The Epilogue Cherrypie2sdayssuck Asked For
Years go by.
There are winters and summers and springs. There are silent nights and hot, oppressive London days. There are cherry scones on birthdays and violins underneath the stars.
Baz goes to uni immediately, but Simon elects to wait a year. They get a flat together that Baz can come home to for the holidays. It's south of London. The air smells like fruit, down there, and there's a little path that winds its way down to the water.
Simon's in love. He's in love with the flat and the fruit and the little path. He's in love with the way his violin sounds without the city air. It's clear as anything. It echoes.
He thinks he's in love with Baz.
"Are you going to bed?"
When Simon looks up, Baz is at the base of the stairs. He's wearing dark jeans and a T-shirt and when he tilts his head like that the long white column of his throat is exposed.
Simon says, "Yeah."
"Can you stay up a little longer?"
Simon looks at him again. He's got one hand on the banister and one braced flat on the wall, so his arms block the stairway. Simon can see the wings of his collarbone through his shirt.
"The fire's not out yet," Baz says, like that's an excuse.
Simon puts his armful of books on the coffee table.
"Simon-"
(The devil and the angel, standing in a first-floor flat. And that moment when all the words choked at the base of the angel's throat and the only thing he could think to say was )
Baz is crossing the room.
"You don't have to stay up. I just thought that maybe-"
Simon puts out a hand. Blindly. He touches Baz's shoulder, his collarbone through the thin fabric of his jersey.
There's so much silence in the little flat.
(Air that smells like fruit and the way Baz's breath shudders through him.)
I think I love you, Simon thinks, but he's not sure how to say it.
And then they're embracing. Stepping forward so easily into each other's arms. It feels like a question, and an answer. The sort of exchange that starts, Why didn't we do this before?
Every time they touch, it feels new.
Simon puts his head on Baz's shoulder and Baz tightens his arm across Simon's back and says, "Are you okay?"
"I'll. Stay up," Simon says.
"You don't have to."
"Want."
"So do I."
Simon moves his head from Baz's shoulder, and Baz tilts his head down and they kiss. It's soft and hesitant. Clumsy and unsure. Simon's hand comes up to trace Baz's jaw.
When they come apart, Baz says, "If you hadn't been in the park, that day-"
Simon hums the first five notes of Ode to Joy.
"Simon, I love you."
Simon stops. They look at each other.
(The devil and the angel, standing in a first-floor flat. And that moment when nothing moved at all)
"Baz," Simon says.
Stutters. Stumbles.
He hates his voice. He curses it.
"I-I-I-"
Baz waits. His eyes are gentle. All of him is gentle. His hands are linked at Simon's back and he's looking down at him with such exquisite tenderness.
"I love you."
When it does come out it's the clearest that anything he's ever said has been. And the look in Baz's eyes is like he's falling.
(The devil and the angel, standing in a first-floor flat. And that moment when the world turned its back and for a second they were unmonitored, unwatched. They were infinite and gorgeous and alive)