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raphaelshusband · 4 years ago

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born to make history | saphael one shot

Mention of eating disorder.

"Quadruple loutz!" The commentator's voice rang out, the screams of spectators and the flapping of Mexico's flags. The skates left scratches in the ice with a thud.

The little boy clapped his hands and joined the screams. The skater made another spin, then smoothly slowed down and stopped, hands up.

The screams grew louder, but the man heard them as if from a distance, the view began to blur, his breathing became heavier and sweat trickled down his temple. Then the body fell onto the cold ice.

***

Alberto ran up the stairs enthusiastically. He turned towards the opening and looked down.

"Emily, come faster!" he called the little girl.

"I'm going I'm going!" she shouted back in a thin voice. She followed her friend into the attic, looking around. Alberto ran between the cartons and boxes and started rummaged. "Hey, don't start without me!" he took the gold medal in his hand.

"Look, this is one of them!" He marveled and put the award around his neck.

"Won't your dad be angry that we're rummaging around here?" She asked, picking up the statuette.

"He shouldn't" the boy took a lot of other gold medals from the box, including three silver and two bronze ones.

"We'd better be quieter so that we don't wake them up," said the girl, while looking at the photo. There were three skaters in it. One of them - of medium height, with jet-black hair and dark eyes with a gold medal around his neck, stood on a platform with flowers in his hands.

"That's daddy! Why is he keeping it all here?" He asked indignantly. Such trophies shouldn't be piled up in cardboard boxes in the attic!

"I don't know," Emily answered.

"Look, it's his skates!" They were made of white leather, with high heels.

"They look girly," Emily said.

"They're not girly!" He took off his shoe and put his foot in it. "I'll be skating like daddy too!"

"You want to be a skater too?"

"I don't know, but I will definitely skate!" There was a patter of feet. The children turned towards the stairs on which the black-haired woman stood.

"Alberto? Emily? What are you doing here? Get off, now! Luckily you didn't fall down the stairs," She muttered to herself. "I should have told Raphael and Simon to close this hatch."

"I'm coming, mom," the brunette muttered, the boy trailing after her. Isabelle Lightwood helped them came down and the two ran to the boy's room.

"I took one of the medals!" He shouted triumphantly.

***

"Simon, stop snoring.."

"I'm not snoring.." Simon stammered, still half asleep, his hands tightened on the Mexican's stomach.

"If you weren't snoring, I wouldn't tell you to stop," he turned to face him with difficulty. Simon opened his eyes and shifted his hands. Now they were resting on the older man's chest. Brunet moved closer, hiding his head in the hollow of Simon's neck. The brown-eyed placed a kiss on the head of the shorter, running his hand over his husband's back. "It's today," he whispered with a smile on his lips. The brown-eyed man reciprocated the smile.

"Mhm.." he nodded.

"I can't believe it's been seven years since that event," Raphael said. He stroked Simon's leg with his fingertips. "The time flies way too fast," he said.

"I agree with you," he chuckled, then got up from the bed.

"Hey, where are you going?" Raphael groaned.

"Get dressed and make breakfast. The girls definitely woke up and now they are taking the bathroom. Al probably isn't sleeping either," he opened the light gray curtains.

"I don't want to get up," he said. Raphael began to feel the effects of yesterday's drinking. Simon said nothing, just rolled his eyes and entered the wardrobe.

White furniture piled up from the floor to the ceiling. He walked over to one of the closets. He put on a black turtleneck that he tucked into his dark pants and grabbed Santiago's T-shirt as he left the room, throwing it at the man.

"Get up, ballerina," he put his hands to the sides.

"Si.." brunet muttered with a muffled voice.

"Don't hum around here, pick up your four letters," he opened the door to the corridor. "I'm waiting for you downstairs," he left the room.

He went downstairs to the kitchen, and then Clary joined him.

"Hi, Simon."

"Hey, Clary," he started the coffeemaker.

"Raphael is still asleep?"

"No. He is slowly waking up" the redhead leaned one hand on the table.

"We'll be leaving soon. We don't want to disturb you on this important day."

"Sure, sure," he replied and started making breakfast. Raphael came down half an hour later when the meal was ready.

"Where did you get it from?" He asked his son, taking the medal in his hand. Terror crossed his face.

"Found it in the attic! You shouldn't keep it there!" Alberto replied. The dark-eyed man just sighed heavily and sat down next to his husband. He hardly spoke during the conversation, and he also struggled to eat.

Simon saw the worry on his face. He put his hand on the back of Raphael's partner's hand. Gold wedding rings glittered on theirs fingers.

"Are you all right?" He asked softly. Brunet nodded.

"Sure."

"Papa, will you play that movie? Please turn it on! Aunt Izzy and aunt Clary and Emily must see it!" Alberto jumped from the table and quickly reached his father.

"Sure," he said hollowly, then stood up.

***

"Triple Axel!" Shouted the commentator. Raphael leaned against the couch. All six were just watching his performance at the world competition.

Raphael Santiago was a figure skater for nine years. He felt his passion for skates at the age of seven, and began his career at the age of twenty-three.

Are you wondering why he gave it up?

This is not giving up.

It's a break.

Raphael's trainer was firm and strict, which caused the man huge problems. Among other things, problems with sleeping, fatigue and starvation, which caused loss of consciousness at one of the competitions.

Seven years ago, he - Simon Lewis (now Santiago) came to the show. A kind of innocent meeting at the rink, but Lewis knew perfectly well what was up. This could be inferred from the skater's pale face, emaciated body, and how the coach treated Raphael during breaks.

It seemed that the six-time world champion was clearly interested in an ordinary young man. This is how their relationship developed.

After Raphael lost consciousness during the competition, he decided to take a break and recover. Currently, he is a husband and father who have a quiet life.

#saphael #oneshot #shadowhunters #fanfic #fanfiction #simon lewis x raphael santiago

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dat-fandom-losertown · 5 years ago

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I LOVE YOUR PACIFIC RIM AU SO FAR!!! I was so engrossed I almost forgot to sleep last night! I love how you portray things, and you write very well! If it's okay to ask, do you have any examples of what you think the characters wear? I know you explained some, but I'm a bit visual when it comes to outfits (in my head I just imagine them in whatever suits the Mood™ :'3). If not that's okay!!! I wouldn't mind a (more?) thorough word-explanation, either!!! Please and thank you? :D

THANK YOU SO MUCH!! I am so touched that you like TDBU so much!! Is it weird to say that I saw you liked each chapter and it 100% made my day? And, like, the mom friend in me wants to yell “DON’T SKIP SLEEP”, but I can’t count all of the times I’ve pulled an all nighter just to finish a good fic so... 😂😂 But really, thank you so much for taking the time to read TDBU and leaving an ask!! 😄💖

As for what the characters wear, I plan on drawing the main 4 once my Hand and Brain decide they wanna work together Lol (I hate artist’s block), but for now I’ll try giving you a description and various reference pictures of what they wear, because I don’t think I ever went into real detail about it. Clothing is one thing I usually don’t think about often in real life, and, looking back, my writing really shows it 😅🤣

This got really long because I did everyone (because not everyone gets a custom wardrobe like the main 4) and I love to ramble and talk a lot, so I put it all under the cut 😊

Basically, in my AU, trainees are allowed to wear basically whatever they want as long as it’s “gym appropriate” (but no shorts). So for the OC trainees, imagine a lot of yoga pants, leggings, tennis shoes, fitted T-shirts, and tough pants. All of the background employees and Luther wear the cannon Pacific Rim uniform (the first and second outfits), with the only exceptions being the scientists and Chloe (they go semi casual, some good examples can be found using Google Images), and Marshal Fowler (who also follows cannon; the third pic).

For Markus, Simon, North, and Josh, I imagine them wearing things that are close to cannon like below. Just imagine that North’s shirt doesn’t go off one shoulder, and Josh loses the jacket, and Simon and Markus lose the turtlenecks/hoods. They all, of course, have their casual outfits, but whenever Connor or Ritch see them, it’s like this. The one exception being at the party where they were all wearing various types of pajamas and comfort clothes (imagine whatever you want for the pajamas, honestly).

I imagine Hank wearing clothes close to Cannon as well (at least for now), like below. That’s his favorite sweatshirt and is seen most frequently in it along with various, dark-colored sweat pants that usually have food stains or random, small holes at the seams from age. Although, as Connor mentioned briefly in the last chapter, he has seen Hank without his infamous sweatshirt once when he dropped the alcohol off the night of the party (and I am offended at myself for not pointing that out in that chapter. It was supposed to me a very minor thirst moment for Connor because Hank’s arms are 👌 in this AU), and that was the stained, grey T-shirt we all know from the “Wake Up Lieutenant” scene. He also either wears an old pair of tennis shoes or slippers depending on how his day is going/what kind of mood he was in that morning (Connor will actually mention this in the next chapter, which will be up tomorrow!!).

Gavin is where things start to deviate (no pun intended) from cannon. He normally wears a grey (any shade as dark or darker than below) or a muted red T-shirt (similar below). He always wears dark (either blue or grey/black) fitted jeans (but not skinny or tight!!) with it, but no jacket. He’s technically a full-time Jaeger pilot, so he needs to wear clothes he can easily and quickly change out of so he can get into uniform and to the jaeger ASAP. A jacket and tight pants are two more obstacles between him and a city-destroying alien, but he’s also vain enough to not want to wear the official uniform all the time and to not go around looking like Anderson.

The only connection to D:BH cannon that Ritch and Connor’s wardrobe have are their “light and dark” color schemes. Their wardrobe is almost completely identical, with the only major differences being the colors and the fact that Ritch has heeled boots**. The pictures below show what Connor wears every single day (minus the gloves; he only wears those during training), but his shirts can be any shade of dark grey, and he has another set of pants that are navy blue. The second picture is more accurate to what Connor wears as pants than the first pic (whch should also help explain how he hid so many alcohol bottles without it being immediately suspicious), but the belt is the same as the first pic. All you need to do to get Ritch’s outfits is replace the black shirt with a white, off-white, or silver/light grey shirt, make his pants grey (he always makes sure his pants are darker than his shirt, but lighter than Connor’s shirt), and replace the boots for the ones in the third picture. His gloves and boots are both black for dirt and blood reasons, but his belt is a dark grey so it doesn’t "clash” with the light color scheme.

**Ritch fully realizes how dangerous it is to fight in heels, but by the time Amanda had adopted them and started their training, Ritch had been stealing heels and wearing them every day for years in order to be significantly taller than Connor and more easily differentiated from him, so his leg muscles and feet had literally grown used to the incline of the heels. Wearing normal boots (like Connor’s) was (and still is) uncomfortable for him. There will be more details and such about this discussed within the next 2 or 3 chapters, but know that there’s a low chance of him breaking an ankle or something while training or fighting due to reasons. (I’m taking some creative liberties with Ritch’s “shoe problem” because [both thankfully and frustratingly] I couldn’t anything about overuse of high heels by children or anyone else with developing muscles. However, the effects Ritch has in this fic do happen to women after years of almost daily wear, just to a lesser extent, but nowhere on the sites I used said that the heels were higher than 3 inches, which was the minimum Ritch was wearing.)

#long post #I don't know why the cut is glitching #but I apologize for that #The Drift Between Us #Nirlan talks too much

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fraysbanes · 4 years ago

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the price

Characters: Clary Fray, Luke Garroway, Jace Wayland, Simon Lewis, Isabelle Lightwood, others cameo/mentioned

Rating: G

Summary: They all want to take care of her, in their own little ways.

Warnings: mentioned past character death (which did not actually happen!)

She must have been drinking.

That’s the only explanation Clary can come up with for why she’s walking in a daze down an unfamiliar part of town. For why she can’t remember what she was doing right before, why she’s been crying, where she left her jacket. She must have been out with Simon, drank too much, lost sight of him, decided in a moment of intoxicated confidence to walk home alone, and ended up here.

And clearly, drunk Clary is an idiot, because it’s cold out and sober Clary has no fucking idea where she’s going.

She ducks into the first store she sees - a vintage little cafe that’s just about to close up - and asks the irritated-looking barista to use the phone, since drunk Clary has apparently lost that , too. The barista begrudgingly agrees and turns the landline over to her.

Clary’s first instinct is to call Simon, check in with him, see if he can give her a ride home. But he doesn’t answer, and she doubts a voicemail would do much good if he’s in a similar state to her, so she hangs up and dials Luke instead. He’s bound to go easier on her over the drinking and the losing-her-phone and the walking-home-alone than her mom is. Besides, she’s starting to recognize some of the streets she’s been walking in as being way closer to the station than her house, so if Luke’s still at work, she’s in luck.

But, of course, he doesn’t answer either. “Luke, I need a ride,” Clary says after the voicemail tone, growing antsy now. “Please, it’s urgent, can you call this number back right away?”

She hangs up and stares at the phone for a few minutes. The barista throws her a dirty look. Clary sighs and picks up the phone again, calling her mom’s number this time.

Her heart is pounding as the phone rings. She’s really not in the mood to be yelled at. But when Jocelyn, too, lets her go to voicemail, Clary realizes she would prefer yelling to the silence she’s faced with now.

A silence which she decides to fill: “Hi, mom,” she starts awkwardly. “So, uh, I’m okay and all, but I can’t find my phone, so if I’ve missed any of your calls…that’s why. It’s been kind of a weird night. And I know you’re gonna yell at me about it later, but honestly I’m a little lost and I can’t really remember how I got here and I probably just need sleep so…do you think the scolding can wait ‘til tomorrow? Anyways, I was just calling to let you know I’m safe and I should be home soon. I think the police station is nearby, so I’m gonna go fetch a ride with Luke or Vargas. So don’t be worried or anything. I’ll see you soon.”

She hangs up. The barista very deliberately flips the sign at the door from “OPEN” to “CLOSED”.

Maryse runs her fingers gently through her son’s hair as he clings to her and sobs so violently that she thinks he’s going to fall apart, break beyond repair, right there in her arms.

“It’s alright,” she says, again and again, hoping against all hope that it’s true. “It’s alright, my love, I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Shakily, he holds up a crumpled piece of paper to her.

“Oh, Clary…” Izzy whispers, voice shaking, a feeling somewhere between love and anger and regret making her chest feel tight. “What did you do ?”

Clary really only starts to feel nervous when she realizes she can’t find any familiar faces at the station. Luke isn’t there. Alaric isn’t there. Captain Vargas isn’t there. There are very few people there that she even vaguely recognizes.

“Are you lost?” a middle-aged woman in uniform asks her when she finds her way to the bench in the cafeteria that she always meets Luke at when he’s supposed to drop her off.

“Uh, no,” Clary says with a polite smile. “I’m waiting for someone.”

She knows she looks a mess and probably more than a little suspicious and out of place, but she also knows that Luke always checks his messages. That he won’t ignore a missed call or a voicemail from her. That, if nothing else, her mom will tell him where Clary said she would be and he’ll come looking for her. And everything is going to be okay.

The officer nods and leaves. A few minutes later, she comes back with a chocolate bar from the vending machine that she wordlessly places in front of Clary. Apart from that, everyone leaves Clary alone.

Until, eventually, she dozes off with her head in her arms on the table in front of her.

“So much has changed recently. I know it’s a lot to keep track of. That’s okay. I’m here to help you remember. Just look at me and listen to me, okay, Clary?

“Your mother is dead. There was a fire, your apartment burned down, and she…didn’t make it out in time. There was a funeral and you…you were crying too hard to speak. But that’s okay. Because she knew how much you loved her, and everybody knew how great she was and how proud she was of you, so it’s okay. You didn’t have to say anything at all. And Luke was there, right next to you, the whole time.

“And your best friend, Simon, he was there, too. He’s not here anymore, but that’s okay too, because what matters is that he loved you when he was here. He loved you so much , Clary. And if you believe in another life after this one, just know that wherever he is, he misses you more than you’ll ever know, and not a day goes by that he doesn’t think of you.

“Hey, please don’t cry, okay? It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. You have a new life now. And you’re gonna be so happy. That’s what your mom and Simon want - for you to be happy. That’s all they ask. And that’s all you should focus on.

“Don’t dwell on the past. You deserve a good life, Clary Fray. Get out there and live it.”

When Clary comes to in her bed in the apartment she’s not quite done moving into yet, she’s crying.

She was dreaming of Simon.

“Ew, you shaved ?” Clary laughs as she throws her arms around Luke for quick hug when he finally makes it to the theater. She can’t remember ever seeing him without a beard before.

“Well, you moved out,” Luke says. “I wanted to make some changes, too.”

“Hell of a change.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but stops, shakes his head. “How’s school?” he asks instead.

“Great,” she says as they make their way over to the ticket booth. “I was actually gonna tell you…I got offered a scholarship!”

“That’s amazing, kiddo! What kind of scholarship?”

“Full-ride.” They move forward with the line. “Apparently it’s a new offer from a new anonymous donors. And three months into the year? I am scarily lucky.”

“ I’m the lucky one,” Luke scoffs. “Don’t forget who was supposed to be paying your tuition, missy. Two tickets for Rogue One at 8:30 please.” He says the last part to the box office cashier, who hands them their tickets a moment later and tells them to enjoy the show.

Clary’s not sure she can, because she’s starting to remember how excited Simon had been about this movie when he watched the trailer. “Hey, now that I don’t need the tuition money, let’s go crazy on the movie snacks,” she says to Luke in an attempt to distract herself. “Or did you already blow it all on your new turtleneck collection?”She gestures at his shirt - a grey, long-sleeved turtleneck that doesn’t leave any skin exposed.

Luke’s hand flies up to his neck, almost like he’s just remembered he needs to hide something, but he quickly drops it and gives her an adoring smile.

“Like I said: I wanted to make some changes.”

Izzy’s not looking at him, but Luke knows she’s struggling to hold back tears, to keep her hands from shaking as she polishes her sword. She made this one herself when Cleophas said she could keep some of the tools.

“How is she?” Izzy asks, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“She’s good,” Luke says. “She’s happy.”

“And she really doesn’t remember m- she doesn’t remember us?”

Luke feels a sudden surge of guilt at being the only one in a position where he can be the bearer of this awful news in the first place. “No,” he tells her truthfully. “She doesn’t remember anything.”

Izzy nods. She hangs her head, and for a moment her shoulders and bottom lip begin to quiver. But then, through sheer force of will, she shakes herself and straightens up, taking in a deep breath. “It’s better this way,” she says. “It’s… she’s safe. That’s all that matters. That’s…”

“Isabelle,” Luke says softly, taking a step closer to her. She shakes her head, face turned completely away from him, trying to make them both believe that she’s okay - that any of this is okay.

When he touches her shoulder, she crumbles. A strangled noise escapes her and she turns to him, tears running free.

“It’s not fair !” she cries, and falls sobbing into his arms.

Clary hasn’t been on many dates. By extension, she hasn’t been on many bad dates. But she’s fairly sure being stood up counts as one.

She rests her chin on her hand and pouts, watching other couples and families wine and dine and dance to live music at the restaurant while she sits alone in the corner, checking her phone every 10 seconds and feeling humiliated and sorry for herself. Fuck dating apps. Fuck dating in general. She wasn’t that excited about the date anyway.

The waitress approaches her and Clary braces herself, waiting for the inevitable pitiful “will someone else be joining you, or are you ready to order?” But the waitress just sets a shirley temple and a folded napkin on the table in front of her and smiles.

“Oh, I didn’t order anything yet,” Clary says.

“I know,” the waitress winks. “It’s a gift. For ‘the lady in red’.”

Clary frowns and looks up at the waitress, even more confused than before. “From who?”

“Secret admirer.”

The waitress gestures with her head at a table across the bustling room before walking away. Clary looks in the direction she indicated, but she sees nothing. For a moment she thinks she catches a glimpse of a woman with big curly hair done up and a high-waisted black skirt, but then the woman steps through the exit and Clary loses sight of her. Most likely forever.

Some admirer, Clary thinks, but she drinks the shirley temple anyway.

Clary has her hair in a side braid and a pencil in her hand and she’s talking excitedly to one of her classmates about the piece she’s working on. Apparently she’s not focusing on realistic sketches anymore: her unfinished painting has hues of blue in short, sure brush strokes that probably convey a lot more meaning to her than they do to non-artists. But if Jace looks closely, and stops trying to make sense of it, the darker colours almost remind him of something. The Institute’s halls, the lights at Pandemonium, the water in Lake Lyn.

Clary looks up at him. Her smile widens. Jace's heart stops.

“There you are!” she cries excitedly, hopping off her stool and making her way over to where he’s standing by the door, glamoured, just so he can watch her for a moment. “I can’t believe you kept me waiting this long!”

She walks past him like he was never there, and Jace turns to watch her pull a stranger into a hug.

#canon compliant #canon divergence #mundane!clary #post-3x22 but before the flash forward #angst #memory loss #c: clary #c: luke #c: jace #c: izzy #c: simon #r: clary & luke #r: clary & simon #r: clary & maia #r: clace #(well...it's IMPLIED)

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carryonsimoncarryonbaz · 5 years ago

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Here is Chapter 3 of my fic Behind Closed Doors, that I am writing for @krisrix

Chapter 3

Simon

I’m up early. I always am, no matter how late I get to bed. And last night was late for me.

I couldn’t get to sleep after Baz left. The combination of excitement, apprehension, and outright longing for him took a while to settle down. There’s a tinge of apprehension still lingering this morning.

I know he kissed me. I know he responded as willingly and passionately as I could hope. But Baz gets into his head sometimes I think, and he’s built up an entire spreadsheet of reasons why this is a bad idea.

It’s not like I’ve not thought of all that.

But there’s also a few reasons why this is an excellent idea, the first and foremost being that we have an undeniable attraction to each other. And I think we’d be good together. I really do.

I’m perfectly willing to forego all the trappings of a normal relationship, just to give this a chance.

I’d like to think Baz would too.

Fuck.

I don’t know. I wish he hadn’t left last night. Not when there was so much more to talk through. So much more time we could have had together.

I’ve never seen Baz at a loss for words.

To be honest it unnerved me a bit. In a good way, yeah, that I could render him speechless. But also in a way that’s making my stomach twist with anxiety that maybe I crossed a line and I’ve fucked it all up.

But he didn’t say no. I know that. He didn’t say no.

He didn’t outright say yes either.

Fuck.

I make breakfast. I watch some television. I even resort to cleaning the bathroom, which is a task I absolutely loathe.

I’m waiting for Baz to call or text or something and I can’t settle down.

Having proposed this non-relationship relationship to Baz seems to be doing wonders for the upkeep of my flat, but not so much for my state of mind. By eleven I’ve cleaned the detested bathroom, sorted my laundry, changed my sheets, and made a batch of salted caramel scones. It’s a new recipe and it’s not bad, but nothing like the cherry scones I make in the summer.

By noon I’m beyond agitated. Should I call him? Send a text?

Fuck it. I’m all nervous energy.

In the end I go for a jog mostly because I can’t think of anything else to do in my flat.

So, of course, that’s when I get a text from Baz.

I’m almost home when my mobile vibrates in my pocket but I’m too worked up to wait. I stop, chest heaving a bit, and yank it out of my joggers.

Baz: Happy New Year, Simon.

I wait to see if there’s a follow up to that. There’s not, of course. Wanker.

I’m not sure what to say. I’ve been waiting all morning to hear from him and now that I have a text—a bland, noncommittal text—I don’t know how to respond.

Simon: Started off the year with a jog in the park

Baz: Why am I not surprised by that?

I’m trying to come up with an appropriate response when another text from him pops up.

Baz: do you have a landline?

Simon: ?

My mobile starts ringing and I see it’s him. I pick up.

“Hey.”

“Good morning, Simon.”

“It’s afternoon, actually. I’m glad you texted, er, called.”

“Do you have a landline at your flat or just a mobile?”

“Just the mobile.”

There’s silence on the line. My heart starts to race. I’ve thought about this issue enough in the last week, in the last twenty-four hours, to know exactly what he’s getting at with that question.

And I’ve got an answer ready.

“We can get burner mobiles. Virgin has good rates or we can use Lyca.”

There are drawbacks to workplace issued mobiles. This is the best way to bypass that. Baz hasn’t answered me yet and it makes my pulse pound even faster.

If he’s asked the question it must mean he’s considering it? Considering us?

I’m holding my breath.

He’s still not saying anything. I can’t take it. I just blurt out what I’m thinking.

“Come over to my place, Baz. Let’s talk in person, yeah?”

“You’re sure?” I don’t think he’s just asking about him coming over. I think his question encompasses so much more.

“Positive.” I run a hand through my sweaty hair. “Give me a half hour to clean up?”

I can hear Baz snort through the mobile. “I’ll see you then. Have you eaten or shall I bring something?”

My stomach rumbles at the thought of food. “I’d not say no to that.”

There’s a muffled sound again, almost like a laugh. “Alright then, Simon.”

I race the rest of the way home. At least the flat is neat and somewhat tidy after my anxiety-induced cleaning frenzy this morning.

Baz

I’m not sure going over to Snow’s flat is the best of ideas. My head is still spinning with the implications of his words last night.

I’ve not slept well. I couldn’t fall asleep when I got home last night, with all those delectable visions of Simon in my head.

I woke up far earlier than I would have liked this morning.

I’m always a bit bad-tempered when I haven’t slept well. Even more cross when I have a lot on my mind.

I have a lot on my mind.

I’d been looking forward to a good lie-in this morning, what with the holiday. I’d not expected to be constructing detailed pro/con arguments in my head half the night. It had taken utmost restraint not to sit down with a pen and paper and make an actual list at half past two in the morning.

As if that would have accomplished anything. There are far too many cons to this daft idea and basically one pro—Simon himself.

It’s undeniably tempting. Totally enthralling to contemplate—it’s everything I’ve dreamed of since I first met him. It’s what I’ve fantasized about for months. It’s been this tantalizing daydream and the realization that I just might be able to make it my reality has sent me into an emotional tailspin.

I don’t get good things. They don’t just happen to me like this.

That’s not my reality.

But fuck it all. I want this. It’s mad and utterly stupid and risky and a whole host of other descriptions that should have me sending Simon a strongly worded text that it’s all bollocks and I’m not even remotely considering it.

I’d be lying if I did that.

So instead I’m driving over to his flat, having managed to compile a list of necessary precautions to put in place before we embark on this lunacy.

Categorized. Itemized. Detail driven.

Bloody hell, I am such a fucking catastrophe.

I forgot to pick up the kebabs.

Simon

My hair is an utter disaster but I can’t be arsed over it. It’s still damp when there’s a knock on my door. I’m trying so hard to look casual again—t-shirt and trackies, my standard weekend uniform—but as I run for the door I wish I’d put something else on. I look like a knobhead, I’m sure.

Compared to Baz I do. He’s all cool elegance in fucking form fitted jeans again as he stands at the threshold and it takes sheer determination to drag my eyes up to his face.

It should be criminal for anyone to look this good in a turtleneck.

“Er . . . hi . . . come in.” I sound a complete tit.

Baz sweeps in but doesn’t take off his coat. He stands by my door, face cool and imperious, but I can see the strain of the fabric as his hands ball up into fists inside the pockets of his jacket.

“Uh. . . I can take your coat?”

Baz clears his throat and blinks twice before shrugging off his jacket. I can’t read him at all right now, his face is like a mask.

I shift to place his coat on the peg by the door and that brings me closer to him, near enough to catch a trace of the cedar and bergamot scent that is so uniquely his.

He smells so damn good.

I linger for a minute by his coat, clenching the fabric in my hands as I do, to keep myself from pouncing on him. His hair’s down today, not slicked back like usual.

I want to slide my fingers through it.

He’s still not said anything. He looks even better without his coat and it’s got me distracted. I should invite him in, make some tea, grab him by the shoulders and snog him senseless, anything other than just stare at him like a gobsmacked numpty.

I feel like a gobsmacked numpty, to be honest. Baz is here. He’s actually considering what I suggested last night.

At least I think he is. I guess I haven’t got confirmation of that yet.

“You want to come in, have some tea?”

“That sounds perfect.” There’s a hint of relief in his eyes, I think, at the mundanity of my suggestion. He swallows then glances down, a faint flush on his cheeks. It’s the softest he’s looked since he walked in. “Sorry, I . . . ah . . . I forgot to bring the kebabs.”

I blink back at him and then remember he said he was going to bring food. I wave my hand in the direction of the kitchen. “Don’t worry about it. There’s chicken from last night. I can heat it up in a bit.”

I bustle about the kitchen, turning the kettle on, pulling mugs out of the cabinet, plating the scones I made earlier. Baz sits at the table, chin resting in his hand, following me with his eyes.

I gesture at the scones. “Have one.”

His eyebrow arches and he looks more like himself. “And deprive you of your basic dietary staple, Simon?”

“I don’t just eat scones, you know.” I place the butter dish on the table.

“I should hope not. You’d have some obscure disease like scurvy or beri beri if that’s all you ate.”

“I like berries.”

“You truly are hopeless, Simon, I hope you know that.” I think he’s making fun of me but I don’t care. There’s a smile on Baz’s face now and I can’t help but think it looks a bit fond.

Good.

“I’ll have you know I made those scones. I was trying out a new recipe this morning. Salted caramel.”

And that’s all it takes for him to reach over and pluck one from the serving plate. He’s got such a sweet tooth.

I busy myself with the tea and find myself relaxing a bit. I can’t let myself get agitated. He’s here, I remind myself.

I settle in the chair next to him and push a mug across the table. I know how he takes his tea.

Read the Rest at a ao3!!

#carry on #simon snow #baz pitch #Work AU #my fics #My writing

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miraculously-fangirling · 8 years ago

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Springtime Connection - Chapter 4

Nathalie stepped into Mr. Agreste’s office, clipboard firmly pressed to her chest. “Sir,” she stated, “Won’t you please reconsider?”

Mr. Agreste looked up from his work and groaned, “Nathalie, please don’t disturb me while I work.”

“But sir, Adrien is really looking forward to this festival, won’t you ple-“

“Nathalie,” he growled, “please leave me for now. I have a new line to design.” His animosity resonated in his sharp words. Irritation bubbled in his gut as the secretary continued to clutch her clipboard. He didn’t want to face the school, not yet and not without her. His wife’s disappearance only made Adrien’s entry into public school all the more troublesome. He would be alone with all the other parents and their undisciplined children. He couldn’t face it; he didn’t want to face any of it alone.

“Yes, sir.” Nathalie turned into the hallway and briskly walked to her office where she slammed her clipboard onto her desk. The board falling to the floor didn’t stop her from putting her head onto her desk. She was tired of this, all the subdued drama between father and son.

Hawk Moth smiled at his vast window as he tainted a pure butterfly. He sent the newborn akuma to the unsuspecting Nathalie. It fluttered to the clipboard, enveloping it in a violet glow. Nathalie huffed as she picked up the fallen board. Hawk Moth’s signature purple mask appeared as his voice rang in Nathalie’s ears.

“I am Hawk Moth and you are now Mistress Mind,” he mused, “I’m sure you can convince your boss to tend to his son, but you must do something for me. Find Ladybug and Chat Noir’s Miraculouses and bring them to me.”

Nathalie smiled. “Of course, Hawk Moth.” Purple mist surrounded the secretary, turning her baby blue eyes to violet and turning her clipboard black. Her work attire stayed relatively the same except for the addition of a black pendant around her neck, the new dark violet turtleneck, and her signature red hair streak turning the same shade. Mistress Mind smirked as she returned to Mr. Agreste’s office and stood before his desk. The designer grumbled as he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Nathalie, please leave me alone, I’m very busy.”

Mistress Mind bit her tongue. She couldn’t have her cover blown, not yet anyways. She pasted on a smile, “Sir, there’s an email I’d like you to look at something. I think it has to do with next season’s possible trends.” Mr. Agreste sighed as he looked up and locked eyes with Mistress Mind. Her violet irises glowed as a list appeared on her clipboard.

She read Mr. Agreste’s list of priorities:

Wife

Adrien

Work

Mistress Mind’s brows quirked as she read the list. Adrien was higher than she thought but that didn’t deter her from rewriting the list and putting Adrien at the top. She locked eyes with her boss once again, sealing her changes. Mr. Agreste’s eyes glowed violet around his icy blue as he stood and walked over to his son’s room. Mistress Mind’s smile was unmistakable as she watched her boss walk down the grand halls.

Adrien sat before his computer, viewing the Ladyblog. That was what he did when he was down: view his confident alter ego and his stunning partner. He wondered if she was nearly as lonely as he was. Probably not, she was so bright and happy and, well, her. His dumb grin did little against the growing pit in his gut. He wished that his father would take his school activities seriously. He knew that he was busy, designing the next wave of high fashion and managing a successful magazine. He knew that none of that was a small feat. But he also knew that Mr. Agreste was his father.

Three knocks resounded from his door. He closed the browser and saw his mother’s portrait. A new wave of loneliness washed over him as he faced the door.

“Come in.” Mr. Agreste opened the door and approached his son. Adrien’s eyes widened in surprise as he stood. “Father?”

A wide smile spread on Mr. Agreste’s face. Adrien tried to stay composed as he felt butterflies in his stomach. What could his father possibly be happy about? Was there a break in his schedule? Either of their schedules? Was there a lead on his mother? Was there a favorable trend coming their way? What was it? Adrien’s mind buzzed as Mr. Agreste slowly approached his boy. Adrien’s surprise kept him from registering the minute purple ring around his father’s blue eyes.

Mr. Agreste knelt to Adrien’s level, keeping strong eye contact with his son. “What was that about a festival earlier?”

Adrien took a moment to blink at his father. He pushed himself further into his office chair, gripping the armrests. What was with the sudden surge of compassion? “Umm well, my class and I are doing a costume cafe, and I just wanted to know if you’d go.” Adrien felt weird to be repeating the request but his father’s endearing eyes made his discomfort dissipate. His father was actually looking at him, not his report card or his schedule.

Mr. Agreste closed his eyes, his smile softening. “Of course,” he murmured. He leaned in towards his son and wrapped his arms around him. Adrien froze beneath his father, mind racing. What the literal hell was going on? The last time his father had hugged him was when Simon Says attacked. That made sense, they were all put in danger for an afternoon. A hug made sense then. But now? There was nothing to hug about. They had just sort of fought for Christ’s sake.

Mr. Agreste stood, leaving Adrien with a blank expression. He didn’t know if he should give in to elation for fall into complete shock. Both were viable options. Mr. Agreste met his boy’s eyes. “I’ll be there, don’t worry. Even if I have to clear every one of my appointments, I’ll be there.”

Adrien smiled, “Thank you, father!”

Mr. Agreste held out his hand, “Call me Dad, please.”

“R-right, thanks Dad!”

Mr. Agreste chuckled and gave Adrien a friendly wave as he left the room. Adrien sat in his chair, shocked, as Plagg zipped out of his hiding placing.

“What’s up with him?” Plagg said as he flew in front of Adrien’s unfocused eyes. Adrien shrugged. “You don’t think that he’s acting a bit weird?” He shrugged again. Plagg sighed, “Alright, whatever daddy’s boy. But can’t you just feed me already? I’m absolutely starving!”

“Sure,” Adrien mumbled as he stared at the closed door. What was going on with his father? Plagg sighed as he went to get his cheese himself.

Morning rays drifted into Adrien’s room as the young boy stirred out of light sleep. The hug and his father’s promise kept creeping into his thoughts as he tried to sleep. The thoughts won. Adrien got up and dressed as Plagg laid about whining for more cheese. Adrien huffed as he brought out a fresh wedge for the gluttonous kwami. He couldn’t be bothered with Plagg’s whining. He had bigger things to think about, like his father’s change of heart. Was his dad’s heart of ice finally melting?

He stepped into the dining room with his messenger bag over his shoulder. Adrien fully expected an empty dining room with only Nathalie standing by the table with his food ready. He didn’t see his expectations. Mr. Agreste sat by his son’s head seat with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. Mr. Agreste smiled as he noticed Adrien in the doorway.

“Oh Adrien! You’re finally up!” he said with a smile.

Adrien was taken aback but returns the smile after a moment. “R-right, fa- dad.”

Mr. Agreste patted Adrien’s usual seat and the boy obliged, setting his bag on the opposite side in case Plagg decided to take a little peek at the situation. (It was an inevitability. The little feline never knew when to just stay put. Curiosity truly did get to this cat). A piping hot croissant, Adrien’s favorite, sat before him. What was with the special treat? Where was the meticulously balanced, nutrient rich meal he was used to? The model diet didn’t usually allow pastries. The cook usually had some kind of extravagant, if slightly small, meal ready to go. But that day it was just fruit, a croissant, and coffee. Almost like a normal person’s breakfast.

Nathalie was nowhere to be found. Adrien inconspicuously looked around the room for the secretary but only his father occupied the grand space. His endearing eyes and small smile burned through Adrien. How long had it been since he had seen that expression on his father’s face? Adrien thought back to his parents’ old wedding photos. Yes, that was the last time he saw that smile on his father’s face. He thought at least. Memories were weird.

He glanced between the meal and his father several times before picking up the croissant. Adrien took a bite and immediately fell in love with the buttery flavor. It wasn’t from the Dupain - Cheng bakery but it sure competed with all of its scrumptious layers. Mr. Agreste smiled as he sipped on his coffee. Sparse conversations was exchanged but Adrien enjoyed his breakfast with his father. It was a welcome change from the usually silence and solitude he felt in the morning.

Adrien finished his breakfast too soon for his liking, but school was going to start. He had to go now. He thanked his father for the meal before heading towards the door. Mr. Agreste followed his son to the door and even to the garage, eventually reaching the right side door of the luxury vehicle. Adrien quirked an eyebrow as his father climbed into the driver’s seat. What the hell was the only thing flashing through Adrien’s mind as his father waved him into the car.

“What’re you waiting for, Adrien? Do you want to be late to school?”

Firstly, his father was taking him to school. Secondly, his father was taking him to the school that he hated Adrien attending in the first place. Adrien pinched his wrist, but he wasn’t dreaming. He knew something was up, but should he have stopped it? Maybe his dad had a change of heart.

Adrien climbed into the passenger seat, not even the Gorilla was coming. It was just the two Agrestes heading to school as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

They arrived at the school, and to say that Nino was shocked would be an understatement. The wannabe DJ’s jaw practically hit the pavement as Adrien rolled up to the school. Mr. Agreste gave Adrien a final side hug before the boy exited the car. Adrien barely reached his school’s front steps before Nino had his arms around the model’s shoulders.

“Dude, what’s up with your dad? It’s as if he grew a heart all of a sudden.” Nino said.

Adrien just shrugged as the school bell rang. The duo ran to their first class where Ms. Bustier already had ‘Work Time’ written across the board in swooping handwriting. Nino went off to meet with the other marketing and design people as Adrien walked over to his usual seat in front of Marinette. His eyes were cast off in the distance as he set his bag down.

Marinette’s heart jumped as Adrien took his seat but she managed to notice the out of this world happy vibe his bright green eyes gave. What could be making the boy so happy? She wanted to know but she also wanted to get some work done. With her luck, Hawk Moth would have an attack very soon. Sooner than she expected in this case. With clammy hands she tapped Adrien’s shoulder. Adrien shook himself out of his cloud of thought.

“Umm, A-Adrien, what should we t-tell the other teams? We should probably have d-design together for them to work with and all., I mean I’m not saying that you’re too slow or anything, just I don’t know. Like you know, umm hi?”

Adrien nodded and pulled out Nathaniel’s drawing from his bag while Marinette gathered up her newly filled out sketchbook. As the various teams got to know their coworkers and work out their schedules, Marinette and Adrien approached Ms. Bustier’s desk. The French literature teacher smiled as the teens approached her desk with the sketches in hand.

“Ms. Bustier, we’ve come up with a concept. Can you take a look?”

Ms. Bustier nodded as Adrien slid Nathaniel’s sketch onto the table and Marinette set her sketchbook down.

“We were thinking of doing a heroes’ cafe, but with them at home. Like where superheroes can relax and have a latte between akuma attacks.” Adrien explained with a scratch to the back of head. Was he explaining this right? Maybe? He hoped.

Ms. Bustier looked at Adrien’s sketch on the back before moving onto the sketchbook. Her grin only grew as she examined the various designs. Adrien’s bright green eyes widened as he caught glimpses at Marinette’s detailed designs. He knew that the girl was talented but he had no idea that she was this gifted. Ms. Bustier nodded along as she reviewed more of the superhero characters. She finally collected all of the designs into a neat pile.

“Good, good!” she exclaimed, “This will be perfect. Go on ahead.”

Marinette and Adrien barely held in their excitement as they stepped to the front of the class. Ms. Bustier called for the class’ attention with a couple of quick claps. A majority of the class looked to the front with varying degrees of attention paid towards the organizers. Marinette went to the board and quickly began sketching with the chalk. This caught their classmates’ attention. Adrien looked over his shoulder as his partner sketched out Ladybug and Chat Noir enjoying lattes in front of a picturesque windowsill. He thought about what it would be like to actually do that with his bugaboo. Butterflies invaded his gut just thinking about it. He turned around before he could delve deeper into the innocent fantasy.

He smiled while saying, “So, for our theme, we’re thinking of doing superheroes,” He shot a glance at Nathaniel’s whose grin was unmistakable, “Except we don’t want to see their crime fighting side. We want to show the world what they’re like on a Sunday afternoon. So what do you all think?”

The class gave overwhelming approval with thumbs up and wide grins. Chloe still stuck her nose up at the whole idea even though Sabrina clapped along with the class. Adrien nodded over to his blushing partner who was just finishing the drawing. They were going to do this and win this year. Ms. Bustier quieted the class again before returning everyone to their groups, leaving Adrien and Marinette alone in their seats to hammer out the details.

Marinette’s eyes returned to her lap as Adrien turned to her seat with a notepad in front of him. What did they have left? Right, the food. That was important. Also the designs, Marinette had to share them with the design and costume teams.

Marinette clutched her notebook. She didn’t want to step away from Adrien, but at the same time how could she talk to him? Adrien tapped onto the notepad.

“Well I’m going to see what we can make,” he said, grabbing a pencil from his bag.

Marinette nodded. “Right,” she squeaked while pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’ll talk to the teams and show them the drawings then.”

Adrien smiled, “Nice drawings by the way. They’re amazing.”

“Really? I mean, thanks, I mean not as amazing as you, but yes thanks, I guess they’re pretty good.”

Adrien snorted. Sure, the stuttering girl in front of him was weird, but somehow endearing. She was cute, not quite adorable. Quirky but not quite nerdy. She was a bright and zany spot in his overly structured life. He wouldn’t mind getting close to the aspiring designer. He stood, grabbing his notepad. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.”

“R-right.”

Marinette stood as well and headed to the design teams that had congregated in the back of the classroom. Adrien watched her before rushing to the school’s kitchen he didn’t want to run out of time. Physics was his favorite class and he’d hate to be late.

In his rush though, he forgot his pen.

#springtime connection #writingfaber #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #ao3fic #miraculous ladybug #adrinette #nathalie #akuma

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fraybaness · 5 years ago

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the price

ao3

She must have been drinking.

And clearly, drunk Clary is an idiot, because it’s cold out and sober Clary has no fucking idea where she’s going.

But, of course, he doesn’t answer either. “Luke, I need a ride,” Clary says after the voicemail tone, growing antsy now. “Please, it’s urgent, can you call this number back right away?”

She hangs up and stares at the phone for a few minutes. The barista throws her a dirty look. Clary sighs and picks up the phone again, calling her mom’s number this time.

She hangs up. The barista very deliberately flips the sign at the door from “OPEN” to “CLOSED”.

Maryse runs her fingers gently through her son’s hair as he clings to her and sobs so violently that she thinks he’s going to fall apart, break beyond repair, right there in her arms.

“It’s alright,” she says, again and again, hoping against all hope that it’s true. “It’s alright, my love, I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Shakily, he holds up a crumpled piece of paper to her.

“Oh, Clary…” Izzy whispers, voice shaking, a feeling somewhere between love and anger and regret making her chest feel tight. “What did you do ?”

“Are you lost?” a middle-aged woman in uniform asks her when she finds her way to the bench in the cafeteria that she always meets Luke at when he’s supposed to drop her off.

“Uh, no,” Clary says with a polite smile. “I’m waiting for someone.”

Until, eventually, she dozes off with her head in her arms on the table in front of her.

“So much has changed recently. I know it’s a lot to keep track of. That’s okay. I’m here to help you remember. Just look at me and listen to me, okay, Clary?

“Don’t dwell on the past. You deserve a good life, Clary Fray. Get out there and live it.”

When Clary comes to in her bed in the apartment she’s not quite done moving into yet, she’s crying.

She was dreaming of Simon.

“Ew, you shaved ?” Clary laughs as she throws her arms around Luke for quick hug when he finally makes it to the theater. She can’t remember ever seeing him without a beard before.

“Well, you moved out,” Luke says. “I wanted to make some changes, too.”

“Hell of a change.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but stops, shakes his head. “How’s school?” he asks instead.

“Great,” she says as they make their way over to the ticket booth. “I was actually gonna tell you…I got offered a scholarship!”

“That’s amazing, kiddo! What kind of scholarship?”

“Full-ride.” They move forward with the line. “Apparently it’s a new offer from a new anonymous donors. And three months into the year? I am scarily lucky.”

Luke’s hand flies up to his neck, almost like he’s just remembered he needs to hide something, but he quickly drops it and gives her an adoring smile.

“Like I said: I wanted to make some changes.”

“How is she?” Izzy asks, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“She’s good,” Luke says. “She’s happy.”

“And she really doesn’t remember m- she doesn’t remember us?”

When he touches her shoulder, she crumbles. A strangled noise escapes her and she turns to him, tears running free.

“It’s not fair !” she cries, and falls sobbing into his arms.

Clary hasn’t been on many dates. By extension, she hasn’t been on many bad dates. But she’s fairly sure being stood up counts as one.

“Oh, I didn’t order anything yet,” Clary says.

“I know,” the waitress winks. “It’s a gift. For ‘the lady in red’.”

Clary frowns and looks up at the waitress, even more confused than before. “From who?”

“Secret admirer.”

Some admirer, Clary thinks, but she drinks the shirley temple anyway.

Clary looks up at him. Her smile widens. Jace's heart stops.

She walks past him like he was never there, and Jace turns to watch her pull a stranger into a hug.

#c: clary #canon compliant

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carryonsimoncarryonbaz · 6 years ago

Text

Always Something There to Remind Me

For Carry On Countdown 2018 Nov. 26: Nostalgia prompt

Simon

Baz wants to leave soon, to get to the city in time to question his aunt about Nicodemus.

I’m going to go with him, of course. I told him that, straight away, last night. I can’t stay here, not by myself, without him. The thought of staying here alone to wait for him, with his family, in this house, makes me ill.

But it’s more than that.

I won’t let him search for the vampires without me.

Baz didn’t argue when I said that. Just gave me a strange look and said “Well, of course you’re coming with me, Snow.”

I want to be right there with him. For once, strangely enough, it’s not because I think he’s plotting. I’m sure he’s plotting something but it’s got nothing to do with me this time.

All I know is that I don’t want him to confront the vampires alone. I think that would be a terrible idea.

I’ve been thinking about this, thinking about it a lot, now that I know more about Headmistress Pitch and her death.

I know Baz is a vampire, even if he won’t fully admit it. He came closer than ever to speaking about it yesterday.

I think he hates it, hates being one. I think he’s ashamed and conflicted about it. The things he said last night, when we were talking about Nicodemus, I think he believes them.

I don’t believe them. And I don’t want him to, either.

I’m worried about how he’ll be with other vampires, real vampires.

I know he’s a real vampire but he’s also a student at Watford, a bloody brilliant football player and a first-rate git. Not to mention top of our class.

He’s not like normal vampires.

I don’t know what normal vampires are like. I just know I’ve run into a fair number of dark creatures since I’ve come to Watford. They all have this aura they give off, a sense of not-rightness. I don’t know how to put it into words. It’s just a feeling I get.

But I don’t feel that with Baz. Never have.

He’s a right arse, don’t get me wrong. He’s vicious and cruel and not above intrigue and scheming. He’s exasperating, infuriating and downright nasty sometimes. But I don’t think he’s really out to harm anyone.

Not even me.

I say that knowing full well about Phillipa Stainton and the chimaera but even then. . . I think he meant to scare me, not kill me.

I don’t know. None of this makes sense.

I tug at my hair. I don’t know what I’m thinking. But I know he can’t go alone. I don’t know what it will be like for him, being around them. Thinking about them. Remembering his mum. Knowing he’s one of them, even though he doesn’t want to be.

Has he been around vampires before? I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to ask.

I don’t know if it will make it any better, having me there with him. It can’t make it worse, I suppose.

Scratch that. Things can always get worse when I’m involved.

But at least he’ll know he’s got someone in his corner.

Am I in Baz’s corner?

I haven’t really thought about what this truce means. I said I’d help him find his mum’s killers. Does that mean we’re on the same side now? Working together.

I don’t know. I can’t think about it, it ties me up in knots trying to figure out what this all means. Why I’m helping him.

Why he’s letting me help him.

Why I don’t mind being around him so much. Why he doesn’t make me as angry as he usually does.

I can’t think about this.

After breakfast he takes me up to his room again. So I can change into something other than my uniform. Which he says makes me look twelve.

“I can’t take you with me to a vampire lair if you’re wearing that outfit, Snow. It will look like I’m babysitting you. How can I come off as imperious and menacing with a child in tow? Come on, now. I’m sure I’ve got something that fits you.”

I stomp up the stairs after him. I don’t look like a child in my uniform. I love my uniform. It’s comforting and comfortable. I don’t want to wear his posh clothes. I’ll look right foolish in them, I will.

His first suggestion is a suit. There’s no bloody way I’m wearing a suit. Not one of Baz’s suits. They’re all tailored and sleek and I would look even more ridiculous in one of those than my uniform.

I also think the trousers would be too tight.

I can just see myself, fighting off a vampire in its lair and splitting my trousers. No, thank you.

“No way.”

Baz rolls his eyes and sorts through his shirts before handing me one. I don’t think that’ll fit either. He’s taller than me but I’m broader in the shoulders.

“That won’t fit me.” It’s a really nice shirt. I can tell by the way the fabric drapes over his arm.

“Snow. Take the shirt. I’ll step out while you try it on, to preserve your modesty.” His tone is laced with condescension but for once he’s not actually sneering at me.

I take it and he steps out, drawing the door nearly closed as he does. This is our unspoken rule. Eight years in the same room but we don’t change in front of each other. The thought of it always seemed to make me feel too vulnerable, defenceless if he chose to attack me while I was trying to shimmy out of my trousers.

It’s a bit stupid, now that I think about it. Why would he attack me while I was getting dressed and not while I was asleep? Anyway, our aggressions usually end up playing out far more publicly.

This shirt’s too tight across the shoulders. I can button it up to mid chest but any more ends up straining the fabric. I certainly can’t close it at the neck. I’ll choke if I do. I’ll likely tear this one by the time we get to the car. It’s fitted and tailored to him, not me.

The fabric is soft though. Smooth and silky.

“Too tight.” I call out to Baz.

He steps back in, eyebrow raised in question and just stops in the doorway. He blinks at me.

“I told you. It’s too tight. Can’t wear this. I’ll look like the Hulk, splitting my clothes if I raise my arms.”

He’s still blinking at me. It’s surprising to see him, speechless for once. Probably thinks I’ve already ruined it by stretching the seams.

“I should just wear my uniform jumper. It’ll be fine.”

“No.” Baz’s voice is raspy. He clears his throat and then continues. “I’ve a rack of jumpers right behind you, Snow. Surely you can find something there. Or in one of the boxes under the shoe rack. Those are ones I don’t wear as often.” He clears his throat again. “I’ll be downstairs. Don’t take all day.”

And then he sweeps out of the room, leaving me amidst the bounty of his wardrobe. It’s like being in a haberdasher, he’s got so much in here.

I take his shirt off and hang it up again. I think it’s in the right place.

Then I start poking about in his wardrobe. I’m a bit nervous about it actually. I’ve got no idea what all he’s got in here. Might be hiding something sinister.

His room is absurd, like it’s out of a film of what you’d expect for a vampire’s bedroom. All dark paneling and red lamps and plush curtains and his creepy bed.

And of course, he’s got a walk-in wardrobe. Typical. I can’t believe how many clothes he’s got. I mean, I knew he had a lot of clothes because I’ve seen his wardrobe at Watford. We wear uniforms five days a week but Baz still has all these posh togs for weekends.

But here at home he’s got even more. And jeans. I’d never seen Baz in jeans before coming here.

He looks good in jeans. He looks good in everything, which is really bloody tedious, honestly.

But he looks really good in jeans.

I can’t think about that either.

He said the jumpers were on the shelves and there were more in boxes at the back.

I find the shelf. These are too posh for me. Fucking cashmere, they are. In practically every colour. Baz is such a wanker. I touch the soft wool. There’s a wine-colored turtleneck one.

I wonder what Baz would look like in that.

What the fuck am I going on about? I shake my head and narrow my eyes. I can’t wear any of these. Maybe the ones in the box he mentioned aren’t as fancy.

I poke around the back of the closet. They’re a few boxes on the floor back there, tucked under some shelves that house an absolutely absurd number of shoes and boots.

I look around again. No hats.

That strikes me as odd until I really think about it. He was probably the only one of us who actually looked good in the boater we had to wear our first years at Watford but I know he hated it as much as I did. Maybe more.

Baz would look like even more of a villain in a fedora.

He must not like hats. He won’t even wear a beanie in winter, when it’s cold. Probably doesn’t want to muss his perfect hair, the wanker.

I think he’d look good in a beanie. Not one of the skullcap types, but the looser ones, the ones with the excess material that just flops to the side a bit.

I shake my head. What the hell am I doing? I banish the image of Baz in a beanie from my mind and focus on the task at hand. I need to find something to wear.

It’s certainly not going to be one of those cashmere jumpers.

I pull one of the boxes out from under the shoe racks and squat down to look at the contents.

It’s not full of jumpers.

I know I should put it back, put the lid right back on and look at another box. Or just put on one of those bloody cashmere jumpers and go downstairs to find Baz.

But I don’t. I stare down at the box in fascination. It’s large and deep, deep enough to hold an assortment of vinyl records, cassette tapes, what look like some photo albums and notebooks.

I can’t help myself. I flip through the vinyl. Fleetwood Mac, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Bowie. Some more recent, if you can even call them recent—Elvis Costello, XTC, Police, Prince.

I’m surprised. I mean, I know Baz is musical. He plays the violin. But I guess I somehow thought all he listened to was classical music. Isn’t violin all classical? I don’t know. He never plays in our room.

I’ve heard him though. When I’ve followed him to his lessons. It sounds classical to me, the bits I managed to hear sitting in the gallery.

I don’t know why I never thought of him listening to other music.

Music is a huge part of magic. Lyrics and such. But the Mage won’t let us have electronic devices at Watford. Miss Possibelf has an iPod and speakers she brings in just for Magical Words. She’s got special dispensation and it’s only for that class.

I pick up one of the photo albums. I really shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t know why I am. I just can’t help it.

It feels like I’m seeing a different side of Baz right now. Looking through this box. And I can’t stop myself.

I look at the photo album cover and that’s when I freeze. It’s got Natasha Pitch blazoned on it.

Fuck.

These aren’t Baz’s things. They’re his mother’s.

I’ve got no right to snoop in his things in the first place but it’s absolutely out of line to look at a box of his mother’s belongings.

I go to place the album gently back in the box.

“Snow? What the devil is taking you so long?” Baz steps into the wardrobe. I can’t push the box away from me fast enough.

I can’t pretend I’m not looking in it. The lid’s off and I’m sitting on the floor next to it.

Baz’s face is paler than I’ve ever seen it when I finally look up and meet his eyes.

Baz

I’m getting impatient. I want to catch Fiona before she recovers from the hangover she’s likely nursing this morning. It will be easier to pump her for information if she’s feeling fragile.

How long does it take Snow to find a jumper? He throws on the first thing he finds in front of him at Watford, whether it’s clean or not.

He’s probably just overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. I should have just stayed and found one for him myself.

But I really can’t be up there, in my wardrobe, searching through my clothes to find something for Snow to wear. It feels too intimate. Too much like something I’ve fantasized about.

Snow in my bedroom. Snow borrowing my clothes. Snow taking his jumper off and putting mine on.

The sight of him, in that shirt, half his chest on display and his broad shoulders straining at the fabric. I had to leave before I said something stupid.

Before I did something rash.

I have to stop thinking about that. It’s too much. I still haven’t gotten over the fact that he’s here. That he’s in my house. That he came to find me.

I look at my watch and end up stomping upstairs to find him. Really, it can’t be taking this long to find something that fits him. We’re not that far off in size. I’m taller and he’s broader in the shoulders. That’s it. A jumper should be just fine.

I sweep into my bedroom. No sign of Snow. The wardrobe light is on. Crowley, is he still in there?

He is still in there, seated on the floor next to a box.

Not my box of old jumpers.

The box that holds my mother’s things.

He looks absolutely unnerved at the sight of me.

I’m staring at him. I can’t speak.

He schools his features, swallows thickly. I’m gaping at him, I’m sure.

“Snow? What are you doing?” I’ve found my words again but my voice sounds hollow.

“I’m sorry, Baz. I was looking for a jumper and . . . and I thought you said there were some in a box. I guess . . . uh . . . I guess I opened the wrong box.” Snow stands, wipes his hands on his trousers and shuffles the lid back onto the box. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have looked at it.”

“You looked in the box?” Crowley, I’m just repeating what he said. “You looked through my mother’s things?” I’m almost too shocked to be angry. No one looks through my mother’s things.

Even I don’t go through them much anymore.

I used to. I used to go through them all the time, touched every record, pored over every photograph. The ones from her years at Watford. The pictures of her with Fiona.

The Pitch sisters. Unstoppable and irresistible. So cool, the two of them. Matching raised eyebrows, sardonic expressions on their faces.

Looking through her things wouldn’t bring her back. Nothing would bring her back and after a while it just hurt to see it all. The evidence of the music she’d never listen to again. The journals she’d never write in again.

The photos of her, strong and powerful, ageless now, because time stopped for her. Stopped in that nursery all those years ago.

I’m still staring and Simon is shuffling from one foot to the other looking acutely uncomfortable. I should say something but my mind is blank.

“I’m sorry.” He says it again and it shakes me back to the present. “I had no right.”

It’s my turn to swallow. I step in and walk past him to kneel down next to the box. The lid is askew and I pull it off for a moment and gaze into it.

It’s all there, just like it always has been. I put the lid on properly and push it back under the shoe rack, my grip lingering on it for just a moment.

I stand up and narrow my eyes at Snow. “I should have come back up and found something for you myself, Snow. I should have realized you’d get easily distracted with so many options.”

He frowns at me. I don’t want to talk about my mother’s things. I’m not prepared to have a conversation about them, not now. Not with Snow.

I pull out another box and toss the lid aside. Perfect. I pull out a cream-colored jumper with a Scandinavian design. “Here. Wear this. I’ve never been all that fond of it. I won’t matter if you stretch it out.”

I thrust it in his direction and he takes it. I briskly put the lid back on the box and stride out of the space. “Come along now, Snow. We haven’t got all day.”

I’m not angry at him. I don’t know why not. I should be. I would have been, a few weeks ago. By all rights I should be shouting at him right now. But I’m not. I don’t know what I’m feeling.

Exposed. Vulnerable.

I should hate that Snow has seen something so personal. But I don’t.

I don’t.

Snow’s here. He took a chance. He took me at my word, about coming to Hampshire. He let himself be vulnerable, coming here, to his enemy’s home.

But we’re not enemies now, are we? We’re not friends. We’re not allies. I don’t know what we are.

But it’s better than what we were.

I’ll take it. I’ll take this over fighting. I’ll take this look of confusion over the looks of suspicion he used to give me.

I’ll take anything Simon Snow gives me.

And I’d give anything to have this last. To have us stay this way.

I’ve been able to talk to him. About Mother. I’ve never done that with anyone before. Not anyone other than Father or Fiona.

I’m not angry about the box.

Simon

I don’t know why Baz didn’t shout at me. I expected him to be angry. To punch me, like he used to when we were younger.

To throw me out of the house.

But all he did was stare at me. Then he put the box away, found me a jumper and hasn’t said a word about it since.

I won’t bring it up. Baz doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s clear. I feel terrible about snooping around like that. I don’t know why I even did it.

I do know why I did it.

I want to know more about him. I want to know why he is the way he is. What he thinks about. What he’s like when the war and his mother’s death aren’t on his mind.

I follow him out of the house and we get in the car to look for vampires.

title from Naked Eyes song Always Something There to Remind Me

#carry on #simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #coc 2018 #carry on countdown #nostalgia prompt

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