#and i was like to flatmate after he told me it was her bday and prees tomorrow i was like lmaoooo can i gatecrash it

[contact--light]

so i literally just invited myself to this predrinks and now i’m going out tomorrow lmaooooo

[femslashy]

begin again | chapter two

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It’s been three years since Baz left the sleepy Isle of Mage to attend university in London, and he hasn’t regretted a thing--except maybe leaving Simon behind. Convinced he’ll never be forgiven, Baz refuses to even visit until a frantic phone call from his stepmother sends him running home. Once there, Baz is forced to confront his past, question the future, and maybe, just maybe, get that second chance he’s always desired.

genre(s): angst+fluff+smut (in later chapters)

chapter length: 1743 words

triggers/warnings: none for this chapter

author’s note: a giant thank you to @amandaisnotwriting & @rainbowbaz for the beta/britpicking! full acknowledgments will be posted with the last chapter

(@arituzz​ i meant to get this chapter out on your birthday and i didn’t but it’s still dedicated to you 💜💜 happy belated bday!!)

I’m still here.

I’m still in Watford, still on the island, and I tell myself it’s because Daphne is anxious and scared, and won’t leave my father’s side. I tell myself it’s so Andrea can have a holiday alone with her girlfriend without me third-wheeling. I tell myself it's because my siblings miss me.

(I tell myself and I tell myself and I tell myself, like if I do it enough, I might actually be telling the truth.)

On the subject of Daphne, I’d nearly given her a heart attack of her own when I came down for breakfast my second day back with bruises under my eyes and swelling around my nose. She wouldn’t stop stealing glances at me as I ate my eggs, but didn’t ask any questions. (Not that I would have told her anything. As far as my parents knew, Simon and I were secondary school rivals who could barely stand to be in the same room together.) (I never bothered to correct them when those circumstances changed.)

One week—and many cold compresses from Vera—later, the swelling is gone, but the bruising still remains. I scrunch up my face at my reflection in the mirror, hissing as I remember why I shouldn't do that. Fuck Simon.

I’d just wanted to push him a bit, see if he would yell. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. Simon’s never fought with his words, and me egging him on could have only ended one way. I just wish it hadn’t involved my nose.

I haven’t shown Andrea yet. I’m afraid she’ll think it’s the reason I’ve cancelled on  our holiday. Maybe I should, actually. Then I won’t have to admit the real (much worse) reason. Except she’d just cover up the bruises and drag me to the beach anyway—one of the downsides of being friends with a makeup artist; you can never get out of social gatherings because of your appearance. (That doesn’t mean I don’t try.) (It never works.)

After determining my reflection a lost cause, I leave the bathroom, bumping into Daphne in the hallway.

“Oh, Baz,” she says once she notices it’s me, “I was just looking for you. Can you take the twins to football club again today?”

I nod, because of course I will.  I can’t say I intended to spend my hols as a nanny, but I’m finding that I don’t mind all that much. It gives me something to do. (It gives me excuses.)

Normally Daphne would be the one taking them places, but  my father’s heart attack had shaken her more than I’d initially realised. According to Vera, she’d been out shopping for most of the day when it happened—apparently she and my father had a row—and she’d returned just in time to see him being loaded onto an ambulance.

She’s been glued to his side since he came home. As if on cue, Cecily and Roseline—my six year old half-sisters—come tumbling out of their room. They’re followed closely by Winston, Daphne’s black and tan corgi, who makes a beeline for me almost immediately. I brace myself for an assault on my ankles, but before he can get to me Daphne’s scooping him up, admonishing him in sickening baby talk while he licks at her face. “Why is that dog so obsessed with me?” “He just wants to be your friend,” she replies, and I frown—I don’t like dogs, and I especially don’t like Winston. (This has done nothing to dissuade his love for me.)

“I don’t want to be his friend.”

Daphne just shakes her head and laughs—like she always does when I voice my opinion on her dog—and looks past me at the twins. “Are you two ready to go?”

They nod.

“Do you have your bags ready?”

Wide-eyed, they run off—presumably in the direction of the bags, and I grab the keys, rolling my eyes at Daphne as she tries to get Winston to give me a kiss goodbye.

***

We’re barely out of the garage when Cecily lunges forward and shoves a CD in my face. “Play this.”

“No,” I say flatly as I bat it away, “no, we are not listening to One Direction. And put on your seatbelt.”

“But you said no yesterday. And the day before,” she whines.

“And I’m saying it again: no.” “I’ll tell Mum you’re being mean.” “I don’t care.” “I’ll scream.” “I’d rather listen to that. Seatbelt. Now.”

“You’re in trouble,” Roseline sing-songs; Cecily drops the CD and swats at her.

“Cece! Leave her alone,” I snap.

Roseline looks smug, and Cecily sulks and kicks my seat. “I want my music.” “Put your seatbelt on.”

She does. “Can I have my music now?”

“No.”

She continues to kick my seat for the duration of the trip, sticking her tongue out whenever I glance in the rearview mirror.

It’s a long drive.

***

As soon as we arrive, the twins jump out of the car and run to the pitch, screaming and jumping around once they reach their friends. I go to say hello to Coach Minos; only it’s not Coach Minos standing next to the watercooler. It’s Simon.

“What are you doing here?”

He jumps, and the ball he’d been bouncing on his knees falls to the ground. “Hey, Baz.”

“What are you doing here?” I repeat. “Where’s Coach Minos?”

Simon shrugs. “Dunno. He just asked me to fill in, so I am.”

“But you’re terrible at football.”

“I still know how to play,” he says defensively, “I can still help. And I’m not that terrible.”

I scoff. “I think we played enough together for me to be a fair judge.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I’m remembering how those games usually ended—with tackles and kisses and me accusing him of cheating. (Judging by the look on Simon’s face, so is he.)

“I, um, I have to go now. The kids need me. I’ll be…” he points in the direction of the pitch, “there.”

“Right. And I’ll be…” I gesture to the stands where the other parents are sat, “there.”

Simon nods and jogs off. I force myself not to watch his retreating figure (or the way his back muscles flex under his shirt) and find a place to sit down, away from everyone. I spend the next hour pretending to be engrossed with my phone, and trying not to stare at Simon.

(I don’t succeed.)

***

After that, Simon is everywhere.

At the pharmacy when I’m picking up Mordelia’s allergy medication. At the bakery where he swipes two of my scones. Still filling in for Coach Minos at the twins’ football club. Running on the beach where I’m playing with Alfie. Stopping his run to build a sandcastle with Alfie. Knocking over said sandcastle with Alfie and immediately earning himself a best friend for life. (Which isn’t that impressive, considering Alfie’s three and loves everyone.)

I’m lying on the floor in my room when my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket, alerting me to a new message from Andrea, my flatmate back in London. (I suppose you could call her my best friend—she does—but that’s such a juvenile term that I avoid it whenever possible.) (Which is always.)

hows the isle of exbfs

Don’t call it that. Boring.

masochist just come home if its that terrible

I didn’t say it was terrible.

I almost pocket my phone then, mostly because I don’t want to deal with her questions right now, and a little bit because I’m afraid I’ll spill everything.

Andrea’s shockingly good at getting me to confess things.

I saw Simon today.

(Sometimes without even trying.)

!!! is that good??

My fingers hover over the screen as I contemplate my answer. I don’t know

are u going to see him again?? I’m not. wht not??? *why

Because it’s not like that. I didn’t mean to see him.

but u wanted to u wanted to see him right??

It’s not like that. We’re not like that.

but u want to be I don’t want to talk about it. Her next message is just a picture, one of those inspirational quotes that she’s so fond of. It reads: Everything you want is on the other side of fear. The paper is grey and the frame is black, stark against the white wall. It’s very aesthetic, very Andrea, and very much not what I want to think about right now.  I scowl as I type my response. I’m not scared. She responds with a gif of a laughing duck. alright luv And it’s not what you think. I don’t want Simon. who mentioned wanting simon ths isnt about wanting simon Andrea. i didnt bring up wanting simon u brought up wanting god baz stop talking about wanting simon all the time its embarrassing ur better than thsi grosd *gross baz baz basil dont be scared basil basilton bazzybazzybazzy i know ur reading these philippa says i need to leave you alone now oh she just took her top off what a clever distraction

The messages stop after that (thank you Philippa), and I set my phone back on my stomach. The floor isn’t the most comfortable place to lie down, but I can’t bring myself to get on the bed. It’s bad enough that I have to sleep there, in the ancient four-poster, with its dark red canopy, and gargoyles. (An excessive amount of gargoyles, really.)

I’m weighing up the pros and cons of sleeping on the floor when I feel a new message coming through. I snort and pick it up to tease Andrea about finishing too quickly—except it’s not from her.

I didn’t even know Simon still had my number, if I’m honest, and my heart is pounding in my ears as I read his words.

If I answer this, if I say yes, then we’ll cross the line from casual-friends-who-bump-into-each-other-sometimes to Friends Who Text, and there’ll be no going back—not without the potential for fallout. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I even want to do. My hands are shaking so badly that I can feel my phone beginning to slip from my grasp.

Everything you want is on the other side of fear. I take a deep breath, curse Andrea for jinxing me, and reply.

chapter three 

[efferxescent]

lowkey santa can keep his presents this year bc I already got the best flatmate in the world & she’s the greatest gift of all okokok ok