#hehe the fic finally hit 10k words on archive

[diningpageantry]

Can You Hear Me?

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215168/chapters/43235681

Chapter 6/10 of It’s A Handheld Disaster

Word Count: 1174

Chapter Summary: Simon has a simple request for Baz, as nerve wracking as it may be.

BAZ

I used to hate mornings. Loathed them. Thought they were the shittiest time of the day--the part where it all started. Except, now that I get daily good morning texts from Snow, accompanied by an odd little meme (usually an obscured, “deep fried” one), I can’t say I hate mornings anymore.

It’s so silly, given it’s such a small thing, but additions of something sentimental and small in my day makes me feel more alive.

Good morning texts. Daily updates. Stupid jokes, playful nicknames, and the intimacy of a phone number. We’re intertwined far enough that Dev and Niall know about him now. I’ve grown proud of speaking about him; he’s rather stupid sometimes, but I always smile at those messages. Sure, I haven’t seen his face yet, or heard his voice, but that doesn’t matter. It may be an issue one day, but for now, I’ll live with where we are.

It’s not entirely positive, though. I know he only texts because he can’t always afford extra data, and Davy cuts the wifi, but it’s more comforting to hear a mobile tone than to feel just a notif buzz.

When I woke up this morning, though, the space where his message usually sits is vacant, leaving the last received one to be from last night.

im fukcin exhausted goodnight x

That’s it. Nothing new, nothing to get excited over. Nothing to smile about.

Nothing in my DMs, and Instagram says he hasn’t been online since yesterday afternoon. It’s mildly concerning, to say the least.

I try to distract myself, but I can’t eat (too nauseous), nor can I sit still. My shower is terrible, and the empty, numbing feeling is driving me insane. It’s nearly 11 by the time I finally get something--a simple, unexpected, heartstopping text.

hey can i call you tonight?

I double check to make sure I’m not misreading it, then exit out of the app before opening it again. Surely enough, I hadn't read it wrong.

He wants to call me. He wants to hear my voice. I get to hear his voice.

While the circumstances call for a concerned pause, I still throw an answer towards him despite the twisting of my gut.

of course you can

call whenever you have a chance, i’ll be here

thank you

sorry i know i usually text sooner

its just a bad day

i know im shitty

you’re not shitty

really don’t apologize it’s okay

so long as you’re okay

i cant promise im ok but im alive

good enough for me

I lay my phone face down, hands scrubbing over my eyes as I exhale slowly. He’s alive. That’s more than good enough for me--that’s a spark of hope. He can always get better, but he can’t stop being dead (whatever-the-fuck-deity forbid that ever happens).

Slowly, my eyes drift towards the window. It’s a sunny day. The weather’s growing warmer, and he only gets out in a month or so. Maybe… maybe I can see him once summer hits. I’ll drive out to wherever he is, and we’ll finally get to exist inside the same spaces. I’ll shake his hand. I’ll take him to dinner (maybe go get a drink, if he’s 18 by then). I’ll be stupid for once in my life and make a bold move. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.

I look at my phone, repeating it in a soft utter. “We’ll be okay,” I say into the empty room around me, heart speaking differently. Who knows if he'll be okay now. Eventually, we’ll find our peace within the world. He’ll stop hurting, and I’ll start living. We just have to make it over this hurdle.

As my fingers drag across the cotton sheets, I let my mind wander off into thought. I wonder what his voice sounds like. I wonder what accent he has (I don’t even know what region he’s from). How should I address him? Is it proper to begin with a casual “Hi”?

This is shit. I wish I knew what to do. I wish I knew what we were, so it’d be easier.

A bird chips outside, and I break back into an empty stare out the glass.

It’s all empty. I feel empty. Everything feels so empty for hours as I drag myself around the house like a spineless ghost, hoping to hear from my distant friend. I barely feel the need to eat, and I can’t bring myself to care enough to go for a walk to shake off my nerves. Instead, I sit, stare at the wall silently, making pointless reblogged posts on the occasion I can bring myself to look at my mobile. By the early evening, I’ve updated one of my fics and answered a good handful of asks from a numbers post. It’s all mindless and meaningless, but it’s a distraction.

Not enough of one, sadly. By early evening, I get antsy enough to drag myself out of bed and find my pack of cigs.

I contemplate the windowsill briefly, then decide against it in favor of going down to the garage. It used to be the stables, so there’s plenty of room to hide by a window and smoke one or two.

Tucking the lighter and pack in my pockets, I slip out quickly enough. My mobile stays in hand, ready to respond to any buzz.

It doesn’t come immediately. Not as I’m getting comfortable, pillow pressed to my back in the dusty stone and brick building. I settle against the window, cracking it open slightly while my head leans back against the wall. In my mouth lies a cigarette, with another tucked behind my ear. I flick the lighter a few times before it sputters to life

Holding it up, I watch the satisfying glow of the end as my hands tremble. Honestly, I hate smoking. I hate the taste it leaves, I hate the way it seeps into my clothes, but there's a shaking of my nerves that calms it while lighting my insides up.

Carefully, I suck it in, holding back the smoke as I stare out the warped glass. After a slow inhale, I let the tendril of smoke trickle from my lips. I hate this.

I go through the first one, stubbing it onto the stone. About halfway through the second, my mobile starts buzzing nonstop. Looking down, I already know who it is.

offbrand sammy

Fumbling with my cigarette, I switch it to my non dominant hand as I slide my mobile and press it to my ear. “Hello?” I say, not even thinking out my answer. Fuck. Wait. Too formal.

The formalities don't even matter, because suddenly, there's sobs on the other line. They break out, coming in muffled bursts as my heart sinks. In all my utter uselessness, I sit completely silent, jaw hanging open as I wait. After what feels like minutes, rather than seconds, of him crying, his voice comes through. It's clear, deep, Northern, and cuts me to the bone.

“Holy shit.”