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arituzz · 6 years

Text

Famous Last Words 4

-SNOWBAZ-

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10]

Summary: When your family was a wreck and your perfect girlfriend just left you for your irritating classmate, the only way to carry on was to make a truce with the enemy, right?

High school AU in which Simon and Baz pretend to be boyfriends to save Simon’s love life.

Chapter word count: 4.3k

Rating: T

Tags: High School AU, fake boyfriends, mutual pining, fluff, a little bit of angst (later on), music, theater, rock band

Also on AO3

Thank you @velvetnoodle for being my amazing beta :)

Simon loved music.

Growing up with his father didn’t allow him to enjoy music properly, so when he started at Watford High, the Drama Club was one of the things—if not the thing—that made Simon fall in love with the place. Joining the Drama Club and performing musical scenes made him put a name to that strange sensation he had when he was around flowers, or when he remembered something about his mother. It made him feel home.

Simon didn’t love music because he was good at it—which he inexplicably was—or because it was entertaining. Simon loved music the same way the leatherback turtle loved travelling through the oceans. Or the same way a wizard loved magic.

He loved being surrounded by music. Casual, ambient music: People singing in the corridor, someone spontaneously dancing between classes… When Simon sang or danced in a theatre representation, it made him a part of something bigger. No one loved music like Simon did, he was sure about that.

Simon’s music sense wasn’t like Penelope’s. When Simon had asked her how she managed to dance like she did—Penny danced like no one else—she’d described it as having a bottomless well inside her; the energy, the rhythm, the steps, all of that was deep down inside that well; and buckets and buckets of it would draw up for her — as much as she needed, as long as she stayed focused.

Agatha liked music, too. She did ballet and was on the school chorus. But Simon wasn’t sure that she loved it. He knew she liked the Café better than any class at Watford. Simon was under the impression that music sounded less like a passion and more like an obligation to Agatha.

And then there was Baz. Obviously, he was a brilliant musician—he just had to excel at everything he tried. Simon had always known Baz was bloody good at the violin. He used to sneak on him during his violin lessons. “Light a match inside your heart,” he’d heard Baz say to one of his classmates, who was having difficulty. “Then blow on the tinder.” Simon remembered thinking how oddly charming it sounded, coming from Baz. It worked for that student, but it never did for Simon.

For Simon, music was nothing like that. Going onto the stage felt exactly like exploding. Or going nova. Simon didn’t understand the basics of dancing, nor did he use any voice-warming techniques. He just needed to go up there and let himself go off.

Mitali Bunce—Penny’s mum—was the Drama professor, and, every year, she made them perform a different play for the school’s Leavers’ Party. This year it was Grease. Simon had the leading role, along with Philippa Stainton. It was also a tradition to keep it a secret until the day of the play. No, seriously, last year, they were playing Simon’s favourite musical, Oliver!, and Simon got the main character’s role. When Penny’s mother discovered he’d told her about it, she’d made Simon play Fagin. Professor Bunce was dramatic like that. (He never told her that, in the end, he actually enjoyed doing Fagin’s role.)

Penelope hated drama as much as her mum loved it, Simon knew that. But, for some reason, Penny had taken pity on him in first year and, since then, she always helped Simon memorise his lines. He didn’t know how he’d survive this year without her.

Normally, rehearsal coincided with the last hour of football practice—Simon was only able to see half the training session from the school roof. This year, though, they had to start rehearsals one hour later so that Niall, who was also on the football team, could join the Drama Club.

Baz had football practice on Mondays and Wednesdays, and violin lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays until 6 pm. Simon spent the time with Penny in the library while Baz was in violin class. (Or rather, Penelope forced him to sit for two hours straight while she helped him with homework.) On Mondays and Wednesdays, Penny had dance lessons—thank music—so Simon watched Baz play football until it was time for rehearsal. Then, Baz would drive him home.

Since he’d come back to school, Baz had been trying to hide the fact that he was limping on his left foot. (His best leg, Simon appreciated, thanks to all the years he’d been watching Baz play football.) This year, Baz opted for training his right foot, but, even from the roof, Simon could see him wincing. Simon wondered if Baz’s injury had anything to do with him being in prison. Did he have a fight with another inmate? If he was half as insufferable as a cellmate as he was a deskmate, Simon was certain the answer was ‘yes’. Or maybe it had more to do with the reason he was in jail in the first place. Baz would have to tell him eventually, right? After all, they were boyfriends now, and boyfriends tell each other things like that. Of course they weren’t really going out together but Simon still had the right to know. Otherwise how was he supposed to help him? But Baz was like that; when Simon thought he knew absolutely everything about him, the next day he came and did something that completely threw Simon off. Simon was sure he did it on purpose.

Since first year, Simon liked to draw Baz while he was on the pitch. Except he wasn’t playing football in Simon’s drawings: In one of them, he was running from a chimera; in another, Baz was a magician who could make fire appear in the palm of his hand. He had a whole sketchbook just for Baz.

Penny had told him many times he was obsessed with Baz, Simon had argued he just liked to keep his enemies close. “That doesn’t mean you have to carry them in your school bag,” she’d said.

Simon was curious about what Baz did while he was in rehearsal. Did he just wait in the library? No, Premal—the librarian, and Penelope’s brother—had told him he wasn’t there, when Simon had asked him. Then what? Did he spend the hour smoking on the roof? Yeah, that was most likely it, Simon thought. Of course Premal could also be lying to him, since he was Davy’s pet. But it didn’t matter; whatever Baz did, he always came for Simon when rehearsal ended and then he’d drive him home.

xxx

One Tuesday, Baz’s violin class was cancelled, so he drove Simon home two hours earlier.

Simon’s grades kind of directly depended on those Penelope-imposed “study” sessions, but he couldn’t ask Baz to wait two hours and then drive him home.

“What is it, Snow?” Baz asked, parking the car before the house.

“What?”

Baz stopped the engine and turned to look at Simon. “You’ve been quiet the entire ride.”

Simon shrugged. “I always am.”

“I meant more than usual,” Baz said, pursing his lips. He reclined his elbow on the windowsill of the car and turned his head so that his chin rested on his hand. “Whatever. I’m not interested, anyway.” Baz made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “Just get out.”

Simon ignored Baz’s last words. “It’s my homework.”

“What about it?”

“Penny always helps me,” Simon said. “But it’s okay. I guess I’ll manage.”

Baz abandoned the window to face Simon again. “No, you won’t,” he said with a sneer. Simon tried to mimic Penny’s patented scowling face, but failed. Because, he knew it. Baz was right. Baz turned his attention towards the steering wheel, grasping it with both his hands, even though the ignition was still turned off—even though he only used one hand to steer it while driving. “I can help you,” Baz murmured.

Simon masked his surprise, his fingers toying with the laces of his hoodie. “Cool.”

After exiting the car, Simon opened the door to his home, hoping his dad wasn’t there. Baz looked hesitantly from the doorstep.

“Are you… afraid of my house or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Snow,” Baz growled. “You haven’t invited me in.”

Simon chuckled. “What are you, a vampire?” It would make sense, Simon thought. Even though his skin was dark, Baz was unnaturally pale. And his canine teeth were longer than average, so Simon couldn’t be one hundred percent sure they weren’t vampire fangs. Simon imagined himself drawing Baz as a vampire and tried to save that mental image for later.

Baz rolled his eyes. “I’m being fucking polite,” he snapped. “That might also sound like fantasy to you.”

“Alright,” Simon said, holding the door for him. “Please, do come in, milord Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” he parodied, exaggerating a reverence.

“Fuck you, Snow,” Baz said as he walked through the door. “Don’t ever call me Tyrannus again.” He sent a death glare towards Simon’s direction.

Simon burst out laughing until he had to stop to catch his breath.

After that day, Baz ended up at Simon’s every day after school. Except on Fridays, in which Simon helped Ebb with the flower shop and Baz was occupied with band practice.

At first, Baz had enough patience to help Simon with his homework. But Simon had mastered the art of procrastination years ago and their study afternoons soon devolved into drawing afternoons for Simon and violin practice for Baz. (Luckily for Simon’s grades, he still had the study sessions with Penny.)

Listening to Baz playing the violin in his room was like travelling back in time to fifth year. It felt like he was sneaking on him again, as if Simon was witnessing something that wasn’t meant for him. At first, he was awestruck. Simon would pretend to draw while he looked at him stupefied. (He’d also save the mental image of Baz playing the violin so he could draw it later.) Further on, Baz’s music inspired Simon to draw. (Castles, dragons, magical creatures…)

After Baz was long gone, Simon liked to go over all the drawings again before falling asleep, like a lullaby. It was the only way he could actually sleep.

xxx

It was a Sunday morning—or it should have been, but time worked differently for Simon on Sundays, so it was probably past noon—when Simon found himself compiling a mix CD. (Which was unusual for him, as he used his computer to listen to music at home.)

It started as an experiment. He created a new playlist on iTunes and put his favourite songs there. At first there were only songs from Halsey, Troye Sivan and Twenty One Pilots. After that, he added some of the songs from his favourite musicals, plus the songs he had to perform for the school play. He took a blank CD and inserted it into his computer to record it.

Simon paused before clicking the button.

He had another playlist he’d recently made. One named ‘Baz’s songs’. Simon considered mixing both playlists into one CD. But he discarded the idea and pressed ‘burn’.

While the computer did its work, Simon went downstairs to prepare himself a couple of sandwiches for breakfast-lunch-dinner. When he got back to the room, the CD was ready.

Simon picked it. He took a sharpie and named it ‘SIMON’S MIXTAPE’. Then, he put it aside and recorded another one. This time with both Simon’s and Baz’s playlists.

When it was ready, he named it and proceeded to listen to it while he drew.

When he woke up the next day, Simon realised he’d fallen asleep with the mixtape on. That meant Davy hadn't come back home the night before, either. It wasn't unusual—he used to stay away for extended periods of time when Simon was younger. But Simon kind of had hoped those days were long past. Even though Simon knew it was foolish, there was a part of him that missed his father, that still wanted to do father-son things with Davy. But the facts were there: Simon barely knew him; he saw him more like a distant relative than a father figure. And, it was kind of too late to change that now.

Yeah, Simon couldn’t help thinking how things could have gone differently, but that was pointless now. Plus, he had other people he cared about. Like Ebb and Penny; or Rhys and Gareth; even Trixie. Also, Agatha.

And yes, maybe Baz too.

xxx

On Friday, Simon overslept. He’d been drawing for hours the night before and he didn’t hear the first two alarms going off. He wasn't running late—Simon was never late to school—but he wasn't as early as usual, and Simon feared he might miss breakfast. So, when he realised it was raining outside, he didn't bother to go back for an umbrella and just began to walk fast.

"Snow." Simon turned around to see Baz's car stopped in front of the traffic lights. "Don't you have an umbrella?" Baz's window was zipped down and the rain soaked his leather jacket.

Simon ran a hand through his wet hair. "Yeah... At home."

"Of fucking course," Baz said, massaging his temples. "Get in."

"It's okay, I..." Simon started, raising his hood and putting it over his head.

The traffic lights had turned green, but Baz was still stopped. "Just get in, Snow."

A few of the cars behind Baz's started honking at him. Baz gave them the finger.

"Okay," Simon said, hopping onto the car.

Baz murmured something Simon couldn't hear and rolled the window up. He slotted the gear into drive and, with the delicacy of a nine-toed troll, he hit the accelerator and drove all the way to school without saying another word.

xxx

Breakfast was the second best thing about Watford. Simon had to thank Baz for driving him to school that Friday, otherwise he would’ve probably missed it. And a day without morning scones was bound to be a terrible one.

Simon's life at school hadn't changed much since he’d started dating Baz. Sure, people posed a lot of questions at the beginning, but the novelty soon died out and they were left alone. (Baz's sneers might have had something to do with it, too.)

“Simon, your hoodie is soaking wet,” Penny pointed out from beside him.

“Right,” said Simon, finishing his scone. He yanked at his hoodie and pulled it off. The shirt he was wearing below moved up, as it always did, exposing the skin over Simon’s hips. He jerked it down and resumed eating the buttered scones.

Baz swallowed, looking weirdly at him. Simon assumed it was because of his messy hair, so he tried—unsuccessfully—to flatten it.

Penny had the ghost of a smile on her face, like she was remembering a joke she’d been told a long time ago.

The rest of the school day went rather smoothly and it was soon time to go to the flower shop.

xxx

“Snow,” Baz called, tossing his cig onto the—already dry—ground of the parking lot. “Where’s your hoodie?”

Simon noticed it was the first time he’d seen Baz smoking that day. He didn’t like him smoking at all, but he had to admit that was progress. Big progress, in fact. “Uhm…” Simon paused, stopping before the Jaguar. “It was so wet that I left it in the locker,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “And then I sort of forgot about it.”

“How could you forget it? It’s fucking December,” Baz spat, as he searched for the car keys inside the pockets of his dark jeans. “We can go back.”

Simon lifted his shoulders into a shrug. “I’m always warm,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Baz opened the door but didn’t get inside. “You walk home after work, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yeah…” Simon replied, from the other side of the car. He leaned against the Jaguar and folded his arms on the roof, resting his chin on them. Even though Simon knew Baz had band practice until late in the night, it looked as though he was going to offer driving him home after work.

Instead, Baz said, “For fuck’s sake, you’re shivering.”

“I’m not...” Simon wanted to protest but he realised it was true. “I—”

Baz took off his jacket. “Here,” he said, casually tossing it to Simon. “Take my jacket.”

Simon knew it was only a jacket—only three words: take my jacket—but it felt like so much more. Baz never lent his jacket to anyone. Not even Niall.

Simon put it on, less because he was cold and more because he wanted to know how it felt, and got into the car. “Thanks.”

Maybe it was because of this whole cold vibe Baz gave off, or maybe because he hadn’t noticed until then that the jacket was wool-lined on the inside, but Simon had expected it to feel cold. It didn’t. At all.

Simon zipped it all the way up, slyly breathing in that familiar smell of cedar and bergamot. He looked at Baz while he drove, taking in his black T-shirt and the way the muscles in his arms rippled as he steered.

Baz was fucking fit. He’d always been. And, Simon had to admit, he did look cool. But, even though driving his father’s Jaguar made him look bloody attractive, Simon still prefered him on the bike.

Shoving that thought away, Simon turned the music volume down and questioned Baz about something that had been bugging him since Baz had come back: “Why are you limping?”

“None of your business,” Baz spat, sparing him a quick glance.

“Is that why you don’t ride your bike anymore?” Simon asked.

“I told you, it’s being repaired.”

“So long?”

“Yes, Snow,” Baz said, irritated. “I hate to burst your stupid little bubble, but things take fucking time.”

“Can you just—”

“No, I can’t,” Baz cut him.

“Can you stop being mean for just one second?”

“Then stop giving me reasons.”

Simon sighed in frustration and kept silent for the rest of the ride.

It wasn't until Baz had the car parked in front of the flower shop that Simon remembered the mixtape. He'd put it into his schoolbag on Monday before leaving for school, and had forgotten about it.

“I made this,” he said, taking it out and passing it to Baz. “So we can listen to it in your car.”

“No way,” Baz said, but took it anyway. “Simon and Baz’s mixtape?” he read. “What the fuck?”

Simon shrugged. “My favourite songs… and yours… mixed.”

“We’re not a couple, Snow.”

“But we are a couple. Technically.”

Baz discarded the mixtape in the glove compartment, with the rest of his CD’s. “Only in front of others,” he said.

Simon was playing with the zip of the jacket. “Imagine Agatha gets in your car.”

“Why would Wellbelove get on my father’s car?”

“I don’t know.” Simon shrugged again. “To take her to her ballet classes?”

“You know that will never happen.”

“But it could happen,” insisted Simon.

“I said no bloody way, Snow. I don’t want to hear your stupid music,” Baz growled, and looked away into the traffic.

“Fine,” Simon said, walking out of the car.

It wasn’t until he entered the flower shop that Simon realised he’d left the mixtape in the car. He turned around to see if Baz was still there but he was already gone.

xxx

“Nice jacket,” Ebb welcomed him as he entered the flower shop. “Is that your boyfriend’s?”

Simon nodded, feeling the heat of a blush tinge his cheeks. “Yeah.”

“You remind me of him.”

“Of Baz?”

“No,” Ebb said, absentmindedly. “Nico.”

“Nico?” Simon asked, confused.

“My brother.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Ebb’s eyes were teary. “He left a long time ago.”

“Left? Like, to another country?”

“No, no. He just left to another place.”

“Can you visit him?”

Ebb nodded. “Once a year.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes… Well, let’s not talk about sad things, yeah?” Ebb said, wiping her eyes. “Look at you, you look gorgeous. Fi will love it when I tell her.”

It was remarkably easy for Simon to forget that Ebb was married to a Pitch. She was just too good to be part of that family.

Simon gave her a smile.

Ebb didn’t talk anymore about her wife nor her brother that day.

They worked on Baz’s gift: A pot with basil and rose seeds planted in a way that, given time and proper care, would grow to form a heart shape. Since the pot was made of chalkboard, Ebb asked Simon to write something nice for Baz.

“Like what?” Simon asked. He grabbed a chalk and wrote the first thing that came to mind: Flowers grow here.

“Try writing something from your heart,” Ebb said, patting Simon’s shoulder. “It doesn’t need to be now, you can always change it later.”

Simon couldn’t tell her it was all fake. That there was really no valid reason for them to make that gift for Baz. Although Simon supposed he could give it to him as a thank you present for being his fake boyfriend.

xxx

Eventually, Simon took off the jacket. As he arrived home, he considered the best place to keep it. It should meet two conditions: a) Easy access. (For he was going to use it frequently.) b) Hidden from—Baz’s—sight. (For he was never going to return it.)

The wardrobe would do, he decided.

Simon began the bad habit of wearing the jacket all the time when he was home. Davy didn’t ask him about it, he probably didn’t even notice. But that wasn’t new. The strangest thing was that Baz hadn’t asked Simon to give it back.

Simon was practicing one of the scenes he had to do for the school play, when the doorbell rang, indicating that Baz had arrived. It was four in the afternoon, like every Saturday.

When Simon got to the door, Baz greeted him with a snort.

“What?” Simon asked.

“You’re a terrible Danny Zuko,” Baz scoffed.

Simon wondered if Baz had heard him practicing but he knew he couldn’t be heard from the street. Unless he had like, super-hearing powers or something. Then it dawned on him he was wearing the jacket and that might be the reason behind Baz’s conclusion. Shit, he mentally cursed.

“Wait,” Simon said when they were already upstairs, before entering his room. “How do you know?”

“How do I know what?”

“The play.”

Baz stopped on his tracks and swallowed. “Because you told me, obviously.” He looked at the wall.

No, Simon hadn’t told him. He hadn’t even told Penny. (He wouldn’t risk a repeat of last year.) It had to be someone else who’d told Baz. Was it Niall? What if Baz was flirting with Philippa and she’d accidentally revealed it? Should Simon be jealous about that?

Simon decided that yes, he should be jealous if Baz was flirting around with other people. They were supposed to be boyfriends.

Baz settled on Simon’s bed and started silently doing homework. Since Baz already knew about the play, Simon sat on his desk and continued practicing his lines, hoping he wouldn’t mind.

xxx

“That’s cool baby, you know…” Simon paused, failing to remember what came next. “You know…”

“You know how it is, rockin’ and rollin’ and whatnot,” Baz finished for him, exasperation creeping into his voice. “You’ve gone over this line ten times now.”

“Yeah, sorry…” Simon apologised, scratching the back of his neck.

“How can you have the leading role with such poor memory?”

“Guess I’m good,” Simon shrugged. “I’m better when someone helps, though.”

“No,” Baz said, dryly. “I’m not— No,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Just, no.”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to,” said Simon, and resumed working on the scene.

After ten minutes of Simon struggling with that same line, Baz gave up. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said, standing up and abandoning his homework. “Fine, I’ll fucking help you.”

When they were done with Simon’s lines, Baz resumed working on his homework. Simon took his sketchbook—his regular one—and started drawing.

It was easier for him to draw while Baz was playing the violin, he discovered it inspired him greatly. But Baz hadn’t brought the violin today.

Simon started his computer and opened iTunes and put the playlist he’d used for the mixtape. “Do you mind?” he asked Baz.

Baz sighed. “Whatever.”

Simon started drawing a little boy playing with a red ball. As he progressed with the drawing he realised it was himself when he was younger. He didn’t like it. Not finding any more inspiration, Simon closed the sketchbook and put it away.

When he looked back at Baz, Simon almost fell off his chair: Baz was lying on Simon’s bed, his face was half buried in his textbook, his hair hanging loose. His stomach rose and fell in a soft rhythm. He was sleeping. Cherry and Scone were one at each side of him.

Cute, Simon thought. And then, without thinking it, he took out his other sketchbook—the one with drawings of Baz—and began drawing the scene before him.

After some minutes, Baz made a soft sound and Simon jumped, fearing he would wake up and catch him drawing him. (Simon was certain that if that happened, Baz would finally fulfill his threat of giving Simon a Viking’s funeral.)

Baz didn’t wake up, but Simon hid the sketchbook anyway. He grabbed his phone and, very quietly, took a photo of Baz and the cats. For later.

Simon tried without success to do some homework before Baz woke up.

“Snow,” Baz said, rubbing his eyes. He was visibly angry. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I tried,” Simon lied.

“Fuck, I have to go,” Baz cursed, gathering his things in a rush.

“Where?” Simon asked.

Baz cocked an eyebrow at him. “Home?”

“Right,” said Simon. “I’ll see you on Monday, then.”

“Bye, Snow.”

After Baz left, Simon resumed the drawing of him and the cats until he fell asleep.

-TBC-

(snowbaz fic masterlist)

#snowbaz #carry on fanfiction #snowbaz fic #thanks for reading

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