I was deeply affected by Wayward Son. There were a few scenes in particular that stayed with me, long after I finished the book. I'm slowly trying to process them and writing is how I am doing it. I briefly touched on this part of the story in Only I Was Sure and also Sky Full of Stars. This is my attempt to fill in the blanks from Simon's flashback in chapter 17.
I kept the language of that flashback scene intact. It is powerful and meaningful and it is what led me to write this fic-I couldn't change a word of that, so it's included here as it was in the book. The start of it is marked by an asterisk for Baz's point of view and I've underlined the text from the book. It's Chapter 17 of Wayward Son, page 81.
Why Can't You See
Simon
I'm sitting on one end of the sofa and Baz is at the other end. He's got his laptop out and he's frowning at it while he taps at the keyboard.
I've got my book open but I can't say I've gotten much reading done.
I'd far rather look at him.
I savor looking at Baz. Like this. When he can't see me watching him, when my eyes can roam over him at will, can take in the sight of him freely without having to meet his answering gaze.
It's easier this way.
After . . . after everything I just wanted to keep Baz close. I couldn't stand the thought of being separated from him. It physically hurt every time he left the room. I wanted to hold his hand, feel the chill of his palm against mine, craved the sturdy sensation of his arm around my shoulders. It made me feel safe.
It made me feel real.
But it was bloody awful when he left to go back to Watford, to finish out the year.
There was never any doubt in my mind that he'd go. I'd have fought him if he'd tried to stay away.
I would have.
Watford is in his bones, his blood. It's the last place he saw his mother.
It's the last place he was . . . well, he thinks it's the last time he has truly alive but I think that's rot. He's as alive as anyone.
The only thing that made my days tolerable, kept me from going mad each week, was knowing that Baz would arrive on Friday night.
Every Friday night.
Baz would come and he'd sit with me, let me lean into him and not expect me to say anything, not expect me to do anything other than exist.
I'm still existing. Barely.
It all feels like a dream sometimes. Or a nightmare. What happened. The end of the Humdrum. The end of the war.
The Mage.
The end of me. Of magical me, I suppose. I'm still here, but I'm pretty much a shell of what I was. Of who I was.
I'm empty. Of magic. Of power. Of purpose.
It's like I've changed places with the Humdrum. Now I'm the empty one.
I don't know how to fill the hole left in me.
I don't know how to be like this.
I go to class. I do my school work.
Well, some days I do my work.
Some days I don't do anything at all.
What's the point, really? What's the point of getting a degree? It's not like I'm going to find a job, looking like this. Being like this.
With wings and a tail and mad sword skills but not much else.
I don't know. I try not to think about it but it doesn't work that way for me anymore.
I can't stop thinking.
Mostly I think about Baz. About us. About what he means to me.
I've never felt this way about anyone before. I mean, I love Penny, but this is different.
This is a fire in my soul.
And I want him.
Baz is too far away right now. He's just on the far end of the sofa but it could be a million miles away as far as I'm concerned.
I want him closer.
But he's got work to do for class and so do I. I can't help stretching out my legs and tucking my toes under his thigh, though.
It helps me believe this is real.
To feel him—solid, present, a slight chill to him when I make contact. He doesn't fade into mist when I touch him.
He's real.
And somehow, he's still mine.
Baz turns my way now, a soft smile brightening his face.
That's the smile he saves for me.
I never knew this side of Baz Pitch. I never knew the tenderness that lay hidden beneath that finely curated façade.
Not until Christmas. Not until after .
I smile in response and then drop my eyes back down to my book. There's only so long I can let him look at me like that.
Like I'm more than I am.
I'm not.
Not anymore.
And I can't face that in his eyes. I know that if he looks long enough, if he really looks, he'll see me.
Me. Simon Snow. The washed-up failure of a Chosen One.
A Normal with magical parts. A weird freak of a hybrid who doesn't belong in the magical world and is far too odd for the Normal world.
I don't fit. I don't fit anywhere.
I thought I fit with Baz. There are moments I think I still do, moments when we're soft and it's just the two of us and the world fades away.
Baz still thinks we fit. That we match.
We don't. Not anymore.
(Maybe we never did)
But we certainly don't anymore, no matter how hard I wish it.
No matter how hard I try to make myself fit.
There are moments, moments when Baz looks at me—when I see the love shining in his eyes, feel the touch of his skin against mine, feel his fingers in my hair, his lips sliding against my own—that I think maybe. Maybe it's enough.
But then I remember.
And I know it never will be.
It will never be what we had . I'll never be able to be with him that way again. I don't mean be with him in a sexual way.
I mean, I do mean that, in a way.
Sharing magic is intimate. It's the most intimate experience I've ever had. I can't help but imagine how sex would deepen that intimacy—how magic would enhance it, strengthen it, intensify the moment.
Not that I'd know.
Baz and I haven't had sex. Not really.
Not yet.
But I've thought about it. Not going to lie about that. I've thought about it a lot.
I have moments when I think I'm ready to take the next step, to move to the next level with Baz. When I want it so much.
And then I think there'll always be something lacking. It will never have that intensity without magic.
Because I'm not magic.
I can't give that sensation back to Baz. He was giddy, exhilarated, drunk with it that night in our room. It was the most enchanting, mesmerizing thing I'd ever seen.
It was beautiful and we shared it. Together.
I'd gladly relive that moment over and over.
But it can't ever be like that again.
That's what I'm afraid of.
That no matter how good it is, it will never measure up to what it could have been .
With magic.
And in that moment, Baz will see what he's missing. He'll see me for what I am.
Less.
Lacking.
Broken.
I don't want to be seen that way. It's better not to be seen at all.
But I still want. I want him so much.
Kissing Baz is like completing a circuit. It makes me feel whole. Like I felt when I shared my magic. When I inexplicably trusted him with it, with me .
When Baz trusted me back. Trusted me enough to let me push my magic into him. I didn't ask. I didn't really think. I just did it.
I did it because it felt right.
I didn't know what could happen. I did it anyway. And he let me do it.
Every time. I just reached out and touched him and pushed until the magic poured out of me. I let him take what he needed.
My magic felt stable when I was with Baz, when he was directing it, when he was with me that way.
He's still with me, but not like that.
It'll never be like that.
It's like having a dud firework. There's a spark but it never goes off. You never get the glorious ending you're expecting.
I've no experience with any of this. It's not like I really know what to expect.
Not that Baz does. He hadn't even kissed anyone before last Christmas.
So I suppose we're a match of sorts in our inexperience.
I'd kissed Agatha, of course, but that was never even close to what I felt when I kissed Baz for the first time. Or the second.
Or every time since.
I didn't really think about sex when I was with her. Not the way I do with Baz. I don't know—maybe I was too caught up in all that was going on to let myself think about it.
Maybe I was too worried I'd go off.
Maybe I just wasn't attracted to Agatha the way I am to Baz.
There is no question I'm attracted to Baz. I'm just as much of a moron as he always said I was, for not realizing sooner.
For not seeing that there was so much more to my obsession than just trying to figure out what he was plotting.
Wondering what his hair felt like or appreciating his muscular thighs definitely had nothing to do with plotting .
It was well gay, is what it was. I can see that now. And I'm fine with it. I am.
It's the one thing I'm sure of, how much I love Baz.
It's the only thing that breaks through the static in my head. It's what gets me through the day.
Loving Baz is what's keeping me afloat.
Everything about him. His voice, his scent, the way he says my name, the smile he saves just for me.
I love touching him. I love running my fingers through his hair, feeling his skin against mine, making him sigh that way he does.
Watching his eyes go half-lidded with pleasure, his head tilting back, hair mussed and tumbled. Because of me. Because of what I'm doing to him.
I can do that. I can make him feel good. Sometimes it's enough to distract him from focusing on me.
There are moments that I touch Baz and I don't want to stop. I want my hands to speak for me, to say the things I can't. To show him the love that's in my heart, that burns in my soul.
I don't want him to stop touching me then, when I feel like I could go off from the sensations he brings to me, that I could go supernova.
But I can't do it. I pull back. I can't feel the flames of my magic licking under his skin and I want to.
I want to.
But it's not there and all he'll see is me looking back at him, blank and empty. And I can't do it. I pull away, retreat into myself.
I'm not pushing him away. I'm just pulling back.
Sometimes it's more than that. Sometimes I do recoil from his touch. It makes me feel too much. It's as if he's cracking me wide open, seeing every part of me. All that's hidden.
The broken parts.
That frightens me.
There's not much that scares me, really. But seeing the reality of myself reflected in Baz's eyes does.
I know it hurts him when I pull away. I see the distress. The concern. The way his touches turn feather light, tentative, cease completely. How he retreats.
There's never pity. Not yet, at least.
I want to touch him now. I want to tuck his hair behind his ears and pull his face to mine and snog him senseless.
I want to touch his body, warm his skin, light a fire in his veins, make him feel my love—every pounding heartbeat of it.
Let him know he is the centre of my world, even if my lips can't speak the words.
I would cross every line for him. If I could.
Baz stays over some nights. I usually sleep better when he's here. I don't have as many nightmares.
Nothing calms me like the sound of his breathing. I missed having another person in the room the first few weeks after we moved in.
I wanted to tell him. I wanted him to stay. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and imagine we were back at Pitch Manor. Back when things were good. When things were magical.
When I was magical.
He does stay, some nights. He'd stay every night if I asked him but I don't.
I think that would be too much. Too much for me.
The more he stays over the more . . . the more we experiment. Take small steps to being more intimate.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
With me setting the pace.
Each time he stays we get closer . . . closer to something. And each time my anxiety ratchets up higher and higher and I pull away and we take a few steps back.
And then I want him so much and things heat up again and I just can't do it. It's not his fault. It's me.
But I know he thinks he's doing something wrong.
I don't know how to tell him that everything feels right and everything feels wrong and I can't tell the difference sometimes.
Not until I do. And then I have to stop.
I look at him right now and it makes my chest ache.
I want him to stay tonight.
I want him.
Baz
It's one of the good nights tonight. When Simon's accepting my affection, letting me hold him, letting me trace the patterns on his skin, press my lips against the moles and freckles I've yearned to kiss for so long.
He asked me to spend the night.
I'm careful about it. I always have my bag ready but I never want to press the issue. Sometimes I ask, more often I wait to see what he does when I start to pack up my laptop and books.
There are nights he walks me to the door and languidly kisses me goodnight.
And then there are nights like tonight when he takes me by the hand and pulls me to his room.
Pushes me onto his bed. Kisses me until my lips feel bruised. Until my breath comes in gasps.
Simon
I used to kiss the thoughts away. I could make Baz stop thinking when I kissed him.
I can't make myself stop thinking.
Baz
He still sleeps shirtless and you'll never hear me complain about it. I run my hands along his shoulders, down his arms, tracing the moles and freckles that dot his skin. His lips catch mine and his hands move to grasp my own, fingers tightening.
Not so much touching then. Noted.
Simon
He wants this. It's one thing I can give him.
Baz
I bring our hands to my sides and then Simon is holding himself up on all fours above me, making me reach up for his mouth.
I do. Every time.
He shifts so his knees are on either side of my hips and his wings are spread wide above us, cocooning us in the red glow of them.
I grip the duvet to keep from reaching for him. I let him set the pace.
Simon
It's the one thing that might bring us closer again.
Baz
Merlin, he feels so good like this. One of his hands reaches out to rub my stomach and it's all I can do to keep from gasping. He slips his fingers between the buttons of my shirt and I can feel the heat of his touch electrifying my skin.
Simon shifts above me and the friction does make me groan this time. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. We've been here before.
We've done this before.
I'll take anything he'll give me.
Simon
I know he wants this. I thought I wanted this . . .
Baz
I feel his fingers fumble with my shirt button. He slowly, painstakingly unbuttons each one, until my chest is bare. I try to meet his eyes but they're tilted down, focused on my chest.
It's fine. He gets like that sometimes, when eye contact is just too much. It's alright.
It's alright.
Simon
I can't stop the thoughts in my head.
Baz
His lips meet mine and his hands tug at my shirt until I shrug myself out of it completely, leaving my whole upper body bare.
I close my eyes and imagine he's looking back at me, visualize the glorious blue of his eyes, the way he used to gaze at me.
My jeans are snug, too snug now, but it's fine.
Simon's fingertips roam over my shoulders, my chest, my stomach—lingering just above my waistband.
I open my eyes. I catch a glimpse of blue before he averts his gaze again, leaning down to run his mouth along my jawline, press kisses along my neck.
Simon
I'm not enough for Baz.
Baz
My head falls back. He's kissing down my shoulder, to my chest, along my ribs, tracing his warm breath along the planes of my abdomen. He stops just above my jeans, breath heating the skin there.
I hold my breath.
We've been here.
Simon
I can never give him enough.
Baz
My hands are clenched in fists. I want to reach up, want to tangle my fingers in his hair, run my hands along his sides, grip his hips and bring them flush against mine, but I don't.
Simon unbuttons my jeans and pauses.
"It's ok, love. It's all good." It comes out as a whisper. His eyes dart up to mine, pupils wide. I smile at him.
It is all good. Everything about this is good.
Simon
I can never be enough.
Baz
He blinks and swallows and it's as much a scene as it ever is.
Crowley, he's fucking gorgeous.
Simon looks up at me. Fuck. I must have said that out loud.
"Well, you are. Absolutely fucking gorgeous, love."
He hesitates and I find I'm holding my breath again. His fingers are trembling as they unzip my zipper and a moment later I'm sliding out of my jeans, cursing as they get caught around my knees.
"They're too snug," Simon says, chewing his bottom lip but he's not meeting my eyes.
"First time I've heard a complaint from you about that." I keep my tone light, playful.
He growls and my heart leaps. "I'm not complaining.
I'm in my pants and nothing else and Simon's straddling me again, still wearing his trackies. My hands move of their own volition, coming to rest gently on his hip bones.
He lets me place them there. I brush my thumbs against his skin, slowly, reverently. He's letting me.
He's letting me do this.
We've been here before, I remind myself. We can do this. Just keep it slow, Pitch .
I keep it slow, stroking his skin, sliding my hands over the elastic of his waistband.
It takes a bit but it's not that long before Simon's kicking his trackies off, clad in just his pants.
And then we're kissing again, his body resting over mine, slotted between my legs, pressing against my chest, my abdomen, my hips. I can feel him, feel the hardness of him, pressed against the matching firmness of me.
Slow.
Simon
I thought I could do this. Let Baz have this. Have me.
Let myself have this.
I thought I could push past the static.
Baz
I takes everything I have to keep from rolling my hips. I focus on the taste of Simon, on the warmth of him draped over me, the heat of his mouth on mine.
I let my fingers slide into his hair, grip his curls, scrape my fingers against his scalp.
He's letting me.
Simon shifts his hips against me and I do roll mine then, involuntarily reacting to the pressure.
Simon
I can't.
Baz
Simon freezes. I keep kissing him, stilling my body, willing myself to immobility. Just our mouths moving against each other.
It's alright.
Everything is alright.
Until it isn't.
Simon
I can't hide from him when I kiss him. I can't hide from him when he touches me. I can't…
Baz*
"How can you expect me to do this?" Simon has rolled off of me and is curled up on the duvet beside me, head down, hands fisted and tucked under his chin. I can't see his eyes, just the top of his head, the tangle of his bronze curls.
"I thought you wanted this." It's the wrong thing to say. I know that as soon as the words leave my mouth. It doesn't matter what I think he wants. All that matters is what he wants.
I don't know what he's thinking.
"It's a lot. You're pushing me."
"I'm not pushing you."The words are out of my mouth too fast. Fuck. I shouldn't be debating this.
Am I pushing him? I don't want to push Simon. I would never pressure him to do anything he didn't want to do.
I just thought.
I don't know what I thought.
I thought we'd been here before. That we would be okay here again.
But I was wrong. Wrong to assume. "I won't push you," I say. "Just tell me what you want."
"I don't know." Simon is still not looking at me. He's facing me at least, on his side, knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around them now, wings tight to his back. "I'm not the same anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know—stop pushing me."
"Are you talking about sex?"
"No!"
"Okay, then."
"Yes, maybe."
"Okay. I don't know what you want, Simon." I don't. I wish I did. I don't know how to ask. I don't know how to be. Just when I think I've got it right, I fuck it all up again.
"It's just too much."
I don't know what that means. That I'm too much? That intimacy is too much?
That being with me isn't something he wants anymore.
I close my eyes. Just tell me, Simon. Tell me how to be. Tell me what you want.
But I don't say the words out loud.
Simon
I've rolled away from Baz, curled up on my side.
We're both just lying here, on my bed, in nothing but our pants. I'm cold. Baz must be freezing but he's not moving to pull the covers up. He's just staring at the ceiling.
His hand lifts off the bed, hovers over mine and then he pulls it back. "Do you want me to go?"
It's just a whisper and somehow that's worse than if he were shouting. I'd rather he shout. I'd rather he get angry and cutting and go for the lowest blow. I know how to deal with that.
I don't know how to deal with this.
I press the heels of my hands over my eyes, blocking out the sight of Baz, hiding myself from him.
I don't want him to go.
I never want him to go.
I don't want him to stay. I can't have him see me like this. I can't have him keep being kind when I know he's frustrated.
I can't keep letting him give and give and get nothing in return.
I'm nothing.
"You're the Humdrum," Baz had said.
"I'm not," I'd insisted.
"You are. You're the Humdrum."
I thought I defeated the Humdrum. Filled the void of him with my magic, made him disappear.
I filled him with my magic and he gave me his nothing.
I'm hollow. I'm a Simon Snow shaped hole.
I told Baz once that holes just want to be filled.
He thought they just wanted to get bigger.
I filled one hole.
But the one in me only got bigger.
I think Baz was right.
Notes:
Title from New Order song Confusion.