A/N: Snowbaz one-shot, inspired by Baz's violin.

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I own neither the image nor Carry On.

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I KNEW, OF course, that Baz played violin. I had seen the violin nestled in the corner of our room in Mummers House, chestnut wood and razor-sharp strings, the slender bow propped up against its frame. But I had never heard him play before.

He never played in front of me. I'd asked once, in autumn of our first year living in the flat. It was a late night in November, the sky outside the windows twilit, candles scattered across our house flickering with orange-red flame. Pyromaniac that he was, Baz insisted on the candles. I had to admit, it made our house smell good-like some sort of mix of cinnamon and pumpkin during the fall, pine and holly berries during the winter, lavender during the spring, and citrus during the summer. I didn't know. He was always the one to pick them out.

The two of us were curled up on the couch. I had my face nestled in his chest, and he was stroking my hair absentmindedly, flipping through the pages of a book. (Something by Cicero, predictably. And in the original Latin, no less.)

My eyes had fallen on the violin in the corner. I knew he played; there was complicated-looking sheet music everywhere, volumes upon volumes of books by people named Enescu and Bach and Bartok. Baz's violin was cherry-red then, and kept in prime condition. But I'd never so much as seen him pick it up in my presence.

"Play for me," I said, without thinking.

Baz drew back a bit, cocking his eyebrow at me. "What was that, Snow?"

I propped myself up on my elbows, my nose centimeters from his. "You've never played for me."

"Played what, Simon?" he said irritatedly.

"Your violin," I said. "I've never heard you. Play for me."

"No."

I stared at him, sure I'd heard him wrong. Baz hadn't even bothered to hesitate. "No?"

"That's right. I said no." He licked his thumb and turned a page.

"Baz."

"I'm serious, Snow," he replied, eyes skimming his page. "I'm not going to do it."

"But-" I made a sort of gurgled eurgh sound. "But why not?"

Baz folded his book down on his thigh and kissed the top of my forehead. "Because, that's why," he said.

I scowled. It was a dirty tactic, kissing me. (I had, pathetically enough, next to no resistance.) "Please?"

He snorted. "It isn't manners, love. I'm just not going to do it."

My eyes narrowed, and I pushed myself up off the couch. "Fine."

Baz seemed put out. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know. Somewhere else."

He frowned at me. He'd never say as much out loud, but I knew he wanted me to stay and snuggle with him. He was a closeted softie like that.

"Simon, really," he said. "Don't be childish."

I turned my nose up at him and stomped into our bedroom without another sound, flopping down on the bed and folding my arms. I'm not childish. The tosser-I should lock him out tonight. Stain all his pocket squares. That'll show him.

He didn't play for me that night, but I didn't give up. Every few weeks, I'd ask him. Play for me. He never did, though, the stubborn arsehole. He flat-out refused to give me even a few notes in his cupped palms.

And then, one day, by chance, I heard him.

My class had been cancelled, so I'd decided to come home and take a nap. But, sooner or later, I was was woken by the sound of a door slamming. "Hello?" someone-Baz-called. I rubbed my eyes, about to collect my response, but before I could, he said, "Good."

I sat up straight. I didn't move, holding my breath. There was a faint rustling of papers, and then a sort of humming noise. A bow scraping across a violin.

Baz began to play.

I had never really been a refined musician. I couldn't pretend to know which composers were which, or what the black squiggles on the page meant. Barely did I know the difference between classical and contemporary. It was a foreign world to me, almost like I were around five years old and watching a football game for the first time. The field had been green that day, the sky a cornflower blue. I didn't know what I was watching, only that I thought it was beautiful.

Hearing Baz play was a little like that-but so, so much more.

The sound of his bow scraping across his violin was melancholy, soft and bittersweet. He played a song that sounded faintly Eastern European; some sort of Russian or Polish composer. The Mage used to play Chopin in his office. Chopin sounded Eastern European, but I wasn't sure. Did Chopin even write violin solos?

I stood there in the foyer for Crowley knew how long, listening and mesmerized. I stood there until Baz finished his song. When the silence returned, I turned around, opened and closed the door again, as if I'd just walked in, slamming hard to make sure he heard me, and called out, "Hello?"

There were a few hurried thumps, and Baz turned the corner. He smiled when he saw me. "You're back early," he said.

"My class got canceled," I said, affecting an easy tone I didn't feel. I pecked his cheek. "Do we have any food? I'm bloody starving."

"What a surprise," Baz said wryly.

I didn't know why he didn't want me to hear him play. Maybe there was a real reason, maybe there wasn't. But after hearing that song, huddled in the foyer that day, I felt strangely wrong, as if I'd intruded on something, heard something I wasn't meant to hear. Which sounded ridiculous-I was his boyfriend, after all-but didn't feel it. Not at all.

He'll play for me when he's ready to, I thought. However long it takes. He'll play for me.

It took a long time. Days became weeks, weeks became months, months became years. But one wintry afternoon about three years after I first asked him, when I said, "Play for me," he just looked up and smiled.

"Alright," he said, easily, as if this were something he did every day. As if he played for me constantly.

And then he did.

It was even more beautiful than it was before.

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed it! Please review to let me know what you think!