway; the cruel irony of her ignoring an entire table of men shouting for my attention but unable to resist tracking my failed attempt at stealth.)

I wait until Tyra’s finished performing to head back to my table, two full pitchers in hand.

“Took you long enough,” Curly grunts, practically yanking them out of my hands.

“You’re welcome.”

For a second I’m worried about them taking offence but none of them seem to notice. Larry’s too busy tugging at my black t-shirt, stretching the limits of its slim fit.

“Did you need something?”

Larry whines, “Don’t you have anything stronger? Fucking shots or something without bubbles.”

“Sorry,” (I’m not), “we don’t serve liquor before eight.” 

Moe grumbles, “What kind of place sets a time limit on booze?”

“The shite kind,” Curly says, and the three of them cackle like mangy hyenas.

I’m content to roll my eyes and walk away; I’ve already written off a tip and if I pace out their drinks a little longer hopefully they’ll self-select home.

Then table six leans in and the chick with purple hair says, “The Wanker’s not shite.”

Curly finishes off his mimosa with a belch. (Served in a pint glass because, “Flutes are too prissy.”) “I didn’t ask for your lip, boy.”

That absolute fucker. I halt my retreat, stepping between the two tables so my body now covers the very clear she/her pin. “In this establishment,” I grit, “we use people’s preferred pronouns and we keep our ignorant thoughts to ourselves.” Or else, I imply by crossing my arms over my chest.

(I’ve been told it makes my biceps more intimidating.)

“Have you embroidered that on a pillow?” Curly scoffs, cracking his knuckles.

If he thinks that’s meant to be threatening…

I chuckle, “I think it’s time you boys moved along.”

Curly spits on the ground. (Pippa just mopped.) “Why don’t you make me,” he smirks, “bitch.”

Several nearby chairs screech as their occupants push back from their table. (Fucking table six; curse the next generation.) A few clatter to the floor.

“I think you ought to listen to Simon,” the young voice breaks in the middle of my name, “and l-leave.”

Curly stands, walking over to impose his several inches of height over me. 

I tip up my chin to redirect my glare, the only muscle I move.

“Yeah,” another kid chimes in, “you should pay your tab and go home.”

The two other stooges join Curly, lining up behind him like bowling pins angling for a gutter.

I don’t have time to throw an apologetic look in table six’s direction, despite knowing I really don’t want them to see this. I’ve promised so many people to stay out of fights. To use my words.

But I’ve enough experience to notice the second rage washes over Curly’s dull, bloodshot eyes. The subtle flinch of his biceps as his hands clench into fists. 

There’s no time for diplomacy.

I meet Curly’s chin with my own fist before he’s got an opening to swing, relishing the loud thump as bone strikes bone through thin layers of skin.

He falls backwards as his friends scatter to avoid having to catch him.

“Oh… shiiiiit.” I hear the words as if in slow motion; I don’t know who spoke them.

I’m not thinking.

I’m too busy kicking out, catching Curly’s legs at the ankle. Knocking him to the ground faster than his friends’ abandonment.

He lands with a sickening crack.

“Holy fuck,” someone says. Larry or Moe…

It’s unclear, as one of them clocks the side of my head and sends my ears ringing. Or maybe that’s an alarm?

I don’t hear anything after that.

The fight’s a blur of fists and shouts, landed punches and near misses. I struggle to hold my own, as I spend most of the battle keeping my body between the stooges and the kids behind me.

“Go,” I call over my shoulder, over and over. I can’t hear how they respond.

But they just won’t leave me. Even once I’ve flattened Moe with a well-timed gut kick. Even when it becomes clear Larry’s four stone advantage can’t keep him upright against the worst of my assault.

Though, in the end, I never actually see Larry go down. Strong arms grab my biceps tight before I can finish him off and I find myself fighting the stranger who’s gripped me, using grunts instead of fists. Failed head butts and sharp, jerky movements, until two satin palms press against my flushed cheeks. Shock me into stillness.

“Simon, stop,” Tyra– Baz says. It’s the first words that have cut into the dull roar. “Simon. Please.” He’s not wearing his wig but his makeup’s still on. “You’re safe, love. You’re safe.”

Everything fades to black, though I keep the colour of his eyes in my mind even after I’ve drifted off.

Grey, I remember. Like the colour of a storm.

Like the colour of morning.

 

Sensations buzz past me. Small slices of living I can’t yet grasp. The sound of music from a distant room. The scent of pine, the taste of metal. A light pressure on my shoulder; a hand, maybe. Then, cool flannel delicately dabs at my ear, wipes down the side of my neck. 

Who… 

“Snow?” a deep voice cuts into my sleep.

Oh. I flinch.

“Does that hurt?”

I hum; it doesn’t, not really. Or, I’ve had worse. But that’s not the reason every muscle in my body tenses.

The flannel pulls away, the hand too.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my body’s instincts to run, hide.

“I can get someone else to–”

“No,” I force a smile. I open my eyes and squint against the overhead light.

I’ve never seen this look on Baz’s face before.

Concern.

I shut my eyes again, suddenly overwhelmed. “No, stay. It’s not you, it’s…” Except, that’s not entirely true. It is him, a bit.

“You sure you don’t want me to get Penny, or Niall? Pippa might, or Gareth…” He huffs a little laugh. “Christ,” he whispers.

The cut in my lip stings when I smile. “Baz…”

“Don’t,” he says, his hand falling on my shoulder again as he dabs my lip with the flannel. “I just stopped this bleed,” he tuts, “and here you are, undoing all my hard work.”

“Sorry.” 

“That’s not…” He sighs; I feel his puff of breath on my cheek. The flannel moves to my left eyebrow. Dabs and holds. “Is it okay that I’m touching you like this?”

I nod; my body’s starting to relax, now that I know he’s not intending to yell at me. (Or, at least, not yet.) “S’nice.”

He chuckles. “Oh just nice, hmm?”

Why does everyone keep acting like nice doesn’t matter? A battle for another time, I suppose.

I’m fairly worn out from the last one.

My eyelids flutter as Baz wipes at my forehead, my cheek, my chin. “I think that’s the last of the blood on your face, at least. Give me your hands?”

I finally brave another look at him.

Then instantly clench my eyes shut. “Ow.”

“Shit,” he curses, the ‘t’ crisp in his posh accent. “Hold on, love. Let me dim the lights.”

I breathe a sigh of relief when the shadows behind my eyelids darken.

“Can you sit up?”

I nod, wincing as I swing my legs over the side of the cushion, my eyes opening to note I’ve been laid out on the floral sofa, not his velvet.

Baz must note my realisation. “Much cosier than the one in my dressing room,” he admits.

“Didn’t want to get it dirty?”

“No! No, it’s…” A sheepish look grows on his face.

No, not sheepish. Guilty.

“You do that on purpose, then? Force people to sit on the rock-hard sofa so they don’t get too comfortable?” I chuckle; my ribs hurt with it. I hiss, clasping a hand over the spot that aches.

Baz moves in a blur, pushing away my hand to lift up my shirt. “Oh, Simon.”

But there’s no admonishment that follows his words. Just a brief swish of his body moving away, then back to kneel between my legs. The bite of a cold compress held against my bruised body, the warmth of his other hand gripping my waist as a counter pressure.

It’s been a while since someone’s been this close to me for so long. I take the opportunity to lean in, enjoy his cologne. Examine him from a distance that, for once, doesn’t feel unnavigable. 

His hair’s still slicked back from his wig save for a few strands which have come loose, framing his face. His once-perfect eye makeup’s been smudged, first by the sweat of performing then by stopping a fight. He’s not fully Tyra under the spotlight, not yet Baz slamming a curtain in my face. He looks softer, young. I’m reminded in an instant that he is young; my age, maybe a few months older.

“How did you know?” I ask.

“Hmm?” He blinks up at me. One of his false lashes has lifted off his eyeline and nearly touches his eyebrow.

“That I… that…”

“Ah,” he smiles. “I’m sorry to say you’re not the first person I’ve seen in an altered mental state. I do own a bar, you know.”

“Yeah, but you…” He wasn’t afraid of me.

Baz lifts the compress, frowning at where my skin’s starting to bruise. “Well, I’m no doctor but I don’t think anything’s broken. I can have Gareth confirm, if you’d like.”

“Gareth?”

“Didn’t you know? He’s a vet. I know his patients normally have more fur than you do, but Penny mentioned you’re not a fan of hospitals.” 

I let that barrage of the unexpected sink in while Baz leaves my side once again to bustle around the room, tidying up used supplies and grabbing new ones.

He rolls a stool between my legs and sits, his palms facing upward. “Hands.”

I hold mine out to him and he rubs another wet flannel across blood and calluses, even scrubbing under my nails a bit where I’ve always got dirt, though you can’t really see it through the polish.

Baz runs his thumb over one of the purple nails and pauses. “Are your… have you painted your nails the colours of the non-binary flag?”

I nod. “For Niall.”

Baz shakes his head, huffing a laugh. He reaches to one side and grabs two small compresses and sets them atop each of my knuckles, hooking them in place with his thumbs.

If anyone walked in, they’d think we were just sitting here, holding hands.

“My father,” he says, out of nowhere. “He stopped a mugging once. Heard a woman cry out and ran into the alley without pause. Left me standing in the street, wondering where he’d gone.”

“Weren’t you scared?”

“He was always leaving me those days.” Baz raises and lowers a shoulder in one movement. “Eventually I went looking for him. Found him punching a man nearly senseless. The mugger, I supposed. The woman who’d been robbed was long gone. There was just the man, my father and his fists.

“Afterward people told me my father was a hero. But they weren’t there. They didn’t see his face. I couldn’t speak the next day with how loud I had to scream for him to come back to me. To stop. To…”

“I’m sorry,” I say, when it becomes clear Baz isn’t going to finish his sentence.

My voice shatters the glaze in Baz’s eyes.

He squeezes my fingers. “Don’t be; it wasn’t the same. You didn’t look like my father at all. You looked… Let’s just say I was scared for you, not of you.” He dips his chin a fraction, lowers his voice. “I know I haven’t been… I’ve made assumptions. About you.” He takes a beat here, and anyone else might fill it with an apology or an explanation.

He doesn’t. 

“We didn’t talk, my father and I, about all the ways my mother’s death changed us. If there’s one regret I have about my childhood, it’s that. Keeping silent, when I ought to have…” He lifts his head, his eyes finding mine with an intensity that sends a shudder through my bones. “You can come to me, Snow. About anything.”

“You called me Simon earlier.”

“Did I?” He winks.

I must inhale too fast or something because air catches in my lungs and tugs at my bruised ribs, a sharp pain I can’t help but relish.

“Maybe you could try using my name,” I say, “considering you have thought some very mean things about me.”

“Does speaking your name grant absolution?”

“It could. If you need it.”

He smiles down at my hands. “Simon.” He gives them one more squeeze and stands. “I’ve got to fix my makeup for the finale, but I’ll send in Gareth to give you a once over. Make sure you’re okay.”

“Check my wings? Fluff my tail?”

“Something like that.”

He pauses at the exit, raps his fist on the frame once before looking back at me. “I’m glad you’ve found us. Simon.”

I sit up straighter. “Even though I started a brawl during brunch?”

“You didn’t start it.” His hand slowly slides down the frame. He presses his cheek against the wood. “Sure did finish it, though.”

“With your help.”

“And Niamh’s.”

“Is she the one who held me back?”

Baz hums, pushing off the wall. “Agatha, actually. Niamh’s the one who tossed out the stooges. You’ve made quite an impression on my crew here.”

“Oh,” I rub the back of my neck, wincing when it tugs at my bruises. “Well.”

Baz sighs, “And modest, too. Consider your probation over, by the way. You’re one of us now.”

“I’m officially a wanker?”

“Oh, Simon, don’t you know?” He smiles, revealing the top row of his teeth. They’re sharper than I’d realised; his canines narrow to points which bite into his bottom lip. Like fangs. “There’s only one Wanker.”

 

It’s only after he’s gone that I notice one of his gloves draped over a nearby counter. I trail a finger along the fabric, remembering how the silk felt against my face. Though I’m alone in the room, I look from left to right before bunching it up and shoving it into my front pocket, right next to my unworn badge.

 

There’s an unearthly quiet to the Wanker when I slip out of backstage, shortly after Gareth’s deemed me healthy enough to finish my shift. (“But try not to lick your scabs while they’re healing or I’ll have to prescribe you a cone,” he joked.)

I catch the second half of Baz’s finale. He’s bypassed the stage to walk around what remains of the crowd and while his make-up is still as sharp as ever, he’s not wearing his wig or jewellery. (Or gloves.) Instead, his black hair falls over his shoulders, glossy under the house lights, and The Cranberries’ “Linger” plays while he endeavours to press a bare hand to the shoulder of every patron. 

If my name absolves, then Baz’s movement blesses. He washes a calm over the crowd, many of whom still wear marks of the earlier conflict. I notice table six is still there and I nod to them as I make my way over to the bar counter.

“Welcome back.” Pippa wraps an arm around me in a half-hug. I lean into it, even if she does accidentally squeeze my ribs a bit too hard.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

One corner of Baz’s mouth twitches and I know he’s heard me; the fucker has supernatural hearing. But he doesn’t turn to glare at me, choosing to keep walking, keep touching, keep soothing the open wound of hate that slipped through his doors. More than a few customers wipe their eyes after Baz passes. Not even Niamh’s immune, standing guard by the door with Agatha at her side.

We watch, silent, as Baz works his magic, and there’s a collective swallow when Baz finally reaches table six, draping an arm over one of the kids, holding his hand out to another, and soon they’re piled into a hug, shoulders shaking. Baz catches my eye from across the room and suddenly I’m moving, falling against them and the rest of the crowd follows until we’re one mass of people, one embrace.

We don’t hear the front door crack open but we flinch under the beam of sunlight. Christ, is it really still mid-day?

Niall stands frozen in the entry, early for shift change. “What the fuck happened today?”

I look at Baz and we burst out laughing. I grip my side and it hurts, it doesn’t hurt at all.

Chapter 3: If You Ever Get Lonely

Chapter by facewithoutheart

Notes:

Chapter title and intro lyrics from One of Your Girls by Troye Sivan; shout out to Jenny and Raen in addition to my other betas, for keeping me in this fic this long <3

Say what you want, and I'll keep it a secret
You get the key to my heart, and I need it
Give me a call if you ever get desperate
I'll be like one of your girls

I work to unlock the Wanker’s front door with frozen fingers. “Come on, come on.” It may be March but winter’s still got its hooks into London and my bones ache with damp cold.

“F-finally,” I shiver when I hear the metal click open.

Inside isn’t much better than out in terms of temperature. Rubbing my arms to warm them, I head to the thermostat, flipping on the heat and sighing in relief when a burst of warm air blows across my face. I hold my hands up to the vent until they thaw enough to strip off my gloves, tossing the sodden polyester onto a nearby table.

No one’s asked me to clean up the Wanker on a Tuesday when it’s normally closed, but ever since coming off probation I can’t help these small gestures. Penny says I’m trying to ease my guilt for fighting. Shepard says I’m trying to earn my place, and Baz?

Baz … 

My cock twitches at the thought of him. I force down the memory of this morning after dreams of silk and sweat and the scent of citrus which woke me, aching. It took less than a minute to bring myself off in bed and if I used Baz’s silk glove to reach my swift conclusion then, well … 

All I’m saying is there may be more than one reason I’m now mopping up the Wanker.

I connect my mobile to the sound system, tweaking the settings so there’s no static. I’ve begged Gareth to let me show him how it’s supposed to be done but he keeps waving me off. “Honey, if they learn I’m competent they’ll give me more shifts.” 

I scroll through playlists until I find one with my latest fixations. Shuffle selects “Andrew in Drag.” I smile and get to work.

I’ve always liked cleaning; I couldn’t get into fights if I weren’t around the other boys and they never offered to scrub floors or dust bookshelves like I would. They didn’t understand that making the space around you shine does something for the soul. It makes a place yours, even when it’s not.

A bit of control, maybe. Or a claiming.

It’s well past noon when I start sweating. I’ve stripped down to my shirt, using one sleeve to wipe my forehead as I lean against a wall and wonder what I should tackle next. 

One of Dev’s drag songs comes on the playlist and I’m singing along before I know it. “Everybody in the world has everything figured out, except for you,” I sing, picking up a dry mop and shuffling down the hallway with it. I move around dirt while shimmying my shoulders, bumping my hips into air for lack of a better partner.

The mop lets me dip her, and I’m screaming into her handle: “Getting the plug in the God dang–!”

Creeeaaak.

I pick my head up so fast my vision spins; stars bursting along the periphery. In my haste I drop poor Moppette to the floor with a clatter. I look side-to-side but there’s no one, nothing that could have made that sound. 

I lean against the nearest wall, pressing my palm to my chest to ease the rapid beating of my heart. Thumpthump-thumpthump. Thump-thump. Thump. It’s only when I’ve calmed down that I catch a sliver of light I couldn’t see before.

Each of my steps echoes in the thin corridor. I push open the door I’ve found; the hinges screaming louder than before. CREEEAAAK.

“Are you fucking … ” I shake my head, shocked still in the doorway. I look at gleaming stainless steel. High-end appliances.

A fucking walk-in freezer.

“Brunch without brunch my arse,” I scoff, stepping inside the full-scale industrial kitchen, hidden for who knows how long within the Wanker. 

Not for much longer. I rub my hands together. Shouldn’t take me longer than two days. Maybe one, if I push it.

 

“What in the world is–Simon?” Agatha pops her head into the kitchen, where I’m cooking.

Illicitly.

“Oh, uh. Hey.” My face flushes at being caught; there’s flour across one cheek and the whole room smells of onions. It’s a wonder no one else has dropped by to investigate, given we opened four hours prior.

“Has Baz approved this?” 

And, look. I know she’s right to ask. I know I should have gotten permission before cooking and while I don’t know Agatha very well, she doesn’t strike me as the sort to call others out unnecessarily. Still I grind my teeth. “I’ll clean up after myself. Promise.”

“Simon … ”

“I wanted to cook a meal for shift change; is that really a crime?”

She opens her mouth but I beat her to the next sentence: “The kitchen was just sitting here. Wasting. Gathering dust and so what if I cleaned it? Stocked it. Put it to use. Besides, Baz isn’t the only person who works here. Penny’s also a manager and I’m off probation and I shouldn’t have to justify myself.” 

My hands are shaking; I push them into dough to hide it, then continue in a low voice: “Niall’s invented his own off-menu cocktails and Dev performs to internet songs and I’ve caught Keris making out with Trixie in the bathroom during Dev’s Bingo so many times and–”

“Simon, breathe.”

I suck in a deep breath, fresh air rasping through nearly deflated lungs. “Shit.” I frown down at the dough, now too overworked for use.

I toss it in the nearest bin.

“Better?” Agatha walks over, her hand hovering behind me as if to give a reassuring back pat. Her nose wrinkles at the idea of giving comfort. It’s rather cute, if you’re into that sort of thing.

I step out of her reach. “Yeah, yeah. I’m alright. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She gives her own sigh of relief and drops her arm. “I was only coming back to see what smelled good before I accidentally triggered,” she waves her hand in a circle around my chest, “whatever that was.” She smiles so I know she’s teasing. “You’re right, though; you’re off probation. In any case, I’m no narc.”

“Oh, thank—”

“For a price.” Agatha walks over to the stove, peering into the various pans and bowls. “Are these … did you make tortillas from scratch?”

“As if I’d use store-bought. Those are always full of preservatives. And that’s assuming they’re not just whole grain wraps marketed as flour.” Shudder.

Agatha lifts one of the cooling tortillas and tears off a piece, delicately placing it on her tongue. Her eyes widen and catch mine. “Oh.” She covers her mouth. “Oh my god.” Then she shoves the rest of it in her mouth, her cheeks bulging as she chews and it’s the most graceless thing I’ve ever seen her do.

I smirk. “I know, right?”

She nods and moves to grab another; I slap away her hand. “Those are for everyone.”

“But … ” She drops her eyes to the plate.

“One more, and only if you promise to help me bring out the food.”

“Deal,” she says, rolling up another tortilla instead of shaking my hand.

When we walk out into the main room, there’s a small crowd gathered: a few regulars plus overlapping employees for shift change. Even though Pippa should be done for the day, she sees Agatha and me struggling to set out dishes and quickly takes over the presentation, turning our haphazard offering into an organised buffet line. I hover near the middle, offering suggestions and squeezing limes over fried cod. 

Niamh gives me an approving nod when she sees I’ve prepared fish tacos. “Nice timing,” she says, grabbing a plate.

It takes me a second to realise she’s referencing the Wanker’s daily theme and not the fact I’ve brought food on one of the days she works a double. I show her my nails, painted in varying shades of oranges, pinks, and red. “Not a coincidence.” 

(Like I’d forget it’s Women Loving Wednesdays.)

Pippa multitasks, eating while helping pour drinks alongside Agatha, who’s just clocked in. Niamh argues her claim at another helping with Shepard, who’s taken it upon himself to make sure everyone gets at least one taco before allowing seconds.

Keris and Trixie are both sat at a table of regulars, flush with laughter and good food. Keris frowns down at her empty cup and Trixie stands because it’s her shift tonight but one of the regulars, a balding man with a big smile, waves her down. “No, no, let me,” he says, walking over to the bar. 

Penny comes in when we’re halfway through our meal and she beams at me, somehow knowing this is my work. Good job, she mouths before heading over to grab herself a plate, and it’s all the permission I need to relax because I did this. I made this happen. It’s Baz’s bar and his kitchen but it’s my food, my cooking. My friends. 

My stomach, grumbling to make itself known. I shake my head, laughing as I turn around to make my own plate and that’s when I heard the sudden, cracking silence.

I know the culprit before I look up.

Baz.

I set my plate back on the table and grip its sides, taking a deep breath before moving to face him. He’s standing at the entrance, door shut behind him, his face lit up by the house lights.

He cocks an eyebrow. “And what’s all this?”

Trixie, bless her, shouts, “Simon cooked dinner!”

“Did he.” There’s a pause while Baz takes in the scene. 

I wonder if we seem caught in one of those sitcoms where someone can pause time; our earlier frivolity captured in clear resin for Baz to study. If I blur my eyes, it almost looks like the water Pippa’s pouring into Penny’s cup has frozen.

Baz strides through the tables, breaking the quiet with ominous clicks of his shoes. Faces turn with his passing, another audience captured by his performance, waiting for his judgement on the edge of a knife looking to see if I’ll get cut. 

Baz reaches the buffet. He examines what’s on offer: flour tortillas, fried cod, chipotle aioli, pickled cabbage and red onions. He picks up the spoon stuck in a bowl of refried beans, swirls it around to break the seal forming on top. He trails one finger along the table, passing over a few errant grains of Spanish rice.

Baz smiles, one corner of his mouth lifting. Both of his eyes crinkle with amusement. “Well, well. Simon Snow.” He winks at me and my hands, which had previously clenched into fists by my side, relax. He says, “Looks like I’m a little late to the party.”

“I saved you a plate just in case.”

He hums, angling his body toward the dish which holds one small piece of cod. “How considerate of you, since it looks like there’s very little remaining.” His mouth is still turned up at the corner.

I shoot a glare at Shepard. He’s got half a taco hovering beside his mouth; by the remnants on his plate, it’s easily his third. “I thought you were pacing the room.”

He shrugs and licks his lips. “Sorry, man. They’re good tacos.” He shoves the other half in his mouth before I can question him further.

A warm hand grips my shoulder. “You said you saved me some?”

“Yeah. Yes, I did.”

I lead Baz into the— his kitchen. He eats off a plate I’ve kept warm in the oven, following me around the room and nodding as I explain my changes, staying silent while I chatter.

Finally, he stops me. “You’ve made quite the improvement.”

I scuff my shoes on the floor. “Just some cleaning. Stocking. A bit of organisation.”

“So … ” he leans against the centre island, long legs crossed at the ankle as he pauses mid-sentence to take another bite of his taco.

I wait for him to swallow.

“Tell me. What would you do if I said this room was yours?”

“Mine?”

He nods. “Yours. Did you think I wouldn’t … ” He shakes his head. “Don’t you want to leave something behind? Your mark on the Wanker?”

More than I knew, now that he’s suggested it. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course. You’ve done well, Simon.” He smiles with both corners of his mouth this time. It turns his cheeks into tiny apples.

I wish I’d saved myself some food; I’m suddenly ravenous.

“Did you get any?” He gestures toward his plate. 

“A few bites here and there, for taste.”

“That’s a shame; it’s really good. Want to share mine?”

“No,” I shake my head. “It’s fine. There’s probably still leftover rice and beans.” There’s always leftover rice and beans.

Baz frowns, pushing off the island. “You should at least try the tacos. You made them.” He takes a step toward me. “Don’t you want to see how the cabbage gives it a satisfying crunch? Experience the perfect balance of vinegar and spice?” He takes another step, bringing him within arm’s distance. “Indulge me, Simon.”

I try to wave him off. “My hands are still sticky from squeezing limes.”

“Here. I’ll hold it.”

Slowly, he brings the taco up to my mouth, his eyes caught on mine.

I lean in, parting my lips. Just a little.

“More than that.”

I open wider.

“There we are,” Baz whispers as I take a large bite.

I cover my mouth, not fast enough to suppress my resulting moan.

“Good, right?”

I nod. Christ.

“Chew,” Baz reminds me.

“Mmm,” I reply, working my jaw while Baz watches. I swallow. “Thanks.”

“Why are you thanking me?” He cocks an eyebrow. “You’re the one who made them.”

“Still. It’s your kitchen.”

“Is it? I’ve never cooked in here.” He pulls the plate back under his chin, bringing what’s left of his taco to his lips for another bite.

My eyes catch on where the tortilla’s been torn by my teeth, edges slightly darker for holding what’s left of the moisture from my mouth.

“Mmm,” Baz moans, taking it all in.

Fucking Christ.

“Brunch,” I blurt out.

Baz looks up at me through his eyelashes, his lips still wrapped around the taco.

“I’d like to start with brunch.”

He takes a bite and nods, waving me on with one hand.

I continue. “Maybe steak on Mondays. Keep fish tacos on Wednesdays; those were clearly,” I swallow, “a hit. Then … ” I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe we can see how it goes from there.”

“Conservative. I like it.”

Now my eyebrows raise. “You do?”

“When it comes to business, I don’t mind a little less flair.”

“And other than business?”

“Well,” he scoops a mixed heap of sides onto his fork, “I suppose that’s for me to know … ” He finishes his rice and beans in three forkfuls, his eyes fluttering shut as he takes his last bite. “Simon Snow,” he says, his voice rough and low. He clanks his fork on his empty plate. “We should celebrate.”

“What?”

“Come with me.” He drops his plate in the sink and, when he notices I haven’t moved, grabs my wrist and tugs. “Come on , Simon.”

He tugs again and I follow as best I can as he strides forward on long legs and ambiguous mission. 

“Hurry.” He smiles back at me over one shoulder and on the third tug I laugh, moving faster, my body light as air and caught in this urgency I don’t understand but trust anyway.

“I’m coming, Baz. God.” And I match his smile, our expressions mirror one another, reflecting joy in an infinite loop.

I stumble into his back when he stops abruptly inside the main room. He squeezes my wrist and beckons Penny over. “When was the last time we hosted a Wankening?”

“I don’t know. Probably the last time we hired a new—oh. Oh!” Her eyes widen, flick to me, and return to Baz. “For Simon?”

He nods.

“When?”

“Do you think it’s too soon to host tonight? I have a new song I’ve been meaning to introduce. It’s a bit rough, but I think it will serve.”

“Really? Well … ” Penny waggles her head. “I could text Gareth, see if he can come in. Shepard can get word out to the masses.” She claps her hands together, then points at me. “You are in for a treat. I can’t wait to … Shepard! Hold up!” She chases after Shepard, leaving Baz beside me, still holding my wrist.

“What’s a Wankening?”

“Savour the surprise, Simon.” He finally realises we’re still basically holding hands and drops my wrist.

(It feels cold in his absence.)

“So I’m just meant to stand around? Clueless and confused?”

Baz tucks a lock of his hair behind one ear. “Some things are worth waiting for.” Then he, too, leaves me.

 

After an hour spent texting co-workers, “What’s a Wankening?” in various iterations of the same concept (no replies), Penny finally lets me out of the dressing room which served as my temporary prison. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you lack chill?” she mutters, steering me toward the stage entrance with both hands on my shoulders.

“Only every day. You, this morning in fact.”

“The question,” she halts just before the curtains, “was rhetorical.”

“That requires me to know the meaning of that word.”

“Don’t play dumb.” Penny rolls her eyes. “Now, take your shirt off. It’s tradition.”

“What?” 

“It’s covered in flour; you’ll hardly miss it,” she says, though I’m already complying with her command. She rips it out of my hand with a sing-songy, “Thank you,” then stalks off toward Baz’s dressing room.

I blink after her for a second and, when she doesn’t immediately come back, wrap my arms around my bare chest, shivering. 

Fuck it; if she’s going to strip and leave me half-naked … I poke my nose from between the backstage curtains. Already the Wanker’s nearly as full as a Friday night, with that same anticipatory wave of noise which crests near a dull roar and ebbs into hushed quiet. At the entrance, Niamh argues with a large party, calling out over her shoulder to Agatha, “Can we cut the door?” and I flash back to my first night: to the fear and awkwardness and uncertainty. 

I sense more than see Shepard step up beside me. “So, have you figured it out?”

“Not even a little bit,” I smile.

“All in due time.”

I take a deep breath. “Yeah, yeah.”

We watch as Agatha slings drinks, as Trixie and Pippa work the floor (I’m guessing Pippa stayed on due to the crowd). Gareth takes his place behind the sound booth, cracking his knuckles and turning on the equipment.

He shoots me a betrayed look when the system doesn’t immediately crackle and whine.

I waggle my eyebrows at him. Amateur.

Shep squeezes my shoulder. “Come out on my cue.”

“Wait—”

He sweeps onto stage, with a booming, “Hello, Wankers!”

The audience cheers and I call after him, “Shepard! What cue?” but of course he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even work here!

“Hello Simon,” a familiar voice purrs.

I jump back from the curtain, closing them tight behind me. “I wasn’t peeking!”

Tyra laughs, still deep as Baz’s speaking voice but with more lilt. “Except you can, darling. I give you permission.” She twirls so I can admire her outfit from all angles.

And I do admire her black one-piece, the blood red corset cinching tight her already tiny waist, the way it pushes up her … 

Breasts.

I gulp.

“The stage magic of foam, tape, and a bit of muscle. Want to feel?”

I snap my gaze to Tyra’s eyes.

She raises an arched eyebrow. “One time offer,” she steps within grasping distance, “for the occasion.”

“Okay.” I hover my palm over her left tit then freeze.

Tyra rolls her eyes and grabs my wrist, forcing my hand flat on her chest. “See? Magic.” 

I can’t help squeezing a little. There’s very little give. “Foam, huh.”

“Mostly.” Her hand is still laid over mine. She pushes on the outside edge, where I’m cupping the bottom of her fake breast. “This part is foam, but,” she guides my thumb to sweep over the skin that swells over her corset edge, “this is all me.”

“Wow.”

“Now you know another one of my secrets.”

My thumb’s still stroking her soft skin. She clears her throat and I step backward, my hand falling to a fist by my side.

“Don’t worry,” her eyes flick across my bare chest, “I won’t ask you to reciprocate.”

I try to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth, to say something like, I would, but all that comes out is a strangled, “Thanks.”

“Perhaps next time I’ll show you how to walk in these.” She sticks out a fishnet-covered leg so I can properly see her stilettos: sharp as a knife and bloody on the sole.

“How about something a little less scary, like makeup.”

She flips her hair off one shoulder, massaging the skin she’s bared. Skin, which I now know is as silky as the glove I’ve stolen. “You’d let me do your makeup?”

I nod.

“My, my.” When she grins one of her canines catches on her lipstick, a tiny bite of white against rose pink. “You are full of surprises.”

Outside, the audience gives a bawdy cheer.

“Almost time. So, are you ready?” Tyra sweeps her wig so all the strands fall down her back. She straightens her shoulders and steps up to the curtain.

I stand beside her. Our arms press together, the heat of her skin against mine. “Except I still don’t know what a Wankening is.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She pulls back one side of the fabric so her body’s cast half in light. “It’s the act of coming into existence.” She extends her hand to me. “I’ll say it again: are you ready?”

I’ve still no idea what she’s talking about; I take her hand anyway. “I’m supposed to wait for Shepard’s cue.”

She presses her lips against my ear, “I’m your cue.”

“Then I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

With her leading, we step onto the stage.

I blink against the bright stage lights, raising up one hand to cast a relieving shadow. 

“Do you ever get out into the sun?” Tyra tuts, guiding me toward centre stage where a chair awaits. “You’re practically glowing.”

“It’s winter.” I take the seat she offers and lean back despite the bite of cold metal against my bare skin.

Tyra pats my cheek. “Another rule of stagecraft, darling: one should never outshine the star.”

As if I could ever.

Shepard walks over to hand Tyra his mic and she takes it. “Good evening.”

Rather than Shepard’s cheer, the audience hushes at Tyra’s voice.

“Thank you, Shepard, for warming the crowd. Now, as many of you know, the purpose of a Wankening is to welcome one of our newest staff members, and we are here tonight to celebrate … Simon Snow.” With a raised hand, she cuts off the first whoo’s and yeah’s until they trickle into silence. 

“I could praise Simon’s athleticism, reminding us of his many impressive keg lifts. I could extol Simon’s virtue, retelling the story of how he defended the Wanker’s honour, as well as several of its young patrons. Or, for those of you who weren’t lucky enough to sample his cooking earlier,” she smirks, “I could simply replicate the sounds we all made while trying his fish tacos.”

I cross one of my legs over the other.

“But,” Tyra winks at me, “gauging by the blush on Simon’s cheeks perhaps I’ll spare him such public praise. Instead,” she snaps her fingers and Gareth presses a few buttons on the sound board.

Nothing happens.

“Instead,” Tyra repeats, her jaw tight with anger.

Gareth waves his hand. “Hold on!”

“Instead–” 

“Got it!” A loud honking noise blares out of the speakers.

The crowd cries in pain; hands flying to ears for protection, and I can barely hear Tyra’s shouted, “Gareth! Shut it off!”

I’m shaking with repressed laughter.

Tyra swats my arm. “It’s not funny.” Her lips press tightly together but one corner twitches.

“It really is.”

“We rehearsed this transition.”

The vuvuzela switches to a car alarm.

“This transition?” I bark a laugh. “Needs a bit of work.”

“Stop.” Tyra swats my arm again and I grin up at her.

Eventually, Gareth hits whatever combination of buttons turns the spotlight on full blast, washing out the audience in an instant.

Suddenly all I can see is Tyra, haloed by light, shining down on me.

I stop laughing.

I see her lips moving before I hear the words which slip out in a whisper: “Last chance to back out.”

I slink down in the chair, resting my hands behind my head. I put both feet on the ground, spreading my legs. I can’t cock one eyebrow like Tyra, like Baz, but I raise them both, knowing what it makes me look like.

A challenge.

Tyra licks her lips. Over the speakers, a voice mmmh’s over a baseline.

“Everybody loves you, baby,” the man sings while Tyra mouths the words, swaying her hips, side-to-side, as she watches me, “you should trademark your face.”

She stands in one place, hips still moving, caressing her neck, “Lining down the block to be around you,” her chest, her waist, “ but baby I’m first in place.”

Flipping her hair over one shoulder, she hops off the stage. Gareth switches the lights from stage to house so I can still see her, weaving from table to table, dragging her fingertip along this arm, that back, her neck, their jaw. All the while she keeps peering back at me from underneath dark lashes, her glossy bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“Look at you.”

“Look, look at you.”

As the song transitions to the chorus, Tyra sits on the stage’s edge, rolling until she’s on her back, hips raising as she once again caresses her body, this time from her waist upward.

“Give me a call if you ever get lonely,” her eyelids flutter shut as her hips thrust and thrust, “I’ll be like one of your girls or your homies.” Her head turns to face me; the lights cut out on the audience, sending them back into blackness. Tyra’s finger tip catches on her lips. Her eyes bore into mine. “Say what you want and I’ll keep it a secret,” that same finger trails down her chin, her neck, her cleavage, “you’ve got the key to my heart and I need it.”

On her hands and knees she crawls to me; her hair blows back like it’s caught in the wind. The song’s still playing; her lips still moving but I can’t hear anything. I can’t see the audience. The world narrows down to Tyra, Tyra, Tyra.

(Baz.)

I can see the threads of her (his) fishnets catch on the rougher parts of the stage flooring. I can see the way her (his) makeup’s starting to shine under the burning stage lights. I can see the slightest hint of stubble, grey eyes, sharp teeth.

He’s on his knees before me.

She. She.

Her hands run up and down my thighs, the heat of her mouth teases along my inseam. She stands and spins, settling her knees on the outside of mine, but she moves too fast and one of her ankles twists; I reach without thinking, catching her waist in both hands.

She gasps.

Fuck; my thumbs almost touch. I squeeze tightly. I don’t want her to fall, or at least that’s what I tell myself as I pull her toward me.

Her head drops back, rests on my shoulder.

“You okay?” I whisper in her ear, one of my hands laying flat on her stomach to keep her here, steady against me.

In the background, the singer begs, “But nobody wants you bad as I do.”

My hand drags up Tyra’s corset. There’s something like steel that supports it and I trace the lines with my fingertips; very little give, just like her foam breasts.

“Baby, let me plead my case.”

Tyra’s hand finds mine. Her face turns, her lips grazing my neck as she whispers, “Let me go.”

I pull my hands away as if burned but to my surprise she doesn’t lift off. She spins again to face me, this time without stumbling. Her fingers card through my curls and grip tight as her thighs squeeze mine. She’s a wave against me and I’m the shore against which her hips lap, endlessly.

The song’s back in its chorus and Tyra’s smirking down at me, one eyebrow cocked as she undoubtedly feels the results of her dancing pressing up against her right thigh every time she grinds down. She gives one last teasing rub before finally releasing me, stepping away but not before she lets the back of her hand caress my cheek, her eyes gone soft in the blink of a moment: there and gone before I had a chance to read their meaning.

I’m still caught in whatever passed between us, trying to hold the strings of something I should have grasped with all my strength. I feel the phantom ache of what I never had and have now lost as Tyra steps out of the spotlight. The singer vocalises and Tyra’s once-sensual movements shift into something more … boyish. A little shuffle. A cheeky spin. A full-body wiggle: a move one might expect from a child, something unconscious and unselfconscious and I find myself completely and utterly endeared.

My hands fall to my jeans and I grip my thighs hard enough to form bruises.

The song cuts off abruptly and Tyra laughs, whipping her face to mine, her eyes wide as if seeking my approval.

What did you think? She grins at me.

I’m helpless to do anything but smile back, my palms slapping together to start what quickly becomes a roaring cheer. Soon, the audience stands in their approval and Tyra waves off the praise. “It’s a work in progress!” she tries shouting over the deafening shouts and her arms wrap around her waist in a faux-hug.

Shepard pops up by my side. “Aren’t you going to join the audience in their standing ovation?” 

“Who said I’m not already?” I mutter, but he doesn’t hear me.

(I stay seated.)

Eventually the applause calms down, and Tyra heads out into the crowd to accept tips.

“Any chance you’ve got a spare shirt?” I ask Shepard as we walk off stage.

“I bet Penny’s stored yours in the communal dressing room. Come on, I’ll help you find it.”

Shepard moves around the room with a familiarity I find deeply suspicious, given he’s not really supposed to enter the staff-only rooms. Still, I’m not about to turn down an offer of help when I’m shirtless and starting to shiver.

“Here.” Shepard hands over a black shirt and it looks like mine but it feels tighter in the shoulders than it did this morning, like I’ve somehow grown since I last wore it.

“Thanks.” I shove it over my head. “So. A Wankening.”

“Do you feel properly welcomed?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

Shep grins and moves to open the door.

“Actually … ”

He pauses.

“Do you have a minute?”

Shep tilts his head to one side, examining me. Whatever he sees turns his expression serious. “Of course, Simon. How can I help?” He sits on one of the makeup stools and I collapse onto the sofa, that same sofa where Baz patched me up after my fight.

I think back to the article I’d pulled up this morning, a term I’d first read when googling flags to paint on my nails that stuck with me for some reason. It seemed as good a place as any to start when I’d woken up from my first wet dream ever involving a person’s face, rather than the vague images and sensations I used to get as a teenager.

“What do you know,” I drop my head against the cushion behind me and tug one knee up to my chest, “about demisexuality?”

 

 

 

Notes:

If you're watching closely, this fic now ends with 5 chapters. Thanks.

Chapter 4: Are You Listenin'?

Chapter by facewithoutheart

Notes:

Chapter title and opening lyrics from Adore You by Miley Cyrus

Baby, baby yeah, are you listenin'?
Wondering, where you've been, all my life
I just started living
Oh, baby are you listenin' oh?

 

 

Baz walks backward through the room and I follow.

A million faces I don’t know blur into the background, and I want to say, watch out, but the crowds swallow my words even as they part, making a path for him, for us.

He smiles.

Lights flash in the distance, lightning– no, strobes . A dance floor. Our song plays in the distance. One line repeating. I know these words. I try to tell him.

His eyebrow cocks. Do you?

I do. I do.

Lights flash. The crowd presses. I wrap my hands around Baz’s so I don’t lose him. I’m walking forward, he’s walking back, we’re going nowhere. Nowhere important; I’m with him. That’s all I need to know.

I’d follow him anywhere.

The crowd presses. Baz’s grip tightens. He wants to tell me … something. He hasn’t said anything and still I know he needs to speak. It’s in the air around us, pulsing. It’s in each repeated lyric. I know this song.

She sings. Are you listenin’?

(I am, I am, I am.) I lean forward. Tell me.

The song asks the same question.

Baz opens his mouth: “Bzzt. Bzzt.”

My body … vibrates?

“Bzzt. Bzzt,” Baz says, as darkness slowly covers his features.

 

Bzzt. Bzzt.

I fumble awake, one hand slapping at where my mobile buzzes across my bedside table. It twitches out of my grasp twice before I can grab it, dragging it to my ear to slur, “ … huh? Whuh?” 

“Simon?”

I’m suddenly wide awake. “Baz?”

“Oh … were you … Have I woken you? Christ; I’m sorry. You closed last night; I shouldn’t have—”

“Baz. Baz, it’s fine.” I rub the sleep out of my eyes and scoot up against the wall that serves as my headboard. “What is it?” 

“Pippa’s birthday cake,” he blurts out. “I’ve had it planned for months, I swear, but the bakery called. There's been a pipe burst. They’ve sent home their head baker because she can’t exactly frost rainbows when there’s standing water in their kitchen and I guess I could get something from the market but obviously Pippa deserves better than store bought and I don’t even know if you bake but I panicked and—”

“Baz,” I laugh, stretching an arm over my head so I can use my hand as a pillow. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Baz talk this much, let alone this fast. “I’ve got you.”

“You … what?” His voice pitches upward.

“I’ve got you,” I repeat. “I mean, I’ve never baked a cake before and probably shouldn’t give Pippa my first attempt but I do have a recipe that never fails to impress. So, if you’re comfortable with something unconventional … ”

“I live for unconventional.”

“Well then,” I smile, “I’ve got you covered.”

Baz insists I send over the list of ingredients immediately so he can add them to his delivery service. (I don’t exactly object to him paying.) We make plans to meet up in a few hours; with the Wanker’s industrial oven I’m fairly certain I can get a few batches ready in time for shift change.

“Just enough for the employees, maybe a few regulars.” I say, taking him off speaker once Baz says he’s forwarded the delivery confirmation. The received haptic buzzes against my cheek.

“Hmm,” Baz’s voice vibrates through my ears and into my chest, “perhaps the Wanker should have a burst pipe of its own.”

My hand stills where it had been scratching absently at an itch low on my belly. “Baz?”

“What if I closed the Wanker?” he asks. “Just for the evening. Give Pippa the celebration she deserves. Less competition for your baked goods.”

“You mean … cancel Dev’s Bingo?”

“He can still perform, just for a smaller crowd. I think it’d be nice, for Pippa,” Baz’s exhale of breath sounds like a sigh, “if we kept the numbers down to people who felt … safe.”

“Safe.” I repeat the word just to feel it in my mouth.

“Besides, no one should have to work on their birthday.”

“Huh.” I’m not even sure when my birthday is. Sometime in June, I think. “When’s yours?” It doesn’t seem fair we’d go through all this effort for Pippa if no one’s doing it for Baz.

“Actually,” he clears his throat, “it was back in February. It’s not something I normally … I’ve never … oh, look at the time. I should let you get ready.”

“We’re not meeting for three hours.”

“Still, I’ve taken enough of your morning. Simon,” his voice deepens, “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know you’re taking care of this. It’s been … a long time since I’ve trusted a problem left in someone else’s hands.”

“My hands are yours, anytime.” I wince at my wording. “Okay. See you in a bit!”

I hang up before I can say anything else incriminating.

I drop my mobile on the sheets beside me and sink back down onto the mattress, covering my face with my hands to groan into them. “Fuck. Fuck.” I peer between my fingers to glare down at where my cock’s starting to tent my boxers. “No one invited you to make scones.”

It twitches. Traitor.

“Fine,” I sigh, sliding my hand down, “if it keeps you quiet.”

I bite my lip so when I come no sounds escape. 

(No sense in being a hypocrite and a pervert.)

 

I use the back entrance of the Wanker, stowing a duffle of spare clothes in the shared dressing room on my way to the kitchen; I always get so dirty when I bake. Or cook. Or chop vegetables.

One of my earliest care home workers, Miss Possibelf, always tutted at my kitchen messes, even with something as simple as beans on toast.

“How are you wearing more beans than your bread?” she fussed, wiping my face with the wet cloth she always set aside when she saw me cooking.

She’s half the reason I felt comfortable making myself home in the Wanker’s abandoned kitchen to begin with. 

“No one worth their salt will ever fault you for feeding the hungry,” she said after catching me eating stale crackers one evening when I couldn’t sleep for the sound of my stomach rumbling.

“Even if it’s me who’s hungry?”

She handed me another piece of bread; the start of my second helping, and the first I’d prepared by myself (with her instructions). “Especially when it’s you,” she winked.

Her words form a large part of why I felt brave enough to use the Wanker kitchen before getting Baz’s approval. My friends may have considered what I’d done a gamble but I knew I could trust Baz. Consider it a gut instinct.

And not just because he’s so salty, I laugh to myself as I turn my master key into the kitchen lock and push open the door. 

I find the man in question on the other side, perched up on the island across from my stove. Strange how he’s picked the spot where Shep always sits to keep me company when I cook.

“Ready to get started?” Baz asks.

That’s when I clock his outfit. “Baz,” I freeze in the entry, “you’re wearing my apron.”

“Is that alright?” He hops down, smoothing a wrinkle down the red fabric when he lands on his feet. “I got a spare so I could help and figured you’d want the clean one.”

I shrug, turning my back on the sight of him to pick up the spare he’s hung on the back of the door. “’S’fine.”

Except it’s nowhere near fine. It’s my apron. The one covered in food bits and burns from how careless I am when I wear it. The one I wore making my first brunch and every meal I’ve prepared since Baz gave me permission. Seeing him in it … 

Christ. I’ve become the worst version of myself, lusting after a man just because he’s wearing my stains.

I clear my throat and turn back around. “You’ve got the ingredients?”

He nods, stepping away to reveal where he’s lined them up the counter.

“You didn’t have to buy organic.”

“Pippa prefers it. I may not have my father’s money anymore but I’ve got what my aunt set aside for me. Plus what the Wanker earns.”

“Right.” I pull out the measuring cups for something to do with my hands.

I keep quiet as I mix dry ingredients. Baz stays silent as well, watching my actions like he’s memorising them for later.

When I’m stirring in the sour cherries, he asks, “Who taught you to make scones?”

“You’ve sussed it out, then?”

He nods. “I’ve never made any, but from what I remember of holiday get-togethers, this seems familiar. One of my cousins always made them. I used to beg her to let me cut them; I always thought I could do it better.”

“Cool. Then you can cut mine for me.”

He crooks an eyebrow.

“It’s my least favourite part.” I shape the dough; Baz focuses on my technique, looking oddly intent. “Somehow they always come out looking like lumpy potatoes.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” he teases.

“Okay, your turn.” I push over the bowl. “I’ll supervise.”

“Mmm, I feel intimidated.” But then Baz flours the countertop without asking and quickly cuts the dough into ten wedges, his forearms flexing.

“Show off.”

“I’ve always had a knack for learning choreo by just watching. It used to drive my dancemates crazy.”

“You took classes?”

Baz hums an affirmative, moving the now full baking sheet into the preheated oven. “Ballet, to help with my football. Our coach said he wanted us to work on our body control. A greater awareness of limb movement. Then yoga, to help with flexibility.” He grins. “I suspect I pushed the boundaries of my father’s tolerance when I took hip-hop and tried to pass it off as coordination training.”

“He didn’t approve.”

“No.” Baz’s grin doesn’t falter but it does strain. 

It feels like I’ve stepped on a private moment so I start mixing up a new batch. “Do you still take classes?”

“Not as often as I like.” Again, he watches my hands and arms work like he’s memorising the movements. “The Wanker keeps me busy. Sometimes I take videos and send them to a former dance partner so she can help with choreo. But it’s not like my performances require corps de ballet skills.”

“Don’t say that. Not yet,” I add when Baz gestures to the second baking tray. “I want to see how the first batch bakes by itself. Get the timing right. I’m still learning this oven.”

Baz nods, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest while I stir in cherries to our third batch. “You were saying?”

“Oh,” I pause to replay our conversation. “About your performances. Well,” I try to keep stirring while also darting my eyes over at Baz to gauge his reaction, “I mean, just because they’re not … conventional, doesn’t mean they aren’t art.”

The corner of Baz’s mouth twitches. “You think me thrusting my hips to Troye Sivan qualifies as art?”

So maybe I’ve requested that performance a few times since he chose it for my Wankening. And maybe that’s why he had my mobile number to call this morning, so he could send me the song’s Spotify link. So what? I’m nostalgic.

I set down my spoon and shape the dough for Baz to cut, my face angled down in hopes to hide my blush. “There’s still choreography in it. Like you mentioned. Music selection. Costuming. And … what does Dev call it? When you match your movements not just to the sound of the music, but to its meaning?”

“Musicality?”

“Yeah.” I pick up the mixing bowl to hand over. “Your performances have a lot of musicality.”

“Have you become an expert in dance as well as baking?” Baz’s hands cover mine when he takes the bowl, forcing my gaze upward. His eyes are soft, open. He’s not teasing. Not really.

“I pay attention.”

“I’ve noticed.”

We pause, here in the kitchen: Baz’s hands over mine, the cold metal between us. There’s a bit of flour on his cheek. It’s almost exactly where he likes to put his highlighter. I get the strange impulse to flour up one of my fingers and swipe it on the other side. Even him out. 

The timer on the oven goes off.

“Pippa’s scones!” Baz shouts, nearly dropping the mixing bowl with how strongly he startles and breaks away.

I catch the metal against my chest, faltering back a few steps. “Calm down,” I force a laugh, “it’s only been twelve minutes. They haven’t burnt yet. I promise. Can you check their colour?”

He squats down, turning on the oven light to check the scones’ colour. “Still pale.” 

“Just a few more minutes then.”

He hums, still staring at the lit oven. He’s using his teeth to bite at a hangnail on his thumb, one of his knees bouncing, anxiety radiating off him like steam. 

I’m not sure what’s spooked him, but I refuse to let him stew alone in his discomfort. I walk over and squat down, leaning in to whisper, “What do you think? Do I have a shot at a handshake?”

He drops his thumb to his jeans and wipes off the extra moisture, then presses his palm flat on his knee as if to stop it shaking. “You’re a fan of Bake Off?” 

“Who isn’t?” I tease, bumping my shoulder against his.

He smiles, his eyes remaining on our scones which have started to turn golden. He doesn’t move away from my touch. “Have you ever thought about signing up?”

“Definitely not,” I laugh.

“But you have the talent.”

“There’s a difference between cooking for drunk people and baking for Paul Hollywood. Okay,” I stand, holding my hand out for Baz. “I think the scones are done.” He stares at my hand for a second before taking it and allowing me to pull him up. “How long was that, thirteen minutes?”

“Fourteen, I think.” 

I nod. Baz cuts up the third batch swiftly and we easily fit two baking sheets in the oven. There’s probably room for four, if I played a little tetris. Baz sets the timer without having to ask, his long fingers leaving dough marks on the display. I’ve done that to him. Made him messy.

“You know,” I start on batch number four to distract myself, “I had a care home volunteer who loved Bake Off. We used to watch it together. You could say that was my origin story. I think my stomach grumbled one too many times and she suggested trying something. ‘Scones,’ she said, ‘are something every good Brit ought to know how to make.’”

“Sounds like my cousin, Cookie. She’s actually the one who used to make us scones for the holidays. But I never got her recipe. She said she’d teach me when I was older, only by the time I was tall enough to see over the counter, I don’t think I had any interest in haunting the kitchen. Boys, you know.”

“Do I.” I think but don’t say, why do you think I used to hide in the kitchen? “Here, hand me those cherries.”

Baz helps me fold them in. “Like this?”

“Good. Want a turn?”

He shakes his head. “No, I rather like watching you stir.”

“Soothing isn’t it?”

He hums noncommittally. “How many batches do you think we should make?”

“Two? Three more?” I do the math in my head. “Three. That’ll leave Pippa with plenty to take home.”

I hear the squeaking of his shoes on the tile. When I look over, he’s lurking beside the scones we’ve got cooling on the counter.

“Baz … ”

“Maybe I ought to taste one. Just to make sure it’s up to standard.”

“Oh, and are you going to judge me, Mary Berry?”

“I prefer to think of myself more of a Hollywood type.” Baz makes little eep, ah, noises as it nearly burns his fingers to transfer a steaming scone from the baking sheet onto a plate he’s grabbed.

He brings his plate over to the fridge, opening its door to reveal an obscene amount of butter. 

“Get a thick pat. No, thicker,” I say when Baz doles out the most pathetic sliver. “Oh, let me do it,” I say, dropping my spoon to walk over, shoving him aside. “Like this,” I say, making sure to get him a thick enough pat that the centre will stay cold even as the hot scone melts its outer layer.

Baz opens his mouth expectantly.

“Spoiled, you are,” I tut, bringing the scone up to his mouth for his first bite. He catches the tips of my fingers with his lips accidentally as he sinks his teeth into the scone. 

His eyes flutter closed. There’s a reverent look on his face as he chews. Then, he swallows with a moan. “Oh. Oh, Simon. That’s … ” He shakes his head. “Wow.”

“Good?”

He gives me an unimpressed look then parts his lips again. This time, I manage to keep my fingers out of the way when I place another bite on his tongue. I feed him like this, tiny bites of scone and butter amidst the phantom sensation of his lips on my fingers until he’s chewing the final piece.

I step back as he swallows. I wipe my hands on my apron. “So? Did you like it?”

He laughs, then shoves a hand between us.

“Oh.” I take it with a firm grip and he gives me three solid shakes.

Something warm curls up in my stomach, a cat caught in a sunbeam, purring. 

Who needs Paul Hollywood’s approval when you have Baz’s?

Baz helps me bring out the scones once they’re done then begs off to finish paperwork; with Penny busy planning her brother’s wedding this past month, Baz has had to take on some of her administrative work. Still, I make him promise to come out when he’s done.

“We can’t celebrate Pippa’s birthday without you,” I tell him.

He shoves another scone in his mouth, points to his mouth while chewing as if to say, can’t talk; scone. I’d be annoyed if I hadn’t done the same thing to him when he asked what I’d meant when I mentioned a care home earlier. 

He keeps walking backward, slipping past the velvet backstage curtain without another word.

Dev, having arrived at the tail end of our conversation, throws an arm over my shoulder and leads me over to the bar. “A valiant effort, Simon, but Baz never sticks around for off duty Wanker events. He says no one relaxes when he’s around.”

“That’s not true.” I frown.

“Sure. Anyway, what are we drinking tonight?” Dev rubs his hands together while surveying the liquor stock.

Mid-afternoon sun blinds us as the front door opens so we hear a couple pairs of footsteps before we see who all has entered. “Hello!” Pippa calls out over the city noise that spills in among the light.

The door shuts, snuffing out sun and traffic in one soft snick. Dev’s grin splits his face. “There she is. Woman of the hour. Happy birthday.”

I turn around and let out a low whistle. “Wow, Pippa. You look … ”

“Sexy?” Niamh says, stepping around Pippa to hand me a tray of sliced vegetables. Her sleeves shift back far enough for me to see a row of reddened scratches. She tugs at her cuffs when she sees me looking.

“Fucking fierce,” Agatha adds, walking past us to the counter, setting down some paper bags.

I set the tray beside her groceries. “No. That’s not … ” I scan Pippa’s outfit: her wide-leg jeans and white crop top with crochet details, her hair pulled up into cute little buns on each side of her head with fringe framing her face. Her makeup is subtle, save for a bold red lip. (Baz taught her, according to Pippa.)

“She looks happy,” I finish.

Pippa blushes and walks over to bat me on the shoulder. “Thanks Si—” Her eyes widen when they catch what’s behind me. “What are those?”

“Birthday scones.” I puff up my chest. “Baz helped me make them. Here.” I plate one for her, laying a thick pat in the middle. They aren’t piping hot anymore but I still think more butter is better.

“Oh my goodness, you didn’t have to go through the trouble!” Pippa takes the plate and fork I hand over, cutting herself a small piece and taking a bite. 

“I know it’s a bit weird, scones for your birthday, but there was a problem with the bakery and Baz thought—”

Dev places a hand on my shoulder, a silent cue to shut up. I wish Baz were here; he’d explain better. Plus, it feels weird taking credit. He’s basically the reason these scones exist. He called me, he placed the grocery order, and he helped cut them so they’d be proper scone-shaped. (Not to mention the fact he kept me company.)

“Sweet lord.” Pippa hands her plate over to Dev and throws herself in my arms, wrapping me in a tight hug.

“Oof,” I huff, trying to make a face at Dev over Pippa’s shoulder. (She’s my height without heels, but now she’s got three inches on me.) 

Dev’s jaw tightens as he drops his gaze to the floor, avoiding eye contact.

Meanwhile, Pippa squeezes me a second time before releasing. “They’re perfect. Thank you.” 

I shrug as I step back, scrubbing the back of my neck with one hand. “It’s no big deal. It was Baz’s idea, honestly.”

“Take the compliment,” Dev says, more command than suggestion. He bumps my shoulder as he passes by to get a scone for himself on Pippa’s plate. 

Pippa gives him a confused look, eyes darting between me, Niamh and Agatha as if any of us can give her answers. I’m just as lost as she is but Niamh shakes her head tightly and mouths, later.

“Is Niall coming?” Dev’s plating himself three scones, no butter.

(I’m more offended by that than I am the sharp tone.)

Agatha rolls her eyes and steps up to the counter, shoving Dev aside to make room. “Ask them yourself. You have their mobile number.”

Dev grunts in reply.

“Maybe I should make us some drinks,” I offer, walking behind the counter. “Dev, any suggestions?”

When I venture a look at him, he looks more sheepish now than angry. Pippa’s by his side, her arm on his shoulder. 

“Yeah, Dev. What do you think?”

“Maybe … ” Dev’s eyes dart to Pippa, “ … a violetta spritz? Didn’t Niall make you one, once?”

Pippa smiles. “Oh, that’s perfect. Plus, purple’s my favourite colour.” She turns to me. “Can you make us a pitcher?”

I nod and start mixing. I’m still mostly barbacking at the Wanker, but Niall’s been teaching me some tricks. I’ve never heard of a violetta spritz before but I assume it’s something like an aperol spritz. Sure enough, a bit of digging turns up a bottle of what looks like simple syrup marked with a big V.

Agatha perches up at the bar counter, setting up the snacks she and Niamh brought. “Niall said they’re running late because they had to pick up Gareth, but to throw on a dance mix. Simon, you know how to do that, right?”

“Yeah, just let me finish up here and I’ll turn it on.”

“He bakes, he bartends, he DJs. What can’t Simon Snow do?” This time, Dev’s tone comes out teasing.

“Dance.”

I know I’ve made a mistake as soon as the word slips off my tongue so I pass over the pitcher and make my way out of the bar counter. I’m not fleeing. I’m just … walking very fast. Because it’s Pippa’s birthday and there ought to be music. No other reason.

“Challenge accepted!” Niamh shouts out after me.

Dammit.

 

By the time Penny shows up, Shep in tow, our crowd of Pippa enthusiasts has grown to nearly fifty. (So much for having leftover scones.) I keep trying to slip back and make another batch but no one will let me, forcing me back onto the dance floor each time so I can flail and twitch for everyone’s amusement.

“Oh no, you’re not getting away that easily.” Gareth catches me by the belt loops when I try once more to escape, this time to pass through the backstage curtain.

“But Baz … ”

“Is a big boy and will join us if he wants to. Now come on, a group of us are playing truth or dare.”

“What are we, teenagers?” I let Gareth lead me over to the big corner booth anyway.

“Well, sort of.” Gareth slips his arm through mine and slows down our walk to accommodate the story he’s settling into. “You see, most queers waste our youth pretending to be a different version of ourselves. Someone smaller, straighter … less masc, less femme. Less … vibrant.”

There’s a lump in my throat at Gareth’s words, a deep sense of being seen I hadn’t realised I was missing. “Ah,” I manage to say.

“Indeed.” He nods sagely, seemingly ignorant of my inner turmoil. “So don’t make fun, love.”

The lump grows. “I wasn’t–”

Gareth pats my arm. “I know you weren’t. That’s why I told you. Some people can get a bit sensitive if you point out their trauma-fueled emotional immaturity, so I wanted to make sure you didn’t misstep later. Not me, of course. I’m immune to shame. Look who I found!” He booms out, pushing me toward the group gathered. “It’s Simon!”

The group of Wanker employees cheers: Niall adds a shouted, “Finally!” while Keris cups her mouth and whoops. Even Agatha and Niamh join in with demure golf claps. Pippa beams.

Penny pats the empty booth beside her. “Sit.”

Inside my throat the lump from earlier threatens to choke me. I give them all a short wave in lieu of talking, then take the seat Penny’s offered.

Gareth takes the spot opposite. “Now, if only we could get Baz to join us.” 

Niall raises their violetta spritz in a cheers. “Better men have tried.”

Gareth winks, a private joke I don’t catch passing between them. 

“So,” Keris drums her hands on the table, “truth or dare. I assume we’ve all played?”

Everyone but me nods; fuck, I wish I had a drink to hide behind but I’ve been sticking to water. Someone ought to stay sober tonight (other than Baz, though he’s in the office and doesn’t really count) (for logistical purposes). However, maybe the haze of alcohol and the overall party atmosphere means no one’s noticed–

“Simon’s not nodding!” Niall shouts out. The rat.

Trixie’s hands fly to her face in a gasp. “Simon! Have you really never played truth or dare?”

“I mean! I understand the general concept … ”

“That’s not a no,” Shep says, leaning around Penny to narrow his eyes at me.

“Oh,” Gareth groans, “spare us your nightlife magazine-level investigative journalism.”

“Hey!” Pippa objects.

Gareth reaches over and pat-pats her hand. “No offence, my dear. I’m sure your fashion column will be top rate next week when it launches.” In the dim light, Gareth’s eyes are soft as they pass over me before landing on a few key people in swift succession. “Besides, there are plenty of variations.” Finally, his gaze returns to Pippa. “It’s your birthday. How about you lay out your preferred rules?”

“Hmm,” she takes a sip of her signature cocktail while debating. “No quota on how many times you can select truth or dare,” (Niall boos goodnaturedly), “but if you pick one and decide to switch, you have to take a shot. Otherwise you must complete the dare or answer the truth. No passing.”

We all nod, myself included. Seems simple enough. Except … 

“We don’t have shots,” I point out, pushing up from seated.

Penny lays a hand on my shoulder. “Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary. Can someone who’s not Simon run an errand for once?”

“Already on it!” Gareth’s jogging away before he finishes his sentence, his flask left behind, spinning on the table with how quickly he’s abandoned it.

“Well,” Niall snatches it up and takes a swig of Gareth’s whisky, smacking their lips, and saying, “no sense in waiting.”

 

Gareth returns as our group’s reeling from the truth we’ve just heard.

“I knew it, I knew it. Pay up.” Niamh taps her palm aggressively in front of Agatha, who sighs and slaps down a handful of quid. Niamh chuckles gleefully as she counts her winnings.

“What did I miss?” Gareth slips into his former seat, leaving Baz standing alone at the head of the table. He’s holding a tray full of shots (tequila, if the salt shaker and limes are related) and he’s changed from earlier, now wearing a burgundy button-up that shimmers where the light hits it. There’s liner under his eyes. False lashes. A hint of glitter on his cheeks.

He looks uncharacteristically nervous.

Baz is about to open his mouth when Dev comes up behind him, sweaty from where he’s been holding down the dance floor with some impromptu performances, nearly spilling the tray of shots Baz balances as he grabs his cousin’s shoulders. “Ooh, are y’all still playing?” 

Dev disappears and comes back in less than a second with two chairs. He takes the one by Gareth and pushes Baz into the one next to me.

“Playing what?” Baz frowns as he sits.

“Truth or dare.” Gareth reaches out and takes a shot, no chaser. “Based on the collective glee, I’d guess Penny’s finally confessed she’s dating Shep, like that’s a secret.”

The outrage is instant. Penny gasps, “It was,” while Keris and Trixie synchronise their, “Ex cuse me!” Agatha tries to shout, “Well, I didn’t know,” over Niamh’s, “I called it ages ago.” Niall laughs silently, their shoulders shaking, while Dev claps a hand on Baz’s shoulder.

(Shep just looks smug.)

“Well,” Baz puts his hands on the table, “I think that’s my cue.”

“Don’t leave!” The words fly out of my mouth before I have a chance to think them. “Please, Baz. Stay.”

The booth choruses their agreement. Dev’s hand squeezes where it grips Baz then releases.

“You’re all very drunk,” Baz points out.

“Nuh uh,” Pippa shakes her head; her buns have nearly fallen out of their elastic and flop pathetically with the movement, “Simon’s sober, too.”

I shrug sheepishly. 

“Oh, but Baz,” Pippa adds, her brown eyes watering, “please. You have to play. It’s my birthday.”

“I … ” Baz sighs. “Fine.”

My stomach flips, like an engine turning over.

“Okay. It’s my turn.” Penny hums as she looks around the booth. “Dev! Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

She drums her fingers on the table then stops abruptly. “Worst pickup line you’ve used on Tinder since downloading it last month.”

“Christ. Well, it’s actually one I used on accident. One girl I matched with had impeccable style so I asked if she thrifts a lot, but, um.” He chuckles. “My phone autocorrected thrifts to throats.”

We all collectively groan; Niall spits out their drink from laughing so hard.

Baz pats Dev’s forearm. “Tough luck, mate.”

Dev playfully bats Baz’s hand away while Agatha helps mop up Niall’s spilt drink and Keris tops up the glasses with the pitcher I’ve made. My chest cat comes back, purring like a motor at the sight of us, all here, together. Celebrating Pippa. Finally complete.

“Okay, Dev. Who d’you pick?” Gareth prompts.

“Simon,” Dev says without hesitation. “Truth or dare.”

“Dare.” I picked truth last time. (Keris: “What’s the weirdest place you’ve had sex?”

“My bed?” I wasn’t sure how to answer; I hope wanking counts. That’s solo sex, right? I’m not sure I want to announce I’m a virgin at Pippa’s birthday party.)

Dev narrows his eyes at me. “How about you give the birthday girl a kiss?”

I resist the urge to look at Baz for his reaction. “If she’s okay with that.” I turn to Pippa. “You can say no.”

She’s blushing so fiercely I almost turn myself down for her but then she nods.

I crook my finger and half-rise out of my seat, leaning over the table. “Forehead? Temple? Cheek?”

Niall boos again and I hear the distinct noise of their arm being slapped. I keep my focus on Pippa.

She points at her lips.

“Okay.”

I wait until she closes her eyes to place my hand on her jaw for balance. I’ve done this before, at least. Shouldn’t be too different. What Shep told me about demisexuality flits across my mind as I close the gap between me and Pippa, pressing my lips against hers.

I count down from five.

Two, one. “That alright?”

“Uh huh.” Pippa’s nodding with her eyes still closed.

Niall gently places their hands on her shoulders and helps her to sit. “I think the birthday girl needs a moment.”

Pippa presses her fingers to her lips. Her flush has narrowed to two bright red points on her cheeks. She seems out of breath.

I almost wish I felt the same but it’s as I’ve always felt after a kiss: like everything and nothing is touching me all at once. Like I’m in a crowd of people and I’m very much alone.

The cold slump of my stomach sets in when I retake my seat. “That was nice,” I say, but no one hears me over the sound of everyone cheering for the kiss. Dev even wolf-whistles.

In the periphery of my vision, I see Baz frown.

I clear my throat. “Pippa. It’s your turn.”

She blinks a few times and gives a full body shake before picking Niamh. That truth, “What in the world is going on with your arm scratches,” sends the group spinning on the tale of one Katy Purry, a $1,500 Persian cat which Niamh has finally adopted in fulfilment of a childhood dream, who apparently favours Agatha’s indifference over Niamh’s pampering.

“The bitch cost two paychecks and she keeps shitting in my Docs. Slices me up whenever I try to scratch behind her ears, which the breeder swore the cat loves. Then Katy screams her head off whenever Agatha goes for a run like she’s been abandoned.”

“The funny thing is, I’m allergic,” Agatha adds, a wry smile on her face like she knows just how funny Niamh doesn’t find it. “I won’t even pet her.”

Niamh rolls her eyes and Agatha bites her lips, a fond look on her face.

I laugh along on instinct, feeling none of the warmth I’m trying to display as my heart pumps ice through its veins, sharp edges dragging as the sheets travel the length of my body. 

Gareth shares his favourite lay (“Niall, of course”) and Niall confesses the recipe for their latest invention, The Mutual Wank, just as everyone’s choking it down (“Jager and mayo, bitches”) and Shep argues he’s allowed to have Mothman listed as one of his celebrity exceptions (“Anyone who’s been in a tabloid counts as a celebrity”) and eventually I realise I’m answering, “Dare,” to Agatha’s prompting even as it breaks my pattern.

She taps her chin but it’s clear by the look on her face that she’s had this one locked and loaded. “Hmm … I dare you to kiss … Niall.”

They’re crooking a finger this time, rising out of their seat in a second. “No need to check-in, Simon. I fully consent to whatever knocked Pippa’s socks off.”

“Not wearing socks,” she say. “My knickers, on the other hand … ”

The sound of my heartbeat drowns out the table’s laughter, a steady beat that doesn’t falter, speed or slow despite Niall’s soft, gloss-covered lips pressing against mine, now releasing with a slight smack.

They fan themselves as they slump back against the booth. “Wow, Pippa. You weren’t kidding.”

“Mmm,” she says, leaning against Niall’s shoulder like they both need a moment of solidarity.

Strangely, the ice thaws a little at this development. It helps a bit, knowing it’s not just Pippa. It’s Niall, too. And Sabrina. And Ken. A few others … lovely people I’ve liked, or thought I liked, or like currently. They just don’t do anything for me. Not physically.

Maybe I am like Penny. That wouldn’t be so bad, I think, looking over at where she’s tucked under Shep’s shoulder. Shep, who explained the varying shades of ace to me in a calm, patient manner, redirecting me whenever I slipped into bad habits.

“Stop calling yourself broken,” Shep said. “If you want love–”

“I do,” I said. “I really do.”

“Then the right person will accept you as is: whole and unaltered and uniquely you.”

Around the table, I force myself to see what I’ve spent a lifetime ignoring. That it’s not about the different ways we don’t fit into the world. It’s not about the corners we push ourselves into and the closets in which we hide. It’s about the light we shine even when we feel our darkest. 

It’s about defying boundaries. It’s about loving without limit. It’s about kindness in honesty.

It’s about the bravery it takes to be vulnerable.

Truth or dare. Daring to be true.

I’m smiling about my epiphany when Baz nudges my side. “It’s your turn to pick.”

“Oh. But last time … ”

Gareth winks.

I clear my throat. “Okay, then. Baz. Truth or dare.”

“Ah,” he smirks, “should have seen that one coming. Truth.”

I prop my chin in one hand, resting my elbow on the table. “What’s your favourite song to perform to?” 

“Primadonna.”

The table groans.

“Waste of a truth. For fuck’s sake, Simon,” Niall says, “we all know that.”

“Well I didn’t.”

Dev tilts his head to one side, something considering on his face before he schools it into neutral. “He’s such a cliché, Simon. He performs it every year on his birthday because the tosser thinks it’s his life motto. Normally, he finishes off the night with a reprise performance.”

“On his birthday … ” 

“But I guess he didn’t have a chance this year. Pity.”

Baz snaps to Dev. “Don’t.”

“What am I doing?” Dev blinks his lashes innocently. “You know, it’s your turn, Bazzy.”

“How good of you to remind me?” Baz seethes. “Hmm … let’s pick: Dev. Truth or dare.”

“Surprise, surprise.” Dev smirks. “Truth.” Then, when Baz chuckles maniacally, Dev starts to backpedal. “No, wait! Shit.”

Gareth clicks his tongue and sing-songs, “If you wanna switch, you gotta take a shot.”

Dev’s eyes drag over to the tray at the centre of our table. There’s only Mutual Wanks left. Three of them sitting out for at least half an hour. I can’t imagine mayo keeps well at room temperature, not to mention how warm it’s gotten inside with the dance floor consistently churning out sweaty bodies.

“Fine. I’ll stick with truth.”

Baz rolls up the sleeves to his black button up. A soft dusting of black hair catches the light as he drapes his forearms over the table. “My truth … ” Baz holds the audience with as well-timed a pause as the ones he’s built into his performances “ … is … ”

“Would you get on with it?” Dev grits out.

“Okay.” Baz smirks. “Tell us: who do you have a crush on?”

“I don’t have a crush. I’m not a teenage girl,” Dev sneers.

“Hey.” Gareth snaps his fingers then waggles one in Dev’s face. “None of that. Answer his question or take a shot.”

Dev doesn’t have to look over at the curdling mayo to make his lip curl. “I … ”

The table leans in, a hive mind connected by the singular desire to hear this gossip because Dev’s pouted about being single for months. Downloaded Tinder. Keeps complaining that straight girls don’t want to date drag queens. That anyone worth dating isn't interested in him. 

I didn’t realise he had someone specific in mind.

“It’s Pippa, okay? Are you all satisfied?” Then, in the same breath he turns to her and adds, “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Are you sorry it’s me?”

“What?” His eyes widen. “No! Pippa, I … I’m only apologising because I didn’t want to ruin your birthday.”

She tips up her chin. “Because it sounds like you’re embarrassed–”

He shakes his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. No, I could never be embarrassed about–Christ, Pippa you’re … you’re sweet and kind and you have every reason to hate the world but you don’t. You see the good in everyone. Even me. I’d never assume you’d look at me and see someone you could–”

“Oh my god,” she interrupts him, rolling her eyes even as a smile spreads across her face, “you adorable idiot. Hold on,” she starts crawling over Gareth’s lap in her haste to leave the booth and get to Dev. 

Gareth laughs and puts his hands up, trying to get out of her way despite the lack of space. “I could have just moved.”

“No time.” She finally topples off his lap, nearly fumbling her landing but Dev catches her, his arms around her waist and hers gripping his shoulders.

She blinks down at him. He smiles up at her, looking both surprised and pleased

“And I think that’s my cue. Come on.” Niamh makes a shooing motion at Agatha, who turns to Shep, who pushes Penny, who cocks an eyebrow at me, who turns to Baz and shrugs.

(Keris and Trixie left ages ago to water their plants like the unproblematic queens we should one day aspire to become).

We file out of our booth the long way ’round and I bump into Baz as the others shove me out of the way, laughing, “To think you almost missed this.”

“I know,” he says, smiling.

 

Pippa and Dev step onto the patio with glasses of water to sober up and talk. Penny yawns as she drags Shep out the front door. “I need my fucking rest if I’m meant to survive cake tasting with Samantha.”

Shep makes significant eye contact with me and pantomimes texting. I’m sure he wants a debrief over how I felt about those kisses. I send him a thumbs up, in case he’s worried.

Niall steps behind the bar and Gareth heads toward the sound booth, probably game planning how best to introduce static into my new settings. 

“Where did Agatha and Niamh go?”

“Niamh’s scratches started bleeding again so I think they’re backstage using the first aid kit.”

I elbow Baz’s side. “Speaking of first aid kits … ”

“Simon.”

“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday that night of the fight!”

He sighs. “It’s really no big deal. The employees know I don’t like to celebrate so I just perform my dances, accept my bows … it’s enough.”

“Still. I ruined it.”

Baz snaps his gaze to me so fast his hair whips the side of my face. “No. Don’t say that.”

“But I—”

“You didn’t. Whatever you’re thinking, you … can we drop it?” He swipes a hand through his hair. “You know, I never got to ask you.”

“About what?”

“The game. Truth or dare?”

I chuckle awkwardly. When he doesn’t say anything else, I realise he’s not just trying to change the subject. “Are you serious?”

“I am! And don’t forget, there’s still three Mutual Wanks left.”

“Gross. Don’t remind me.”

I think over the options. It feels like there’s too many landmines a truth could uncover. Too many things I’m still learning about myself. Besides, what’s the worst thing Baz would make me do? 

“Okay. Dare,” I say.

A grin splits Baz’s face. Oh god. “I dare you to dance with me.”

I wave my hands. “Oh, no. No, no. You don’t really want that.”

“I can assure you I do. Dev said you danced earlier.” There’s a twinkle in Baz’s eyes as he performs a quick box step, just to tease me.

“Yeah, terribly, Baz. I swear I have three left feet. Seriously, I’m a mess.”

“You could never be. Not to me. Come on.” He extends his hand, cocks his eyebrow. Waits.

I could never be so cruel as to leave him hanging so I place my palm against his. “Just remember. You asked for this.”

“I’m not likely to forget,” he says as he guides me onto the dance floor.

At this point, the regulars have dwindled to about a dozen, most of them cooling down at tables along the Wanker’s edges. Only Keris and Trixie remain on the floor, back from their errands and practising their swing out moves at the stage’s edge.

“I hope you’re not expecting that level of expertise.” I jerk my chin in their direction as he drops my hand.

He ignores me, turning toward the sound booth and giving Gareth some signal I don’t recognise. Over the speaker the current playlist cuts out and a new song begins, something slow with a clear beat. A woman vocalises. Her voice sounds familiar; I predict she’s about to sing, “Baby,” just before she does.

“I think I know this song,” I tell Baz.

He hums like he hasn’t heard me. “Here.” He grabs both of my hands this time, guiding them to his hips. He steps closer to me as he drapes his arms over my shoulders, his cologne washing over me like a wave. “Sway,” he says, demonstrating, his hips tilting side to side, muscles shifting beneath my palms, my fingertips. “Now you.”

I try to mimic his movements, though mine come out so jerky I nearly trip over my toes.

“Just keep your feet in one place and sway. Sway,” he commands me. He’s taking deep breaths and releasing them, another instruction.

I find that easier to mimic. In the background, I hear the woman sing, “Are you listenin’?”

Eventually, my hips start to sway with less effort, like Baz has found a way to lube them.

“There we are,” he coos, “lovely. Now, try and move your feet again.” He shakes his hair out, the strands catching in the rainbow lights that strobe over the dance floor. I catch the moment he switches his side-to-side motions into tiny figure-eights and starts moving his legs to match.

“When you say you need me … ”

This time, I follow him without issue.

“So good, Simon.”

The cat curled around my heart stretches, languid and sated. I feel like I could float onto a cloud, like I could become light enough to live there.

Baz steps closer and my grip on his hips tightens. My fingers flex.

“I am crying out … for you.”  

This time, I close the space between us, my hands drifting up toward where his waist tapers beneath his rib cage. I test to see if my thumbs can touch over his navel, like they nearly did when he was wearing his corset, only he’s broader now without it. Too big for me to hold in just my hands. (I still want to try.)

“So scared.”

We get close enough for our chests to touch. Baz adjusts his stance so one of his legs slips into the centre of mine. One of my hands drifts up his spine, feeling its ridges beneath my palm. The other presses against his lower back, just above his waist band. We’re still swaying, moving. Against my neck, I feel his fingers twitching.

“Boy, I adore you. I adore you.”

This time, I let my head rest on his shoulder. He’s so sturdy. Solid. He doesn’t look like it, thin as he is, but he’s substantial. Immovable. (Inevitable.) His fingers thread through my hair, gently stroking. My nose rubs against the juncture of his jaw and neck; there’s a bit of stubble scratching my skin. Sandpaper. Like a cat’s tongue. God. I want to lick it.

Maybe I’m not like Penny at all. 

It’s not wrong, I remind myself, as my pulse speeds up, fast, so fast. “I could do this for eternity.” I could hide here, in the space Baz makes for me. I could die here.

No. I could live here. God, I could come fully to life if only I could breathe the whole of him into my body and hold everything he makes me feel inside this mess of a body. I … 

The tips of his fingers tease the collar of my shirt, dipping under then darting away. Tiny whispers of sensation that send shivers down my spine. 

My throat’s dry. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades. My palms lie flat on his spine: one holding his chest tight against mine, the other bringing our hips together. I’m panting warm breaths into his skin and I can feel his pulse through where I’m resting my forehead on his neck.

Each expansion of his lungs is a tease. Each fleeting graze of his fingers … his heart’s beating so fast but he won’t touch me. I want him to touch me. I want him to grip my hair. I want him to stop being so goddamn gentle. 

I want.

I’ve never wanted like this before. I’ve never wanted someone like this before.

My hands tighten into fists, grabbing hold of his shirt and wrinkling it, possibly irrevocably. 

How can people stand it? This feeling. This bubbling up inside of every needy ugly piece of myself seeking light, seeking discovery. Seeking not just acknowledgment but fucking acceptance. Fucking love.

I hate it.

“Know I need you more.”

I whisper my lips over Baz’s neck. I bring our hips flush. He gasps, a tiny sound I could swallow, steal, because that’s who I am now. That’s what wanting has made me. A creature selfish enough to snatch the soul through Baz’s lungs and hold it inside me until I can pretend I’m a part of him. Until I can pretend I’m worthy of him.

I want to be. Worthy. 

The song starts to fade away. Baz’s fingers tease down my neck.

I want … 

Our hips sway, and sway.

I want–

I break away, pushing Baz off me. “Sor–” I have to clear my throat, swallowing a few times because my mouth’s so dry I can’t speak. Eventually, I croak, “I need some water.”

Baz nods, his eyebrows furrowing, a look on his face that I … 

I can’t.

I stumble to the bar counter, arms wrapped around my waist as I dart my eyes around the room but no one’s looking at me (except Baz). Everyone’s too absorbed in their own world, their own crisis. They can’t be bothered with mine. (I see Baz slip behind the backstage curtain, his shoulders hunched, his posture shot to hell. So unlike him … )

The instant I step behind the counter I grab the nearest plastic cup, filling it with tap water and immediately slump to the ground. So what if the floor’s sticky; I’m protected back here. No one can see me. No one can … 

I force myself to drink the water. It’s so cold it nearly burns, a contrast to the fire I felt earlier.

Don’t think.

I catalogue what’s around me, hoping the familiarity will soothe the ache of what I don’t understand. The flannel I caught on fire drapes over the wash bucket; its tiny burn mark on display. There’s a bottle of sparkly purple vodka Dev made Niall buy for Pippa because it’s her … 

Don’t think!

I was the last person to restock the maraschino cherries so there’s a sticky thumbprint on the side from where I taxed it. Someone bought the bottle of gin I saw advertised on TikTok. I see the remnants of Pippa’s scones littered on the floor; a few errant sour cherries I’m tempted to eat in my emotional distress because it beats having to sweep them into the trash tomorrow morning.

Pippa’s birthday scones.

I close my eyes and remember this morning: Baz trusting me to save the day. This afternoon: Baz joining me in the kitchen, in my space, in that apron. The way his lips felt on my fingertips. The way he opened his mouth for more. The way he looked standing with a tray of shots. Shining.

Nervous.

The way he pulled me onto the dance floor.

Brave, brave, brave.

The way he looked when I left him, alone.

I’m standing before I know it. Someone calls out my name. “I’ll be back in a minute!”

I nearly laugh at the thought, passing through the front door into the cool, spring evening.

I know all the nearby food places.

 

It’s not the Wanker as I know it when I return. There are no bright lights or pulsing crowds, no jobs to do or coworkers to distract me. There’s only a beautiful building that’s more than its wood accents, rich textures and polished copper. Closed, but not empty.

I seem alone, but I know I’m not.

There’s a light on down the hallway.

The backstage curtain flickers in the aircon, revealing a sliver of brightness that comes and goes and beckons all the same.

I don’t need to see him to know.

Baz.

For once, I don’t want to hide or fight. I want to be seen. Embraced.

I slip past the curtain.

My footsteps echo as I walk across the tile, passing by the kitchen, the dressing rooms, the various closets and bathrooms and spaces that make up but don’t fully comprise what makes this bar home, what makes this bar mine.

I push open the door to his office.

Baz has his elbows on his desk, his hands threaded through his hair. He looks up when I enter, dropping his hands to the wooden surface. “Simon? What are you–?”

“Happy birthday,” I say, pulling out the cupcake I’ve kept hidden behind my back. 

It’s nothing special. Store-bought and full of artificial colours, fake flavours; cake-imitating-cake and barely even that. I don’t even have a candle to light.

“Is that what you … but it’s not my birthday.” Baz’s eyes remain fixed on the cupcake as he stands.

I step in fully, letting the door shut behind me with a soft click. “I know it’s two months too late but I hated knowing that you spent your birthday cleaning up my mess and thought … you do so much for … for Pippa, for the bar. For me.”

He steps around his desk. “Simon … ”

“You said … earlier, you pointed out the things I pay attention to but it’s more than that. It’s more than me being observant; I’m not, actually. I don’t see everything. I barely see anything.”

Just you.

“What are you saying?” He’s closing the gap between us, approaching me with measured steps like I might bolt if startled. Like I’m not already caught in his trap and willing to be taken.

“I’m saying,” my spine hits the door, seeking support in the wake of that look in his eyes, “I see you. Baz. I see you, and I’m wondering … ”

“What do you wonder?” His eyes search mine, looking for answers I don’t have. Not yet. I don’t need to tell myself not to think; I can’t. Not when he’s so close to me. His scent, his heat, his … Baz.

“I … ”

He leans into my space, taking the cupcake out of my hand and placing it with care on the nearest clear space.

I swallow. I try again. “I … ”

“Is this … ” He takes one hand, moving it toward my face.

I nod.

He threads his fingers through my curls, his nails dragging along my scalp as I shiver. I feel his breath on my face when he asks, “Is this what you wonder about?”

My hair makes a soft rasping noise brushing against the door as I keep nodding.

“I could help you … ” he caresses my face with the back of his other hand, running his index knuckle along my cheekbone “ … stop wondering. I could. Simon … ” He cups my cheek in his palm. He rubs his nose along my jawline. He whispers, “Tell me you won’t regret this.”

“I—”

He kisses the promise off my lips.

 

 

 

Notes:

The way I listened to "Adore You" on repeat for like, a month, picturing their slow dance.

Chapter 5: I Want to Kiss You

Chapter by facewithoutheart

Notes:

Chapter title and intro lyrics from I Want to Kiss You by The Spook School

I wanna run my fingers through your hair
And tell you that I've never done this before
With someone like you
With someone like you
With someone like you

 

Okay.

Okay.

Baz is kissing me.

The door presses against my back. One of Baz’s hands cups my face, the other’s threaded through my hair. I tilt my chin upward. Baz makes a low humming sound. I feel it.

Baz is kissing me.

He strokes over my cheek with his thumb. He’s so close I can feel his eyelashes flutter. His fingers tighten where they grip my curls. He adjusts our angle, noses kissing in the brief moment our lips part before I chase after another taste. I can feel his smile.

Baz is kissing me.

There’s a distant roaring in my ears as I fist his shirt and flip us, pushing Baz against the door and opening my mouth against his with a groan. He sucks in a breath. Both of his hands fly to the back of my head as he cants his hips forward.

Fuck. He’s … he’s …

Arousal slams into my body with the force of a freight train. My hands thrust between us, grabbing at his shirt buttons with shaking fingers. Finally I get my hands on his bare skin. God, his chest hair. I thumb over one nipple and he arches his back.

“Simon,” he gasps.

What, what is this hunger? I’m starving like I’ve never been full. I can’t get enough of him, his peaked nipple his thick chest hair his, “ohh, fuck me,” I groan as my thumb passes over his navel, the jeweled bat he keeps there, warm to the touch where I find it.

“Simon!” 

There’s an edge to his voice which breaks the spell; I fumble backward. Baz catches me by my wrists, halting my retreat. 

“Hey, hey,” he says in a soft voice that contradicts his appearance: hair mussed and lips red and saliva on his chin. Mine. His shirt’s open down to his waistband, barely tucked. There’s a button missing. I can see the line of his cock down one of his trouser legs. Some of his glitter’s gotten on his nose.

His grip on my wrists tightens; I must have been tugging. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to … ” he sighs, a fond smile spreading as he rubs his thumbs over my pulse point. “I only meant slow down, love. There’s no rush.”

My eyes drag across his exposed chest. That damn belly button ring. “Speak for yourself,” I mutter.

He chuckles, bringing one of my clenched fists to his mouth. He presses a kiss to my scarred knuckles. “I know you’re teasing, but I am speaking for myself. I don’t want to push you.” 

“If anything, I’m pushing you.”

“Simon … ” He drops my wrists in favour of cupping my face in both his palms; since he’s started touching me he doesn’t seem eager to stop. One of his thumbs keeps brushing over a cluster of moles I’ve got on one cheek. “I watched you kiss Pippa, and Niall. You didn’t like it.”

“It’s not that I didn’t–” I cut myself off with a groan. “I like kissing you.”

“Do you?”

“Baz,” I laugh. “I think you felt how much I like kissing you.”

He blushes. 

I grasp one of his wrists, a light hold he could easily break. His eyes widen slightly. 

Slowly, I drag his flattened hand down my neck, my chest, until his fingertips curve over the top of my jeans. “Yeah?”

He nods, slipping his hand out from under mine to ghost his palm over my crotch. He cups where I’m half-hard. 

“Oh,” he says. His hand flexes, almost involuntary. “You feel … ”

I drop my head on his shoulder. My hands find his hips for balance.

He unbuttons my jeans and slips his hand inside over my pants, exploring without much pressure. There’s a not-so-small voice in my head that whispers how gross I must feel: sweat and precome dampening a pair of boxers I’ve been wearing since this morning.

Baz’s hand stills. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Nothing I can’t manage. “Keep going.”

“I don’t want to argue with you—”

“That’s what people always say, right before they argue with you.”

“Right.” Baz removes his hand.

“I said I’m fine.”

“We’re not doing this here.”

I step back, at first to adjust myself but apparently I don’t need to do that anymore. I zip up my jeans easily. “Okay.”

I can make this work. We’ve only kissed. I’ve kissed people before. Pippa and Niall, this same night, even. It’s not like I can’t push through the awkward. Just a few days to reset my expectations. That's how long it used to take me every time a care home worker I liked moved on. Two days, four. A week, max.

“So are you coming or what?”

When I look up I see Baz’s got my duffle over his shoulder. How did he know where to find it? He's buttoned up his shirt as best he can, fixed his hair. He's wearing that jacket I like. (It’s got blue sequins.) 

“Coming … where?”

He rolls his eyes. “To my flat, you numpty. What? Did you think I was done with you?” He stomps over, grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls me in for another kiss. “I have plans for you, Simon Snow,” he whispers against my lips.

“Oh,” I say.

I can make that work, too.

 

Baz leads me toward his flat, his hand tightly gripping mine. I catch him looking over at me whenever we pass under streetlights. I squeeze his hand each time. I’m still here.

He smiles back. Okay.

Good.

There’s a tiny seed growing in the centre of me, the feel of Baz’s palm pressed against mine, sunlight.

 

It’s a short walk until we’re standing in front of a three-story brick building. A curtain flutters from a window on the top floor.

“Miss Clapham,” Baz says, turning his key in the lock. “She gets nervous if I’m out too late.” He waves up at her and her face disappears into darkness.

“You’ve got a surrogate nan.” It’s hard keeping the smile off my face.

“She’s my landlord.”

“Okay.” My lips are still twitching. “And does she bake you biscuits … ?”

“Lemon drizzle.” He pushes me over the threshold and locks the door behind us.

“I like lemon drizzle.”

“Of course you do.” He points up the staircase. “First floor. Door on your right.”

I give him an awkward salute as I’m toeing off my shoes. Thankfully he doesn’t see it, too busy bustling around the flat, straightening items like I’d ever judge. I do wish he’d let me poke around first. Study the photos over his mantle. But. Plans.

I head upstairs.

I do take the time to investigate the paintings he’s hung in parallel with the staircase as I climb. Some abstract, lots of fashion. A tiny embroidered mushroom with the words, “I’m a fungi,” stitched beneath it in pink thread. I let myself trace the words before heading into Baz’s bedroom. 

It smells like him in here. All his walls are bare but a few frames lean against one corner. A project, something he’d left for later. For how long, I wonder. Maybe he’ll tell me.

I’ve almost gathered the nerve to touch Baz’s white sheets when he comes into the room. I look over on instinct. He’s holding two bottles of water in one hand, the other balancing a tray of biscuits.

“In case you get hungry,” he says. Not ‘we.’ You.

Suddenly, I can’t stand the distance. “Can … can you come here?”

He nods, setting down the tray on his dresser. He brings the water with him, placing the bottles beside his sleep mask. He stands next to me. His hands flutter about. Empty.

“Hey.” I thread my fingers through his and tug him closer, placing his hands on my hips. He fists the shirt just above my waistband. “Hey.” He’s shaking.

It loosens something in me, how nervous he is. 

“Why don’t you tell me,” I nuzzle the space under his jaw, “about your plans.”

He exhales a shaky breath. “Naked. I want you naked in my bed.”

“And then?”

“And then,” his fists flatten as he brings his hands to my back and holds me tight, “I want to take my time.”

 

Baz turns off the overhead light (“So you’re more comfortable.”) in favour of the bedside lamp (“So I can see.”). Still, I feel exposed as I strip my shirt over my head, skin raising to goose flesh as I reveal it.

“Are you cold?”

“Um … ”

“Here.” Baz pulls the sheets down. “Get in.”

“But you wanted—”

“You. Naked in my bed. There wasn’t a particular order.”

Part of me wants to object though mostly I appreciate the reprieve. It’s more challenging, taking my jeans off while trying to stay covered, but it’s comforting being surrounded by Baz’s scent, even as he stands by the foot of his bed, watching me. 

Eventually my jeans fall to the ground in a graceless thud, my pants trapped somewhere in the tangle. “Um.” I sit up against his pillows, flattening the sheets beside me until I realise how that emphasises where I’m half hard and growing under Baz’s heated gaze.

“Yes,” Baz says, answering a question I didn’t ask.

He’s still fully clothed.

“Are you planning to join me?”

When he smirks, I fully rouse, my cock tenting the sheets.

He begins to unbutton his shirt slowly. Good god. Inch by inch he reveals skin I’ve seen before but never like this. He shakes out his hair, tilts up his chin, exposes that lean, long neck of his. My mouth waters.

Tugging out the tails of his shirt, he faces away from me. He twists his head to look back and slips one of the sides of his shirt down, baring one shoulder.

I suddenly get those cartoons where men turn to dogs and howl, “Ah- wooo -gah!” I rub my thighs with my hands to dispel some tension. Beneath the sheets, my cock twitches.

Baz slips his shirt fully off, dropping the fabric from elbow to floor in one fluid motion. He tilts his hips so his trouser fabric pulls over his arse. I can hear but can’t see him unfasten his belt, pop a button, slowly unzip his fly.

I’ve started to dampen his high-thread-count sheets with my precome. 

From the way Baz has his hips cocked, it takes a lot of wiggling to get his trousers over his arse and down his thighs. Relaxed muscle jiggles with the movement. I’m hypnotised, mouth slackened. It’s like I always feel when he performs: caught in his gravity and falling, falling.

He’s fully naked in front of me. My breath catches as he turns. It should be weird: the way his prick strains, pointing like an arrow toward me, but all I can see is the bead of precome at his tip, the way his sharp canines catch on his bottom lip. The way he’s looking at me like I’m all he can see.

“Please,” I beg and he walks toward me. I shuffle lower under the sheets. He lifts them and a wash of cool air flows over my skin, then he lays on the bed and shifts toward me, the mattress squeaking. He brings me his heat then captures it by replacing the sheets around us.

His scent is stronger now. His cologne plus something earthier. Musky. Baz concentrate. I put my hand on his waist. He mirrors my movement. We shift closer. The tip of his cock pokes the edge of my hip. Oh, god.

I raise myself on one elbow and swing a leg over him, pushing his body beneath mine. I keep my hips high as I catch his lips, slowly coaxing his mouth open with my tongue, sliding my hands into his hair. His hands slide down my back, cupping my arse, his fingers teasing the crease, and suddenly every feeling heightens. I groan, dropping my hips, my tip nudging his stomach, leaving a sticky trail through coarse hair as I twitch against him.

“Simon,” he whispers. I open my eyes, thinking he needs something but his eyes are closed, his mouth relaxed, ecstasy in his exhales, joy in the lines of his face.

I cup the sides of his face with my hands and trace his features with my thumbs. His dark eyebrows. Crooked nose. The cupid’s bow he always accentuates with liner. His plump, bottom lip.

“Kiss me,” he whispers, and I do, pushing every ounce of what I’m feeling into it, even what I haven’t yet admitted to myself.

My cock rubs against his stomach; his cock slips between the join of my hip and thigh, nudging my balls, and there’s an ache deep inside me. I think he could fill it. I want him to try. I just want.

“God, you feel … ” He trails off.

“I know.” I don’t exactly. But there’s something unspoken in the way his hands roam my body. Something we share through the slow rock of my hips. Something important in our gasps. His face in my hands. My body on his. His skin. His skin.

Tension twists inside me. Pressure. I’m … “I’m close.”

His hand shifts and wraps around my cock. I cry out. Baz makes a soft noise at the back of his throat, almost a coo.

“I’ve got you, Simon. I’ve—”

I come on his stomach with a shudder, eyes clenched close, mouth open, a sharper than normal exhale.

He’s kissing my eyelids, my cheeks, the tip of my nose. “Lovely. Oh, you’re so lovely, Simon. Thank you.”

I huff a laugh as I fall to the mattress beside him. “Not sure why you’re thanking me.”

“Don’t question it,” he says, and he balances one hand on my chest as he flips our position, straddling my thighs. He slicks a hand with my release and wraps it around his cock. “Do you mind if I—”

“Not at all.” I shift around until I’ve got a better view. “I like your performances.”

The laugh shocks out of him, his eyes crinkling with delight. “Oh, do you.”

I put my hands on his hips. “I like watching you do things that bring you joy.”

“Then watch this.” He tilts his head up to the ceiling and lifts his hips, thrusting into his hand, thighs flexing. He’s still balancing one palm on my chest. 

“Is that comfortable?”

He smiles down at me. “I have good core strength.”

My hands flex on his hips. “Yeah. You didn’t answer my question, though.”

He hums and thrusts faster.

I start to bring my hands up his sides. Without the pressure of impending orgasm, I have the leisure to explore. I feel where his ribs press against skin as they expand and contract with rapid breaths. I rub a thumb over one nipple; he groans. I thumb over the other and he gasps.

Feeling bold, I sit up and ghost a hot breath across his left nipple, then flick my tongue over the tip.

“That’s good,” Baz groans.

“Yeah?” I suck it into my mouth.

“Mmm. Maybe less teeth.”

“Sorry.” I lie flat against his pillows.

“I didn’t say stop.”

“It’s okay. I can see you better like this.”

He cocks an eyebrow but thankfully doesn’t push. He closes his eyes again and keeps thrusting.

It’s not that I don’t like watching Baz chase his own pleasure, but with his eyes closed and my hands on his hips it feels like I’m not even here, like I’m not even necessary.

I move one hand to his thigh. “Can I … ”

“Oh.” Baz releases his cock. “I didn’t think you’d—oh,” he groans when I take him in hand. “Oh,” he shudders, falling forward slightly, “Simon.”

“You like that?” My voice doesn’t even sound like mine; so much deeper and raspier than normal. 

He nods, both hands falling to my chest. His head drops; we watch Baz’s cock slip through my fist. I’m doing so much better at this than the nipples. I switch hands briefly to spit into my palm, then redouble my efforts with the wetter hand.

“F-fuck,” Baz says. His hips are moving again, this time with involuntary thrusts, graceless twitches. His hands cup and squeeze my pecs; sometimes his nails dig in a bit, especially when I thumb under his head. “God.”

“Yeah,” I grunt. I’m already starting to get hard again. 

Baz notices. He starts to move forward. “Hold—”

“Good idea.” I pick my hand off his hip and loosen my grip on his cock so he can settle his arse over my half-hard prick. 

He starts rubbing back and forth until I’m fully hard against him. “That good?”

I nod. It’s dry, and I’m a bit oversensitive, but I like being close to him like this. I like that he can feel what he does to me, every single throb.

He seems to like it, too, by the way he starts whimpering. I tighten my grip on his cock, speeding up my strokes. He rubs against me. He’s squeezing my pecs absently. His eyes close.

I want him to look at me.

“Baz,” I whisper.

“Mmm.” He opens his eyes but keeps his gaze on where I’m touching him.

“Baz.”

“Simon,” he moans, his head dropping between his shoulders.

I want … I need him to look up.

Please. I stare at the top of his head. Please.

“Si—oh, love,” he sighs, finally returning my gaze. He cups my face in his hands. “Look at you,” he says, shaking his head. “Look at you.”

“Baz,” I whimper.

He drops a kiss on the tip of my nose. “I’ve got you.”

He presses his forehead against mine and his breaths fall in hot waves over my face. It feels so much better like this, close, my cock against his arse, his cock in my hand. 

“Are you—”

I can hear his swallow. “Yes.”

“Can—”

He kisses me with a low hum; I feel it in my chest. My heart flutters. Baz.  

My hand slides up his waist, easily with the sweat slicking his skin. I pull him forward until he’s flush against me, my hand moving off his cock so he can use my stomach as friction.

“Like this,” I tell him.

He groans into my mouth, his hips stuttering.

I reach down and grip my cock, positioning it between Baz’s arse cheeks and holding it there for a testing thrust.

“Oh.”

“I won’t put it in,” I promise, “but I—”

“Yes,” Baz moans.

“Just wanna be—”

“Please.”

“Closer.” 

“You could,” Baz whispers against my lips. “You could put it in me.”

My cock throbs; I know he feels it. My tip catches on his rim. It wouldn’t take much. I bet he’s got condoms in his nightstand. Lube. Depending on which instructional articles I read I’d only have to use one finger, maybe two. 

But.

“Not yet.” I kiss him as I round my hand, creating a looser pocket to fuck into, more tease than friction.

“Okay.” He takes the rejection in stride, trailing a line of open-mouthed kisses across my jaw and down my neck. I tilt my head to give him better access. He hums, lips pursed over my pulse point. His hips speed up their rhythm.

I drag one hand up his spine, keeping his chest pressed to mine. I can almost feel our heartbeats sync. “I like this,” I tell him. 

“I like this, too.”

But that’s not … “I like you,” I try instead.

“Like you,” he echoes. 

“Baz … ”

“Yeah—ohh,” he groans as he comes, “ahh,” he spatters warmth and wetness on my belly. I hold him through his last shuddering thrusts, both hands on his back, stroking gently.

When I try to pepper his face in kisses like he did for me, he turns away with a grimace. “Gross. I’m gross,” he clarifies at the tension that word drew into my spine. 

I force a chuckle. “Oh. Okay. I can … ” I try to move but Baz shakes his head, pinning my chest down as he moves off the bed.

“I’ve got it. You’re a guest so just … ” He rushes into the bathroom without finishing his instruction.

So I wait on his bed, covered in various liquids starting to turn cold, my hands playing with his wrinkled sheets for something to do.

“Would you like a—” Baz cuts himself off at whatever he finds on my face. “Oh, Simon.” He drops the tray of biscuits he’d picked up. They land with a clatter that’s still sounding when he curls up in the bed beside me, tutting as he uses the flannel he’d moistened to clean up our mess. “You’re not half pathetic, you know. Like I’d left the family dog out in the rain.”

I shrug one shoulder. I thought this was a well-known fact. “Wasn’t doing it on purpose.”

“I know you weren’t. That’s what makes it only half.” He drops a kiss on my forehead. He clicks his tongue and sighs. “What am I going to do with you, Simon Snow?”

Keep me. “I dunno,” I twist his sheets in one of my hands, “but I could really go for a biscuit right now.”

Baz smiles and drops his chin. His false lashes are still firm in place; they flutter. “Good thing I came prepared.”

 

I’ve always had trouble sleeping in new places, so it’s not exactly a surprise when I wake before Baz. 

The room’s mostly dark due to Baz’s blackout curtains but there are a few gaps through which sunlight escapes, illuminating slivers of a scene I can’t quite believe is mine to enjoy.

Baz on his back, mouth slack, making tiny puh sounds as puffs of air push past his bottom lip. All the liner’s smudged under his eyes, combining with his widow’s peak to give him what would be an undead look if not for his tan skin. A beam of light cuts just under his sharp jawline.

There’s a lock of hair that’s fallen across his face, lifting slightly with every puh. I tuck it behind one ear and let my fingertips trail down the side of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin, the heat of the morning sun.

I let my hand trail lower. Baz wouldn’t mind, I don’t think. He seemed to like touching me yesterday. Now it’s my fingers thatwhich can’t get enough. I trace his collarbone. I scratch my nails through his chest hair. I thumb over one nipple.

Then he makes a curious noise deep in his throat and I startle clear to the edge of his mattress.

I hold here, my breath caught and my body still until he wrinkles his nose and sneezes a high-pitched PEW. He snuffles. Smacks his lips. Finally, his face muscles slacken. He makes another one of those sweet little puh’s.

I creep closer until I’m flush against him once more. My first touch is tentative, using my palm to ghost over his various hills and valleys. For as thin as he is, he’s got lovely defined pecs. I remember how he’d used foam and a corset to simulate breasts and I cup the muscle, running my thumb over the skin pushed up by my palm, the way he’d instructed me that night.

Goosebumps follow my touch as it moves lower, my hand dipping into the space under his ribs, following the trail of hair pointing toward his navel.

Oh. Not a bat, but something similar. A tiny dragon. There’s a soft mound of flesh beneath his belly button and I rest my hand there, using my thumb to play with his dragon.

He shifts a little in his sleep. I dart my eyes to his face but he’s still sleeping. Puh. I’m safe to keep exploring. I rub his dragon again, moving it to the left, then right. If I’m not careful I’ll hypnotise myself.

Baz shifts again but I don’t bother checking; the man will clearly sleep through anything. I rub his stomach a few times and then play with the dragon some more. (I’ve had worse hyperfixations.) I start to tease my fingertips under the pants he wore to sleep.

Pah.

Out of the corner of my vision I can see him blink his eyes open and then swiftly clench them shut. I smirk; that sneaky bastard. 

No more teasing. I slip my fingers under the elastic of his pants and rub the skin and hair I find there, scratching into where his hair thickens and turns coarse. His cock twitches as it fills, pushing up the flimsy fabric.

He cants his hips.

“No more pretending to be asleep then?”

“Simon,” he whines.

I don’t need him to beg; my hands are already moving to cup him so I can feel the moment he goes from hard to aching. I give him a few strokes then help adjust so the tip of his cock pokes out from his pants.

It doesn’t take much to get Baz spilling onto his stomach. Just a bit of telling him how hot he looks, thrusting into my hand. Gentle kisses on his neck and shoulders. Pushing my cock against the side of his thigh so he can feel what he does to me.

He comes with another whine, a whimpered, “Christ.”

(I’m getting good at this.)

He curls up against me in the comedown, wrapping my body in his long limbs until I’m tangled past the point of escape. There are so many ways for me to like him, even with come cooling on his poor dragon’s fake ruby eyes.

He lets me wipe him clean.

“I like the dragon.”

Baz laughs, a rumble. He looks down at where I’m once again moving the dragon left and right. There’s something so sweet in his gaze it almost hurts to witness. “I noticed,” he says, crooking two fingers under my chin so I can’t look away.

 

 

 

Notes:

The End <3 thanks again to my artist, Macey, for your amazing art and for picking this fic to begin with, Marta, for being a source of inspiration, Em, for being such a big advocate for this fic, Jenny & Raen for cheerleading to this point.

I'd imagined more of this fic but, if I'm being honest, the muse isn't there. Maybe some day, but don't hold your breath.

And last but not least thanks for reading <3<3

This fully published fic pushed me over the 1,000,000 words posted on ao3. lol.

Notes:

Baz and Malcolm are estranged due to Malcolm’s homophobia, Pippa is estranged from her family due to their transphobia (this is an occasional mention, not a main theme), action takes place at a pub and involve lots of drinking but not to excess (no vomiting or issues related to the main characters drinking; one instance of an unnamed character starting a fight while drinking), Simon frequently references past fights and stops a fight (see previous note, nothing too gory although he gets patched up)