Picket Fence Is Sharp As Knives

by PrettyGoodOdds

Summary:

Simon Snow reluctantly embarks on a renovation project at Pitch Manor, owned by Baz Pitch, his former school nemesis and ex-roommate. Despite initial reluctance, Simon finds himself drawn to Baz's unexpected kindness and the memories of their complicated past. As they navigate the restoration together, old tensions give way to a newfound understanding and undeniable chemistry. Simon begins to see Baz in a better light, noticing how time has softened his edges and maybe he's more than the unemotional statue he was a decade ago. When the dust of the renovation is settled, Simon wonders if it'll be the last time he sees Baz.

Notes:

Hello and welcome to my 2024 COBB submission. I want to thank my wonderful partner @freclface and their beautiful art you'll see below. And Aristocratic_Otter for beating this very last minute. I appreciate you both more than you know!

I don't have a posting schedule yet, I might just let this one decided for itself.

Without further ado.......

Chapter 1: Uneven Ground

This was a bad idea.

Maybe the worst idea I’ve ever had.

I’m tempted to turn around, walk to my van, take the insanely long driveway back to the  motorway, and go right back to my shop where Penny will be waiting for me to say, “I told you so”.

But the closer I get to Pitch Manor, the more resolved I become in my decision.

So what if this is my arch nemesis house (do people have arch nemesis anymore?)? 

So what if they made my life a living hell all through my Secondary School years?

So what if my somewhat “Bi-awakening” happened years after the fact, and my arch-nemesis/ ex-roommate/ haunter of my dreams/nightmares was the catalyst?

So what?

This is just another job that pays.

I reach the ornate door after dragging my feet up the path and I have to take a moment to gather my thoughts before reaching my hand up to knock, but before I can, I hear someone speak.

“It’s unlocked, come in,” the voice says.

“Hullo?” I’m looking around to find the source of the voice.

“I can see your intellect hasn’t improved much, Snow. Please enter, and remove your mud-covered shoes. You’ll find me in the study.” 

I finally see, hidden behind some overgrown vines, a Ring doorbell. He most likely saw me stumbling up the steps, and trying to talk myself into knocking. I’m a little embarrassed, and it shows itself by mumbling insults under my breath at the house’s occupants. 

“I can hear you.” 

I flip the doorbell the V and walk in.

The old house is nothing like the rumors I heard about it growing up. The parties that used to happen here left everyone envious of Malcolm Grimm and his heir. Now it’s in need of a complete make-over. I’m making a mental list as I walk to where I assume the home’s owner is:

1. Hardwood floors need to be sanded and refinished. Find the idiot that covered half of the gorgeous flooring with laminate and stuff sawdust up their nose
2. Stairs need the same treatment as the floors and re-carpeting to boot.
3. The window coverings look like they had a run-in with an ornery cat– all need replaced and preferably with a color other than blood red. 
4. Befriend cat if there is one.
5. The baseboards are rotting off, but they must be original to the house as I haven’t seen those designs in the woodyard in… well I’ve never seen it. I’ll have to re-sand and repaint or call Aggie. Reminder to charge extra.
6. I see wallpaper peeling in the hallway up the stairs. I can already feel the paste that will be stuck to my fingers and under my nails after tearing it from the wall. 

And that’s just what I can see in the twenty feet I’ve walked. It’s becoming very clear that the quick touch-up job I was expecting is not in the cards.

“In here, Snow.” A voice comes from my right, down a long hallway. 

It sent a chill down my spine when it harped through the doorbell. It finds me in my dreams, causing me to wake up with regret, and other feelings I can’t quite put my finger on (and ones I can but choose to ignore). Right now, it’s giving me goosebumps that trail up my arms, making the hairs stand on end.

Baz Pitch is sitting at a desk looking like he hasn’t aged one day since we graduated, and glared our goodbyes at each other. Now his inky black hair is pulled away from his face, tied in a low knot on the nape of his neck. The appearance of dark, black stubble along his jaw and above his upper lip is the only indicator that time has passed. It looks dashing, and I can’t deny I’m jealous of his ability to pull the look off. 

His clothes look as posh and expensive as always. I’m sure as soon as he stands I’ll see that they are fitted perfectly. They’ll show off his slender waist, and fit footballer thighs. If he even plays anymore... I’m sure those muscles don’t just go away. Honestly, I don’t know how I ever denied that I was deeply attracted to him; he’s flawless. He might have the personality of a bridge troll, but he’s completely breathtaking to look at.

He’s glaring at the papers that surround him at his desk, his eyebrows pinched together. The same look he used to get when that night's homework was causing him trouble. Or, he was trying to read, and I played my music at an obscene level to annoy him.

“Sit down.” He points with a pen toward the chair in front of the desk without looking up at me. I take two steps and realize I definitely did not take off my boots, and there is definitely a trail of mud behind me. Baz finally looks up from his desk, dull lifeless eyes noticing the same muddy wake; all he does is shake his head and sigh. I take a seat, feeling his grey eyes follow me. I brave a look at Baz. He’s staring me down from behind his desk in a far too familiar way and I have to look away. 

I look down at my hands, losing the first battle.

“Nice house.” I cringe after the words leave my mouth.

“No need to lie for my benefit, Snow. We both know why I’ve called you here.” I look up from my hands and see a small smirk playing at his lips. Is he teasing me? Is this teasing? “Let’s get down to it, shall we?”

“Yes.” I croak, clearing my throat. “Yes. Let’s do that. Get to it.”

“The house is–” Baz starts.

“Shit?” I can almost feel Penny smacking the back of my head. I hurry to apologize. “Sorry.”

Baz laughs. 

Actually laughs.

I don’t know if I ever heard him laugh at school, not like this. It’s full and deep, like he’s laughing with me instead of at me.

“There you are,” he relaxes in his chair, slouching down, and letting his legs stretch out under the desk. I can see the toe of his shiny black shoes just under my side of the desk. “Yes, the house is rather shit. It’s been uninhabited since I left for Uni.” He pauses, like he’s waiting for me to say something. I don’t. “But now my Aunt is getting married and she wants to do it here, on the “ancestral grounds”. It was left to me and so does the burden of making it presentable before the wedding. Lucky me.”

I snort. Leave it to Baz to make inheriting a huge house sound like a misfortune.

He ignores me and continues on. “I need all the hardwood floors redone, the god-awful wallpaper stripped in every room and the walls repainted, all the rotting bits replaced, and the kitchen cabinets replaced.”

I nod my head, mentally high fiving myself for his list matching mine, “Timeline?”

“Eight weeks.” He sits back up in his chair and goes back to shuffling the papers, not meeting my eyes.

“ EIGHT WEEKS!” I’m flabbergasted. “This kind of remodel takes months! ”

“I thought you were the best, Snow?” There’s the Baz I know. The arrogant, posh twat who’s used to people giving in to his every whim. “If you aren’t up for the job, I’ll hire someone who is.”

I know what he’s trying to do. It’s not the first time he’s tried riling me up to get me to do something out of spite. Most of the time it landed me in the headmasters office looking at weekend detentions. I hate that I have no defense for it after all these years. I already know I’ll agree before he can throw another taunt my way.

“I’ll do it.” I spit, accepting his challenge. 

“Wonderful.” He says, sliding a folder my way. “Here’s the contract. You’ll see you’re being compensated generously due to the time constraints, and any materials you need will be provided for you. Get me a list at your earliest convenience. Or better yet,” He pulls out his wallet and throws his bank card on the table, it lands with a clatter in front of me. “Use this. It’ll save us both time.”

“Not worried I’ll go on a spending spree?” I ask, not completely joking. I still feel like he might be setting me up.

“You’re far too honorable for that.” He states with no hesitation. 

I look over the contract, trying to catch any hidden clauses or funky wording, but I can’t find anything. He’s even included a clause about me not being at fault if it’s not completed in time. Honestly, I’d be stupid to not sign it.

I read it again.

During my third read through, Baz’s leg starts bouncing under the desk, and he’s fidgeting with his pen. I’ve never made Baz Pitch nervous before. The thought makes me a little drunk with power.

When I flip the pages back to the beginning and start over again, he loses it. “For Christ’s sakes Snow, there’s nothing nefarious hidden in there. Are you taking the job? Or do I need to find someone with higher reading comprehension?”

“Give me the bloody pen!” I snatch it from his hand and sign before I can think about it anymore.

While Baz makes a copy, I take a moment to look around the room. There are still sheets covering most of the furnishing, but all in all, this room isn’t in bad shape. Even the old desk he’s sitting at looks polished and near perfect. He clearly has spent most of his time here since he returned.

Baz turns around and hands me a copy of the contract and a key on a key ring. “Come and go as you please. I am staying in the house for the time being, but I suspect you care about as much as you always have about disturbing me.” He gives me a look as if he’s challenging me to argue with him. I don’t. “Nonetheless, if you need to find me I’ll be in here or in the garden trying to tame the weeds and make sure there are no vermin there to crash the big day.”

“Some might pay to see a rat scurry up your aunt's dress on the big day.” I point out. Fiona Pitch isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy to most people. It’s quite a surprise she’s found someone daring enough to marry her.

Baz chuckles, and tiredly rubs his hands over his face. “Be that as it may, I don’t wish her wrath on me, or anyone, should things not be up to her standards.”

We sit in an awkward silence. There have been a lot of silences between us before. Angry ones. Irritated ones. Even respectful ones (even at our worst, I could generally see when Baz was stressed and needed a quiet place to study). But this feels different. It feels like we are both holding back something. 

When I decide I can’t take it anymore, I stand up from my chair. It makes a terrible screeching noise as it slides back.

“Mind if–” I say as Baz says “I suppose–” 

We both stop.

I crack first. The laugh bubbles out of me. Baz tries to remain calm and collected but only lasts a few moments more before he has to cover a laugh with his hand. At one point I’m pretty sure I hear him snort, but I won’t bring it up.

“This is right weird.” I say when we finally settle.

“For once we agree,” he stands gracefully, and slides his hands in his pocket, perfect stoic face back in place. I’ve always found it unnerving how fast he could go back to being an emotionally unavailable statue. My face gives away everything I feel, but Baz has perfected the thin lip, dead eyes look. Not even an awkward laugh with an old enemy could get him to relax. “I’ll let you have a look around. I’ll be in here if you need me.”

“Alright.”

I turn on my heel and follow my mud trail back out to the entryway. I get out my notepad as I walk, I get to work scribbling what I already know needs done. No time to waste.

~~

“So, how’d it go?” Penny asks me, speaking loudly to be heard over the sounds of the pub, and setting down a pint glass in front of me.

“Hmmph,” I grumble before taking a large gulp of the amber colored liquid. “Same Pitch, different decade.”

“Did you behave yourself?” she asks, cocking her head.

“Of course!” I say while Penny raises an eyebrow at me. “Look, it started out pretty rough but then…then, it was fucking weird, alright. He was too nice, for him, only snarked at me a handful of times, and the contract he drew up is far too generous. I don’t know what he’s plotting but I’ll–”

“You’ll what?’ Penny interrupts. “Break his nose again? Accuse him of stealing your girlfriend? Wait, no girlfriend, so that won’t do. Oh! Tell everyone he tried to murder you?”

“He pushed me down the bloody stairs, Pen!”

“Yes, so you’ve said every chance you could since it happened. Approximately 367 times, or an average of once a week for the last decade and a half. I added a few because I’m sure you bring it up when I’m not around.”

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, I’m fully aware that I’m pouting but I can’t be arsed to care right now. Penny’s never understood Baz and I’s relationship (or lack thereof I guess). 

The entirety of the time we were roommates, I never truly knew if he would stab me in my sleep, or smuggle me up scones but deny it until the sun came up. Everyone else had a built in best friend with their roommate (except Penny, she hated hers. So I really don’t understand why she can’t relate) but Baz made sure we’d never be more than mere acquaintances. His constant antagonism, and my ‘fight first, ask question later’ mentality, was a recipe for disaster. One we could never get past.

But, there were times, like when he’d look at me on the first day of term with my head buzzed and down to my summer weight, or when he asked what my holiday plans were… I swear I saw his mask fall and compassion in his face. Of course I didn’t want that then and would lash out until the sneer was firmly set back onto his face and a slew of insults were dripping from his mouth.

It was a balancing act we could never quite master. 

“Look, Simon,” Penny says. “From what I’ve heard Baz doesn’t have time to be plotting. Between this renovation, his job and trying to navigate his family, his hands are full. Give him a break.”

My mind reels with questions. Which one of those things has made his grey eyes so dull and lifeless? Did he become the lawyer his dad always wanted him to? Is his aunt being a bigger pain in the arse than I imagined? Does he have anyone to vent to?

“I won’t start anything,” I say. “But if he–”

“That’s all I ask,” Pennys interrupts. “Now, Agatha called this afternoon and said she could get those baseboards you sent me the picture of, but that they would cost you. They are vintage and she’ll have to either fabricate them or cross our fingers that she can find them at a furniture restore shop.”

“I’ll send her a block of it so she and Niamh have a sample if they have to fabricate them,” I say, taking the topic change gratefully.

“Perfect. Also, Shepard says he should be able to get you some beautiful gothic light fixtures–

“Victorian.”

“What?”

“The house is Victorian,” I say.

“Oh, I thought you said Gothic. I’ll text him. Either way, he’ll get you all set up there.”

“Great,” I say, taking the last swallow from my glass. Penny sets down her phone, her notes app still open and waiting for her to add or take off an item.

“Simon, you could have declined the job.”

I couldn’t have. “I know.”

“You still can.”

I really can’t. “I know.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate him” I don’t. I really, really don’t.

“Ok,” Penny says. Swiping out of her phone, hopping off her chair and sliding her jacket on. I guess we’re done. “I’ll call you tomorrow with the ETA on those door fixtures.”

“See ya,” I stand and kiss her cheek. She looks at me with more concern than I deserve, but in the end just shakes her head and walks away without saying anything else.

I stay and drink another pint.

And then another.

I’m debating another one when someone gracefully slides into the chair across from me.

“Not looking for company, mate,” I say, avoiding eye contact so they don’t think they can convince me otherwise.

“Come on Snow, one drink for old times sake,” a deep voice says. My head whips up so fast I get dizzy.

There sits Baz, in an old ratty jumper (that looks a lot like one I lost back in school) and jeans, swirling a glass of red wine between his nimble fingers.

I swallow back my surprise and motion for the bartender to bring me one more.

“Miss me that much, Pitch?”

He laughs through his nose and mumbles something before replying, “I’m loathe to say it, but you’re the only friendly face I know in this town anymore.”

“That is truly sad.”

“Tell me about it,” he says. His eyes fall to his wine and I watch his long fingers going up and down on the stem of his glass. It’s mesmerizing. 

A silence descends on the space between us.  I look up and catch him watching me. His cheeks turn a shade of pink I never saw when my main goal was riling him up enough to turn his face any angry color. But in true Baz fashion he doesn’t  turn away or back down. Just lifts his glass and takes a sip of his wine while keeping his eyes on me. Challenging me.

I can’t look away.

If this was anyone else, I’d invite them back to mine. Pour him a glass of whatever I had laying around in my fridge. Crowd him up against my counter until his wine stained lips were being pushed apart by mine. We’d leave a trail of clothes on the way to my room and then I’d pull his hair loose and spread him out on my bed and make him beg for me to touch him.

I feel my own cheeks heat up at the thought and I lose the battle, having to look away before his gaze lights me on fire.

I see him smile at the victory out of the corner of my eye. 

“When’s your family coming here to help with the wedding prep?” I ask finally.

He stiffens and sets his glass down with a loud clink.

“They aren’t,” he says in a tone that would warn most people to move on.

I am not most people.

“What, finally push them away too?”

“Some would say that.”

He’s being particularly cryptic, and I narrow my eyes at him to let him know I’m on to him.

“Daddy spend too much time with his new family, then? Not showing you enough attention?” It’s a low blow. I regret it the moment it leaves my mouth. 

He sighs and pinches his nose between his fingers, loose strands of his hair falling in front of his face. When he looks back up, he just looks tired, there’s no anger behind his eyes at all.

“I’m really sorry. I don’t know why–” I start.

“Let’s just call it a night, shall we?” He finishes off the last of his wine in one swallow, and stands. “It’s been a day for both of us, and old habits die hard I suppose.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I stand as well, and collect my jacket.

I follow him to the door silently, wishing we lived in another time and place. One where I could compliment his long legs in those jeans and he’d smile back at me with mischief in his eyes. Or just one where we could be mates and get a pint whenever we wanted. He looks like he could use friends, and that’s all I ever wanted from him, friendship.

The cool spring air hits my face and Baz is stalking away down the pavement before the door even closes.

“See you tomorrow then?” I yell after him.

He stops and turns around, walking backwards while he says “See you tomorrow, Snow.” Then turns gracefully back around in one smooth motion.

I wait until he turns the corner, and then I wait a bit longer just in case.

Chapter 2: Unraveling Vines

Summary:

An unexpected trip to the hospital sends Simon and Baz headfirst into old habits and new feelings.

It’s been a quiet few days. Other than passing each other in the morning sometimes, I rarely see Baz. Evidence of him is all over though. Tea cups left in random places ( banisters, bookshelves, ect.), empty bags of crisps in every bin, jumpers draped over chairs in most rooms. The exact opposite of how he was at school (tidy to an annoying degree). 

The music he has blaring can sometimes be heard filtering through the empty room I’m occupying that day. I’d never tell him, but the classical shit he plays has a calming effect on me. In school, when I’d hear him practicing his violin in our room, I’d sit outside our door and listen to him play. He never practiced while I was in the room, not that I blame him. I’d poked fun at him once for picking the most emo instrument. What I really meant was that his music made me feel things, things I didn’t want to feel. 

He keeps the house unbearably warm though. I don’t know how he can stand it, walking around in proper trousers and a button-up long sleeve shirt. It’s just spring, so the mornings are a bit chilly but by late afternoon I’ve shucked off my shirt, having sweat through it. 

Yesterday, as I was leaving, I ran straight into Baz as he was coming out of a room. I was walking down the hallway, in my own head and gazing out over the stairwell and I’d yet to put my shirt back on.I definitely left a Simon-sized sweat mark on his fancy shirt. After sputtering indignantly for a moment, he ran off in a hurry, probably to get some stain remover on it.

He’s already in the garden when I arrive this morning. 

I watch him through the kitchen window. He’s fighting with a vine or large root like thing. Yanking at it like it insulted his whole family, teeth bared, and dark hair falling in his face from where it’s come loose from its usual knot. I find it hard to look away. He looks properly hot. I feel my face flush and I'm very, very glad we are the only ones in the house. 

My projects can wait a few more minutes.

Eventually, I gather my tools and head upstairs, leaving Baz and his weeds to sort themselves out. 

I’ve been working in the upstairs bathroom for a few days now. It’s not in the worst condition. There’s a mild mold problem. Nothing a good scrub with my mold killer and a layer of primer won’t cure. It’s tedious, and not my favorite part of this job.

The smell of the chemicals is covering up the posh smell of Baz’s products. Stepping into this room the first time sent me headfirst into memories I’d been failing at forgetting. I was always so angry about him hogging the bathroom with all of his grooming supplies. But now I want to just breathe it in, that crisp, citrus, woodsy scent that always wafted about. 

I’m on my second coat of primer when I hear the loud bang of the kitchen screen door followed by a string of impressive curses. The water starts to run followed by a long stretch of silence. Just as I dip my paint brush back in the tin, I hear Baz call out to me.

“Snow?” My feet are on their way to him before the rest of me has time to think it through. 

“Simon? I - uh - I need your help.”

I pick up speed and for a second I debate sliding down the banister, but Baz already sounds on edge and I don’t think my arse polishing the railing will lighten the mood.

I find him in the kitchen with his hand under a stream of water, his eyes closed, head turned away from the sink. He looks paler than normal. 

“What happened?!” My voice pitches high in the middle.

“I– I seem to have–” He has to take a deep inhale. I notice he’s starting to look a little green. Composing himself, he continues. “I seem to have cut myself and it’s rather deep. I could use some assistance.”

I’ve made my way over to the sink by now and I can see his hand oozing a steady stream of blood into the water, making a hypnotizing swirl of dark maroon. “Jesus Christ Baz!” I grab a flannel and yank his hand out of the water, making him yelp. I wrap it tightly around his palm, it soaks through with red almost immediately. “We’re gonna need to take you to the hospital, mate. How did you do this?”

“I was trying to cut that damned vine into more manageable pieces and hit a knot. Missed the vine and well.” He motions to his hand but quickly looks away.

“You alright? You look like you might be sick”

“I don’t do so well with blood,” he confesses, looking suddenly young again. It’s short lived. “Go ahead and have a laugh at me,” he sneers, or tries to, it’s hard to look mean when you look like death. 

I look at him in confusion. I’m not sure why that would be something worth laughing at him for. He’s done plenty of other things that are loads funnier. 

“I think I’m goin-” Baz says.

He lurches toward the sink, and with the hand that isn’t holding his palm, I grab for his hair and pull it out of his face while he vomits in the sink. 

It’s not pretty and a few times I hold back on gagging myself, but at the same time, I can’t stop thinking about how soft his hair feels in my hand. How I want to run my fingers through it to rid it of the knots and leaves it’s collected.

I’m well fucked.

“I wouldn’t laugh at you Baz,” I tell him as he spits into the sink. 

Baz closes his eyes, leaning up against me to steady himself. He’s sturdier than I thought he would be. He’s always been rather lanky and there were times I thought I might do some actual damage when our arguments came to blows. But he’s grown into all his limbs and the man using me for comfort in this moment feels touchable in a way I know I’m not allowed.

“Let’s get you to the hospital,” I say, steadying him as he pushes away from the sink. 

And if I pull him closer as I walk him to my van, under the ruse of him needing me close in case he passes out, that’s nobody’s business but my own. 

                                                                                            ~~

After several hours in the A&E waiting room (where Baz nervously tapped his foot and snapped at the receptionist no less than four times) and then even more hours fretting and arguing in an exam room while we waited for a doctor to come and stitch him up (where I’m pretty sure he passed out for a few second on my shoulder) (He denies it, but I know what I saw. And felt). We are back at his place 10 stitches heavier than when we left.

They gave him some pain medication, which he took as soon as we got him situated in his car which we ended up taking instead of mine (my work van was an absolute disaster and Baz had no shortage of words to let me know how disgusted he was with it). I’m hoping they make him drowsy. He’s been a rollercoaster of emotions all day. He’d shift from apologetic to angry in a matter of minutes. I’ve tried to ignore him, I know I’m the familiar face in an upsetting situation, so I’m easy to lash out at, but a few times he’s stooped too low in his verbal assault and I regrettably can’t stop myself from reacting (pleasing him to no end).

The car is uncomfortably quiet the whole drive home. We’re well into the evening now. Most of the day was wasted. I wonder if the paint I left out will be any good, or if it will have dried out too much to try and finish the coat I started. 

We’re nearing his driveway when he finally speaks.

“Thank you.” he whispers, then clears his throat and starts again. “ I want to thank you, Simon.” That’s the second time he’s called me Simon today instead of Snow. I try not to read too much into it. “I really don’t know what would have happened if you weren’t there today. So thank you, I’m in your debt.”

I’m speechless for a moment. Not many kind words have been spoken in the space between us. I’ve broken his nose, he’s shoved me down a flight of stairs (three steps still count as a flight, I don’t care what Penny says), and we’ve both slung words at each other we’ve regretted, but never apologized for. I never thought I’d see the day when Baz Pitch thanked me for anything.

“Just remember this when I’m a day behind and your aunt is chasing me into the woods with a sharpened heel.” I laugh, Baz doesn’t. 

I look over at him, sitting in the passenger seat. The moon hits him just right so that I can see a streak of tears reflecting down his cheek. I feel immediately bad for the joke.  “M’just kiddin. It was really no bother. Anybody would have done it.”

“I’m not sure they would Snow.”

We’ve arrived at the house. I stop the car and twist toward him, but he’s already unbuckled and half out the door. 

In our haste to get Baz to the hospital, we didn’t lock the house, which means by the time I’ve finally made it to the door, he’s already stomping around in the kitchen.

“You should really be gettin’ some rest.” I tell him as he pulls rags out of a cupboard. “Don’t worry about this mess. I’ll get it taken care of.” He ignores me and grabs the disinfecting spray from another closet. When he tries to squeeze the handle, though, he lets out a pained yelp. 

I’m at his side, grabbing the bottle out of his hands, in two strides. “You stubborn arse. I’m not taking you back to A&E because you’ve popped your stitches not even an hour after you got them.”

He looks absolutely enraged. Gone is the grateful Baz from the car just moments ago.

“I don’t need your help.” He grits out.

“Go sit your arse down. I’ll clean up and make us some food.” I order him.

“I don’t need your help!” This time he’s yelling, voice echoing in the empty house.

“You fucking do and that’s ok!” I yell back, matching his anger, but I won’t go as far as to push him. He’s still an injured man.

We stare each other down. It’s what we’ve always done best. 

Baz breaks first. He pushes past me and heads toward the sitting room where he’s got a sofa and tv set up. I smile to myself, knowing I won.

I make quick work of clearing up the mess and throwing the red stained towels into the wash. Then I whip up some easy cheese toasties and bring them out to where Baz is sitting on the couch, staring out a window while the tv sits running ads in the opposite corner. 

“Here ya go mate. Tuck in.” I set the plate down, but he doesn’t move.

“I’m not hungry.” he says, giving me a brief, challenging look.

There was a time when we were roommates where I was convinced he was anorexic. I watched him at every meal, made sure he ate, and then followed him around after to make sure it stayed down. Confronted him once about it. That didn’t end well. Most things didn’t back then.

Right now, all I can do is sigh and sit down on his coffee table in front of him. My knees knock into his and he turns to glare at me.

“Get your arse off my grandfather's antique coffee table, you absolute heathen.” he hisses at me. I almost laugh in his face. It’s like I’m finally getting it. This front he puts up.

“Look, we’re both tired and irritated. And you’re in pain to top it all off.” His eyes narrow at me. “But you can’t be taking your pain meds on an empty stomach. It’ll fuck you right up. Just eat a bloody sandwich and go to bed. We can have this argument in the morning.”

I use his knees to push myself up, grab a toastie and sit down on the opposite side of the coach.

Baz eventually grabs one as well. I think he surprises himself with how fast he inhales it, even grabbing another, and glancing my way like I might scold him for it.

It’s not long before the events of the day have his head drooping, his hair falling around his face like black veil. I nudge him awake and help him up to his bedroom.

This is the only room I haven’t seen. He keeps it locked and told me he’d do that remodel himself.

It’s something straight out of a horror movie. Gargoyles and red velvet drapes everywhere. It’s absolutely hideous and very Baz at the same time.

I’m backing out of the room when he grabs at my hand, holding it tightly in his.

“I really am grateful for your help today. I know my actions say otherwise,” he pauses, I can almost hear his brain mulling over his next words. Overthinking them. “But I need you to know that I truly appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

“Anytime, Baz” I squeeze his hand and let it go. “Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

His mumbled response is lost as I walk out of the room, shutting the door behind me.

I lean my back against the closed door and stretch out the hand that was clutched in his, remembering how warm and surprisingly calloused his was. I’m valiantly trying to shake this feeling that something has shifted.

I need to get this job done and get out of this house. It’s going to make me do something stupid. 

Like make a move on Baz Pitch.

Notes:

Thanks for reading :)

Chapter 3: Twisted Roots

Summary:

Sour cherry scones, compromising and cringy flirting… oh my!!!!

Notes:

Well hello there. Miss me?
I know it’s been a hot second but I’m giving myself time with this fic and not stressing myself out with a strict posting timeline. I hope the wait was worth it!

There’s very little that could turn this morning around.

I immediately regretted deciding to stay. First, all of Baz’s sofas are meant to look nice, not feel nice. My back ached all night and I’m seriously debating going to a chiropractor and charging Baz. Second, my dumbarse took all the curtains down on my first day here and the sun is a way earlier riser than I am this fine morning. Third, I’m positive his house is haunted. No unghosted home makes this much noise, I’m sure of it.

But…

Baz is looming over me right now, hair loose and face soft, with, what I’m positive by smell alone, us a plate of fresh cherry scones.

I would stay here until I haunted these halls myself if I could see this scene every morning.

“Get up you big oaf,” he says, kicking the bottom of the sofa and his face changing into its normal scowl. He sets the plate of scones on the coffee table, making a loud show of all his movements before saying, “I made you these.”

“Good morning to you too Sunshine,” I greet him. His scowl only deepens and I fight the urge to smooth down the creases between his eyes. Instead I ask, “Did you take your pain meds this morning?”

“I don’t need a babysitter Snow. And if I did, I would certainly pick someone more competent than you.”

I sit up with a groan, hearing my back crack and pop with every movement. I pat down my hair knowing it’s a frizzy mess first thing in the morning, and then grab a scone. 

Biting into the pastry is like a flashback to another lifetime. The moment the tartness from the cherries hit my tongue I moan and feel like I’m back at Watford sitting on an uneven wooden bench in the great hall for breakfast. I take another bite, not caring that they are a touch too hot and the steam coming out of my mouth makes me look like a dragon.

I’m picking up my second when I notice Baz hasn’t moved. He’s still standing a foot away from the sofa with his arms crossed awkwardly, holding a cup of coffee (if you can call it that, it’s mostly cream). If I didn't know any better I’d say he was looking at me like I was something he’d like to eat. When he catches me looking, he schools his face back into a frown.

“Eat,” I say through a mouthful of scone.

“You’re a barbarian,” he tells me with pure disgust on his face.

“You need to eat something with your meds,” I explain again after I swallow what I have in my mouth. Baz’s eyes go to my throat and I swear I see him blush.

Interesting.

“Who says I haven’t?” he says, lifting his chin up and looking down his nose at me.

“We both know you don’t consume anything other than caffeine before noon,” I say, gesturing to the cup of “coffee” in his hand and then scooting over and patting the seat next to me. “If you don’t eat anything, you’ll regret it later.”

He doesn’t move an inch. His eyes follow my hand as I take another scone.

“Sit,” I say, deepening my voice and trying to be as commanding as I can.

To mine (and I think even to Baz's) surprise, it works. 

He plops down on the sofa next to me, eyes wide and face pink. 

Moments pass. Baz is as stiff as a board next to me. I don’t even think I hear him breathing. 

“I'm not feeding you,” I say when he remains still.

“Wha– I never– I can–” he sputters. I’ve never seen Baz sputter before.

“M’just kidding, Baz,” I tell him so he stops panicking. When he panics he leaves. I want him to stay. 

He sets down his coffee on a coaster, picks up a napkin (which I had not seen until this very moment) and places a scone on it. He scoots back on the sofa, picks a small bite with his fingers and brings it to his mouth. I’ve all but forgotten my own cherry goodness in my hand as I watch his long fingers place another small bite in his mouth, licking the crumbs off with his pink tongue.

“--don’t you think?” Baz asks.

Wait… 

“What?” I ask.

“I said,” he says, pretending to sound annoyed, but I know his annoyed tone and this isn’t it. This has too much smile in it. “I don’t think I did too bad on making Cook Prichard’s scones. Not perfect, but close enough,”

“I forgot that you were related to Prichard. Would have come around sooner if I knew I could get these out of you.”

“I wasn’t here,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

“Where have you been?” I ask. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for weeks. 

It’s always bothered me. How he was here one day, sharing a room with me, and the next he was just gone. I could have asked around, but I was supposed to be getting on with my life, and not caring about the whereabouts of my old roommate was the first step. Months after our Leavers Ball, Penny told me it was weird not hearing me rant about Baz. That she almost missed it. I nearly asked her then, if she knew where he was, but then she made a joke about all the other stuff she got to talk to me about because Baz wasn’t occupying my whole existence.

But I thought of him almost every single day.

And now he’s here, sitting stiffly on a maroon sofa that’s probably older than the both of us combined, sharing a plate of scones with me.

“I’ll need help with the garden today,” he says, avoiding my question.

“Wut?” His avoidance only piquing my interest. “I asked you–”

“I’ll pay you extra,” he continues, ignoring me. “If the gardens are not ready, Fiona will hang me by my bollocks in the barn.”

I cringe at the thought, and know he’s only half exaggerating. 

“Wouldn’t wish that on my biggest enemy,” I say, letting him off the hook.

“Am I not your biggest enemy anymore?” he asks and almost seems sad that he might not be.

“Nah,” I say. “I don’t know if you ever were, if we’re being honest. But you were a great stand-in to take the abuse.”

“I’m touched.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” I say, wanting to get off this topic. If he’s not going to be forthcoming with me, I’m not going to spill my guts to him. I don’t care how pretty his eyes look in the morning sun. 

Like storm clouds before a good downpour. 

“Am I to guess, or are you trying to telepathically bore the idea into my skull with your eyes?”

I feel my face heat up. I grab another scone and shove the whole thing into my mouth, hoping the whole scene distracts Baz enough and he forgets that I was ogling him.

The disgusted look on his face as I start to chew and bits of pastry fall onto his carpet, tells me I’ve succeeded.

“You are an absolute nightmare,” he tells me while he waits impatiently for me to finish.

“You-” I start but stop to take a drink and realize Baz didn’t bring me out anything. So I take the mug out of his hand and swallow a mouthful of his disgustingly sweet coffee, and swallow down the rest of my breakfast. When I set the cup back down, Baz is glaring at me, his eyes darker than before, I almost get lost in them again, but I pull myself out of the storm before it hits. “You rest today.”

“Snow, we’ve already lost one day–” he starts while pushing his coffee back at me, clearly disgusted by the thought of sharing saliva with me. 

“And we’ll lose more if you don’t take care of yourself,” I say, hoping he’ll listen to reason for once in his life. “You need to rest. I’ve got plenty of projects I can do until you’re fit to go back to working. But I’ll not help you with one single weed if I see you out there today, and we’ll go at the pace I set. If I get behind, I’ll pull all nighters as we get closer. Your bollocks are safe in my hands.”

That last sentence leaves my mouth and the whole room gets smaller.

Baz is looking at me in embarrassed terror. For me or for him, I’m really not sure.

I reach for another scone but Baz snatches the plate before I can.

“I won’t have you choking on cherries before the sun's even properly up. You can jam as many as you want down your gullet later.”

This conversation has lost the plot. I can’t tell if we’re flirting or just too tired to realize what words are coming out of our mouths. 

“I’m going to go finish up the bathroom,” I say, and rush out of the room before either of us can say anything else.

~~

“Did you keep track of anyone from school? You know, after we all went and did our thing.”

Penny has just barely sat down, but the eyeroll she gives me is one that is usually reserved for later in the night when she’s about done with me and had too many glasses of wine to even pretend otherwise.

“Just ask what you want to ask. I’m not in the mood to play 6 Degrees of Baz Pitch.”

“That’s not fair,” I say, pretending to be offended. “Maybe I just want to know if Trixie ever became a vet like she wanted.”

“She didn’t, she runs a non-profit for LGBTQ+ youth in Richmond,” she rattles off without even thinking about it.

“Ok then,” I say.

“Ok then,” Penny says back, leaning back in the booth and smiling innocently at me. 

There’s a whopping two seconds of silence before I’m ready to burst at the seams. 

“Do you know where–”

“I do.”

“You don’t even know–”

“But I do,”

“Or who–”

“Baz.”

“How could you know–”

“Because it’s always about him, Simon!” she shouts. 

“It might not have been,” I argue feebly.

“There was never a chance it wasn’t,” she says, sighing heavily. Which is Penny talk for ‘can we just get this over with?’. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have a crush on Baz. But, I do know better, since I’ve had front row seats to this whole drama-filled feud!”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I grab a chip out of the basket that’s sat between us and let the silence connect the dots for her. It feels silly to lie to Penny at this point. She’d be angry. Mostly because she got something wrong, not because she cares that I have a crush on Baz, or even that he’s a man.

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“Simon!?”

“What?”

“Simon!” she yells, snatching the basket of chips right out of my hands.

“Oi, I was eating those!”

“Simon!?” she says again, but she’s stressing all the wrong vowels. When I look up at her, her eyes are pinched with worry. “Do you have a crush on Baz?”

“I don’t not have a cru–,”

“Oh my god!” she says, throwing the food back down on the table (scattering chips everywhere) and throwing her hands in the air. “It all makes sense now! All the antagonizing and following him around.”

“I mean, I didn’t know this back in school. It’s kind of a new development. Well, newish.”

“NEWISH! Why didn’t you tell me?!” she yells, but her eyes are bright with the look of someone connecting the last two puzzle pieces. “Is that why you took this job, Si? Or did seeing him again cause this whole revelation?”

“No, I took the job because I knew the pay would be good,” I tell her, taking a long gulp of my beer. “And because I knew there was no way he didn’t look even better than he did when we were kids.”

Penny laughs so hard she almost falls out of her seat. 

“I cannot wait to tell Agatha,” is all she says when she finally calms down, wiping the tears from her eyes. 

“So glad I can continue to be a source of entertainment for you two,” I say sarcastically.

“Why can’t you just ask him where he was?” Penny asks, bringing us back to where this whole thing started.

“I did,” I say. “He avoided the question.”

“Interesting,” she ponders. “Maybe I don’t have the answer you’re looking for. He went to Oxford, graduated with a law degree. Or so my mum told me when she was reminding me of all my lost potential. That’s all I know.”

“So he’s a lawyer?”

Penny shrugs her shoulders and downs the rest of her wine in one gulp.

“He certainly isn’t practicing here if he is,” she says. “Maybe he works for his dad’s firm in some fancy building where all the offices are just windows top to bottom.”

“Nah, I get the feeling he doesn't see his family much,” I tell her.

“That can’t make him very happy,” she says, pondering what I’ve told her like it’s a mystery that needs solving. “He was rather fond of his siblings.”

“He has siblings?”

“Simon Snow! You were his roommate for years!” she yells.

“We didn’t really talk about our families.” Or lack thereof on my end, I think.

“Modelia has to be about to graduate uni, she got all of Baz’s smarts but his aunt's attitude. Which I quite the fear considering they don’t share any DNA. She’s absolutely awful…but wickedly brilliant. The twins are in their final years at Watford. Trying too hard to be the Weasley twins, my mum says. And the youngest will be joining them next year,” she tells me. “Shy one, the youngest. I’ve met him a few times but he’s barely said two words to me.”

“I didn’t know,” I say, feeling suddenly ashamed. “He never– He’s never talked about them.”

Penny's face falls in sadness. On Baz’s behalf, or maybe mine.

“Don’t push him on this, Simon,” she says and I open my mouth to protest but she puts her hand up to stop me. “I know it’s what you’re good at. What you're both good at. But maybe there is a reason he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah,” I say, taking another long gulp of my drink. “You’re right.”

“I know,” she says, and then slides out of her seat. “I gotta go. Shep’s waiting for me.”

She hugs me goodbye and leaves me with a final stern look that says ‘heed my warnings’.

I stay to finish my drink and think about what I’ve learned. 

Baz is a big brother.

I bet he spoiled them rotten. Got down on the floor with them and played. Shared his sweets. Maybe even gave them advice like the older siblings do on television shows. Or embarrassed them when their friends came over.

I meant it when I said we didn’t talk about our families. At least not in a way that wasn’t meant to cut the other as deeply as possible. He would take jabs at me for being an orphan and I would reciprocate with a dead mum joke or two. It didn’t exactly make either of us keen to share more details about our lives. I can’t blame him for keeping those he loved a secret. 

But why is he still doing that?

I’d like to think we’ve moved past who we were as kids. That I’ve shown him I’m a different person. I know he is. I can see it through the armor he’s still wearing.

I just need to figure out how to get him to shed it.

I’ve been staring at my empty glass, lost in my thoughts. When my eyes refocus on my surroundings, I see a woman at the bar smirking at me. She waves and I do a quick look around to make sure it was aimed at me. She’s laughing when I finally wave back. She whispers to her friend without taking her eyes off of me, and then grabs her drink and makes her way toward me.

She’s pretty. Long dark hair and stunning, deep brown eyes. We do the small talk dance, exchanging names and shy smiles. I buy her another drink when hers goes empty; it gives me more time to think if this is where I want my night to go.

By the time she reaches across the table and grabs my hand, laughing at a stupid joke I made, her manicured nails looking odd against my dirty hands, I’ve decided that this is ok. That a crush isn’t a commitment. 

As we leave the pub together, I try not to think about my arm around her waist and how I held Baz the same way just days before. How she’s soft in all the wrong places and my hand doesn’t fit in the dips of her body in quite the same way.

I shake my head and will myself to forget for just one night how I wish it was a different person I was leading to my bed.

Notes:

Thanks you for reading. I’m absolutely horrible at responding to comments but they do make my day!

Chapter 4: Tangled Paths

Summary:

Simon has a rough start to the morning and it only gets rougher. With tension running high between Simon and Baz, a failure to communicate leads to an unfortunate, yet hilarious damsel in distress scenario.

Notes:

Hello!
I had a day off, and the thing I planned to do got canceled, so I thought—maybe I'll post the next chapter!

Thank you Aristocratic-otter for being my beta for this and letting me word vomit my thoughts to you constantly.

Enjoy!

I’m incredibly late the next morning. 

I wake up with my friend from the bar still in my bed and the sun peeking through my window. It takes me a few seconds to fully wake up and realize that I’m usually out my door before the sun has a chance to be my alarm. I jump out of bed in a frantic hurry, scaring Kira.. or Kara.

 I’ll feel bad about that later.

She’s asking me questions, but I don’t have time to answer them. I just throw her clothes at her and that effectively pisses her off enough that she storms out of my flat without me having to kick her out. 

By the time I’m on the road, my phone is constantly pinging in my pocket. I know it’s Baz. I know he’s going to be right pissed off. I’ll probably get a good tongue-lashing about how we don't have time to waste. 

I tear up his driveway, a cloud of dust following in my wake, park my van and run toward the front door.

I’m just reaching for the knob when Baz opens the door, and then stands there looking half worried and half pissed off.

“I’m sorry,” I rush out, breathing hard, my adrenaline still running at top speed. 

“I was worried,” he says. “You’ve never been late. I thought–”

He stops short, his eyes wide and focusing on a spot near my neck. 

“Really, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I got hung up–”

“I can see that,” he interrupts, his voice going cold and flat. “If you’re quite done making excuses, I’d like for you to get on with the job I’m paying you for.”

“Baz, I hardly think me being late one day–” 

“You’re right, you hardly think,” he says, before turning and walking away.

I throw my hands up in confusion and frustration before trailing behind him into the house. He branches off, stomping to his office like a petulant child, while I head upstairs to the bathroom.

It’s not until I’m standing in the mostly finished bathroom, hanging the mirror back up on the wall that I see it.

A hickey.

Clear as day right on my neck, right where Baz’s eyes went before he became a stoic arsehole. 

That is a problem for future Simon.

The floors aren’t as bad as I originally thought. They take very little sanding and there aren’t many nicks I have to repair before they are ready to buff and stain. I’m almost done with the first coat of stain when my music is interrupted by an incoming phone call.

“Hullo”

“Are you completely daft?!” Baz screams.

“What?” I ask, confused. Baz hasn’t called me since he originally reached out to hire me, not even a text.

“No need to respond, the answer is right bloody in front of me,” he yells, and I hear an echo in the hallway. 

I look up from my spot on the floor to see Baz standing in his office doorway looking fit to be tied. My jaw drops and I take out my earbuds.

“When the fuck did you get back?” I yell down the hallway, terrified to hear the answer.

“Hours ago!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Silly me, assuming you’d be professional enough to check all the rooms before you barricaded me in one!” He’s still screaming, getting more irate by the minute.

“I am a damn professional, you’re acting like a child!” I yell back.

“Could have fooled me. Showing up late–”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Leaving me stranded in my office–”

“This is an honest mistake. If I’d known you’d come back–”

“And the overall mediocre work you’ve been doing. This isn’t your Greek homework where you can half-arse your way through it and expect a passing grade because you charmed your way there. I cannot be swayed so easily!”

He finishes his rant and there is a deafening silence that settles between us.

“Well then,” I finally say. “I best get on with my mediocre work so we can go our separate ways.”

I put my earbuds back in and Baz slams his office door, effectively stopping the conversation before either of us could say anything we truly can’t take back.

Not that we haven’t done that in the past; and look at us now. Well into adulthood and still pushing each other’s buttons like no one else could. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so depressing.

And embarrassing.

If you’d told teenage me that one day my roommate would be in a position to boss me around and I’d like it , I’d have knocked you right out. Looking back, I was already pining for him. But who wants to have a sexuality crisis over your enemy? 

Could I have been any more thick?

According to Baz, I absolutely could.

What does he care, though? What does one hickey matter? He’s probably had his fair share, his neck being all biteable and such. And his chest, what I wouldn’t give to lie face first in that thick spread of black hair he has there. And my hands exploring all the places it covers. How I’d mark him just out of sight, for only the two of us to know. Trailing down, down, down…

My phone interrupts those thoughts before it can get too far out of hand (too late).

“What?” I say, trying to sound harsh but not having the energy to see it through.

“I need your assistance,” he says in such a way that I can almost see him looking down his nose at me.

“Sorry, gotta job to do,” I say. “My boss is a real arse; no room for error with him.”

I hang up before he can reply, smiling at my phone and waiting for it to light back up with an incoming call.

I don’t have to wait long. His name flashes across my screen.

“Simon’s Mediocre Home Repair, where we do just enough to make you wish you did it yourself. I’m all booked up. Don’t bother leaving a message,” I say quickly and hang up again.

I’m barely keeping it together by the third call.

“You wreck it, we mend it, please—”

“If you hang up one more time, Snow…” he snarls into the phone. I don’t say anything, let the silence sit between us and fester. “Are you still there?”

“M’here,” I say, done with whatever game we’re playing.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Truly. I was out of line. Your work has been well above average--” I snort into the phone and roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “I mean it. If I had anyone to recommend you to, I would… in a heartbeat.”

“Whatever, thanks,” I say, not really knowing how to respond to his sincerity. “I’m sorry too. Today’s been a shit day, and I’d start it all over if I could.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “I wouldn’t. It’s been an eye-opening day.”

“How so?” I ask.

“Just the realization that some things will never change, and it’s best not to dwell on them.”

“I think we’ve changed a fair bit,” I argue, because this is what we do best.

“Not in the ways that matter,” he says, a sad dip in his voice, before moving on. “I need your help at the back window.”

“What?” I ask, confused by the topic swerve.

“I need to leave my office; my current predicament does not allow me to do so. If you would come to the back window and help me pry it open, I’m sure I could climb out of that.”

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

I hang up and gather a few tools that might help. I don’t know what Baz’s ancestors were afraid of, but someone nailed all the windows shut a long time ago, and it’s been a chore getting them back to working condition.

Of course this had to be one of the windows that has an unmanageable amount of bushes that reach just below the bottom of the window sill.

This isn’t going to be an easy task.

Baz is looming in the window while I assess the situation and decide my next course of action. It’d be creepy if he wasn’t so bloody handsome. It’s infuriating.

And distracting.

I end up going and fetching my ladder and positioning it the best I can on the uneven ground.

I’m testing its sturdiness when a knock comes from the window. I look up and see Baz with his face almost pressed against the glass, saying something I can’t decipher. But these windows are thicker than my grans pudding, so I can’t hear a thing he’s saying.

By the third time he’s tried yelling through the window, my phone rings.

“Are you ok?” the worry evident in my question.

“Be careful,” is all he says.

“Oh,” his concern brings me up short. Am I crazy to imagine the same worry in his voice? “I will.”

“Alright,” he says and we catch each other's eyes in the dirty window pane, the water stained window dulling his grey eyes.

“Ok.”

I wait a few beats before hanging up, pocketing my phone, and taking a deep breath. 

Today has been awful and I want nothing more than to be at home where there is no Baz. No emotional whiplash making me dizzy with hope.

But, I know I’ll dread the day this job is finished. The day when Baz will no longer need me around and go back to whatever life he had before. One that shucked me out to the curb a long time ago.

But I can’t think about that right now.

I climb the ladder all while Baz watches me like a hawk. It sways a few times while I’m trying to wedge my jimmy bar into the sill. It’s nothing to panic about, and I would only fall into the bushes and come out with a few minor scratches. But the way Baz reacts everytime, panicked eyes and fingers worrying at his shirt sleeves, makes my heart flutter. 

Finally, I get some leverage and the window flies open, toppling me to the side with the force that it opens.

“Simon!” Baz yells, reaching for me through the window. 

I’m able to cling to the inside of the now open window, and right myself just as Baz’s arm catches my waist. I feel suddenly self conscious. I know I’m softer than I was back in school, metabolism catching up or whatever other lame excuse adults like to claim it is. 

I just like sweets.

His hand pressing into my side is a warm reminder that while he’s only gotten better with age I’ve fallen even lower than before.

“Are you alright?” Baz asked me, arm following my body as I get steady on the ladder again.

“S’fine. Wouldn’t be the first time I fell off a ladder,” I joke, weakly laughing while trying not to think too hard about how his hand has shifted and resting loose on my hip.

“You never did care about your own wellbeing,” he responds almost sadly, before catching himself and adding in a more familiar mocking tone, “Always needing a mending from Bunce in the ensuite.”

“Oi!” I say, annoyed. This feels like an argument we had one too many times back in the day. “Would have been a lot easier if you hadn’t hogged the bathroom all day and night! Who has a ten-step nighttime routine, anyways?”

“Many self respecting people, Snow,” he says dryly. “And that is not what I meant.”

“Then what?” I ask. His thumb has started moving in small circles on my hip. I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it.

“You were always fighting for the underdog, and you didn’t care how busted up you got in the process. It was stupid,” he says. I go to argue, but his next words stop me cold. “And admirable.”

He seems to realize then that he’s still holding on to me and he snatches his hand back. A braver me would grab his hand and tell him I like it when he touches me. An even gutsier me would reach out to him and pull him into a kiss like in the movies. Half-hanging from my ladder and him balancing out the window.

Proper romantic.

But I’m neither of those things.

Instead I hop from the ladder and move it closer to the window for Baz to step onto.

“Let’s get you out of your tower, Rapunzel,” I say, earning me a snort and eye roll from Baz.

Baz gracefully climbs from the window and descends my ladder. 

It wobbles just as he’s reaching the end and it’s my turn to react and latch onto his waist to stop him from falling. 

He freezes. One foot still on the last rung and one hovering in the air.

He’s so tense I debate letting him go. But I’m selfish and this feels like a small thing I can grant myself.

He slowly lowers the foot in the air to the ground, causing him to sway back into my chest. My hand grips his waist as his other foot joins the first.

We’re close enough I can breathe him in, the smell that I’ve missed. I want to bury my nose in his neck, be blinded by his dark hair. Maybe even move the silky locks out of the way and bite him right there where his neck meets his shoulder. 

He spins, suddenly facing me. Our eyes meet.

My hands drop to my sides.

We’re so close. 

I think he’s going to kiss me.

Then his eyes move, focusing on that spot he found so quickly this morning.

He steps to the side. Away from me. I feel the loss deeply.

“Thank you, Snow,” he says, his voice thick and hoarse. 

“Yeah, anytime,” I say, looking down at the ground and scratching the back of my head.

“Let’s try not to make trapping me in rooms a habit, shall we?” he says, a lightness to his voice. 

I chance a look up at him, and he’s smiling.

I don’t have time to respond before he turns on his heel and walks away.

Notes:

Thank you for reading! Comments really make my day :)

Chapter 5: Uncharted Journey

Summary:

The “hickey incident” has left Simon and Baz tip toeing around each other. To make matters worse, Baz has a date! Simon is starting to feel like the end of this project is drawing near, and also his time with Baz.

Notes:

Hello hello! Long time no post. Thanks for sticking around. It means the world to me.

This chapter is brought to you by the letter “E”, as in, we’ve reached the “explicit “ part of this story.

Have fun 😉

The weeks are starting to blend together. I tell time by what room I’m on.

Bathrooms - done.

Stairway/entryway - done ( would have been done sooner if Baz hadn’t thrown a massive fit causing me to walk out and lose half a day.) (Who needs access to their entire wardrobe everyday?)

Kitchen - next on the docket.

That only leaves the guest rooms and any other odd rooms Baz thinks guests might pop their head into. I’m honestly shocked at how ahead of schedule I am. I offered to help Baz with the yard if I finish early (more than just the weed or two I helped him with before his hand was healed enough for him to continue on his own). He drew up a new contract, but I declined, told him I would do it as a friend. He’d said he’d think about it, and I’m honestly not sure if he has to think about the ‘not-paying-me’ or the ‘us-being-friends’ bit.

Things have been beyond weird since the “hickey incident”. It feels like Baz took a giant step backwards in our progress, and I’m running after him trying to lessen the distance once again. It’s maddening. 

Before, we’d been able to have an entire lunch together and now I can hardly keep him in a room with me longer than a few pleasantries. 

I feel like, if I can’t fix this soon, I’ll lose him for good. He’ll slip back into the darkness of memory, fading with each finished project until I walk away again, feeling more gutted than when we walked away from each other as kids.

This morning when I arrived, Baz was nowhere to be seen. This isn’t unusual (he never was an early riser), but It’s nearing mid-morning and I still haven't seen him. I’m beginning to worry.

I go to his usual haunts, finding bits and pieces of him in every nook and cranny. He’s made this place a home in spite of himself. His books lined up on a bookshelf, the one he’s reading left on the end table next to a half-drunk cup of tea (some fantasy with magicians and such, not at all what I thought his reading interests would’ve been). His pretentious vinyl collection and over-priced record player setup in the corner of the sitting room. A Vampire Weekend special edition, black and blue vinyl still there from when he made me listen to Classical, Capricorn, and a number of others until we’d basically listened to the whole album. His green jumper on the hook by the front door that he wears out to the garden every morning. All these breadcrumbs of Baz, but no Baz.

There’s only one other place he’d be, and I haven’t been there since he hurt his hand.

His room.

I don’t give myself the time to overthink it. I just head straight there.

It’s a short journey but it’s enough for me to start doubting my decision just as I arrive at his door. 

I’m as nervous as if I were picking up a date for the first time. 

This is ridiculous.

I raise my hand to knock when I hear Baz shouting from the other side of the door.

“I just want to talk to them! It’s been ages,” he says, and I don’t have to be on the other side of the door to see the pained look on his face. I can hear him pacing the room, his feet quick and heavy on the floor. It’s clear as day, now that I’m paying attention (and not having a melt down).

“You can’t possibly mean that?” he says, sounding hurt and confused. He’s clearly on the phone. That or the person he snuck past me speaks at a volume lower than rats.

“I’m their brother!” he shouts, so loud that I startle. “You can’t just… I practically raised them when you fell apart over the whole Daphne debacle.”

Daphne debacle? 

“I will bring it up,” Baz says, his voice fading and crescendoing as he continues his laps of fury. “It’s the last time you had a shred of humanity!”

The footfalls halt. The whole house seems to be shrouded in an uncertain silence.

“I’m sorry,” Baz says defeated. I can picture the scene on the other side of the door. His shoulders slumped, his hair in a mess from him pulling at it, jaw tight from trying to hold the emotions at bay. “I just– just don’t– Father? Hello?”

I hear the bounce of a mattress and heavy-sounding clatter that I’m going to assume is his mobile. 

I’m frozen in place.

I can’t walk away. He’ll hear me.

Can’t stay here. He’ll eventually come out, and I’ll be stood here looking like a damned idiot.

Fortunately, luck is on my side. When Baz finally does move, it’s the door to his ensuite that opens and shuts. I don’t waste another moment, I practically run down the hallway and down the stairs, sliding into the kitchen with about as much ease as a drunk uni kid. 

I busy myself with unscrewing the cabinet doors in the kitchen and then pulling what remains off the wall. It takes me most the day and Baz remains in his room the whole time.

I’m loading up the last of the old cabinets into my van and a rented trailer when Baz finally shows his face.

He walks down the stairs and I have to pause to watch him, like some awe-struck bloke in a cheesy rom-com, a box of handles and knobs resting awkwardly on my shoulder.

I’ve never seen him look this nice.

I’m pretty sure I stop breathing.

He’s got on black slacks that are just on the right side of too tight, a silky lavender button up buttoned one button too low (if you ask me) and his hair down and loose around his face. And he’s shaved! He rarely does anymore and I can’t say I like this fresh faced Baz, when the bearded one is softer and one I’d call a friend. Also, well fucking fit.

“Ah, Snow,” he says, like he hasn’t stopped my world from turning. “I’m headed out for the night. Could you lock up when you leave?”

“Wut?” The box on my shoulder rattles as I shift it to the floor in between us.

 “I’m headed out, and I might be late. Could you lock up?” 

“I’m kinda on a roll, so I’ll probably still be here when you get back.” I tell him.

“I might not even return tonight, Snow,” he says with a sigh like I’m thick. I might be, I don’t get it. He rarely goes out. And never at night, unless it’s with me to the pub for a few drinks.

“Not return?” I ask. 

He smells so good. Why does he always smell so good?

“Correct, or at least, here’s hoping,” he half smiles at me, before looking down at his stupid shiny shoes. 

I still don’t understand.

“Ya seeing someone behind my back,” I say, laughing at my own joke.

“Well…” he starts, but trails off and it hits me.

“Oh!” I’m so embarrassed. The nice clothes, the done hair, the shaving! “You have a date?!” 

“Well spotted, Snow,” Baz says, completely oblivious of my inner breakdown.

“I didn’t think you knew anyone here? You haven't left the house in days,” I”m bordering on hysterical with a shade of possessiveness and I’m hoping Baz doesn’t see right through me. 

“There are other ways to secure a date.”

“With who?!” I realize after I say it that it’s none of my business. But I won't take it back, I’m too curious to take it back. Instead I scramble for a reason why I’d need to know. “Ya know, so that if something happens I know who you’re with. To tell police.”

“The police?”

‘Things happen on dates,” I mentally smack myself. What is wrong with me?

“Well, I sincerely hope I’m not landing in that demographic, but you do make a valid point. His names Charles La–”

“Fucking Lamb? The creepy old bloke that picks up anything that walks down at the Bleeding Coven?” I’m laughing, thinking he must be joking. He must be having me on. “You havin’ me on?”

“No, why would I do that?” he says, sticking his chin up high and looking down at me. “That is not where I met him anyways. And he’s not old.”

“Older than us by a decade I’d reckon,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. It’s just now occurred to me that Baz is going out with a man, not a woman. I want him to stay so I can ask him a million questions. Like, have you always dated men? Would you date me?

Ok maybe only two questions. 

“I’ll be off then,” he says motioning to the door and it’s then that I realize that I’m blocking his exit.

“Sorry.” I pick up the box of kitchen bobbles and move out of his way.

He walks past me and grabs his nice jacket, which makes him look even more bloody handsome. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and all I can do is nod as he shuts the door.

I sit down on the bottom step and watch through the window as his headlamps get dimmer and dimmer, the further he gets from me.

~~

I don’t mean to stay this late. 

But once I picked myself up off of Baz’s stairs and had myself a good thirty-second pity party, I got a second wind and now it’s two in the morning and I’m sitting in the middle of Baz’s destroyed kitchen.  Paint chips everywhere, the old countertop smashed to bits (I didn’t need to take it out with my hammer, but it felt good to smash something and I won’t feel bad about it), and half the new cabinets clogging up the hallway.

Baz hasn’t returned yet. 

The later it gets, the more reasons I find to stay.

I’ve pictured every scenario, from Baz being murdered and dismembered to too vivid thoughts of Baz’s long fingers gripping bed sheets and head thrown back in ecstasy (almost had to go wank that last one from my memory. But then I remembered where I was and it seemed proper creepy to wank to Baz in Baz’s house). 

But this feeling in my gut is all too familiar. 

I had it all through school. The moment Baz coldly shook my hand after we were introduced, I felt a pull in my belly toward him. 

I took it for something else, then. 

Hatred. Jealousy. 

He was everything I wasn’t, and I hated him for it. 

Or so I thought.

Good grades and money, dead fucking sexy. I knew that even back then. I was convinced he was trying to steal my girlfriend. Agatha and I can have a good laugh about that now. Turns out, Agatha wasn’t the one who wanted him (if only one of us had gone on our queer journey before leaving school).

Now I recognize it for what it really was. 

Longing.

Everything he did then and everything he does now brings back that pull in my gut. It’s stronger now. Like it's losing its patience with us.

Can’t say I blame it.

It’s another hour before I hear his key in the door. I’m well knackered now, and part of me regrets waiting for him this long.

“Snow?” Baz calls. I make my way toward the entryway, bracing myself for whatever I’ll see. It has only now occurred to me he could have brought Charles fucking Lamb back here and I honestly don’t know if my sanity could have caught up with my fist fast enough. 

He’s hanging up his jacket when I get there, and the first thing I notice is that he’s alone. Thank all the gods. The second thing I see is, his nice shirt is untucked and rumpled. It’s very un-Baz like.

“Right here,” I say.

“I wasn’t expecting you to still be here,” he says, but he smiles like he’s happy that I am. Or that’s what I tell myself anyways.

“How was it?” I ask, because I’m a glutton for punishment.

“What?” his eyebrows dip towards his cute, scrunched up nose when he asks.

I’m well and truly fucked.

“Your date.”

“Oh,” he says, like he had forgotten that’s where he was. “Adequate.”

I snort and I’m too tired to fight my eye roll, “That’s it?” 

“You want all the boring details?” he asks, head cocked and that infernal eyebrow lifting.

“It’s nearly dawn, can’t be that boring,” I say, taking a step toward him, daring him to call my bluff. Tell me I’m wrong Baz, tell me you didn’t go home with Charles fucking Lamb. Tell me he didn’t bunch up your shirt and feel your stomach quiver under his hands.

“It was fine,” he sighs.

“It looks like it was more than fine,” I say with an edge to my voice. 

Baz unconsciously straightens his shirt before standing up tall and responding in a bored tone, “I can’t see why you’d possibly care.”

“I think you know why,” I say feeling brave, before I can really think it through. I’ve never done more than throw out subtle hints that I find him devilishly attractive, and any attempts at flirting have ended with me running from the room. There is no reason for him to know why I suddenly care about his dating life.

“I can assure you I have no idea,” he says and my heart feels like it’s been ripped in two. “I think by now it’s become apparent we aren’t dating the same type. We’re not teenagers anymore, Snow. I’m not wooing your precious Agatha. Never was.”

“It was never about Agatha!” I shout at him, surprising even myself at the outburst. 

I’m going on instinct now. In my element. 

I take a step toward him. I can see in his eyes that he’s not sure if he should be afraid or not.

Don’t worry Baz, I’ll take it from here.

“It was always you,” Itell him, softening my voice and taking another step in his direction.

“Shut up,” he says, and I can hear in his voice that he’s scared and unsure. I’m not going to hurt you Baz. I couldn’t.

“I didn’t know it then–” I continue.

“I said shut up, Snow.” 

He’s looking everywhere but at me, his jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth.

“I just wanted you to pay attention to me because–” I say. I’m in his space now, I can smell his evening on him. The curry they must have shared, the warm air, the cologne that isn’t his.

“Simon, please,” he begs in a whisper, closing his eyes tight and shaking his head like he doesn’t believe me. 

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” I say. “But I understand now. I got there.”

I’m close enough now I can feel his body trembling. 

“I got you,” I tell him, hoping it eases his mind

I see him relax, unconsciously leaning into the small space between us. 

I close the gap.

We’re chest to chest now. He’s breathing hard. 

So am I.

I want to touch Baz all over. Burn my handprint into every inch of skin. But I know there is plenty of time for that. Instead, I cup his face in my hands. His eyes flutter and he whimpers, I feel the vibration of his throat in my fingers.

He’s so pretty like this, vulnerable, not in control. Trusting me when his instincts are telling him the opposite. 

He’s got an infuriating few inches on me, but he’s letting me guide him down to me, my hands having moved to his neck and then into his (as predicted) soft as fuck hair. 

His nose brushes mine. I feel the bump I put there in sixth year and I get dizzy with desire. It swirls in my belly and then lower. 

We’re sharing the same air now. I’m watching him try to control his breathing, eyes still closed. I stroke the side of his neck with my thumb, willing him to calm down.

“Can I?” my top lip catching his bottom as I ask.

‘Yes, please,” he says, I feel his pulse kick up a notch under my thumb and I can’t help but smile.

I’m still smiling as I press my lips to Baz’s gently. The whole room disappears around us. It’s all white noise and blank space as I lose myself in the feeling of his lips on mine, our breath intermingling between our parted lips. He’s letting me set the pace. I try to keep it slow, and gentle. He deserves that, to be treated gently.

But when I tease my tongue along his perfect bottom lip, it lights a fire within him. The kind I only ever saw right before it came to blows between us. 

We both tilt our heads and moan into each other's mouths as our tongues meet and tangle together.

He tastes like chocolate mint ice cream and red wine. I can’t get enough of it. I try to lick it from his mouth, his tongue, his teeth.  Like if I could just get closer, be closer to him, I could take a bite of it. 

His arms that had been dangling at his side grab hold of anything and everything on my body. It’s like he can’t decide what to touch first. My hips, my hair, my face, it’s all getting ravished by Baz Pitch’s capable hands. 

I don’t realize he’s moving me backwards until my back comes in contact with the banister and I’m tripping over the bottom step, both of us falling into a heap on the newly done stairwell. My teeth sink into his swollen bottom lip as we land. I’m about to pull away to apologize when Baz moans into my mouth and ruts up against me. I can feel the whole length of his cock against my hip and it’s like a Pavlovian response to reciprocate.

After that, we lose any grace we had. It’s all tongue, spit, moans, and juvenile hip thrusting.

The stairs are hurting my back but I can’t be arsed to care, not when I’ve finally got Baz Pitch where I want him. In my arms, under my thumb.

Eventually, we’re both breathing too hard to keep kissing. My lips are numb and Baz is bleeding from where I bit him. He licks up the blood he left on my face, and I should maybe find it disturbing, but it almost tips me over the edge instead.

We’ve got a steady rhythm going now. We could stop, lose some clothes to make this easier. Relocate to somewhere more comfortable. But this feels more like us. Urgency, pain, and pleasure all wrapped up into one.

I bury my face in Baz’s neck, and kiss along his jaw.

“You smell like him,” I say, the first words we’ve said in a long while. Baz’s hips stutter and I almost regret them. Instead I keep going, “I hate it. Did he touch you?”

I don’t know why this is important for me to know. Why I’m torturing myself with this now.

“Yes,” Baz says, his hips slowing. That won’t do. I move my hands to cup his arse, pushing him down onto my hips as I surge up, my head thunks back onto the hard wood of the stairs with the pleasure of it. Baz’s moans echo around us before he continues. “He kissed me.”

I growl deep from my chest, my arms going around Baz, securing him to chest before flipping us. His legs go around my hips to steady himself and for a moment I let myself look at the sight below me.

Baz Pitch, Mr. Always-Put-Together, is a heaving mess under me. All the pieces of the puzzle are finally slotting together. All those years of fighting him and needling him, this is what I really wanted. Needed. 

I can’t help but run my hands over his hard chest, teasing the buttons as I pass them. I want to see what lies under this flimsy piece of fabric. I want to lick away the memory of fucking Lamb. Rub my own scent over Baz’s naked chest until that bastard's old man cologne has been replaced by my own want. 

“Do it,” Baz says, reading my mind. 

“It’s a nice shirt?” I argue.

“It’s not my favorite,” he says, and that’s enough. I grab near the weakest part and pull. Buttons hit the stairs and roll down until they stop somewhere in the entryway behind us.

Baz sits up and tears the rest of his shirt off before leaning back down on his elbows on the stairs.

I don’t know where to touch first, it’s all too much suddenly.

“Did he touch you here?” I ask, gently touching his stomach with the tips of my fingers. It tenses and flutters under my fingers.

“Only for a moment,” he says, breathing hard. “That’s when I left.”

“Why?”

“He wasn’t who I wanted to be with,” he responds, trying to move his hips under me while I continue to pet his stomach. He’s so bloody responsive. I’m already drunk on lust. I might die if I get to touch him anywhere else. 

“Who did you want to be with?” I ask, swallowing thickly. I know the answer, or at least I hope I know the answer.

“I think it’s pretty bloody obvious who,” he says and drives his point home by squeezing his legs around my hips and rocking his hard cock against mine.

“I want you to say it,” I say through gritted teeth. I’m close now, if he keeps rocking like he is I’m a goner.

“Snow,” he whines, and his head falls back, exposing his pretty neck to me.

I lean down and bite at his Adam's apple, feeling the moan that falls from his lips tingle my own. I press my lips harder into his neck, wanting to feel it again. Wanting to feel every bob of his throat and vibration of his pleasure.

“No, not my name,” I mumble against his neck and purposefully pull my hips away from his.

He whimpers, trying to get closer, but I’ve got him pinned.

“Simon,” he whispers so softly I almost don’t hear him. “I wanted it to be you Simon. For so long.”

That almost does me in. He says my name like no one’s ever said it before. Like it means something.

I pull away from his neck and move up so I can look him in the eye.

He’s so lost in the pleasure of it all. Eyes almost black, face flushed, lips pink and swollen. It’s mesmerizing. I want to take a picture of this moment. Frame it up on a wall for only me and him to see. 

I lean forward hovering just above his lips, challenging him, daring him to make the next move.

My boy never disappoints.

He surges up, attacking my lips with want and fury. 

Our hips once again moving in tandem, both of us lost in the moment. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this much pleasure before in my life. And we're just dry humping on his ancestral stairs.

I don’t know how I know, but Baz is close. 

When his mouth stills, I move to kiss his cheek. Then his jaw. Then his ear. Whispering after each kiss.

“That’s it,” I say. “Let go, babe.”

And he does.

With a loud moan, his legs tighten around my hips, and I feel him pulse in his trousers against me.

It’s enough to pull me right over the edge with him. I bury my face behind his ear and latch my teeth onto the soft spot there that smells distinctly of Baz. Woodsy, salty, and a little bit of citrus spice.

We both ride out our orgasms, breathing heavily and trying to come back to our senses. I try to give Baz space but when I move to get off him he tightens his legs around me.

Who am I to argue with that?

But once the adrenaline wears off, our bodies are fully aware that they are resting in an uncomfortable position.

“I’ve got to get up Baz. My arse is killing me, “I say, regretting the words at once, but my limbs are screaming at me to move. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             “Ever the romantic,” he says, and then winces as he moves his neck to pop it. He stays seated on the third step from the bottom, however.

“I’ll romance the shit out of you in a proper bed,” I tell him, standing up and trying to adjust my trousers so my prick isn’t sitting in the, now cooling, wet spot. It’s a pointless struggle.

“Already so sure I’ll invite you to my bed,” he snarks, but there’s very little bite to it. I could let him get away with it, let him put up a layer of protection against his feelings and me. But I’m too drunk on my orgasm to do that.

“Don’t do that,” I say, bending down into his space again, my knees protesting. I lean my forehead up against his, and reach out one hand to pet his belly. The hair there is soft and thick, I want to bury my nose in it and inhale.

“Don’t do what?” he asks, but his muscles have already gone soft under my hand.

“Don’t put your guard up quite yet, huh? Give us the night at least,” I tell him. Beg him really.

“It’s almost morning,” he whispers, and leans in to give me a quick kiss.

“Give us the morning then,” I say and he nods before standing up and leading me to his room where I fall asleep hours later with Baz pressed against my chest and smelling only of me.  

Notes:

Thanks for reading. Comments bring me immense joy ☺️

Chapter 6: Silent Thorns

Summary:

Simon is ready to dive head-first into the deep end with Baz the morning after their tryst. Baz has some hesitations.

Notes:

Well, well, well, look who decided to update. Thanks for being patient. Between having stupid adult responsibilities and COC, this took longer than I wanted. But we're back on track now.

Thank you Aritocratic_Otter for being a wonderful beta. Couldn't do it without you!

Enjoy!

Waking up in Baz PItch’s bed was not how I thought my day would start.

I’m not mad about it in the least.

The only problem is, the owner of said bed is missing.

There’s a very cold spot to my left,  I run my hand over the silky sheets, remembering how, a few hours ago, I warmed up his body for a second time. Squirmy bugger rolled away from me after he fell asleep, curling up in a ball to keep himself warm. I was too tired to fight him and pull him back into my warm arms. Next time. 

I smile at the memory and stretch my aching body out on the huge bed. There’s pillows still strewn around his room from my impatience with unmaking his bed.

I’m starfished out on the bed when a knock comes at the door and a weary, sleep-deprived Baz pokes his head in. 

“Are you decent?” he asks shyly, as if we have to hide anything from each other anymore.

“Never,” I respond, rolling over onto my side and patting the bed. “Come be indecent with me.”

Baz dips his head to hide his face as he enters the room and closes the door behind him. I wish he wouldn’t. His flushed face is my new favorite Baz face, narrowly pulling ahead of “raised eyebrow” Baz after the latter's decade-long spot at the top.

“My aunt is here,” he says, instead of joining me. I instantly deflate (all of me). He’s trying to casually lean against the shut door, but I can see the stress in his shoulders, and worry in his eyes. 

“Checking on my progress, eh?” I snark, sitting up in bed.

“More or less,” he says, and I feel like I’m missing something. He’s acting cagey.

“Right. Let me get dressed and I can–”

“No need,” he interrupts me. “I can handle her if you’d like to just stay up here.”

I narrow my eyes at him, immediately suspicious, and ask, “What’s going on?” 

He sighs a sigh only Baz Pitch could sigh. Like I’ve said the dumbest thing imaginable.

“I’d rather not have to explain to my aunt why you're coming out of my room,” he tells me. He’s still leaned up against the door looking uncomfortable and stiff. 

Things click.

“Don't want to be seen slumming it?” I ask, not bothering to keep the hurt and anger out of my voice.

Baz stands up taller and straightens his shoulders, “If that’s what you’d like to think and it keeps you up here–”

“Brills,” I cut him off, trying my best to keep the hurt out of my voice. ‘Best go keep her entertained then before she comes up here and finds your dirty little secret.”

“Snow–”

“Go on, then.”

“That’s not–”

“Honestly, I’m not really in the mood to hear whatever bullshit is going to come out of your mouth. Fuck ,” I say, feeling proud that I got it all out in one go and didn’t stumble my way through it. I bring my hands to my face and dig my heels into my eyes. ”I really thought you’d changed. You must think I’m the dumbest person alive.”

“No more than I did before,” Baz says. He’s refusing to look at me, the floor suddenly the most interesting thing he’s ever seen when only hours ago a mole on the inside on my thigh held him captive.

“Right, well,” I say, throwing back the sheets and hopping out of Baz’s bed,making sure he gets an eye full of my naked body. His face turns a brilliant shade of crimson, and I note that it couldn’t have been all in my head. That there is a part of Baz that is attracted to me. I find a pair of pants and slip them on as I turn toward his bathroom.

“Those- uh– those are mine,” Baz struggles to get out, while pointing at my crotch.

“Don’t think you really get to call dibs on something you just threw out like yesterday’s trash,” I tell him.

“The pants, not– not the, you know.” He’s waving a hand in the general area of my cock, while his hand is shielding his eyes from the whole ordeal as if he hasn’t seen the entirety of my naked body.

I look down and see he is, in fact, correct.

“Mine now it would seem,” I say. I want him to fight me on this. Look me square in the eye and argue back that they are his. Demand them back.

“I’ll let you know when she leaves,” is all he says, and before I can respond he slinks out the door leaving me confused and hurt and still wearing his pants. 

This isn’t how this was supposed to go. I wanted to see his hair first thing in the morning, tangled by my hands and sleep. I wanted to make fun of him for having rank morning breath, but kiss him stupid anyways. I wanted to wake up next to him, not to be thrown out before we could even start. 

I take a quick shower. The hot water and the time to think does little to ease the ache in my heart. Instead, it makes me livid and has me yanking on  yesterday’s clothes (minus my own pants, I honestly don’t know where those are) in such an aggressive manner I’m afraid they’ll rip.

Who does this bastard think he is?

Does he not respect our history enough to not fuck me over? Do I seriously mean nothing to him? Nothing?!

I’m pacing his room now, getting more and more worked up. If I were a cartoon character, you’d see smoke coming out of my ears by now and the floor would have a comically large groove.

And then it hits me.

Why am I staying up here?

I owe him nothing, least of all the chance for him to save face. He could have handled this a million different ways, but he chose the way that made sure any feelings I had for him were hammered to death and buried deep beneath the floorboards.

I take one last look around his room. The bed is still a mess, Baz’s clothes are still where I threw them in a hurry to get him unclothed. The glass of water Baz brought that I didn’t even ask for but needed desperately after he had me begging until my throat dried up. 

Even the smell of the room is all us. Baz’s woodsy, citrus scent mixing with my more basic salty, sweat scent and a thin layer of the posh cherry lube Baz had in his nightstand. 

Worst cherry on top in my life, now. 

The whole messy scene hits a hard reset button in my brain, like it lit a match to the Baz I knew a decade ago. That Baz is gone, the boy who needed structure and order to get through his day. The one that hated the chaos I brought into his life.

I thought.

I only got a glimpse of this Baz before he decided I wasn’t welcome.

Well fuck him.

I exit the room and don’t even pretend to be quiet.

Baz has cleaned up the stairs. They don’t even look like two blokes got off like teenagers on them. Shame really.

My toolchest is neatly packed up by my jacket near the door, awaiting my dismissal. I could take it and leave, slamming the door behind me. At least he’d know (if he doesn’t already) that I left his room, and that I’m still pissed off and atomic.

Instead I follow the voices into the kitchen where Baz is sitting with his aunt drinking tea and eating biscuits like he didn’t abandon me to wait in his room like a misbehaving toddler while he discusses the latest gossip. 

My stomach grumbles at the sight of the biscuits.

Fiona, spits out her tea dramatically, stares at me wide-eyed (like she’s in an American sitcom), and yells, “CHRIST! I see you haven’t acquired any manners since the last time I saw you, boyo! It’s rude for the help to interrupt the master of the house!” She cackles and bangs the table with one hand shaking its contents. Baz picks up his tea to stop it from swishing over without even looking in my direction. 

Look at me! I want to scream. Acknowledge me!

“Nice to see you too Fiona,” I say. “Is it just me or is your white streak more than a streak now?”

A silence drops over the kitchen. Baz’s tea is frozen midway to his lips, while his eyes dart nervously over to his aunt. Only the slow click of the antique grandfather clock in the hall can be heard.

Just as I think I should leave to avoid any actual harm to myself, Fiona jumps up from her chair and has me in the worst hug I’ve ever had in my life. Her nails pinch my side (pretty sure she’s drawing blood) and her pointy chin digs into my shoulder as she laughs loudly in my ear.

“Well, you grew a set, didn’t you?” she says, still at full volume directly into my eardrum. “You were always such a scared little thing, running and hiding whenever I showed up. I almost felt bad for teasing you.”

“As always, Fiona, you persevered and carried on,” Baz drawls from his spot at the table, looking determinedly at a spot and the wall and not at us. 

“Fuck off, you,” she snaps over her shoulder before turning back to me. “Do you know what’s got this one's panties in a twist? Been in a sour mood all morning.” She turns to Baz before I can even open my mouth to answer.  “Did the bloke last night not dick you down well enough?”

“Fiona–” Baz says tiredly, closing his eyes and pinching his nose in exasperation. 

“Well did he?” I ask, because I’m a glutton for punishment apparently.

“Inquiring minds want to know, love,” Fiona says, removing herself from my space and sitting back down. She kicks out the chair next to her with what I assume is the same black Doc Martens from when I was a kid, and makes a quick motion with her head as if to say, ‘sit before I make you sit”.

I do, before I can think better of it.

It’s weird conspiring, albeit reluctantly, with Fiona Pitch. It’s something I literally never thought would happen to me. Ever. She’s certifiably insane. So I don’t know if that makes me the same, or just in training and I get the certificate once she deems me worthy enough.

“Well?” she says to Baz, moving her hands in a way that suggests ‘start talking or I will strangle you with my bare hands’.

“The evening was–” Baz pauses and catches my eye for the first time since I walked in. He looks away quickly when I stare back at him. “The evening was eventful.”

“Rubbish answer,” Fiona says. “Tell him it’s a rubbish answer, Snow.”

“It’s a rubbish answer,” I say and I swear I see a smile try to peek out from under his scowl. 

“I don’t really think Snow wants to hear–” Baz starts but Fiona interrupts him.

“Snow is a big boy and I”m sure a little gay action might even cause a stir in his trousers,” Fiona says on my behalf. 

I could disagree with her, say I don’t want to hear it. Break this flimsy truce we have at this moment. 

Spare Baz.

Or…

“I’m a big boy who’s had a little gay action of his own very recently. Don’t stop on my account,” I say.

Fiona lets out another cackle and throws herself dramatically against the back of her chair, clutching her chest as if her heart can’t take the hilarity of the situation.

“Fuckin’ hell Baz, this is all your wet dreams come true,” she rasps out between laughs. “Teenage you woulda creamed his pants if he knew Simon Snow, your unrequited–”

“Enough, Fiona!” Baz’s stern voice rings out. He looks properly mad now, all his fury directed to the woman in front of him who barely even registers that the mood has shifted from teasing to boiling over in anger. “I think it’s time you left. You’ve seen the progress. You’ve seen everything is fine. Please leave.”

“Absolute party pooper, that one,” she says, but gets up from her seat nonetheless. “Fine, I’ll leave. You’ve done an adequate job, Snow. Do better.”

And with that, she turns on her heels and heads towards the hallway to the front door, leaving Baz to follow after her.

I can hear more tense words being said between the two, all in low whispers, too quiet to be understood. Then the door slams and Baz’s looming presence is back in the kitchen.

The heavy silence stretches into awkward and I have to move before I jump out of my skin. I collect the cups, turning my back to him to put the biscuits away (cabinet to the left of the stove) (he thinks I don’t know that’s where he keeps the good stuff.) (I’ve replaced these biscuits twice, grateful he didn’t notice I’d eaten them all before I had a chance to make it to the shops) and start cleaning the cups. It’s all a little too domestic and I love it a little too much. 

“Last night,” he says and then pauses, (I keep my back to him, hands resting on the sink, knowing I’ll scare him off if I turn to face him). “It was beyond anything I could have imagined. I didn’t know–” he stops once again to gather his thoughts. “I didn’t know it could even be like that. That two people could feel that–connected.”

My heart breaks for him at this moment. Has his life really  been this lonely?

“Then why–” I start to ask, but he stops me.

“My father is not quite as supportive as my aunt,” I snort at that. I’m still turned away from him, but I swear I hear his mouth turn up into a smile. “I know, her support is a little unconventional. But that’s not— that’s neither here nor there. Or what I’m trying to tell you,” he pauses again, I hear him take a deep breath, letting it out in an unsteady puff before continuing. “I worked for his firm, you know. Still technically do, I guess.”

I finally turn around. Baz is fiddling with the cuff of what I now realize is one of my hoodies. He  must have found it on the floor this morning. You’d think something worn and old looking would look naff on him, but he wears it confidently. Looks better in it than I do, if I’m being honest. I’d like to give him a million hoodies of mine. Tie them together, sleeve by ratty sleeve, until he’s cocooned in my scent. 

“What happened?” I ask.

“I was in a relationship with one of the legal assistants. Everything was above board, we weren’t working on any of the same cases. I wasn’t his superior in any way,” he explains, as if there was any chance that I’d think Baz Pitch would do anything to break the rules. “It ended badly, and the “little problem” my father has been ignoring since I was 16, could no longer be ignored. He fired the legal assistant. Not without finding something he could legally fire him for, because even Malcolm Pitch knows you can’t fire someone for being really, really good at blow jobs.” He’s gotten angrier and angrier as he’s explained himself to me and now he’s just bitter. The end of his sentence biting like it was a snake. 

“And you?”

Baz ponders this for a moment. He’s sucking at his teeth like he used to when we both landed our arses in the headmasters office and had to explain our actions. He could never quite handle being under scrutiny, even though he was always able to argue his way out of any problem. 

I bet he’s a monster in court.

“I’ve been relegated to desk duties until a case he feels is ‘suitable’ for me comes in. Which we both know will never happen,” he explains. “It’s a waiting game that I’m losing. I can stay and never work another case again, or I can simply stop being gay and this whole ugly business will just wash away in a rainbow-colored wave.”

“Baz–”

“I haven’t seen my siblings since this whole ordeal began. He’s afraid they might hear of my “indiscretions” and want to model themselves after their big brother.”

“Baz, I’m real sorry–”

“So, I can’t do this Simon. I thought I could… I want to, but I can’t. Because there is a whole lot more on the line than a crush I had a million years ago!”

He storms out of the room and out of the house before I’ve properly processed anything he just said.

~~

“Simon, do you think you’ll need more of this trim for the kitchen?” Agatha asks me. And by her tone I would say it’s not the first time.

“Wut?” I say anyways, because honestly, I’m not here. I’m miles away at a secluded mansion hearing Baz Pitch say he had a crush on me right before turning his back on me. 

“Trim. Kitchen. More!” she says, enunciating each word, louder and clearer for me.

“Oh, um, no I think the trim in there is different,” I say. “Yeah, I’m like, sixty five percent sure it’s different.”

Agatha sighs in a way that only Agatha can. Like she’s been burdened by life’s most difficult journey when she’d really like to sit this one out and not have to participate at all. 

“I’m going to regret this,” she mutters to the ceiling before fully facing me. “What is your issue?”

“No issues. I’m just peachy fucking keen,” I say, giving her the fakest smile I can muster. 

“Could we not, just this once?” she asks me, and I open my mouth to ask her what she means but she knows all my tricks by now. “As fun as this game is, you might be surprised to find I don’t enjoy pulling information out of you. Not when we dated, not now. Especially when I know you’ll eventually just spew the whole problem down onto me and expect me to fix it for you.”

“I’ve never expect–”

“You have,” she says, pointing a warning finger at me. “You have, and I’ll not do it today. But I will listen. If you want to talk that is. You have thirty seconds to decide before I call for Niamh and  ask her to tell you about the new door knobs she’s ordered.”

“Fine!” I yell, throwing my hands up. “What if I told you I slept with someone I shouldn’t have last night?”

“Why shouldn’t you have slept with Baz?”

“I thought the same thing, but then this morning– wait,” I pause, looking at Agatha with a suspicious eye.

“Go on. What happened this morning? Is his, you know, not… you know?”

“His– he– it’s fine. More than fine. It’s perfect. I don’t want to talk about that . How?!” I sputter indignantly at her. 

“Oh Simon, I can’t be the one to tell you how it all works. When a silly boy and another posher silly boy like each other very much they push each other at the playground for years and years until one day—”

“I mean , how did you know about Baz?!”

“I mean, who else could it have been?”

“Did Penny tell you I had a crush on Baz?” I ask accusingly.

“I haven’t seen Penny in weeks,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “She’s left me messages telling me she had something important to tell me. Guess I don’t need to see her now.”

“My life is one big joke to my friends,” I say, plopping down a chair and dramatically draping myself across her desk. A pencil rolls off and I hear Agatha click her tongue loudly in disapproval. As if a stupid pencil is worrying about right now.

“Ok, so, you and Baz did the do,” she confirms.

“Kinda. We did stuff, just not, you know,” I tell her, burying my face in my crossed arms.

I hate my life.

“Penetrative sex?”

Really hate my life.

“Yep,” I mumble.

“Was it bad?”

“No!” I say, popping my head up. “It was literally mind blowing. Best I’ve had, er, sorry, but–”

“No offense taken,” she says, motioning for me to continue.

“But this morning, I wake up to him trying to hide me in his room from his aunt–”

“Honestly, he did you a favor there, didn’t he?,” she interrupts. 

“Eh, she wasn’t so bad,” I say and Agatha looks taken aback. “Still scary as fuck, but I’m taller than her now,” I pause and look at Agatha. She’s smiling at me, looking amused. I hate feeling like I’m not in on the joke. She and Penny are always looking at me like they are just waiting for me to catch on. “Anyways, then he info dumps his family drama onto me, which side note,  Malcolm Grimm is a grade A prick. And then drops another pair of huge bombs on me, telling me he’d had a crush on me for years, but then saying that the whole ‘us’ thing isn’t possible, before walking out. I haven’t seen him since. I wouldn't put it past him to sleep on a park bench to avoid me.”

“I don’t think he’d go that far,” she tells me.

“And I don’t think you understand just how much he’s trying to avoid me right now,” I argue.

“Maybe not, but Baz Pitch has never slept on anything that wasn’t the highest quality mattress.”

“He had zero complaints sprawled across me last night and I doubt I qualify as top of the line.”

Agatha smiles at me then, like I just told her a secret. 

“Simon, give him some time,” she tells me, patting her hand on mine in what I’m assuming is supposed to be comforting but just comes off as patronizing. “Family shit is–awful. And his family really knows how to properly fuck up a kid. Just keep showing up. Keep showing him that you care.”

Agatha’s never been good at this part, showing she cares. But she’d go into battle for any one of us at the drop of a hat. Even Penny.

“Yeah, yeah. I suppose you’re right,” I say, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. I couldn’t imagine my life without Agatha. We weren’t good together, but once that whole thing was put to the side, she’s been one of my greatest allies. Helped me build my business. Always told it to me straight, even when I wanted her to sugarcoat it. I don’t know where I’d be without her. “Hey, I thought you weren’t going to solve my problem?”

“I couldn’t help it,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You were well and truly pathetic today. Don’t let it happen again.”

“I’ll try my best Ags,” I say, really meaning it. 

“Good,” she says, then smiles wickedly at me and tents her hands in between us in what I can only describe as a plotting manner. “Now, I know just the thing that will drive that man absolutely up the wall. Do you trust me?”

“What have I got to lose?” Besides my heart, I think.

“That’s the spirit! Come on, we’ve got to do some shopping.” She grabs my hands and pulls me out of my chair before I can even process the words she’s said. “Niamh, I’m taking Simon out to get sexified for his man!”

“You’re what?” I ask at the same time Niamh pops her head out from the back and says, “Sexify who?”

Agatha gives us both another giant sigh, before dragging me out the door.

Notes:

Thanks for reading. Promise I won't make you want too long for the next chapter.

Chapter 7: Thorny Maze

Summary:

Simon is feeling a little horny whiplash when Baz can’t make up his mind about what he wants.

Notes:

This isn’t my entry for EGF, but I can promise you lots of gropping!

Thank you Aristocratic Otter for wonderful beta services!

All's fair in flirting and framework.

At least that’s what Agatha told me when she squeezed my arse into too tight jeans and I asked her how I was supposed to work in them.

“He’s going to lose his mind,” she told me, while piling my outstretched arms with more clothes than I’ve probably had in my closet ever. “Are you really worried about nailing in baseboards right now when you should be worried about nailing Baz?”

Now I’ve got proper trousers, button up shirts (that Agatha taught me how to roll up to my elbows to drive Baz wild), and enough t-shirts and snug jeans to cosplay James Dean for weeks.

But right now I’m cursing the day Agatha sashayed into my life, because I’m sweating my arse off in immovable jeans and a bright red shirt that is showcasing exactly how much I sweat.

I want my cargo pants and loose band tees back.

But, much to my dismay, it’s working. Baz keeps glancing at me when he thinks I don’t see him, and stumbling over his words. It’s so un-Baz, and I’m finding I quite like that.

We’re working in the garden together today.  This is my last project on the house, and I want to drag it out, find a million things wrong and that need mending but it doesn’t matter. My days of playing some weird, fucked up version of house with Baz are coming to a close. 

“I’m getting water,” Baz tells me from the other side of the rose bushes; he’s made sure to keep them been between us all morning.

“Grab me one?” I ask, wiping my forehead with my arm. It’s bloody hot today.

“No.” Is all he says before walking past and into the house slamming the screen door behind him.

I yank the weed I was working on out of the ground with an angry grunt and smack it into the ground over and over in frustration, like a child throwing a fit.

I don’t know why I’m even still trying. I know better than anyone that Baz can outstubborn the best of them. He’s made up his mind and it’s pointless to keep going on like this. Getting my hopes up everytime his gaze lingers a beat too long or he forgets himself and smiles at me. 

I’m done.

I’m done with this whole ordeal.

I’m done with Baz Pi–

“Here,”  the man himself says. I turn to find him holding out a water bottle. I stand there staring stupidly between him and the bottle, the latter dripping condensation down his arm. I want to lick it up. “Take it before I dump it over your head.”

I snatch the bottle out of his hand and say, “You wouldn’t.”

He raises an infuriating eyebrow, “Wouldn’t I?”

I take a deep drink before answering, finishing half the bottle in one gulp, swiping my forearm across my mouth to catch the droplets running down my chin.

“No,” I say, lifting my chin in a challenge.

“I think you underestimate me. I think…” he says, taking a step toward me. I wasn’t expecting him to do that. My breath catches. “I think that I wouldn't mind seeing this shirt soaked and stretched across your body.”

He’s on me before I can fully process his words. Chapped lips pressing hard against my own and hands gripping my too tight shirt until I’m sure he’s going to rip it. 

Not one to question my good fortune, I latch onto him; one hand in his hair, keeping his lips on mine and the other tightly around his waist. My arm circles easily around his slim frame, I can pull him to me with one arm.  I should be embarrassed by how much just that turns me on, but instead I just rut against his thigh to show him just how much I like this.

He moans into my mouth, humming around my tongue. I feel a chill run through my body, the hairs on my arm standing up, even though the sun feels like it’s right on top of us today. I can’t wrap my head around how he makes me feel. How my body can be so responsive to him. 

It’s like we match.

Every move he makes, my body knows the countermove. And he matches me with the same intensity. 

A dance only we know the choreography to.

I’m like a starved man as I lick the sweat off his neck when he pulls away to catch his breath. I’m biting at his throat trying to crawl inside him.

“Simon,” my name falls from his lips like warm honey.

I pull his shirt down far enough to grant me access to his collarbone. I bite, kiss and lick every exposed area of flesh. How the bones v, like an arrow to one of my top three places, Baz’s chest. 

I can just see the beginning of his chest hair and it’s enough to drive me mental. 

“Simon–” he says again, I make my way back up to his mouth. That pretty, pretty mouth. “Snow!”

Oh.

His hands are on my shoulders, and he’s pushing me away. Not too gently either. 

“I’m so–sorry,” I stammer out. “I tho-thought–”

“My fault,” he says, straightening out his shirt and flattening his hair. “I provoked you.”

“Baz, you know I don’t mind–”

“Won’t happen again,” he says, before turning on his heel and going back inside.

I’m left standing in the middle of his garden, my cock and my brain wondering what the fuck just happened.

~~

The next time ‘the thing that won’t happen again’ happens, I’m hauling branches out to my trailer to take a load to the HWRC to have them chipped for mulch. 

I’m tying the last of the big branches down when Baz comes out to help. But before long, he’s got me pressed up against my van with such a thud, I think he’s dented it.

He’s all desperate moans and greedy hands, slotting our legs together and immediately starting up a rhythm that guarantees I’ll finish in record time.

He’s relentless.

He’s got me pinned (not that I mind), and when I can’t keep my restless hands in place, he places them roughly above me (again, not that I mind). I can’t help the whine that falls from my mouth once he’s got my wrists trapped in a pleasantly bruising manner and continues his assault on my mouth and neck.

I’m almost slack in his grip, him supporting my weight when we hear a vehicle coming up the drive.

Fucking postmen.

Baz lets me go so quickly I fall right on my arse beside my van.

“Fuckin’ hell, Baz,” I shout, but it’s hard to sound tough when I’m still sporting a stiffy while laying on the ground.

“Sorry– I’m sorry. I–” he says, looking mortified by the whole scene. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Drop me on my arse? No shit,” I tell, finally finding my dignity in the gravel and standing. “Fucking hurt like hell.”

“I shouldn’t have–” he gestures in the general area of my still half hard cock. 

“Oh,” I say, and I can’t keep the disappointment from my voice. “It’s ok. We could–”

“No.”

Once again, he walks off, passing the postman on the way who gives me a sympathetic look that just ends up pissing me off.

I fall against the side of my van, thunking my head and banging a tight closed fist against the giving fiberglass. 

~ ~

This happens again and again. 

An almost blowie in his kitchen, a hot and heavy grind on his sofa that comes to an abrupt halt when his aunt stops by, and one unfortunate tumble in his garden that ends with both of us thorny and grumpy.

And look, I’m all for edging, but not like this. Not spread out over days and days and with no actual end in sight. 

I’m ready to explode.

Literally.

So when Baz has me,on what should be my last working day,  trapped  between his arms against his shed, it’s a real struggle to pull away.

So I don’t.

I let him strip off my shirt and run his hands all over my shoulders and chest. His lips visit all those same places, leaving me heaving and trembling.

Usually he’d stop by now, but instead he’s lowering my zipper and slipping his hand into the front of my boxers. He doesn’t hesitate or tease, just grabs my cock and starts stroking with intention. 

Finally.

He kisses me, hard, His tongue massaging mine in such a sinful way that I moan around it. 

He presses me harder against the shed before pulling away and removing his hand from my pants.

“No, no, no,” I say, bracing for him to walk away again.

“No?” Baz asks, confusions written all over his face. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I want the opposite of stopping,” I tell him. I want to reach out and pull him back to me, but I’m afraid of what his reaction will be. Afraid I’ll push him away.

“Good,” is all Baz says, reaching down to unzip his trousers and freeing his own wanting cock. 

Next, he shimmies my too tight jeans down my thighs until they hit the ground, pooling around my ankles. My cock, which was already hanging obscenely from my pants, bobs with  excitement once it’s free from confinement.

Baz circles his hand around me again, tugging almost too roughly. But I moan regardless, excited that he's touching me, that he didn’t walk away this time. 

He takes a step closer. 

He won’t take his eyes off me. 

He’s stroking himself in time with his hand on me. 

A twist at the head. A pull down to the base. 

Repeat.

I’m losing my mind.

Our tips are touching now. He’s so close. His hands collide with every twist at the top.

“Can I?” he asks. I nod my head, unsure what he’s asking but willing to take it. I want all that Baz is offering.

He steps closer and takes both our cocks into one hand. 

My legs nearly give out and I’m not proud of the whine that escapes my mouth. I catch the end of a smirk on Baz’s lips through my near orgasmic haze. But I can’t be arsed to care because the next thing I know Baz is spitting into the palm that’s holding us both.

It’s the most undignified thing I’ve ever seen him do.

And it couldn’t possibly turn me on more.

“Christ,” I say, watching his saliva coat us both as he slowly moves his hand up and down.

The feel of his prick next to mine, the spit, and all my pent up frustration is going to make this a really quick trip to the finish line. I need to focus on something other than Baz’s very capable hands doing obscene things with my cock.

So I kiss him.

He was already so close, watching himself jerk us off. I just had to kiss that space between his eyes, right where it wrinkles when he’s deep in thought. Then his nose, right where there’s a bump, right where I broke it. Then the corner of his mouth—I can feel it drop open when he squeezes our heads. Then he’s turning his head, capturing my mouth with his and losing the steady rhythm he had going.

He’s completely lost to the moment and I can’t believe I’m witnessing it.

“Simon,” he says into my mouth, my name tasting heavy and full on my own tongue.

“Baz,” I murmur back, the z of his name buzzing through our lips. 

He comes with his mouth on mine, choking on a silent gasp. The whole scene is my unraveling and my orgasm hits me before Baz has even finished his. His hand moves almost as if by itself, slowly over both of us, spreading our spend over us from root to tip.

My cock tries to get interested in the pornographic sight, but decides to just give one final spurt before going limp in Baz’s grasp next to his own tired member.

We don’t talk for several minutes. Baz finds an old rag to wipe off his hand before tucking himself back into his trousers with a grimace. I do the same, loving how the small shed now smells of our sweat and sex. 

“My bedroom could really use a remodel,” Baz says, jolting me back to reality. The reality where Baz says this can’t happen but then refuses to walk away.

“Your bedroom?” I ask.

“Yes. Can I keep you on to work on that?” He asks, not looking at me, his face back to cold indifference.

I need to walk away.

I need to stop letting him use me like this.

“Yeah, draw up the contract,” I say instead. 

I’m not ready to give up on him yet. 

Notes:

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 8: Crumbling Corners

Summary:

But I’m exhausted. He’s exhausting me - Simon

Notes:

No one is more surprised than I am that I’m posting. I thought I posted this ages ago. Oh well, I’m posting it now. Enjoy!

“I want no trace of red left in that room,” Baz tells me while puttering around the kitchen making us both lunch.

I’ve been trying to get him to decide on a look for his room. He knows everything he doesn’t want, but has no idea what he’d like it to look like.

“Ok, but that’s not what I asked,” I say, frustrated by the lack of progress. It’s less than a month before the wedding and he’s being indecisive about paint color. He wasn’t this way with any other part of the house. He either trusted me or knew what he wanted and expressed that plainly. “I asked if you were buying new furniture or keeping the old?”

Baz stops buttering a slice of bread to shoot me a look that says “are you mad?”

“Are you mad?” he asks, and I mentally high five myself for being able to read him so well. “All that furniture is a red velvet nightmare. I answered your question sufficiently. ”

‘I could reupholster it?” I suggest.

“They are antiques from the Victorian era, Snow” he says, shaking his head and going back to the task of utter bread. I tried to help, but he told me to sit down and take notes as he got out the ham, cheese, butter and bread. I’d have half that sandwich down my throat already if I’d made it. He’s being too meticulous, too careful. It’s just a bloody sandwich. “You don’t reupholster antique furniture.”

“So what do you want to do? Keep the furniture or get new?” I ask. Again.

I’m trying to keep my cool, but it's getting harder and harder to manage.

Baz hasn’t so much as breathed too heavy near me since the day in the shed. He’s not ignoring me, but he’s also not not ignoring me. He’s doing just enough so that I can’t call him on it.

It’s maddening.

I almost preferred the edging.

Fuck it, I’m horny. I definitely preferred that.

“Can we just,” Baz starts, waving a butter knife in the air and looking at the ceiling. “Focus on another part of the room?”

“Ok,” I say, “Fine. Do you want to keep the wallpaper?”

“It’s red!” he shouts, both arms going up in a dramatic flair, and I watch as butter flies off the knife and lands on the floor behind Baz.

“So you want to paint it?”

“The wallpaper is original to the house,” he responds casually.

I damn near snap my pen in half.

“Baz–” I say as calmly as I can manage.

“That monstrosity of a bed should go,” he says, paying me no mind. “But it was my great great great grandfathers. And the desk. The desk is good. I’ll keep the desk.”

He plates the sandwiches and brings them over to the table, setting mine down in front of me before taking his own seat. 

I watch him, trying to decipher if he’s playing some joke on me. If this last job was the ultimate long game revenge. Lure me into a sense of false comfort with the first remodels, become my friend, and then my… more than friend, then some weird friends with benefits/ frenemies who get each other off situation, offer me more money, than BAM! Drive me mental with being the most nitpicky posh twat to ever walk the planet. 

“Baz–”

“The rug is over one hundred years old,” he says, completely ignoring me. “But it’s red.”

I take a bite of my sandwich (very important side note: this is the best sandwich I’ve ever had. He can take his time with my sandwiches anytime he wants, as long as they taste like this) (the butter ratio  is perfect), and let him ramble on and on about all the things he wants to be rid of but can’t part with.

A chair his great, great grandmother brought from Egypt. Window hangings that made it through “the war” ( I didn’t ask which one, I don’t care). And a godawful painting of a cat that was commissioned by a great, great (indefinite greats) uncle and is believed to be a source of good luck. He hates that the most but says it needs to stay. 

“Baz–”

“Also–”

“Baz, for fucks sake, let me speak,” I snap. He startled  in his chair and blinks at me wide eyed. “Maybe we should remodel another room, eh? Preserve your current room for historical accuracy or whatever the fuck you want, and remodel another room for you. Lord knows you have enough rooms in this place, you can have your pick of the litter.”

Baz stares at me, and blinks slowly before responding, “Are you suggesting I remodel my parents or siblings rooms for my own selfish interests?”

“Do they have less old shit in their rooms?”

“No.”

“Then I guess I’m not.” I say, finishing off my lunch, noticing Baz hasn’t even touched his. “Maybe we should postpone this until after the wedding.”

“No!” Baz shouts, surprising me. 

I slouch back in my chair and cross my arms so I don’t strangle him right here in his own kitchen.

I should just call it a day. We’re not getting anywhere, just pushing each other’s buttons (we are getting really good at that). 

But I’m exhausted. He’s exhausting me. 

“I’m going to go home–”

“Snow–”

“No, I’m going to go home and you are going to think about what you want. We can’t keep going round like this.” 

Baz stands and steps towards me, dragging his fingers along the edge of the table until they skim like a whisper over my hand. 

He’s changed the mood in the room. Seduction is rolling in like a plum colored cloud and smothering the irritation that had been trying to plant roots. 

I want to jerk my hand back, but I’m froze under his touch, goosebumps rising in his wake. My body has always reacted to him. Good or bad. With fists or firm kisses.

I hate it sometimes.

The power he has over me.

But mostly I want to just sit back, close my eyes and let go. Let him kiss an insult into my neck, lick a compliment into my mouth, and bite disappointment into the thickest part of my belly so it leaves a mark I can see for days. 

I want him under my skin. 

I don’t know if he knows any of this. He always looks so uncertain when he touches me. Like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.

Full permission granted, you evil bastard.

He’s moved so he’s nearly in front of me now, his slow prowl allowing me enough time to change my mind. To stand my ground and leave like I said I was going to.

Instead, I shift in my chair, spread my legs apart and watch as he moves to stand between them, bending at the waist to place his hands on my thighs.

“I really should go,” I try feebly. I don’t even believe me. 

Baz doesn’t answer, just lowers himself until he’s on his knees in between mine, looking up through his lashes at me the whole time. His hands inch toward my fly, as he watches me, waiting for me to push him away. 

When I don’t, his nimble fingers pop open the first button, then the next. He eyes me again as he slides down the zipper slowly. The sound of the teeth unraveling makes my cock throb.

And then my worst nightmare happens.

“BASIL!” Fiona pitch yells, the front door slamming open.

“Shit,” I mutter, scrabbling in my seat, my head knocking into Baz’s as he tries to stand and I try to zip up.

“Fuck,” he yells, holding his head and falling to his arse on his kitchen floor. It would be funny if his aunt wasn’t second away from walking in and finding us in this compromising position. 

“Basil!” she yells again, walking into the kitchen and stopping short in the doorway. “Oh, there you are. What are you doing on the floor?”

“Ever heard of calling ahead Fiona?” Baz sneers, while he stands and adjusts his trousers. 

“It’s my house too,” she snaps back.

“It’s not,” Baz tells her and it’s like she’s been slapped, looking at him with wide eyes and an open mouth.

“Well, what crawled up your knickers this morning?” Fiona asks and then seems to notice me for the first time. “Ah, the usual pest I see.”

By this time, my body has definitely got the hint that whatever was going to happen is no longer in the cards. Which makes it much easier to stand and say to Baz, “Yeah, give me a call when you figure out your bedroom situation.” 

Fiona doesn’t hold back the snort and cackle, “Performance issues, nephew mine?”

“For Christ's sake Fiona,” Baz says, looking up at the ceiling, his hands gripping his slender waist.

“Before you go though,” Fiona says, ignoring Baz completely and pulling an envelope out of her bag. “Here’s your invite to the wedding. Figured you might as well see what all your mediocre work was for.”

I roll my eyes but take the envelope, genuinely moved that she deems me worthy enough to attend. She might be putting on a face, but this is truly an honor in the world of Fiona Pitch.

“Thanks, I’ll–”

“You’re inviting him?” Baz says, and it stings how disbelieving he sounds.

“Of course he’s fucking invited, Basil,” Fiona says, cocking her head to the side like a confused dog.

“What do you mean ‘of course’? This is absurd!”

I want to leave. Sneak out and try to scrub the last thirty minutes from my brain at the first pub I can find. 

But I’m standing between the two of them as they get more and more heated over my invite.

“How is that absurd? It’s my wedding, I can bloody well invite whoever I want!”

“Because he’s my—” Baz starts but leaves whatever he was going to say orphaned in the air between us.

“Your what?” Fiona says, and it’s almost like she knows what we’ve been doing and wants him to admit it.

I look down at the floor. Afraid to look at Baz and see indifference. 

“He’s my handyman,” Baz answers, and my heart falls from my chest and splats on the floor.

I feel hollow. Used.

I catch Fiona’s eyes and see nothing but pity. 

I can’t believe I’m being pitied by Fiona Pitch. 

“Proper stuck up snob, you are. I thought we had more time before you completely turned into your father.”

I see the moment that sentence hit Baz. His face pales, and his eyes tear up.

I need to get out of here.

“I’m going to leave,” I say. “Thanks Fiona. I’ll see if I can make it.”

(I’m not going.)

I walk out of the kitchen and collect the things I’ve left around the house. I can hear Fiona and Baz yelling at each other as I do. I wonder if I can just buy new supplies to avoid ever having to come back to this house. Give Baz back a portion of the money, for the work that’s not completed and just ask him to send the things I’ve left through the post. Go about my life and hope I never run into him again. 

“Simon stop,” Baz says from behind as I reach for the knob of the front door. 

And I do. 

I stop.

“Please,” he says. He’s right behind me now, I can feel his breath on my neck. 

“Please what?” I ask, my voice shaking.

“I know this is a bad idea, but–”

I turn so fast, Baz has to take a step back, “You keep saying that. You keep saying this is a bad idea, and I keep thinking I can change your mind but… I can’t.” It’s not until I say it out loud that I know it’s true. “ I can’t, can I?”

“Simon,” he says. Begs really.

“And if it’s never going to turn into anything–”

“Please don’t do this,” 

“I’m just finishing what you’ve started a hundred times.”

“I need time. I need to talk to my father. I need–”

“No, you’ve had so much time. So many chances. I can’t anymore.”

“I understand,” Baz says, looking anything but understanding. But he pulls the cool mask on so fast I almost miss it. Miss the regret that darkens his eyes and downturns his mouth.

I turn back to the door and hate that I hesitate. Hate that I want him to try and stop me one more time. 

He doesn’t. 

He lets me walk out the door, get in my van and leave.

~~

I want to go to the pub. Drink myself stupid and take home the nearest person that looks like Baz.

I  text Penny instead. She is sitting on my stoop when I pull up.

“How did you beat me here?” I ask, my voice thick from the tears I’m keeping at bay.

“I was already out,” she says.

“Did I ruin a date night?” The tears are closer to falling. I can’t take ruining my best friend's night as well as my own. 

“Nah, Shepard is out with his Mythical Creature group. I was at the shops trying to decide between Caramel Swirl or Triple Chocolate Delight for ice cream when your text came through.”

“What did you decide?”

“Both,” she holds up a bag. “Wanna share?”

I smile at her as a tear finally escapes. I wipe it away with my sleeve, but more follow it.

“Oh, Simon,” she says, leaving the bag on my stairs and walking down to throw her arms around my middle.

Penny stays and listens until it’s long past a reasonable hour. She calls Shepard and tells him she’s staying here and I grab the extra pillow and blanket out of the closet for Penny.

We lay down facing each other, my eyes heavy and swollen, “Thanks, Pen. I love you.”

“I love you too, Simon,” she says. “Get some sleep. It’ll be better in the morning.”

~~

Penny stumbles into the kitchen the next morning, her hair a complete frizzy mess. She makes grabby hands for the mug filled with tea (just the way she likes it). 

I hand it to her with a chuckle and then sit down at my table, letting her wake up in her own time.

Penny was never a morning person. In fact, I’m the only morning person I know. Agatha is a complete night owl. She’d rather stay up until the sun rises and sleep with blackout curtains all day. Penny generally only gets up at a decent hour to keep me from getting myself into too much trouble before noon. Shepard might be the only one who’d ever been up at the same time as me. He is somehow both a night owl and an early riser. I don’t know how he gets less than five hours of sleep and still manages to be so happy and upbeat all of the time.

Baz hated my stomping around in the morning. Once, I caught an alarm to my chin because I couldn’t find my other shoe and made too much noise looking for it. I have a tiny scar from that.

I feel a pang in my chest from the memory. I hate that he’s already occupying my mind this early in the day.

“How long have you been up?” Penny asks, once the tea has done its job and woken her up.

“Few hours,” I tell her, taking a sip of my own. “Couldn’t sleep anymore. I’ve got to go get my stuff today.”

“Do you have to do it today?”

“It’s not gonna get any easier if I wait.”

“No, but maybe if you wait a few days, the two of you will have calmed down some. Maybe you can work it out.”

“He knows where to find me if he gets the balls to tell me what he wants.” I say, surprised by the heat in my voice.

“Maybe you should wait so you don’t say something you’d regret,” Penny mutters into her tea.

“We’re past that,” I tell her. “We’ve said all the words you’re not supposed to say to someone and still we manage to drift towards each other at every chance.”

“Did you just say you were soulmates in the most unromantic way ever?”

I get up and make us toast and eggs. I’m not avoiding that question, but it caught me off guard,  the way I wanted to say ‘of course we’re soulmates’ without any hesitancy. How I don’t know if Baz feels the same way. Maybe at one time he did, but certainly not anymore. 

It’s not until Penny is giving me one last hug that I tell her, “We’re soulmates Penny. You and me. Baz and I, we’re something else.”

“I know, Simon,” and she says it with such pity that I wonder if Baz and I are something far worse than soulmates. “Try not to kill him. Because one day he’ll change his mind and you’ll be angry you made him a corpse.”

That makes me laugh, “He’d be a pretty corpse.”

“Ugh, you would say that.”

“Thanks again Penny.”

“Call me tonight,” she says, before walking off and leaving me to get ready to face Baz one last time.

I don’t dress in any of the clothes Agatha had me buy. I put on my normal clothes, I run my fingers through my hair, and brush my teeth. 

I think about all the things I could say to try and get him to change his mind. I think of all the things I could say that would make him turn his back on me forever. I think about how I could sneak in and grab my stuff without him knowing. How mad he would be that he didn’t get the last word.

I get in my van and I make my last drive up to Pitch Manor.

Notes:

Next chapter just needs a reread and second party opinion, I might be on a roll!
Thanks for reading.

Chapter 9: The Weight of Rot

Summary:

Simon has an unexpected visitor who has him pondering his next moves

Notes:

It's been a million years, but here's chapter 9! I sat on this for so long, hoping I could improve upon it, but sometimes ya just gotta post the thing and hope for the best.

I think the next chapter will be the last one, but we'll see how the thoughts transfer to paper.

Enjoy!

By some stroke of luck, Baz isn’t there when I arrive. In fact, it looks like I just missed him, there’s a cup of lukewarm tea sitting on the table next to a half eaten piece of toast. 

I hope this means I have time to really do a good walk-through to collect my things.

I’d grown too complacent here. Treated it too much like my own place.

I pick up at least three hoodies, and two shirts I’d left lying around like it was my own flat. I find a travel mug in the sitting room and another in the drying rack in the kitchen. Baz must have washed it. My tools are here, there and everywhere instead of neatly organized in my toolbox every night like I do at any other job.

All these bits of our lives intermingled, coexisting in ways we never will.

I wish I’d never come. 

I’m doing my last walk through when I decide to check the study. The place I saw him two months ago for the first time with new eyes.

My boots echo down the empty hallway and I smile at the memory of my muddy footprints that first day in this same hallway. How I knew, even then, that I was in over my head and this job might kill me.

I just never expected it to be my heart that felt the brunt of it.

I push at the half-open door to Baz’s office and it creaks out a welcome. 

It looks the same.

Desk littered with papers, no order to them at all. A cup filled with the same type of pen he’s used since our days at Watford (black, gel, fine point). When I walk behind it, skimming my fingers over the back of his chair, I see a picture of his siblings I hadn’t seen before. All smiling at the camera, the oldest with gaps in her teeth that the tooth fairy no doubt paid her handsomely for. In the corner, written in silver marker, it says, “we miss you” and then a lopsided heart with the kid’s signatures (or the best they can do) under it. 

When I look down at the papers on his desk I see page after page of Baz’s monogrammed stationery, each page partially scribbled. I look at them more closely.

Dear Simon–

My Simon–

My Love–

Mr. Snow–

Simon Snow & Co–

To My Heart–

 Dearest Simon–

Darling–

Every endearment makes me want to take the ink it was written in and inject it straight into my veins because it feels like the jet black liquid came straight from his heart and bled onto the paper, leaving nothing unsaid and everything laid bare. Others thank me for my time and hope we can work together on another project. But most are filled with regret and hope that I will one day forgive him for the pain he caused me.

I read them all. 

I want to tear them up.

I want to fold them up and hide them under my mattress.

But more importantly, I want to respond.

I grab one of his pens and fancy papers. I cross out the “From the desk of Basil Grimm-Pitch” and write, “From the heart of Simon Snow”.

Baz~

You know where to find me when you find yourself.

Yours,

SS

Before I can overthink it, I leave my note right where he’ll see it when he sits down. I lay the pen across the bottom because I know it’ll drive him nuts that I couldn’t be bothered to put it away, and leave the key he gave me months ago lying next to it.

And with that, I walk back down the hallways, collect my things, and leave.

~~

For the next week I spend a lot of time sleeping and feeling sorry for myself.

I mailed Baz back the money he paid me for the room I was supposed to remodel, but he still paid me really well for the jobs I did complete. I could take a few months off and still be sitting pretty when I came back. 

Penny checks on me a couple times. So does Agatha. Shepard asks me to go with him to some retreat in Wales—something about mermaids in Pembrokeshire and a deep sea salt cleanse.I told him it was tempting, but mermaids and I don’t mix. He was surprisingly cool with it. He told me my dragon energy would scare them off anyways (I didn‘t ask what dragon energy meant, but I assumed it wasn’t good).

Instead I watch hours upon hours of Bake Off, clean every tool in my tool box until I can see my reflection, and sleep.

I try my best not to think of Baz (something I’ve never mastered and I suspect I won’t this time around either). But the bastard is everywhere. He’s in the smell of my orange juice. The color red. Even just seeing his brand of biscuits at the shop ( I bought them even though they cost twice as much, posh twat), made me think of the night we stayed up too late talking about everything and nothing and I finished off two boxes of them. Baz pretended to be mad, but brought out a third regardless and offered me the first one.

And when I sleep, it’s a mixture of fists flying, harsh words, and bruising kisses.

So about the same as it’s always been, just with real life experience in all matters.

I’m vegging out on my couch, watching Jurgen describe his Black Forest Gateau, when a knock comes at my door. But it’s not a Penny knock, who knocks three times, and then three times again before leaving or using her key to let herself in. And it’s not Agatha, who knocks exactly twice and then leaves. Or Shepard who talks between knocks so by the time you answer you’ve got to catch up with what you’ve missed. 

No, this is like the police are at my door and I’ve already been convicted by a jury.

It’s continuous pounding. And whoever it is, is using their whole fist. I really want to not answer, but I get the impression the person on the other side will just keep going until I go insane or give in.

If you’d have given me a million pounds to guess who it was, I couldn’t have done it with even a hundred tries.

“For fucks sake Fiona,” I say, when I swing open the door and Fiona Pitch finally relents her assault on my ears. “Do you even have one ounce of chill?”

“Don’t know what that means,” she says, pushing past me and marching into my home like she paid a portion of the rent.

“Come on in, Fiona. I’m doing well, can I get you a drink? What brings you here?” I ask my empty doorway.

“Where’s your fuckin’ tea, boyo?” she yells from my kitchen.

I sigh, shut my door and go and see what Fiona fucking Pitch is doing at my flat.

When I walk into my kitchen, half the drawers have been pulled open and left that way, and the intruder herself is sitting at the table with two opened packs of biscuits in front of her, the kettle heating on the stove behind her.

“Found it,” she says, sounding nonchalant about breezing through my kitchen like a tornado. “Stupid ass place to keep it. Makes more sense to keep it in the one by the stove.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” I tell her, sitting down across from her, crossing my arms and waiting for her to say why she’s here.

“And you need better fucking biscuits. These are shite.”

I eye her as she takes a bite of said shite biscuits, and brushes the crumbs that fall on the table onto the floor.

I want to tell her they aren’t shite. That they’re the same ones she’d find in Baz’s own kitchen. But she knows that. She’s just goading me. 

I just can’t figure out why.

“Thought you’d have a more modern kitchen,” she says. “With your line of work and all.”

“What are you doing here, Fiona?” I ask, getting impatient and tired of these fucking Pitch families games.

She takes another bite of her biscuit, gathering her thoughts.

“I’m here on behalf of Basil,” she says.

“Couldn't be bothered to come himself?”

“He doesn’t know I’m here.”

I cock my head and squint my eyes at her, “Out with it, Fiona.”

“He’s been a miserable prick since you left,” she blurts. “I don’t know what transpired between the two of you, but it was clearly more than just a remodel. It’s left him  a moody, angry man, who’s become obsessed with the work he so clearly hates.”

The kettle whistles at that moment and Fiona pauses to get up and make herself and me a cup of tea. She doesn’t ask how I like it. Just makes two the same way and puts one in front of me.

I take a sip as she gets settled and try not to grimace at how sweet it is.

“He’s driving himself mad,” she continues, taking a sip of her own tea and adding more sugar. “And, I’m worried about him.”

“I don’t know how I could possibly help,” I tell her. 

“Come on now,” she says, irritation in the quirk of her mouth. “Don’t be daft. Kiss and make up.”

“Can’t do that,” I say, fighting against the urge to ball my fists up.

“Why not?” and she surprises me with a slap to the table, her tea sloshing out and darkening the wood where it lands.

I drag my hands down my face and draw in a deep breath. 

And then another.

Finally, I lower my hands and look Fiona in the eyes. Even though her eyes are different, they become stormy when they are both desperate.

“Fiona, I’d love to help you–,” I start.

“Great, come on then,” she says, getting up and readying herself to leave.

“But,” I say, and she pauses, lingering at my shoulders. “I’ve already offered him all that I can and he politely refused it.” I look up at her, and see the darkness in her eyes. “The ball’s in his court now.”

“You selfish bastard,” she hisses, lips curled into a snarl. “You self-centered, money-hungry–”

“Oi!” I yell, standing up and looking down my nose at her. “You could take all the money back if it meant Baz would pull the stick out of his ass and decide to choose his own happiness over you lot. I know he’s fucking miserable. I watched all that loosen the last few months. I tried! What have any of you ever done except watch him become a shell of the man he could be? I’m not the selfish one.”

Fiona assesses me. Looks me up and down and finally seems to come to a sort of decision.

“Bring that energy to my wedding,” she says, “He likes grand romantic gestures. But don’t steal my thunder.”

And just like that, she’s out my door, gone just as quickly as she entered.

But her visit doesn’t leave my mind. 

I think about it all day.

During my morning workout. While I’m shopping for the week’s meals. When I meet up with Shepard to discuss a project that might be coming my way.

I’m so tired from the mental hamster wheel I’ve been on all day that I can’t wait to lay my head on my pillow and let my mind go blank.

Instead I find myself tossing and turning all night. Running different scenarios in my head.

1. I could show up at the wedding and he could ignore me.
2. I could show up and his family would disown him right there in front of an audience and he would hate me forever.
3. I could confess my love and he could laugh in my face (and Fiona too because she was in on it the whole time and it was one big plot to embarrass me)
4. I could not go and never see Baz again
5. Fuck weddings
6. I could also go and he’d tell me he fucked up. I would forgive him (obviously). And we could see what happens next.

By the morning I still don’t know what to do and now I’m sleep-deprived and cranky to boot.

The wedding is next weekend. The calendar taunts me like a plate of Baz’s cherry scones hot out of the oven.

In a moment of weakness (and hunger) I text the number on the invite Fiona gave me and say I’ll be there. I get a reply almost instantly.

Unknown: Don’t fuck it up

I set my phone down and let a different shade of dread wash over me. 

Notes:

Thanks for sticking with me.

Notes:

Thanks for reading!

I'm bad at responding to comments but they still make my day :)