#also i drew simon down in the left corner but he didnt fit in the comp so i had to delete him 😭 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fell-in-love-didnt-you · 4 years

Text

Carry Me Away With You: SnowBaz Fanfic

Simon Snow doesn't expect much from life. His father has drilled into him from the beginning two things: work alone and never trust vampires. Simon breaks both rules in a matter of days. After he collapses at the doorstop of an unknown house, he's pulled into a world he has no idea how to escape from. The question is: does he want to?

...

AH! This is my Carry On Big Bang 2020 fic. I'm so excited to have finally posted it. It also comes with AMAZING artwork by the extremely talented @thehoneyedhufflepuff on tumblr (who's also a fantastic writer on Ao3 with the @ The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff - I'd definitely recommend the Fire-verse fics). Please, please, PLEASE show them some love both on here and tumblr. The artwork is magnificent and exactly as I envisioned Simon and Baz in this time period. (scene from fic) (title scene-isn't is beautiful?!)

Here’s the link to the tumblr post!

Thank you @carry-on-big-bang for giving me the opportunity to work with such an amazing artist and fellow fic writer and for putting on such a wonderful collaboration project. I have truly enjoyed every interaction I had with @thehoneyedhufflepuff and encourage everyone reading this to go give them a follow and read their amazing work on Ao3.

As always, here’s the link to the Ao3 version in case you prefer to read that way: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26150491/chapters/63625177

On to the fic!

Lover.

The word felt foreign on Simon’s tongue, like a heavy alcohol or a long-rusted coin that played on the tip of the tongue. There was nothing else, though. ‘Fling’ felt like a small blanket: it covered the important parts (the lovemaking, the flirtatious smiles, the sharing of a bed), but it also left out the parts that made Simon’s legs turn to jelly (the deep conversations, the sweet cheek kisses, the touches that lingered for hours afterwards).

Partner, however, did not fit either. Partner implied official courting, and this…was not that. Official courting entailed walks in the park with a supervisor, love letters sent in perfumed envelopes, and an eventual proposal of marriage.

It did not entail laying bed together with only centimeters of space between, breaths mingled in the shared space. It certainly did not entail what had occurred a mere half-hour before now. ‘Partners’ did not entail premarital relations, and those relations certainly did not occur between a supernatural creature of nightmares and a boy raised to kill such creatures.

Simon placed his hand tentatively on the side of Baz’s face. His eyes were closed, but Simon knew better; sharing a bed for the past month had taught him when Baz was truly gone to the world. The pounding pulse point and flickering of eyes gave the vampire away. He was resting, but not out.

“Darling,” Baz drawled, and it made Simon flush (not that he wasn’t already red from head-to-toe; Baz had that effect on him). Baz’s eyes cracked open, and he flashed a smile that forced Simon to see what made vampires so alluring to the regular eye. “Darling, do you have any idea what time it is?”

A laugh bubbled out of Simon’s chest, and he looked past Baz’s head to stare at the grandfather clock that stood ominously in the corner of the room. It was one of Simon’s favorite objects: dark blue, a sun and moon facing opposite each other, stars sliding past as did the hours of the day. Baz had bought it for him a mere three months ago, placing it in their shared chambers so Simon knew the time.

Baz was weird like in the sense that there were no clocks beside this in the manor. Time is cyclical, he had explained to Simon once. He hated it because it reminded him that of what he was: stuck moving forward in his mind while his body remained in the past. Simon progressed forward, though, and he had been adamant about having at least one way of telling time. He’d even withheld himself from Baz until the vampire had conceded, a glare on his face the entire time.

Simon often stared at that clock as they made love.

The clock read slightly past two in the morning, and Simon told Baz as such. Baz hummed in response and placed his hand on Simon’s neck, thumbing a mole that rested above his pulse point. Often, that mole would have a ring of purpled bruises around it after nights like this, and the very thought had Simon suppressing a smile. Baz, however, did not conceal his affection, and he placed a long, slow kiss to Simon’s lips.

Simon had long ago (give or take three months) begun to categorize the kisses they shared. The most common were the ones shared in private that would have the public outraged: brushes of lips against cheeks and foreheads even though they were not married. What a scandal, Simon thought distantly. Those kisses occurred in passing when one of them would be running to the study or just about to leave the house for some reason or another. Simon adored these brushes of affection that had no real bite; it meant whatever this thing that was happening was more than sex.

Simon ached for the bruising crush of lips that occurred when they fell into bed. He yearned for the swelling of lips and clashing of teeth and maybe the accidental cut of a fang-on-lip. Even the tiniest bit of venom would set his body aflame, and Simon likened it to the fever, only where Death had touched him before, Baz now did.

The ones Simon treasured above all others were these kisses: no heat, no bite, but also not something entirely platonic. A feather-light kiss on the cheek could be taken romantically if it were between a man and a woman, but Simon knew that, if ever caught, Baz would claim brotherly affection for Simon, explain that that’s how his Parisian family acted, that physical affection was common between two friends. These kisses, on the other hand, would have them thrown in jail. Simon would be forced to flee over the crime of homosexuality, and Baz would pay his way out of a scandal.

There was no denying that these kisses that occurred in this bed were of the utmost romantic quality and kind and would put many husbands and wives to shame.

Baz drew back and smiled, his eyes still pleasantly closed. He sighed through his nose, and Simon allowed himself to steal a glance. This was so new, and he was afraid that one wrong look would shatter the beautiful bubble he’d surrounded himself in. Baz had probably done this with many people before. He was…older. That’s all Simon knew. There was no discernable year or century to pin him down in, but Simon realized months ago that Baz had seen the sun rise on this Earth possibly over one-hundred-thousand times.

Baz had probably been in love before. The thought made Simon blue. Baz was his first everything; Simon was Baz’s first nothing.

It is probably love, Simon thought as Baz slowly peeled his eyes opened. There was no explanation other than a spell of sorts (not like a witch’s spell, but like a spell of sickness) that Baz’s vampiric charm had placed Simon under. His father used to warn him that vampires were excellent charmers and that the only way to save oneself from their grasp was to remain alert at all times.

Simon’s father would be rolling in his premature grave right about now.

The sheets shifted between Simon’s legs as he pressed closer to the lukewarm body across from him. Baz never ran hot; his skin was usually cold to the touch. Nights like these, however, coerced the little blood in Baz’s body to rise to the surface, turn him a color like the living, and make him vampirically burn up (though vampirically burning up meant room temperature for humans).

Baz pressed his lips into the mop of curls atop Simon’s head and breathed in deeply. His arms came to wrap around Simon’s back, and his hands splayed across Simon’s shoulder blades. He said something, though it was muffled by Simon’s hair.

“Hm?” Simon asked, turning his face upward to look directly at Baz. He pushed the raven hair out of Baz’s eyes. “What did you say?”

Baz subconsciously turned his cheek into Simon’s touch, and Simon bit at his lip to keep in a smile. “I said,” Baz murmured, turning back to Simon, “that we are spending Christmas in the Surrey House this year. I forgot to tell you this morning.”

Simon giggled at that, and Baz lightly slapped his side. Of course Baz had forgotten to say that this morning; other…happenings had occurred. Simon had also giggled because calling it the Surrey House put the building to shame. In Dorking, the manor (as it should be called) sat on acres of sprawling land that included part of a natural river, a small section of local woods, and a large field. Baz’s family’s business was still a mystery to Simon, but he at least knew how Baz made his money. Wine was apparently very expensive in large quantities, and the cellar of the manor could hold the worth of an entire village.

The manor itself was no laughing matter. Crafted with the finest cobblestone, it had stayed in Baz’s family for centuries, and even with what little Simon actually knew of Baz’s family, the amount of rooms in all the property Baz inherited gave away enough to know that many children had been born. Because Baz was the eldest (cue laughter) and had lived the longest (cue even more laughter), all the property had been passed to him.

And now Simon reveled in it. The large London townhouse they occupied for the majority of the year was Simon’s favorite. The memories here were richer than any fine chocolate or wine that Baz could procure.

“Why can’t we spend Christmas here?” Simon asked quietly, his fingers idly playing with the long strands of Baz’s hair. “We’ve never just stayed-“ Simon stopped himself prematurely. He wanted to say ‘home’ but couldn’t let that word slip from his mouth. He’d stayed with Baz in this house for almost three years, and he’d never left to live elsewhere, but the word ‘home’ insinuated something Simon would not admit to himself. He started again: “We’ve never had Christmas here.”

Goosepimples raised on his arms as Baz’s hands drew nonsensical lines across his back. Baz lowered his head down, and his lips were pressed against Simon’s forehead as he explained, “We’ve never done a lot of things, darling.” The pet name caused Simon to blush and stutter, and he could feel Baz’s smile against forehead. “We always spent Christmases in our other properties when I was little.”

Simon thought about that for a moment. He did not have very memorable Christmases growing up. His greatest gift as a child had been a stocking with three ripe oranges in it. Simon had known the money his father had sacrificed to buy such fruit. With Baz, however…he’d never had such wonderful gifts in his entire life, and they hadn’t even been given to him for celebrations.

Simon recalled one morning where he’d complained of his weathering shoes, and not even four hours later, Baz had presented him with the nicest pair of leather boots he’d ever seen. Sure, they were not to be worn in public (Simon had received an entire outfit from Baz’s…sister? ...for going out in), but they were gorgeous and, no doubt, expensive.

Then there was the jewelry - the gorgeous amethyst ring that sat on the bedside table had been a birthday present last year. In truth, Simon had not expected anything from Baz in any capacity when they’d decided he could stay in the house for an indefinite amount of time. He’d not expected that, in the middle of the hottest summer in a long time, Baz would nonchalantly pass him the most expensive thing Simon had ever set eyes on and insist he keep it. He’d not expected Baz to tell him it was an heirloom dating back at least one-hundred years, and he’d not expected to later cradle it to his chest and cry.

As if to add to their conversation about Christmas, Simon looked over towards the window and saw snow falling outside. The snow had been coming down steadily over the last few months, but it had only begun to stick recently. He smiled to himself as he watched the windowsill become more and more covered. Snow had brought him here in the first place; it was only natural he be thankful for it now.

…

He was almost dead; that Simon Snow was sure of.

He could not feel his toes, and the crystalline breath puffing out from his mouth was becoming smaller by the minute. He was dizzy, hungry, and more tired than he’d even been in his short life. A cut on his forehead trickled blood into the snow beneath his feet, and he barely had time to register why or where he was bleeding before he fell onto the pavement beneath him.

Thank Christ he was in an alleyway. Had he been in the street, feet would have stepped over and onto him, and he might crack a rib. Although, Simon thought to himself, this was a fate worse than death. Perhaps he should let the Lord have Their way with him. If this was to be his death, then why not welcome it?

Simon could not go home. His father would never accept a defeat like this. Simon could practically hear the frustration that would be present if he tried to make his way back to their little house on the outskirts of town. How was it that Simon had been out hunting vampires for three months and not caught a single one? How was it that Simon had left a strong, capable, young man with fervor in his eyes and returned a skeleton of his former self?

The truth was simple: Simon was very nearly dead. He knew he’d caught the scarlet fever, and Simon also knew it would kill him like it had killed thousands of other.

Simon dragged himself to his feet and rounded out of the alleyway, turning onto a dimly lit street lined with houses. This is not such a bad place to die, he thought to himself. Maybe no one would pilfer his body for the money that did not exist or the jewelry that was absent. Perhaps he’d retain some dignity in his death.

Simon stumbled barely two meters in front of himself before he fell down against the door of a nice house. He could feel the warmth through the door. It was almost sad to die on such a lovely doorstep. Telling by the clickity-clack of footsteps from behind the door, he’d probably disturbed the lady of the house. Somehow, Simon could not find it in himself to care as he slid into what must be death.

But it was not death. Indeed, Simon had lapsed into a comatose state, but he awoke to the sounds of a plate clattering onto a table. The room was warm, and when Simon tried to move his hands, he found himself between a lovely down comforter and an even lovelier mattress. A fire burned brightly in the corner of the room, and he watched as a silhouette of a man moved in front of the flame.

“Am I dead?” Simon asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

The man laughed, and he sat down beside the bed. His face came into view, and Simon saw the most beautiful person God had ever created. Then the beautiful man brought a cool washcloth down on Simon’s forehead, and Simon then realized how much he was burning up.

“Lord above, no,” the man answered. His touch was gentle across Simon’s aching head, and he placed the towel down a moment later to instead bring a glass of water to Simon’s lips. Simon arched into it, and a pained noise escaped his lips as the water slid down his throat. When was the last time he’d had water? Did brown snow count?

After the glass was drained, Simon began to take in his surroundings. The room looked to be one of a rich man: the walls were lined in beautiful wallpaper, plush rugs were laid down across the wood floor, and the size of the room was larger than the house Simon had grown up in. The man wore a waistcoat with a gold pocket watch, and his hair was swept back neatly from his face, though a piece was falling into his eyes. Could Simon even call him a man? Upon further inspection, he could not be older than his mid-twenties, and even that was a stretch. There were no wrinkles or stress lines, and his eyes held a kind light.

“Are we,” Simon started, his voice cracking on the second word. A second glass of cold water was placed to his lips, and Simon began again. “Are we sure I am not dead?”

The man smiled. “Who are you?” he asked, brushing back matted curls from Simon’s head. Simon internally hoped he did not look too worse for wear. “How did you come to be on the streets?” the man continued.

Simon did not know how to answer that. His name would be a good place to start, though he wouldn’t give his full name. “I am Simon.”

…

The packing for the Surrey manor proved to be more difficult for Simon than he’d originally anticipated. They’d be gone for the second half of December and a little into January, and the capacity of Simon’s suitcase was being tested to the highest degree because of his coats (courtesy of Baz’s…sister?). Baz had not said to pack lightly, but Simon didn’t like the idea of bogging down the carriage with an extra suitcase. Plus, Baz had already sent ahead a few trunks of clothes and other things to the manor earlier in the week.

Speaking of the devil, Simon nearly leapt out of his skin as cool arms surrounded his middle. Of course, there was no need to be frightened. Simon had long since been used to both the temperature of Baz’s skin and Baz’s ability to be deathly silent.

Baz’s chapped lips brushed against the nape of Simon’s neck, and he pressed a chaste kiss there. “Packing?” he asked, as though he did not see the myriad of clothing strewn about the room. The wardrobe was open haphazardly, revealing Simon’s messy side. He never put away his clothes with care like Baz did. They were clothes. Why did they deserve such high care?

Simon placed his arms over Baz’s and leaned into the embrace, closing his eyes and resting his head atop Baz’s shoulder. The fact that Baz was a behemoth had once bothered Simon, but now it made lounging together easier. Simon could always fit his head neatly onto Baz’s shoulder, and Baz’s hands fit perfectly in the dip of Simon’s lower back.

“Unsuccessfully,” Simon replied, sighing through his nose. “If we were not going for so long, I would not require so much clothing.” Baz chuckled behind him, and Simon smiled to the ceiling. He ran his hands idly over Baz’s exposed forearms. Today, Baz had stayed inside the house and, therefore, had not changed into any outerwear or even bothered to keep his long sleeves down to his wrists. Truly, it was a state of undress Simon had never expected of the wine merchant to be capable of. Simon had expected the ‘young’ business tycoon to always be dressed in a matching frock and waistcoat and buttoned up to the nines, but formalities had long since disappeared between them.

“Is there also business to attend to in Surrey?” Simon wondered aloud, pulling himself away from Baz and turning in his embrace. When they were this close, Simon had to tip his head up to look Baz in the eye. Baz nodded, and Simon sighed. Work plagued the both of them.

“Not on Christmas,” Baz reassured, bringing up a hand to tip Simon’s chin up. “Not in the whole week before or after Christmas. I cleared all of it for us.”

Us. The word made Simon swallow thickly. He nodded, walking away from the warmth of Baz’s hold (that he got from Simon’s body heat) and rummaging through the wardrobe. Simon heard Baz sigh, and after a few moments of silence, he assumed Baz had left. However, a whisper only a hair’s width away surprised him.

“Pack what I brought you from France,” Baz whispered, pressing another chaste kiss to that mole on Simon’s neck. Then he was gone.

A furious blush ravaged Simon’s cheeks, and he needed a few moments to steady himself. France. Baz’s purchase in France. That trip alone turned Simon’s internal temperature up a few notches. It seemed like ages ago, but it had really only been two months since France. The French had strange ideas of erotica, and Baz had seemed to be in line with all of them. Pack what I bought you from France. Christ, Simon hadn’t looked at it since France for a reason. It embarrassed him, and the fact that he liked that embarrassment made him even redder.

Simon opened a small (locked) drawer on his side of the wardrobe meant for expensive jewelry and priceless cufflinks and pins, and he pulled out what Baz had bought him in France.

…

The paperwork piled nearly a meter high from the floor. Baz entrusted the various receipts, warehouse reports, and paperwork tracking of the wine to Simon. Officially, Simon was brought into Baz’s household to deal with the paperwork that accumulated at the end of each month. Unofficially, Simon had been brought into the house to die.

Simon admitted to himself that this was a much better outcome. When he’d fallen against the door five months ago, who could have known he’d end up with a well-paying job? So well-paying, in fact, that Simon was able to send lumpsums of money back to his father under the pretense that it was payment for hired slayings. His father was none the wiser as to the actual situation of Simon’s employment.

As Simon crossed some ‘t’s and dotted some ‘i’s, his thoughts ran to Baz. They had been doing that more often as of late, and while Simon had once been able to pin it down on acquainting himself with his employer (friend), he could no longer fall under that umbrella. The thoughts (once just about the upkeep of Baz’s hair and the price of his clothing) now turned to running his hands through that hair and peeling away that expensive clothing until it lay on the floor beneath them.

Simon cleared his throat and refocused on the task ahead. He’d lost track of a sentence concerning a shipment of sherry to a port in Boston. As Simon read about a spilled barrel, a hand on his shoulder jolted him from his thoughts.

Baz’s chuckle reassured Simon, and he looked up from the candlelit paperwork ahead of him. The stack on the floor had to be completed and filed within the week. An entire day of Simon sitting at the desk had already elapsed, and he could guess why Baz had entered this small study that had been given to him.

“Have I missed supper?” Simon asked, looking back at the death certificate of the sherry. Baz’s hand lingered a moment longer before falling away, and Simon missed the cool touch through his thin shirt.

Baz came to lean over him and stare at the document in front of Simon. “No,” he replied, his breath ghosting over the shell of Simon’s ear. Simon’s eyes flicked to the side, and he was met with a Baz deep in thought. “I’ll have to speak to my Boston warehouse manager. Sherry is too expensive to be wasted.” Baz turned to look at Simon, and the close proximity of their lips had Simon’s face heating up. Hopefully the candlelight covered the flush of Simon’s neck and face.

Simon turned away and pulled a separate document out, and responded, “You were compensated with the price of a barrel and a half for the ruined barrel.” He pointed to the line in question where the price was brought up, and Baz hummed noncommittedly in his ear.

Very suddenly Baz was standing behind Simon, and Simon floundered to turn in his chair and face him. Baz was still deep in thought, though Simon couldn’t imagine why. Sherry was not Baz’s largest exports if the receipts were to be believed, and even if it was, why would it give him such a headache? A single barrel in six months was nothing compared to what some other merchants lost in a single day.

“Something on your mind?” Simon asked. Baz’s eyes slowly ghosted over to Simon, and Simon had the distinct feeling of being seen but in a distant sort. Like Baz had recognized a version of Simon that existed before and was instead remembering that Simon.

After a moment of silence, Baz regained composure and smiled. His canines flickered in the light, and Simon fought the urge to cover his neck. Of course, there was no reason for alarm. Growing up with his father, however, left some stones Simon was willing to leave unturned, at least where it concerned Baz.

Who was not a creature of evil.

“We should eat,” Baz suggested, looking towards the door of the study. “It should be about time.” As if on cue, the bell signaling supper rang, and Baz smiled again. “Join me?” he asked, as though Simon could deny.

Simon had picked up on the habits of his employer (friend) in the first few weeks of living together, but they seemed to become stranger as time went on. Baz hardly ate, and when he did, it was only a few bites. Most of his diet (in front of Simon, at least) consisted of wines and cheeses. No substantial food ever made its way into Baz in front of Simon. That was not to say that Baz could not eat sometimes later when Simon was not around, but it made no sense to Simon that Baz would invite him to eat in the dining room only to actually eat later.

Unless…

Simon shook the thought from his head, and it was soon replaced with images of a rather biblical sense.

…

The Surrey manor was alive and bustling when they arrived. The snow had nearly postponed the trip, but it had let up in time for the carriage to safely carry Baz and Simon to the manor. The Surrey manor had more servants than their normal lodgings did, and when Simon had first asked why years ago, Baz had not answered.

Simon partially knew why now. The part he knew was that Baz kept his more expensive wines in the cellars beneath the manor. That answer used to satisfy Simon, but now it caused him to wonder more and more. They had promised honesty once after Baz’s nature had been revealed. The promise had been broken only once, and it had been by Simon, so he didn’t have a right to question Baz’s extra patrolling of this particular property.

The trunks were carried to the room by two men Simon had met briefly last year at the manor, and then Baz was swept away into work. Tonight, a key investor was scheduled to dine with Baz, and while Baz hadn’t directly said it, Simon was to remain scarce throughout the night. At least he’d brought a few packets of paperwork that needed doing.

The room he’d previously occupied here was locked, and a servant instead directed Simon to a room he knew Baz had occupied the last time they were here. The bed, while not as comfortable as the one back in London, welcomed Simon comfortably, and he laid down to rest for a few moments. As it often happened when Simon was left alone with his thoughts, they turned to Baz. The investor coming over tonight both invested in and bought the most wine from Baz. That was the only reason Simon had to be scarce tonight. Usually, Baz showboated him until Simon’s feet grew tired, but with the higherups, a previous street boy who did the paperwork usually set them on edge. How could they trust their money with a boy of no more than twenty-one who only knew basic economics and had not studied traditionally a day in his life?

A soft knock at the door had Simon sitting up, and a servant walked in carrying a tray of supper. Simon then noticed the lighting had changed significantly and realized he had fallen asleep while thinking about wine investors. He thanked the servant and ate in silence, staring around the room. An ornate, golden clock stood in the corner, and Simon laughed quietly. A floor length mirror occupied another corner, and a dark wood wardrobe already filled with their clothing sat against the wall. Overall, it was a plain room in comparison to their normal lodgings, but Simon felt the hints of Baz in the room. The comforter was a deep, wine red, and the bedframe was made of cherry wood. Ornate carvings decorated the tops of the posters of the bed.

The Surrey manor deserved to be a real home, Simon thought. He and Baz used it for maybe a month out of an entire year, and it sat empty for the rest of the time. About every two weeks, Baz would send a few servants to tidy the place, but other than that, these two weeks were the longest anyone lived here. Simon had to wonder if this had once been Baz’s childhood home. It was simply too large and too grand for it to be a getaway or a vacation home. The location was optimal, the plot of land was supreme, and the aura exuded warmth. This had to have been something to Baz. Otherwise, he’d have sold the property long before Simon came into the picture.

A servant came to collect his plates, and Simon was once again left in silence. The bustle of London - people shouting, carts rolling by, factories churning - usually lulled Simon and comforted his always anxious mind. Now, there was only the occasional laugh from downstairs and the chirping of a bird here and there. The silence chilled him to the bone.

Simon set to work on the stack of papers before him, deciding that the scratching of pen on paper would soothe his weary soul. The monotonous chore that was paperwork left Simon feeling purposeful. If Baz trusted him enough with finances, then he would do a damn good job at it. Of course, this was a far cry from what his father would have wanted.

Simon’s mind often turned to his father these days. If Simon remembered the date correctly, his father’s birthday had just passed. They’d never celebrated when Simon lived with him; there was too much training and prepping to be done. At the end of the night, maybe his father would allow Simon to have a sip of port, but that had happened perhaps three times over the years. Celebrations just were not important when there were vampires to hunt and kill. His father had instilled the idea that vampires were virgin defilers into Simon’s mind, and while true for the situation between Baz and himself, Simon had come to realize that most vampires simply wanted to be left alone.

His vampire just so happened to want the opposite of that. A hand at the back of his neck caused Simon to nearly spill his inkpot, and perhaps doing paperwork on the bed was stupid. Baz laughed as Simon carefully closed the inkpot, placed the wet paperwork on the bedside table, did away with the pen, and finally looked up.

Baz’s tense face seemed alight when he looked down at Simon, and Simon smiled as he rose up on his knees. The mattress only added to their already obvious height difference. Simon came to rest at Baz’s shoulders, his knees sinking into the duvet. He did not mind, however, as it was the perfect height for him to place his hands atop Baz’s shoulders and rub. The muscles there seemed knotted with stress, and Simon sighed.

“Are you ever not wound up like a clock?” Simon asked, dragging Baz onto the mattress. As tonight’s outfit included a three-piece suit, the act of stripping Baz took longer than Simon would have liked. Finally, pale skin exposed itself, and Simon kept his shudder at the sight of Baz’s back to himself. They had spoken of it once before: the scars had been from a brutal whipping exactly once in his childhood, but his vampire skin had not healed properly because of what he was whipped with. Now, scars littered the expanse of his broad shoulders, and Simon pressed chaste kisses to each. It was routine now.

“You know how I hate clocks,” Baz replied. Simon laughed and pressed one last kiss to Baz’s back, lingering for only a few extra seconds. Luckily, someone had placed oil in the bedside table, and Simon slowly warmed it between his hands as he sat on Baz’s thighs. At the first press of Simon’s hands into Baz’s lower back, Baz let out a groan loud enough to shake the house.

“How was supper?” Simon asked, working a knot in the lower of Baz’s back until it loosened. This was his absolute favorite (non-sexual) thing to do to Baz. It was another way of being useful, and Simon prided himself on the fact that only he could provide this relief to Baz.

“Long,” Baz replied, groaning again at the pressure of Simon’s palms. “He wanted to withdraw his investment because of that fucking barrel of sherry.” Simon dug the heel of his palm into the middle of Baz’s back, and the crack that sounded through the room caused Baz to let out an orgasmic sound. “Fuck, I love it when you do that.”

Simon’s face flushed, and he coughed as he continued rubbing circles into Baz’s back. The silence did not stretch on uncomfortably, but there was something in the air neither of them were able to address. “So, he wanted to leave because one of my fucking stupid warehouse managers dropped a barrel. I told him about the price for breaking a contract, and he still seemed to want to leave. Thank God for whiskey, because I think that’s what got him to stay.”

As Simon lazily rubbed the excess oil into Baz’s skin, he found himself listening to Baz’s sherry problems and not even being bothered by how boring they were. He logically knew that if someone else was telling him about the trials and tribulations of shipping sherry, he’d fall asleep, and the realization made his stomach lurch. He knew what this was, and Baz knew, too. When would one of them say it, though?

…

They had fought before. Once, Simon had forgotten to do a few pieces of paperwork that nearly cost Baz a key investor, and they had dished it out for a good half-hour before both going out for some time to decompress. Simon apologized, and Baz did, too. Simon had been tired during that round of paperwork; Baz had been stressed all day before finding out about Simon’s mistake.

But this was different. This wasn’t about paperwork or investors or wine. This was about Simon and Baz. This was about feelings, and Simon sucked at feelings. He’d inherited it from his father. Being raised to be a vampire slayer could do that.

This was also, coincidentally, about vampires.

“You lied to me!” Simon shouted, hastily packing his belongings into a trunk. Granted, there were not many things to be gathered. It was more for show than anything else. “I’ve lived with you for nearly two years, and you’ve lied to me the entire time!”

Baz stood in front of the fireplace, jaw clenched and hands balled into fists. He was strangely composed for such an explosive conversation. Simon wanted to throw something at him, punch him, make him respond, make him yell. It wasn’t fair that he was the only person angry. This wasn’t going to be a one-sided argument.

“Do you have anything to say to me?” Simon demanded, finally stopping his movements and just…standing there. His shoulders slumped. There were tears in his eyes.

Baz turned slowly on his heels. Finally, Simon saw his face. It gave away nothing; Baz was always stoic during moments of high tensions. When Simon had nearly died those first few weeks, Baz’s face had remained a blank sheet. When his…sister? ...had died in childbirth and the letter had been delivered, Baz had said nothing and simply locked himself away. Now, though, there was no room to separate the two of them. There was no veil of death that cleaved them apart. There was only three meters of wooden floor and carpet.

Baz closed his eyes, and Simon watched as a few tears slipped down his cheeks. “You lied to me, too, Simon,” Baz finally murmured. The orange light of the fire made him look like a statue on fire. His eyes seemed to be ablaze, though that could be literal given the circumstances of his humanity. “I’ve lived with someone raised to be my murderer for nearly two years. How do you think I feel?”

Honestly, Simon had not thought of it that way. However, the part of his brain that his father had trained screamed at Simon that Baz killed innocents to live and that he was probably more than a few lifetimes older than Simon. It unfortunately cast everything into a clearer light: why Baz did not eat in front of Simon, why he left for days at a time on ‘trips’, why he had so much property and no living family.

“Have you killed people, Baz?” Simon asked. He desperately wanted to leave the house and never turn back. He should have listened to his gut. It had screamed at him for over a year that Baz was not human. Simon should have taken his father’s lessons to heart. He could be dead now. It was only a miracle that Baz had spared him.

“How dare you!” Baz snarled stomping away from the fireplace. Finally, Simon thought. Finally, this anger could be mutual. He stopped just a foot short of Simon, hand pointing directly at Simon’s face. “You don’t know shit, Simon Snow! How dare you say that! How dare you!” Up close, Simon saw more tears gather in Baz’s eyes. “Are you asking yourself why I haven’t killed you yet?”

“Fuck you!” Simon retorted, pushing Baz’s hand out of his face. “You’re a fucking liar, Baz Pitch!” Simon didn’t know why he was crying so suddenly. Well, he did know why. He’d just thought that Baz would be honest with him concerning everything, and this felt like a betrayal of the deepest kind. “You…you lied to me!”

Simon covered his face with his hands, feeling the dampness soak the sleeves of his shirt. Damnit, he thought. Why couldn’t he keep it together for ten minutes?

His hands were pulled away from his face, and before Simon could curse Baz for it, cold lips were pressed against his own. He vaguely understood that this was a kiss. Simon had never kissed anyone before. Training to kill vampires ruined any chance of his social life. Baz’s hands, still holding his wrists, slowly travelled down to Simon’s waist, holding him steady as he pulled back.

Simon was still crying, though no choked noises were escaping his lips anymore. “I don’t understand,” he whispered, because he really didn’t. Simon was not a product of fine breeding. He did not have status or wealth. He was human. He was male. But Baz’s lips on his own had felt realer than anything else in his life prior had ever felt. Simon rested his hands on Baz’s biceps, feeling the warmth leave his fingertips. “I don’t understand,” he repeated, looking up at Baz through clumped lashes and tears.

In response, Baz smiled down at him softly. There was no malice, and while Simon did see canines, he was not afraid. “Do you really believe I would have kept you here if I did not care for you?” Baz asked, running a soothing hand through Simon’s hair. “Even just a little bit?”

Simon burrowed into the space where Baz’s shoulder met his neck and hiccupped, feeling fresh tears spill down his cheek. Baz’s hand stalled in Simon’s hair, and he hastily began to apologize, which made Simon cry heavier.

Hours later, with the candles extinguished and the anger from the day gone, Simon realized Baz had never truly answered any of his questions.

#snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #rainbow rowell #carry on #carry on big bang 2020 #regency era #fanfic #love confessions #vampire!baz #vampire hunter!simon #mordelia grimm #simon works for baz #wine merchant!baz #enjoy!

30 notes · View notes