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1.
The feeling is tiny, at first. Small sparks scratching against his chest, waiting for the rush of ember to blow them into hell fire. It’s agony and bliss at once, dreams of a life he can never have haunting him through glimpses of what ifs and maybes . And so maybe it doesn’t happen exactly as he pictured it at fifteen, too stubborn to let himself process his feelings and too hurt to try and deal with them at all. But it happens nonetheless, the feeling scraping past his ribs and leaving scorch marks on his heart. And when it finally leaves, the fire around him is no match for the one in Simon's eyes, causing his world to collapse around him.
He sits next to Simon now, and the fire has smoothed down into a gentle warmth. He knows the feeling well enough to give it a name, but can’t make himself say it to Simon out loud.
It’s too soon, he reasons. It could scare him away.
“Stop thinking, darling,” Simon reaches out to poke Baz’s forehead, the knowing glint in his eyes telling him that he’s smoothing out a wrinkle.
It’s his thinking wrinkle, or at least that’s what Simon calls it. He didn’t even know he had it before Simon had pointed it out to him, and he wonders what other secrets are buried within him waiting to be noticed.
“I can't help it,” Baz admits finally, and Simon leans over and turns the tv off.
“What are you thinking about?”
You. Always you.
“You,” he says out loud, and Simon smiles softly.
It’s a confession all on its own, and Baz wonders how many more times he can say things like that without I love you following immediately afterwards. The words feel heavy on his tongue now, as if he’s kept them inside for a smidge too long and they refuse to believe that they can leave at all; that a reality exists where Baz gets to consider the possibility of saying them to Simon and not feel the harsh cut of a blade dampen his final words.
As if sensing his thoughts, Simon adjusts them so that they can lay on the sofa comfortably, Baz’s head tucked under Simon’s chin. He can hear Simon’s heartbeat, a steady cadence lulling together with his even breathing.
“Did you know,” Simon begins, tracing a fingertip down Baz’s arm. “That I think I spent most of my time at Watford thinking of you?”
“You mean your stalker-like tendencies in fifth year when you were absolutely convinced I was plotting your downfall?”
“I did end up falling though, didn’t I? You said it yourself.”
He had said it offhandedly; it was a comment he’d let slip carelessly without thinking about how Simon might feel about it. Baz hadn’t brought it up ever since, and he had started to believe that perhaps Simon hadn’t heard it at all, or that he had the decency to spare Baz’s feelings by pretending it never happened.
Simon bringing it up now had different implications though, and Baz didn’t want to be extremely hopeful. They were joking around, weren’t they? There was no point in confessing and having Simon break up with him once and for all because it was “too much, too soon.” Those were the exact words he had hurled at Baz when they had returned from America, all those months ago, leading to a cycle of fights with no progress in communication. Things were much better now; they both went to therapy regularly, and while Baz had started mainly just so he could make Simon come along with him, he had to admit it had been incredibly healing.
Difficult as well, but they were both learning the strength in being vulnerable, and that they should talk about their feelings instead of simply assuming what the other felt. It was progress, slow and steady, and Baz didn’t want to uproot past issues and ruin how far they’d come. He hadn’t let them break up then, and he surely wasn’t going to risk it now either.
But as Simon gently tilts his chin up for a kiss, Baz can’t help but think that even after all this time, he’s the one falling: over and over and over again.
2.
Simon wakes with the sun – it's a habit of Simon’s he’s known about since their earliest days at Watford, and he usually joins Baz back in bed after he’s made breakfast for them both, smelling like the perfect blend of sugar and cinnamon. He’s not there this morning, though, and his absence stings far more than it should.
Baz has grown past the fear that one day he’ll wake up to find that Simon’s left for good; the fear that Simon finally realized that Baz wasn’t what he was looking for and that their history had meant nothing at all. It’s an intrusive thought he’s fitfully discussed with his therapist, and he can hear her voice in his head now: have you tried talking to Simon about it?
And he hasn’t—of course not—because hasn’t Simon had enough to deal with already? It’s what had spurred the fight yesterday, a massive one that rivaled the ones they had frequently at Watford.
Even after their shift in relationship, it was far too easy to slip back into their twisted roots; they had spent so long snarling insults at each other that three came to his mind instantly when the fight had started to escalate, and he barely held himself back from hurling all of them. It was a habit, broken and pitiful, and it stung every single time.
They had both gone to bed upset and unwilling to talk, and at the moment it seemed assuring that Simon hadn’t left to go spend the night at Penelope’s, that when he did leave it was for a walk to clear his head, and that when he returned he slipped into bed as if nothing had happened.
The memory of it was fresh in Baz’s head, and he slowly got out of bed and opened the door. He almost closed his eyes—not wanting to have his fear confirmed if he didn’t see Simon in the living room or kitchen—but in the end he exhaled as he stepped out and closed the door behind him.
Simon was curled up on the sofa, almost exactly the way the two of them had laid there a couple days ago, and the image chipped away at his heart. He sat down near Simon’s feet—who had turned over so that he could see Baz’s face—and for a moment they sat there in silence.
“Simon,” Baz started, before Simon shifted so he was sitting up and shook his head.
“Can I?” he moved closer; a distance so minute that if Baz wasn’t completely enamored by his presence, he might not have noticed it at all. “Please.”
They were going to be okay, Baz knew then, and the realization only made him want to shake Simon by the shoulders and tell him he loved him. That he was so proud of him, of both of them for starting a conversation about the fight instead of brushing it off.
“I’m sorry about yesterday. I mean—I’m sorry that it went the way that it did. We shouldn’t have fought over it like that—you mean too much to me now.” he pauses then, and Baz feels another ebb of pride as he waits for Simon to continue. He has snarled “use your words,” at him countless times, and it still takes him by surprise when Simon actually does.
“Well—you always meant a lot to me. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to slip back to the way we were at Watford.” Simon finishes.
Baz nods, “I know. And I’m sorry too.”
“I can’t believe we fought over cereal?”
It wasn’t just cereal—both he and Simon know it: it had escalated impressively and involved petty digs at their insecurities—a forest fire in the making, but he thinks they’ve done enough vulnerability for the day. Baz will bring it up some other time, though, when they haven’t been freshly stung and aren’t new to difficult conversation.
Simon smiles a bit at Baz’s silence, as if he knows just as well that Baz won’t drop it so easily, but that he appreciates him dropping it today. He leans forward to grab his hand, standing up as he does so and making Baz do the same.
“Do you want to make breakfast with me?”
“Of course.”
3:
The flat smells pleasantly like popcorn when Baz enters, and he drops his keys on a dish before leaving his shoes by the door. He can hear laughter and Bunce’s indignation over something Simon said, and it’s all so blissfully domestic that Baz stands by the door for another minute, soaking it all in.
“Baz! Is that you?”
“No, it’s your other boyfriend!”
“He’s welcome if he has our take-away,” Penelope quips, and Baz scoffs at her as he joins them in the living room.
“So easily won over, Bunce?” he shakes his head, and she rolls her eyes as she reaches for the bag.
Simon kisses his cheek before taking his box out of the bag and placing it on the coffee table. Baz copies him, watching as Penelope digs through her rice with a reckless abandon he’s previously only associated with Simon.
“Alright?” he teases, and she glares as she neatly mixes more curry into her rice.
“Simon made me play Wii with him as a way to ‘destress after revising.’”
“I like the sword fighting game,” Simon defends. “I needed an opponent.”
The image of Simon playing a sword fighting Wii game (and forcing Bunce to join him) makes Baz bite back a smile, and he’s so fond all of a sudden that he leans over to kiss him. He ignores Bunce’s sigh, and pulls back when he remembers neither of them have started eating yet. He passes a fork to Simon and opens the lid to his food, expecting him to do the same.
Simon stands up, though, ignoring Baz’s questioning as he heads to the kitchen. Penelope looks at him with slight confusion — it’s not like Simon to wait so long to eat their takeaway — but he gets his answer when Simon returns with a mug.
The smell makes Baz’s fangs drop, and he’d blush if he could at Simon’s thoughtfulness. He wonders if he could say it now as he takes the mug of blood out of Simon’s hand, as he leans into his side and blinks back tears.
“Thank you,” he says instead, but the words he wants to say linger closer near the surface, and he feels himself overwhelmed with it.
4:
It’s an ordinary Tuesday when Baz finally does say it — leaning against the counter with his hands covering his face after a bad day, after Simon asks why he came here first before going to his own flat. When he asks why he would rather walk further to Simon’s flat in the rain — already sopping wet — than go and shower at his own flat first. What a ridiculous creature.
Baz can’t help it, then — he mumbles it — so quietly that he thinks, half helplessly, that Simon didn’t hear him at all. He’s still thinking this as Simon holds his wrists and gently brings his hands away from his face, keeping their hands together as he takes in whatever it is he sees on Baz’s face (love. Always love). Baz sniffles a bit miserably, but no tears fall as he tries to gauge Simon’s reaction.
“I know,” Simon says finally – softly – and Baz feels his heart splinter and heal at this revelation. “I know you, remember?”
“And you—?” Simon continues, and he brings his hands up to Baz’s shoulders. Baz’s arms wrap around Simon’s waist reflexively in return. “You know me.”
Baz meets Simon’s eyes at this, most definitely trying and failing to hide the surprise in his face.
“You love me?”
Simon laughs a little at his incredulity, kissing his nose as he watches Baz’s brain rewire itself with this brand new information that he was already supposed to know. Simon loves him. Simon loves him. And he thought Baz knew.
“Haven’t I told you?”
“No!”
“I thought it was obvious,” Simon frowns, but there’s no hurt in it. “I’ve always been obsessed with you, and I’ve always been shit at hiding it.”
“Simon!”
This is what Simon has reduced Baz to – single word exclamations – and he smiles at him.
“I love you, Baz,” he emphasizes teasingly, and Baz swats at his arm, before bringing him closer.
“I love you, Simon,” he replies, and Simon’s smile sets alight the tinder in his heart, letting it warm them both.