Chapter 10

Simon

I'm not sure if it's the pilot's voice that wakes me or the subtle shifting of Baz's position. Doesn't matter. I blink my eyes a few times to clear the sleep and raise my head from his shoulder.

Fuck. I've drooled on Baz's shirt.

Not a lot, mind you, but there's still a small spot of it right below his collarbone.

He doesn't seem to have noticed. Baz rolls his shoulders and rotates his neck to get the kinks out, and I'm completely mesmerized by the sight. He raises one eyebrow at me. "Do I have something on my face?"

I shake my head. My mouth is dry but I manage to mumble some words out. "No, I just can't figure out how you can look so fucking perfect after sleeping on a plane."

I like it when Baz smiles. I like everything about him, but I rarely saw him smile like this at Watford. Smirk or sneer, yes, but a genuine smile like the one he's giving me now? Hardly.

I can't help but grin back at him.

I poke at my drool stain on his shirt. "I seem to have mucked you up a bit, though."

Baz glances down at it and then rolls his eyes at me. "Eternal mouth breather. Some things never change."

I shake my head. "I must look a fright."

He reaches out and pushes a curl off my forehead. "You are a mess, Simon. A glorious fucking catastrophe." His smile is even wider and his cool fingertips trail down my face.

"And you like that?"

"I love it."

"Why?"

Baz leans closer, hand cupping my face. "Because we match."

His lips brush mine before I can respond. I'm distracted for the moment but when he pulls back I frown at him. "You're the furthest thing from a mess, Baz. You're bloody flawless. You always have been. Drove me stark raving mad, it did."

It's his turn to frown. "I'm not. Not in the slightest."

"What, you expect me to believe it's all been a front? No one's that good at faking it, Baz."

"Perhaps I am."

His expression closes off and I'm kicking myself now. I know this about him. I know how he retreats when any sign of weakness is exposed. He just admitted something deeply personal to me, something important, and I fucked it up by answering that way.

I take his hand.

It takes a moment for his fingers to grip mine back. "Hey. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." I sigh. I may as well keep going, now that I've put my foot in it. "You've just always been the epitome of perfection to me, Baz. I'm a walking disaster, always have been—you know that. But you … you made it all look so effortless—schoolwork, football, grace and refinement, brilliant banter, striking good looks. It made me … made me feel … well, quite stunningly inadequate, I suppose."

His eyes blaze. The look Baz gives me is as fiery as any of our altercations at school. "No, Simon. You couldn't be more wrong. You're a brilliant cataclysm. A fucking supernova." His fingers squeeze mine hard. I hold my breath at the intensity of his gaze. "You were the sun, and I was crashing into you. If I managed to get too close I'd be incinerated. But trying to stay out of your orbit left me so cold." He's so close I can see the blues and greens of his eyes clearly now. "I was always on the outside, looking in. Never good enough to be part of your inner circle. Never brave enough to be your friend."

"But …" I falter. I have no idea what to say. It's dislocating to hear him say such things. We've eased into this physical closeness in a matter of days but there is so much we don't know, don't understand, about each other.

I do understand one thing. And it's not something he gets a say in. Because it's how I feel, how I've always felt about him, even when he was a thorn in my side, an epic arsehole, my absolute nemesis.

My singular obsession.

"You're fucking perfect to me, you twat. Always have been. You can think whatever stupid bloody thoughts you want, but you can't change my mind on this." My voice softens as I reach out to curl a wisp of his hair around my finger. "You could be a bloody train wreck, Baz Pitch, but you'd still leave me breathless."

His gaze relaxes and he tilts his head. I let my fingers cup his jaw and he leans into my touch. "How do you do it, Simon? How do you always know exactly what to say that goes to the heart of me?"

I shrug. "I don't think about it, I guess. I just say what I feel."

His lips are on mine, and then he's breathlessly snogging me into the seatback.

It takes a moment for him to come up for air. "I'm not as perfect as you think. But, Christ, what I'd give to live up to that ideal."

I pull his face to mine. I want him to feel this kiss, this regard I have for him, the protective sense that overwhelms me when I hear him talk this way.

I don't know this side of Baz. This uncertain, relentlessly negative, self-critical side. I don't know what's happened in the four years since we lived together. I don't know if he's always hidden this inside.

It hurts to think about it.

The pilot's voice booms out again. We're veering down for the landing. I pull away, briefly running my thumb along his cheek before I lean back in my seat. "We are not finished with this conversation." I grip the armrest with my left hand and Baz's hand with my right. "But I hate landings. And I can't talk this through with you and keep calm about this bloody plane at the same time."

A smile lights up his face. "I think I can help with that." And then Baz leans over and starts to trace his lips up my neck.

It seems like no time before the wheels hit the tarmac and the plane taxis down the runway. I've had my eyes closed the whole time.

I open them to find Baz grinning at me. "Alright then, Simon?"

I swallow. "Pretty effective method you've got there."

Baz

We've got a few hours to kill here in Reykjavik before our connection to London heads out. Simon may want to pick up that conversation where we left off but I'm a master of deflection and redirection.

It doesn't work with this wanker though. He knows my tactics too well.

We're seated in the First-Class Lounge again. Different airport, similar setup. Simon has demolished another shockingly large pile of food with a swiftness that is astonishing. It's not as if the buffet is going to magically disappear any minute, but he's been focused on shoveling the food down nonetheless. It's been quite absorbing to watch.

But he's finished eating now and fixing me with a penetrating stare. "Now, about that bollocks on the plane."

"I've no idea what you're referring to."

"Yes, you do, you prat. You know exactly what I'm referring to. The hypercritical shite. That negativity."

It is impossible to distract and divert a Sociology major who's made a special study of this sort of thing. I'm internally cursing the discipline as a whole and Simon in specific. But he's patient and he's kind and I'm pathetically weak for him, so I find myself opening up far more than I ever intended.

It comes out. Bit by bit. My mother's legacy. The way it's loomed over me my whole life. The survivor's guilt that eats at me. The fear of disappointing the one parent I have left. The numbing misery of day in, day out at a job that sucks the very life from me. The isolation I feel in New York.

The crippling self-doubt that I am never going to get it right. Not with work, not with my family, not with the life choices I make.

Not even with Simon. That bit I keep to myself.

He listens, taking it all in, encouraging me with a word or gesture, a touch that grounds me. He's so fucking good at this. They definitely aren't paying him enough at that care home.

I'm spent by the time I finish, certain that this, if nothing else, will cause him to write me off as a bad deal and disappear from my life as soon as we reach London.

Simon slides his arm around my waist instead and leans his head on my shoulder. "You were right. You're as much of a fucking disaster as I am."

I stiffen at his words but he only laughs. "Relax, you numpty. I happen to like disasters. They're comforting and familiar. Especially brilliant ones, like you."

I do relax against him. I don't know when I've felt this at peace. Simon's warm and comforting and nothing I've said has deterred him in the slightest.

This is all too fucking good to be true.

Simon

It's heart-breaking to hear him. I'll never let that on though. Baz's got himself so tightly wound, trying to be everything for everyone, striving to reach expectations that are unrealistic, so much so that he's ignoring the person who actually matters most—himself.

His father wouldn't want him to put himself through this. I may not know his family well but his Aunt Fiona always doted on him—in a brusque, profanity-laden, bitterly sarcastic kind of way but you could see her heart was in the right place. Mostly.

They likely aren't privy to any of this. There is no way they would let him burn himself out in New York like this, burden himself with an existence that stifles him so, if they knew.

I'm sure of it.

I just need to figure out how to get him to realize that and tell them when he's home.

I've no idea how I'm going to manage that.

But I'm damn well going to try.

Baz

Our flight departs in less than an hour.

It's a shorter one this time. We'll be in London in just under three hours. I should be home in time for Christmas dinner.

I'll be saying goodbye to Simon in three hours.

I don't want to. Now that I've found him I don't want to let him out of my sight. That's mad, obviously. But I still can't help wanting it.

I know I have his number in my mobile. I know I can call him, text him anytime. I can make plans to see him again before I go back to New York. I can Skype. There are a million things I can do to stay in touch and none of them seem enough at the moment.

There is one more thing I can do, something to put off saying goodbye for just a little bit longer. I've been thinking about it since before we left Ebb's. I turned the idea around in my head the entire drive to Washington.

Simon's alone for the holiday. He mentioned that the first night. All I have to do is ask him to come home with me for Christmas.

Thinking about it is the easy part. It's the asking that's a challenge.

I don't quite know what I'll do if he says no.

Simon

Baz is a stickler for punctuality. Always has been. Some things never change. We arrive at the gate early, no sign of a boarding queue yet. We could have stayed in the lounge a bit longer.

It's nice, the lounge. This trip is likely the first and last time I'm going to travel in such luxury.

I spot a lavatory across from the gate. I bump Baz's arm. "I'm going to the lav."

"I'll be expecting your cultural commentary on the local facilities on your return." I know that sardonic tone but the grin that accompanies it is only now growing more familiar.

"Sod off." I can hear Baz laughing as I walk away.

The lavatory actually looks like it came out of an IKEA catalog. I think IKEA's Swedish actually but the effect is very much the same. Shiny white porcelain, posh looking fixtures. Each toilet's got it's own little counter and sink. It's bigger than the entire bathroom in my current flat.

That's not saying much. My flat's tiny.

Fuck.

The toilet must have some electronic sensor thingy. It flushed as soon as I walked into the stall and I swear it's flushed at least five times already. It's unnerving, it is. I feel like I should apologize to someone for all the water it's wasting.

The sink's got this posh, artsy looking faucet. It looks like some modern minimalist sculpture of an aeroplane. That's kind of cute for an airport. It must have electronic sensors too, because as soon as my hands get close to it a stream of warm water gushes out. Soap too.

Where the fuck are the hand towels? There's nothing on the walls, no dispenser, no hand dryer. I flail about for a bit, even coming out of the stall to look at the main sink area. All the faucets there have the same design but I can't for the life of me find anything to dry my hands.

I run them under the water one more time, to splash my face, thinking I'll just have to wipe my hands on my jeans (points taken away for that inconvenience) when twin blasts of hot air shoot down from the side wings of the faucet.

Scares the fuck out of me, it does.

The sodding faucet has an integrated automated hand dryer. It would be cool if it didn't take me so bloody long to figure it out.

And if it hadn't made me jump. I'm glad I'm the only one in here. I must have looked like a complete knobhead. Thank the stars Baz didn't come in with me. He'd be laughing his arse off.

He's leaning against a pillar when I come out, tapping away at his mobile. "I can hold your satchel if you need to go."

He tilts his head. "You're not going to give me the rundown of the amenities then? Lavatories as windows into cultural norms and what not?"

I decide then and there I'm not telling him a thing about the toilets. Let him figure out the stealth hand dryer on his own.

"It'll make more sense to discuss the cultural significance after you've used the lav. I'll hold your bag."

Baz hands over his satchel and saunters across the corridor. He's just walking to an airport toilet and he still looks like he could be on the runway at fashion week, the tosser. So bloody poised and posh.

Baz

I broke down and texted Father while Simon was in the lav. Told him I might be bringing a friend home for Christmas dinner.

His response was alarmingly genial. Daphne texted me a moment later to let me know she was preparing the guest room down the hall from my room. They're both far too excited at the thought of me bringing someone home. It's not like I don't have friends. I do.

Dev. Niall. I'm sure there are others I'm forgetting at the moment.

This is different. This is the first time I'm bringing someone I care about, in a romantic way, home with me. It's daunting.

And exhilarating.

Of course, Father and Daphne don't know that. That this is the boy I've been in love with for years.

They're both quite accepting of my queerness. Daphne always asks if I'm seeing someone. She's far more polite about it than Fiona, who usually just asks if I'm getting laid.

I've never dated anyone long enough to have the opportunity to bring them home, if I'd even wanted to in the first place. Home is private. It's my safe place. I've not been in a relationship serious enough to warrant introducing the family.

Simon knows my family. Not well, of course. Our icy coexistence at school meant his introduction to my relations was perfunctory at best.

It won't be now.

I've no concerns about them liking him. It's practically impossible to dislike Simon. Trust me, I tried. My siblings will likely want to adopt him on sight and jettison me.

Not really. They love me, the little hellions. I love them too, even if they routinely pester me to distraction.

Simon though. He's a natural with children. By our third year he was the one who would take on the first years—calmed their insecurities at the back to school picnic, distracted them with stories and games when they would get homesick, organized the inter-class snowball fights in winter.

I can't tell you how many times I'd walk in, at the start of term, to find a small contingent of first-year boys huddled around a board game on the floor of our room, Simon benevolently beaming at the lot of them.

I'd never stay too long. Wouldn't do to have them think I'd gone all soft. Didn't matter that I'd do the same with Mordelia (and later my other siblings as well) when I'd come home for holiday breaks.

Couldn't let the whole world know I had a heart.

I just need to summon up the nerve to ask Simon.

I'm so distracted thinking about it that when the invisible automated hand dryer built into the faucet blasts into existence it startles me so much that I literally recoil from the sink.

I'm glad I didn't come in here with Simon. He'd never let me live that down.

I take comfort in the fact that it likely scared the devil out of him too.

Simon

The queue forms as I wait for Baz. I wonder if this flight has the same kind of first-class seats as the previous one. I'll be damned if I spend my last three hours with him with a blasted armrest between us.

I know it's not literally the last three hours I'll ever spend with Baz, but at the moment the thought of separating from him at all, for who knows how long, makes my outlook on the whole situation bleak.

I don't know what he has planned for his break. I don't want to impose and ask. He's only home for a week and I don't want to intrude on plans with his family. I hope there's a chance I'll get to see him again before he goes back to New York.

It's alright if I don't. He's got my number. I've got his. I'll make do.

Even if I don't particularly want to make do.

It's so fucking inconvenient, now that I've finally sorted my feelings for him, that we're doomed to be separated by a whole bloody ocean. I couldn't have figured this out at some point during the years we roomed together? It would have been a sight more practical.

The perils of not letting myself think about things. That's what Penny would say. She's going to have kittens when I tell her about this. Of course, I'm going to tell her. Penny and I have a no-secrets pact.

She's not going to let me hear the end of this. I just know it.

There's a brush against my elbow. Baz is back. I hand him his satchel. "Queue up, shall we?"

"No need. We're first-class. We'll get to pre-board." He arches an eyebrow. "Unless you've gone and traded in our seat assignments again."

I shake my head. "I've not, but I damn well plan on it, if the seats are anything like the previous ones."

Baz twines the fingers of his free hand with mine. "We'll surprise some deserving pair in Economy, shall we?"

"The last pair wasn't quite what I'd call deserving," I mutter.

He huffs a laugh and pulls me closer. "I'm quite enjoying this possessive streak of yours."

He may as well get used to it. It's not going away anytime soon. I've already caught a few blokes giving him the eye here at the gate and I'm not above glaring at them. Not getting our fucking first-class seats, if I've got anything to say about it.

"I'm still anxiously awaiting your assessment of the facilities, Simon. What cultural tidbits have you acquired?"

I should have known he wouldn't let this go, the wanker. "Obviously a society that prides itself on cleanliness, stark design features, modern amenities." I give him a sidelong glance. "It looked like a fucking IKEA display in there."

"Wrong culture. This is Iceland. IKEA's Swedish."

"Did you get blasted by the hidden hand dryer?" The startled look in his eyes gives it away. "You did!"

"I was momentarily distracted."

"Bollocks. It got you too, you posh twat." I'm literally crowing with satisfaction. It's not often anything catches Baz unawares. That must have been a sight to see.

"Oh shut it, you nightmare. You're the one assessing an entire nation by the state of their toilets."

"I told you. You learn a lot about a place from toilets."

Baz

I'm literally dragging my feet towards the boarding area. Each step takes me one moment closer to the end of this adventure with Simon.

I need to figure out how to ask him to come home with me.

When should I ask? I'm tempted to ask him right now but it would make the flight tremendously awkward if he said no. He wouldn't say no, would he?

Would he?

I don't know. I'd like to think not. But then again, he'll be tired and jet-lagged, likely craving the comfort of his flat, cramped though it may be, rather than enduring the company of strangers for the day.

I'll ask him when we get to London.

Simon

I'm checking out the other passengers at the gate, seeking out likely candidates for the surprise upgrade to our first-class seats. There are a few likely candidates so far. A young couple, an elderly pair, a harried looking mom with a whiny toddler. Any of them would do. As long as they're seated in a two-person section. I fully intend to snuggle up to Baz and take any and every opportunity to snog him. Preferably in the kind of privacy we had on the last leg of this trip.

As expected, the first-class seats are the same as before. I speak to the flight attendant and explain my request. He gives me the same odd look the woman on the last flight gave me but then something softens in his expression as he looks us over and takes in our still clasped hands.

"The armrest is a bit of a barrier, isn't it?" He says it kindly, with an amused look in his eyes.

I nod, flushing a bit at his instant comprehension of the situation.

"Alright if I just pop through to Economy for a moment and check out a likely seat switch?"

He gestures to the curtain at the far end of our section.

It doesn't take me a minute to find the seats I want. The mum with the toddler looks exhausted, worn out and near tears. They're seated on the left, a window and aisle combo that mimics what we had before.

That's it then.

I tell the flight attendant and he makes short work of the matter. The mother's face is incredulous as he brings her to our seats. The little boy's tears are still drying on his face, but he's taking it all in silently now.

Baz and I wave away her words of gratitude and I tell her she's the one doing us a favor. She's got a sense of humour it seems, because she responds that she's sure the rest of Economy feel we're doing them a favour, by taking her cranky offspring out of their orbit. She leans in to whisper "I'm not sure this lot will be quite as happy to have us in their midst." She nods at the dark-suited businessmen who surround us.

Baz winks at her. "I think it's quite what they deserve."

We're in our seats shortly, the pilot's voice already starting the pre-flight commentary as we buckle in.

It's Baz who flips the armrest up this time, taking my hand and pulling me close. I drop my head on his shoulder. It feels like it belongs there.

I sense the brush of his lips in my hair. "We're almost home, Simon." There's a wistfulness to his tone and I'm excessively gratified to hear it.

I think Baz wants this day to end as little as I do.