#proximity (the collision of lonely men)

[diningpageantry]

Classrooms

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/47113153

Chapter 11/13 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 2305

Chapter Summary: The secrecy of Simon and Baz's relationship gets taken down a peg, and surprisingly, it's voluntary.

~~~~~~~~~~

I take the steps slowly, counting each little splinter cracking through the wooden steps as I climb upwards.

The English department is on the top floor. It’s usually quite hot, as Baz complains, and when it’s windy, you hear a bit of a whistle by the windows as they tremble along.

It’s a rarity that I get to make the trip up here. As the days close onto the spring break, I find myself more than often cooped up in my tiny broom-closet of a workspace, trying frantically to gather admissions information--approvals, rejections, waitlists, ecetera ecetera. I can feel myself going slightly more off kilter with each records email I send off, and at times, I feel myself regretting the decision to stay at this job for God knows how much longer.

The days that I get to visit Baz before nighttime, though, are the days that I feel reassured in never leaving, so long as I’ve got him to see.

Days like today. Like when a teacher down the hall from his room asked for a referral letter form. They’re days where I can slip into his room and spend a few, fleeting seconds in his presence.

It’s starting to feel like a game. How long can we snog in secrecy before someone pops their head in and outs us to everyone else.

So far, we’re fine.

Mostly.

There was one time I was giving him a quick kiss by the loo when someone turned a corner and shocked us, but I think it may have looked like I was going in to sock him rather than snog him. Which, given our history, wouldn’t be too shocking.

But his classroom is safe.

And warm.

And bright.

I can see the sunshine it through the window as I knock on the heavy oak door, hearing his voice hum a sharp “Come in”, figuring I’m some random unexpected company (and he’s never quite the biggest fan of unexpected).

Regardless, his face switched from a bitter scowl to a soft, almost smile as I step through the threshold and grin over at his desk. “Just… popping in. Figured company would do you well.”

I still myself as he stands, swiftly stepping over and closing the door behind us before subtly dropping a hand to my waist. “Didn’t know you were coming,” he says, voice treading on sweet as we step out of the hallway’s line of sight, pressed up against a wall. I raise myself up, pecking his lips once.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” I murmur, watching his eyes fall shut as I kiss him again.

He relaxes, shoulders dropping slightly as I raise my hands up to hold them. I feel his hands ease and snake around my hips, nudging me closer. “Mmm. And for who should I thank for dragging you up here?”

I shrug. “Mr. Elsecs needed something printed, and you know he’s shit with technology,” I drop my mouth to his jaw, planting kisses along his skin. “Plus, my little hellhole was getting boring.”

His skin vibrates as he chuckles, and I smile against it. “You know, you can bring your laptop up and camp out here if you don’t feel like sitting in that frankly concerning room. I’m sure it breaks six health code violations with the moldy patch on your ceiling--”

I cut him short, pressing our lips together and dragging back quickly. “As lovely as it sounds, I’m not really sure if that’s the best idea.”

“What, Davy will stick his nose in it, will he?”

“What? No!”

“Then what’s the issue?”

I pause, words catching in my throat. It’s much more complicated than that. For me, it isn’t a quick shift--for me to slip out of my room during closed office hours and sit in a recognizable space for longer than a quick visit, hoping nobody pries the door open and god forbid I’m holding my boyfriend’s hand.

This is different than staying up here. This is a quick peck and a hello--that is like signing my own warrant.

The idea of outing ourselves by just cohabiting a space without reason is jarring enough to make me want to cry.

“I’m not ready yet,” I mumble, letting my hands drop. They smooth over his shirt, pressing the hanging fabric over his long torso and watching it fold at my fingertips. He let me pick the colour this morning. It’s dark blue-ish green, like his eyes.

His face falters, then stiffens. “It isn’t coming out--”

“We both know it practically is.” My voice goes stern, wavering slightly as I fixate on his top button. “I know it isn’t saying anything, but…”

“But it’s easing into it,” he finishes. His hands are still weighing against me, suddenly feeling like they’re pulling me down. I squirm, listening to him speak. “I know. I know it is. Is that what you’re afraid of?”

“I--”

“Because nobody will say anything,” he whispers. I feel his left hand raise, then settle around my jaw. “I doubt there’ll be much of an issue with it being public, and even then, nobody will have the bollocks to say shit. They’re all too stuffed and old fashioned to say anything to our faces.”

My eyes fall shut, his voice melting and swirling into my line of thought and making me drunk on his words briefly before I snap back, nudging myself away from him and standing upright. “I don’t want to come out because I’m not ready,” I say, eyes pushing back open and looking at him dead on. “I don’t--I’m not--fuck.”

“Simon…”

“Don’t.” I exhale. “Don’t say my name all proper and expect that I’ve got myself all patched up and peachy.”

“Then what do you want, Snow?”

“Time,” I shrug, then look at our feet. “Reasurrance. Fucking hell, I don’t even have a support network. Penny doesn’t even know.”

He purses his lips, and I feel everything going on through his head, and right now, it doesn’t feel too sweet.

Because I know what he’s been through. I know he’s been out since before he even knew how to drive a car, and he’s been doing this his whole life. The whole “Out and proud” shit. Looking people in the eyes and telling them he’s queer without a moment’s hesitation. Without the worry of their response, because he’s worked it up enough for it not to matter.

But for me, it matters.

It matters a whole fucking lot.

And I know he knows that, but he doesn’t really know. He hasn’t felt the sudden, jarring shift when he thought he had shit worked out and suddenly, bam! You’re snogging a bloke and liking it and fucking hell, it’s overwhelming.

“It’s overwhelming,” I whisper, trying to step back into his space. He hesitates, hands up and ghosting over my sides, but not resting. “I don’t know how to bring myself to just… say it.”

“Do you want to say it?” he asks, sounding so, so simple. “Do you want to tell Bunce?”

“Of course I do.” My voice drops, brushing down to the point where it’s nearly silent as my gaze follows to my own hands and wrists. I should just grab Baz’s. “She’s the first person that should know, you know? She’s the sort of person who’d be good to tell…”

His head nods, and we’re close enough for his hair to brush into my face. I instinctively reach up, tucking it behind his ears as his brows quirk.  “Then tell her,” he murmurs. “It’ll make it easier.”

“Will it?”

“Yes,” he says pointedly. “Makes it a little less for you to complain about, then.”

I huff, and he smiles.

“I tease because I care,” he adds.

“Then fuck off and stop caring.”

“Never,” he says, and it feels like he means it, so I seal it with a kiss.

Then pull myself back a minute or so later, exhaling as I check my phone. Dinner starts in about half an hour.

Maybe he’s right (like he happens to be, sometimes). (Usually.) (Much more often than I’ll ever admit.) I should just tell her--waltz right into her room, swing the doors open, and say “Penny, I like blokes!”

“I need to do something before dinner,” I say softly, watching him follow my gaze onto my mobile’s screen. I raise my head back up, and he follows. “See you down there?”

His mouth pushes into an almost smile, chest deflating slowly. “Stare at each other across the room. Got it.”

I shift, then shrug. “Do you want to eat at home tonight, then?”

He thinks briefly as his hand rubs my arm, watching me slip my phone back into my pocket. “When’s the last time either of us went shopping?”

I think. “Last Wednesday...?”

“Exactly.” He pecks my cheek. “The fridge is practically barren.”

I find myself smiling. He likes kissing this one mole right there--I think it gets more love than my mouth, sometimes. “Fine. We can go shopping, then cook at home?”

“You’re a dangerous hungry shopper, Snow.”

“Well you’re being difficult.”

He stares back, raising a brow as if to emphasize that he’s right before I sigh.

“Oh fuck you. Fine. Compromise--I’ll grab a bite to eat at the dining room, and I’ll meet you back in the room so we can shop. Deal?”

“Deal.” He pushes himself off the wall, adjusting the tuck of his shirt so it’s nice and flat.

He lets me peck his lips before heading back to his desk, settling in to wrap up for the day. I steal a last look before stepping out of the room and sighing under my breath.

Penny’s room is on the other side of the hall and a few doors down, right next to the water fountains. Outside the door hangs a petition for a “Gender Studies” course, asking for signatures. It makes me a bit sad, given she’s had it up for weeks and only has about five or six signatures, but it’s the thought that counts.

I stand there for a moment, looking over the door handle, then into her classroom. Her decorations are astronomically different than Baz’s--comfortable. Plush couch in the back for relaxing, posters, soft fairy lights decorating the walls. Mostly what you expect for a mid-twenties woman, but I suspect the majority of the straight teenage boys passing through this room think it’s tacky.

I inhale slowly, then knock, hearing her chair swivel and the clack of her flats on the floor before the door is thrown open. She looks up at me curiously, and I feel the wave of pre-fear hit me. Fucking hell--she’s just Penny. “Hey,” I manage out.

“Hey,” she says back, opening her door further. “What’s wrong, Si?”

I step past her, exhaling slowly and studying the patterns on her carpet. “Nothing’s wrong, exactly.”

She circles around, raising her brows at me before looking around. “Do you wanna sit…?”

“I think I’m fine,” I shrug, finally looking at her right on. I don’t really know what I’m going to say. I hadn’t really planned out much beyond getting here and…

Nope, that’s it.

This. Where we are now.

So I guess this is the part I say it. I just push it out, as gracefully as I can.

“Simon--”

“I’m into blokes,” I say quickly, shocking myself a bit. It spills out faster than it does in my head, making me suck in a breath afterwards and wait for it to settle as she blinks up, then breaks into a smile.

Then laughs, leaving me a bit confused.

“What--”

“That’s what you have to say?” she giggles. “Jesus, Simon, you looked like you had just heard there’s a bounty out for your bloody head when you’d knocked.”

“I… well…”

She calms a bit, a smile still across her face as she goes to let me finish. Instead, I just shift, struggling to find my voice.

“It isn’t just that, really,” I get quieter, swallowing. “It’s… it’s just that… well… you see…”

“What? Do you fancy Mr. Bitch, or something?”

Ah. Shit.

I laugh, and it comes out more awkward than I’d originally intended. Her face drops immediately.

“Holy--” she stops herself, blinking. “You fancy him?”

“A bit more than fancy,” I say quietly. “He--we…”

She stops me, snorting. “Are you two…?”

I nod slowly, eyes closing as I exhale. I shouldn’t have told her--it was dumb of me to think I could just pull a full 180 and assume she might respond a bit more cheerfully than this. I was dumb. So fucking dumb--

“How did--I mean. Fuck. Are you happy? Is he at least nice when you’re--”

“What?!” I blink, looking up. “No, yeah. He is. Surprisingly, I guess. He’s, uh. He’s different when it’s just him and I, and… yeah. No. I’m happy. Really bloody happy.”

I feel myself blushing, watching her stare over me like I’m spewing some alien shit before she grabs my hand, squeezing it once.

“You can blink once if you’re saying this under gunpoint,” she whispers in what sounds like it’s a joke. I think.

I laugh at it regardless, starting to smile as it eases off. Okay. Not a terrible reaction. “I’m not. Penny, I actually like him.”

“Promise?”

I’m grinning as I nod. “Look, I can prove it. Come over later tonight. We’re making dinner at our place after we shop, and I’ll tell him you’re stopping in.”

She eyes me up curiously, and for a second I think that if she could do the eyebrow thing Baz does, then she’d be doing it right now. “Alright,” she says slowly, nodding. “Okay. Yes. Will do.”

I grin, then squeeze her hand back. “Trust me,” I say softly. “He’s still a little bitch sometimes, but a decent bloke to be around.”

“If you say so...”

[goldendayszine]

☀️ Join us in welcoming our next guest contributor: neck-mole ☀️

@neck-mole is a fandom double-threat! They’ve produced numerous fanfics exploring complex relationships and deep-dives into a character’s psyche and motivations. And they also create beautiful, energetic illustrations with visceral texture and mood.

Example works:

Why Can’t We Be Friends - one-shot, canon-divergent, 11k, complete

Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men) - chaptered, non-magic school teachers AU, 35k, complete

It’s A Handheld Disaster - chaptered, non-magic online friendship AU, 20k, ongoing

This luscious sketch of Baz

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[ao3feed-snowbaz]

Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

http://bit.ly/2IYMHiv

by cynosure_phrases

Life is changing for Simon Snow. Newly dumped, moved out of the city, and just got a job at a ridiculously posh public school in the countryside.

And, just to make matters worse, his roommate already seems out to get him.

-

AU where Simon's the new guidance counselor and Baz is an English teacher.

Words: 2293, Chapters: 1/12, Language: English

Fandoms: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Penelope Bunce, The Mage (Simon Snow)

Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, POV Simon Snow, Slow Burn, School Dances, Coming Out, Feelings Realization, Secret Relationship, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2IYMHiv

[ao3feed-carryon]

by cynosure_phrases

Life is changing for Simon Snow. Newly dumped, moved out of the city, and just got a job at a ridiculously posh public school in the countryside.

And, just to make matters worse, his roommate already seems out to get him.

-

AU where Simon's the new guidance counselor and Baz is an English teacher.

Words: 2293, Chapters: 1/12, Language: English

Fandoms: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Penelope Bunce, The Mage (Simon Snow)

Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, POV Simon Snow, Slow Burn, School Dances, Coming Out, Feelings Realization, Secret Relationship, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship

[diningpageantry]

Firsts

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/47370115

Chapter 13/13 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 1416

Summary: It's the final dance of the year, and Simon has an important proposition.

~~~~~~~~~~

The snack table seems to have gotten wider since the last time we did this.

Although, of course, any distance from Baz seems like it’s too far since the last time we did this.

If I can’t theoretically reach out and touch him, then we might as well be continents apart. But, instead, we’re just separated by a spread of refreshments (that I can’t seem to be able to stop attacking) at this bloody school dance.

Again, with his gaze forward, and mine, unabashedly, on him.

“So,” I say, just quiet enough that only he can hear me, but loud enough to travel over the thump of the music. “You’ve double checked with Fiona?”

He nods as his arms pull up, crossing over his chest nonchalantly. His head turns, facing me with his usual still gaze. “She leaves for Glasgow next Thursday. Said she’d leave a key under the doormat for us. So long as we don’t touch her vinyls.”

I feel myself smile, hand scrubbing over my face. I need a shave. “Damn. All of ‘em?”

Subtly, he smiles back. “Yes, all of them.”

We stare at one another before drifting back forward, my weight shifting.

Back in London then, even if it’s only for a few months. Bless his aunt for being the decent one in the family--she’s apparently going off to follow a band around Europe for the summer (wonder what it’s like to live with that kind of money). And, thankfully, she said we could stay in her flat, saving us the hassle of trying to find temporary living elsewise.

It’s odd to go back. Not that I have anyone to have an awkward encounter with, but to the city itself. I’d said I’d vowed that I didn’t need it when I’d left the first time, but now, with Baz dragging me along, it doesn’t feel like quite the torture. It feels nice, even. We’ve been making plans for Thursday night dinners, and matinees on Mondays, since I don’t have classes then.

Which is something else that’s new. Something else I never thought I’d do, but something I don’t think I should’ve ever turned away from.

Culinary school. Or, just some classes, really.

Baz was right. I do like it--sometimes more than what I’ve got going on here.

It isn’t really that I’m trying to step out of the job now. It’s fine for the time being, at least. But it doesn’t hurt to take classes here and there. Work around it--work myself up.

Who knows where I’ll be in five years. Who knows where we’ll be in five years.

I look across at him again, watching pink and purple changing lights fan over his face as he stares off.

I don’t know where we’ll be in five years, but I know I want to be with him.

The five years thing might take a few steps. More boundaries to wiggle past, more roadblocks to step around. Little thing here, little thing there. A big one, on occasion. Like the one we’ve got now.

The big one that needs to be broken past.

He’s said it’s in my time, but I know what that really means. It means he’ll be stone cold and borderline snippy at me anytime someone’s really looking, and longingly trying to grab an eyeful of one another at every other time.

It’s tedious.

It’s actually starting to hurt. A dull ache, right in the center of my chest, whenever he turns away.

Looking back at my hands, I sigh, studying over the twists of my knuckles and stretched pinkish tones of my palms. They look so much better splayed out against his skin.

I reach out for another handful of Smarties, trying to occupy myself (and my mouth) until the night finally ends.

When we can finally go back to our room. And finally start to pack up our shit.

And, finally, go to live a life outside of Watford together, even if only for a few months.

My eyes fall shut, listening to the thump of the music and the laughing chatter of the students. It all drones on until it dips to a slow song, making my heart pick up, if only a tiny bit.

Exhaling, I think of the crowd as the ache slowly creeps back onto me.

There’s a time and place for firsts, and he’s had so many of mine. I think I owe him one, especially if it comes with this change. This big leap.

I force myself to properly smile, clearing my throat. “You know,” I say aloud, keeping my eyes shut. “I never got to do a proper school dance…”

I feel his eyes on me, heavy and steady. It’s not new--it’s just newly loved. Something I’ll cling to now as his only means of truly showing vulnerability. “I didn’t either,” he says slowly, like he’s processing it through.

I think this is the first time I’ve ever properly stumped him.

My face melts further into a real grin, lashes fluttering open as I suck in a breath. “Never really felt comfortable enough,” I say softly, gaze towards the crowd.

“And I was never allowed,” he says back, shifting against the wall. I wonder if he’s a bit too proud to say something. Sounds like he is.

I just let myself chuckle, chest feeling the right type of warmth. The kind that sparks whenever he holds me..

The warmth spreads down to my fingertips, making them feel like they’re sparking as my head goes all dizzy and sweet. Shit. I’m really doing this.

I push myself off carefully, stepping around the snack table.

He stares at me, eyes open and unsure as I reach him and slowly extend an open palm.

“Well?”

“Well what?” he whispers. I can barely even hear him--I’m just reading it on his lips.

“Well,” I laugh. “Would you care to join me in our first dance?”

He drags his eyes over me, looking more wide open. Exposed.

He’s so vulnerable. Nearly naked in this light, despite the fact that he really isn’t anywhere near actually naked--he’s dressed much better than me, like he always is, but it feels more like a disguise than an outfit. All smoke and mirrors, none of the softness that I know is deep inside there, somewhere.

I give him a smile, the kind that I reserve for when we’re alone, and stay open-palmed. He stares at me like I’ve got three heads, chests growing with a sharp inhale.

Shamelessly, I just grin, keeping the hand steady. “C’mon,” I murmur. “It’ll be fine. I’ll try to not step on your toes too much.”

He shakes his head. “It… it isn’t that,” he says softly. “It’s… this is coming out, Simon.”

“I know.”

His eyes flicker over mine, mouth hanging open silently for a minute. “And you’re sure that you want to do this? You’re ready for this?”

“For you?” I whisper. I trust him with this--I trust him with all of this. I trust him to keep me safe, to keep us safe. I trust that, if we’re asked to not room together, then we’ll work it out so that we can get a flat nearby. I trust we’ll keep our jobs--I trust us to work through it, no matter what. “I’m more than ready.”

He watches me steadily, hand slowly reaching out and, in a soft suck of air, he settles his palm onto mine.

I burst into a chuckle, closing out palms together as I pull him in, stepping just onto the outskirts of the floor.

He eyes me up, letting me unsurely settle a hand onto his waist. “Do you even know how to dance?” he whispers, letting go and very hesitantly draping his arms onto my shoulders. I shrug, still grinning to let him know it’s okay.

“No,” I reply confidently. “But it’s fine. Nobody else in this room seems to be able to.”

He exhales, head dropping a bit as his cheeks pull into the first real smile of the night. I beam back surely, pulling him in to sway along.

I catch some gazes over his shoulder. Astonished students, gawks of other teachers. The shock, I’m sure, from a culmination of things probably starting with the sight of Baz smiling, and ending with this view of us, but I don’t care.

I don’t think I’ll ever care again.

So long as I have Baz in my arms, nothing about coming out seems quite as scary.

[diningpageantry]

Intimacy

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/47304547

Chapter 12/13 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 6171

Summary: Spring break brings an opportunity to get out of town, leading Simon and Baz to new and unsure parts of their relationship.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s cloudy today, just like every other day this week.

Like the week before.

And the week before that.

Except today, unlike all the overcast days that came before us, we’re at least going somewhere. Getting away from the stacked towers and mixture of old and new of Watford Academy, and going up North--up to Baz’s family’s country house that apparently sits a short walk from a small town.

Some picturesque type of place, with all the charm of a cheesy little rom-com.

A place where nobody really knows us, beyond maybe seeing Baz when he was younger. A place where, if we hold hands and snog in public, it won’t have any significant bearing onto our daily lives.

A place, in short, where I can be out.

Because it’s never us, when it comes to this. It hasn’t been about us being out--it’s about me. In all my confusing self-sabotage, I’ve been chewing and chewing on the fact that this frustration over us has just been me all along. I’m the villain trying to hold us back here, and I really quite hate that there’s nothing to blame besides myself.

I’m the beast to conquer. It’s even worse that I rarely hold onto even a tiny thought, yet I’m clinging to this one.

It’s scary. It’s new. It’s scary because it’s new, and it’s newly scary. And at least, at least I’ve got Baz here with me, because he’s not scared. Not anymore.

He’s to the point of this stone-cold, face-forward fearlessness that he walked right out of our flat with his shirt half undone, sauntering up to his car as I’m leaning against it. I’m wearing his Ray Bands (he says I look cooler in him than he does, but I think he’s lying), feeling the Volvo hum against my backside as I wait and watch him step out of the building.

He looks fantastic as always, which feels strikingly unfair to the gloom that’s been hanging over us. I feel washed in it, dressing in greys and beiges while he struts out in a the poshest possible shirt--soft violet with maroon and deep green floral detailing stitched in. He lets it hang open over his chest, tucked nicely into his black jeans.

“Bold move,” I hum gently, watching him toss one last bag into the boot. “Didn’t think you’d go to unbutton it ‘til we got out of town.”

He smirks a bit, giving the top a good nudge as it slams back shut. “Yes, well. Saw myself in the mirror and I couldn’t quite resist.”

For a split second, I’m sure he’s considering stepping over and kissing me, but his face drops a bit before going around and getting into the driver’s seat. I follow suit, hesitating as I relax into the leather before reaching over and lacing our hands together while chewing on a bit of my bottom lip. His head turns, taking full notice of my apprehension, then snaps back wordlessly as he moves to shift gears.

It isn’t long before the area grows to be unrecognizable. Blurs of passing countryside peaks and the rolling of hills, disappearing into vague greens and twinges of yellow. It’s gorgeous, and a bit of a hike.

Baz doesn’t make much of a fuss when I put on my headphones, knowing full well I’d warned him about my car sickness before hand. He just pouts a bit, but takes my hand and lets me zone out until it’s over (which takes a full Killers album and half an Offspring album).

Once we start passing through, he nudges me gently, letting me snap back into reality to watch us slowly make our way through town.

It’s pretty. Floral, at this time of the year. Not incredibly lively, but not dead, nonetheless. A few shops--the usual types of spots throughout. Pubs, a tailor, coffee shop, a few spots to eat, etc.

All charmingly safe.

All charmingly secure--all somewhere I can do what I feel impulsively--without the barrier of peers to stop my mind from doing it.

I lean across at a stop, kissing his cheek softly and feeling his smile tug before flying back and settling back into my seat.

“What was that for?”

I shrug, staring out my side window dazily. It feels like a rush--a chemical burst in my head. I wonder if this is what happiness is supposed to feel like. “Felt like it.”

I catch him smiling secretively all the way to the house.

Which, to my surprise, isn’t really the “Little cottage” he made it out to be. Rather, it’s a quite sizable estate that probably costs more than I’ll ever make before I’m fifty.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Baz,” I start, watching him turn the ignition off and unbuckle. “How fucking loaded is your family?”

His smile drops, lips twitched a tad as he yanks the keys out. “A bit too much,” he says, stepping out and turning to grab out stuff as I sit stunned, staring up at the building while he unpacks and starts inside.

I join closely behind him as he’s turning the front key through the locks, pushing the door (that’s bound to be hand carved, by the looks of it) open and letting the scent of the old building hit us as we step further in.

Someone must’ve come through and cleaned recently. It’s absolutely spotless, and smelling of an odd mix of what I can only describe as Pine Sol and just the plain waft of ancient wood and stone.

“Room’s upstairs.” Baz pushes past me, carrying three of our bags up at once as he starts to climb the seemingly twisting and turning set of wooden stairs that sits beside the set of kitchen doors. I sort of bound up after him, curiously peeking into the suite.

It’s ridiculously grand. Like some fucking five star place you stay at because you’re dating some posh arsehole.

Except, it isn’t some five star place, it’s one of his family’s fucking houses.

“Shit, Baz,” I breathe, leaning against the doorframe. “Do you take all the boys you shack up with here? Romance the shit out of them before the cult rituals begin? When do I lose my bloody mind?”

He rolls his eyes, settling down our bags and checking himself in the mirror (never the surprise). “You’re the first, believe it or not,” he says, shockingly soft, which nearly makes me drop my phone.

At first, it doesn’t entirely process. It isn’t much of a joke--he isn’t laughing, and neither am I, but it doesn’t feel like it should be real. Because he has a lifetime of being the hottest fucking bloke in the room, and yet he expects me to believe that I’m the first bastard he’s actually brought around.

“You’re kidding, right?”

He turns, raising a brow. “When do I joke about this sort of stuff, Snow?” he asks, brushing past me and turning back towards the stairs.

I stay in the room, making my way to sit on the bed as I listen carefully to him unloading the car, locking it, and heading inside.

I can’t really believe it. He can keep saying it, over and over again, but it feels fake.

Nearly four months in, and it feels fake.

Not the romance, and not us, but the fact that he likes me. That this isn’t some elaborate move to get the upper hand, and I’ll end up looking like an idiot on purpose.

And it must show--at least. The fact that I’m thinking like this must show, as Baz stops in the doorway to frown at me.

“What?”

I blink, eyes feeling cloudy as I try to shake it off.

This is real. This is real. “Hm? What? Nothing.”

“You were spacing. You only space when you’re overthinking.”

“That’s not true.”

He raises his brow and makes my skin flush. “You rarely ever think to begin with, Snow. The rare occasion that you do, you try to make up for all the lost thoughts and pile them on at once.”

I exhale, feeling the bed dip beside me as he sits. His hand wraps around mine, making my throat feel even tighter. Fucking hell, he doesn’t make it easy. “I’m--” I stop myself. I can’t say it.

I look at him, and it all runs to the back of my head.

There’s so much I want to say. So much that should be said, should be shared, and none of it seems to be coming out right, so I sigh. And shrug. And look away, because I’m really shit at this whole thing.

I’m trying. I really am. I want to try hard for him, but it’s hard.

But instead, I opt for leaning against him as his head falls onto mine, leaving us in a strangled silence.

“Why do you like me so much?” It comes out almost broken, trying to push its way back into my mouth as the words leave my lips.

He’s silent for a minute, letting me stay resting onto him until he does speak. “What’s making you all--”

“I just don’t know why you like me,” I start, sitting up. “I mean, unless I’m just the first one to last this long.”

“Are you implying I can’t hold a relationship?”

“I…” Fuck. This wasn’t meant to be a fight. “Fuck--no. Shit. I’d just meant--I mean… I don’t know what you see in me to take me along and show me your life and--”

“Because I like you.” His hand stays tightly around mine, voice sounding borderline stern. “I like you, Simon. I see a future with you. You might drive me up the bloody wall on occasion, but I think you’re someone I want around me for as long as you’ll keep me.”

His words fill my mouth but don’t let me swallow down--like a mouthful of dry spices. It’s there--it’s part of a meal, part of my life, but I can’t seem to let it into my body. It’s rejecting--I can’t take it like this. I can’t take it without something to swallow it down with.

I turn to him, searching his face for whatever can help it stick--help it stay with me. Settle in just right, and all I can seem to find is his lips, open in what seems like concern, but become my target.

I launch myself in, hands settling onto his face and tugging his jaw closer as I kiss and kiss and kiss until I feel him settle, kissing me back and letting it stick. Letting me sweetly pry his lips open and slip my tongue into his mouth, feeling the tremble in his movements as he takes my sides and tugs me closer.

His words are something I find myself being cautiously unsure of, but his movements? His body? The way he responds with such delicate affection and careful appreciation? That I’m sure of.

When I can feel him moving under my hands--feel his body fall back onto the bed with a solid nudge, letting me throw myself onto his lap and stuff my hands under his shirt as he moans into my mouth, urging me onwards...

That’s what feels solid--tangible.

Actions are definite, while words can’t help but feel like tricks.

I’ve been told before that I was loved, and when I was ready for more, it hit us that we didn’t know what we were saying to one another.

That wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust.

It wasn’t what I’ve got pressed to me now. It wasn’t a grown man being vulnerable. It wasn’t telling each other we’re scared or we’re not ready.

It wasn’t like how it is now; now it’s kissing him everywhere. Tugging at the smooth fabric of his shirt, telling him you want him, telling him you need him. Telling him he’s everything you’ve ever needed and more, because he’s what’s tangible here. He’s what I can feel, what I can hold.

He isn’t words, but actions.

He’s grabbing me, he’s tugging at my shirt, watching me hold myself above him as he works at my buttons and making my head spin out of control before I have to stop him, breath not coming out right anymore.

I feel his hand slide, cup my jaw as I gasp.

“What’s the matter?” he whispers, letting me relax. I can’t look at him straight on--everything’s spinning, especially his face. It looks concerned though. He feels concerned.

“It’s not--I’m--” my chest flutters, eyes falling back shut. “It’s so much. Everything.”

“We can stop,” he says quickly, but I shake my head, cutting him short.

I take a shaky inhale, then a shaky exhale. With another breath, he slowly moves to finish unbuttoning my shirt, pushing the sides open and letting me breathe properly for a minute.

It all settles back into place.

It all feels real, and then all at once, I’m in the moment.

Like the world was fizzling, then I was popped back into reality.

The room’s awfully light, and he’s got a terribly confused look on his face, but I just lean down and kiss him clear, letting him slide my sleeves off and toss the shirt aside. I go to finally take off his, but he stops me with a snug push of his face into the small crook of my neck. I exhale with him, sinking down against him and quickly checking my watch.

“It’s quarter after three,” I whisper, kissing his hair as his lips meet my neck and mouth starts to worry at some skin that he’s probably set on marking.

“Mhmm,” he hums, unaffected. I grin.

“What time was our dinner reservation?” I murmur, stroking his hair back. A few strands slip through my fingers while others fall away as his head tilts.

He pauses to think. “Six thirty, if I’m not mistaken.” He looks me up briefly. “Why? Got some better plans?”

I hum at his building smirk, swiping my thumb over the crease in his cheek. “Maybe. But I think we can be done and out by six, if we’re fast.”

He chuckles, head falling back into my neck. “What sort of plan do you have, then?”

My breath hitches, mind supplying one answer, and one answer only. “You,” I breathe out, tugging him closer.

He blinks, and I feel him go stiff. We shift a bit, settling onto the bed as he turns us over and holds himself on top of me. “What do you mean me?” he asks, and for once, it doesn’t feel like some teasing game. Like he’s actually asking me--like he doesn’t know.

Or maybe he does, and he’s just scared.

Because I’m sure as shit a bit scared to say it, too.

“I mean that I want you, Baz,” I whisper, smoothing a hand over his hair. There’s no real ceremonious way to say this without using a term that I think we’d both gag at (“Making love.” Sounds like something a gran might say). “I want you to, you know…”

His brows raise, lips starting a smile as his jaw hangs a bit open. “Are you… do you want to…”

I feel myself smile along, cheeks flushing as I groan. “Yes, Baz. That’s what I’m saying.”

“And you want me to…”

“What? Do you not like it that way?” Suddenly, it’s turned from cheeky to just embarrassing, and I want to hide away under all these pillows.

He’s quick to stop me, though, running a soothing hand over my side as I stare at him, watching him smile. “No--nono, don’t. I’m happy topping, if you want me to. I just… it’s a bit of a surprise, that’s all.”

“What? Why?”

He bites his lip, holding back what’s probably a laugh (at me, nonetheless). “Dunno. Thought me wearing florals was sort of a dead giveaway that I like it in the arse.”

Jesus, I must be beet red now. “I can top, if you want me to!” I blurt out, watching him break into a giggle. “I just--I thought--isn’t this part of the experience?”

He tries to calm himself, still holding up above me as I nervously watch him go off and giggle like a schoolboy.

“What?” I demand.

He shakes his head. “Do you think that you have to take up the rear to really be queer? Is that it?” he chuckles.

“I…” Not that it was particularly my first thought, but I’d figured this whole time that he’d want me to sort of prove it, somehow. He’d never say it, clearly, because he’s too proud to admit this short of shit, but I’d figured he’d be happier know that I’m really this much into him.

“Because you don’t,” he adds, settling down. “You don’t if you don’t want to, Simon.”

“But I do,” I say quickly, hooking around his belt loops for the added effect as I arch my hips. All in all, I do want it. I want him to hold me closer than he ever has before--I want him to make it clear that this is real. “I… I actually do, though. At least once.”

His brows raise, smirk falling back onto his face before he steals a quick, gentle kiss from my lips. “As long as it’s what you want, I’m happy with it,” he murmurs, pecking my cheek before starting to work back at my jaw, moving back down my neck and onto my clavicle.

I melt against him, fingers sliding back into his hair as my head rolls back. “I am,” I whisper, breathing out a short huff. “I’m ready--I want this.”

His lips spread into a smile onto my skin, making me shiver. “Tell me what you want.”

My hips shift and lift, letting his hands nimbly pull at my belt and trousers, managing to get them mostly off before I kick them away from my ankles. “I want you to take those magnificent fingers of yours,” I start, breath hitching mid sentence as his hand slips into my pants. “A-and--shit--I want them in me.”

He chuckles, and I feel something heavy curl in my stomach like a steel ball. Fucking hell. “Did your research?”

I blush, hard. “I… yeah. Yes. A quick google search… maybe a few videos…”

His head lifts, and he’s grinning like a loon. So much so that I give his hair a good tug and shove his face back into my gut.

“Fuck you,” I mumble, nose scrunching as I squeeze my eyes tight. “Wanted to get this right--wanted to get us right.”

“Well, did you research prepping, then?” he mumbles into my skin, and I figure I should loosen my grip on him.

His head stays, lips plastering open mouthed kisses onto the slight curve of side and the gentle slope of my stomach. It’s soft. Far softer than it was when I was fresh in uni. Far too soft for my liking, some days. Feels a bit like I’m slipping further and further from the person I was. Makes me feel foreign.

The way Baz kisses it, though, doesn’t make me feel detached at all. It makes me feel closer to my body than I ever was before.

My breath comes out in a slow, small groan, feeling his teeth skid around my waistband. “I-I did,” I manage.

He peers up. “Did you…?”

I nod. “Figured we might this weekend, so I’ve been watching what I eat and I… well… earlier today I... and…”

He grins even wider, watching me try helplessly ramble about my ways of making sure my arse is well prepped to handle some, ahem, handling. It feels all very mood-killing, rather than building friction, but he’s got that creeping smirk of his, so I know he’s at least enjoying it (to a certain extent).

“What?” I ask, pouting a bit. This is far too much of him teasing, and less of us actually shagging.

He shrugs, pursing his lips before patting my hip. “Flip over, love.”

I blink, then knit my brows together as I slowly turn, pulling off my pants in the process.

Granted, he knows far more about this than I do, so it would be best for me to trust him. Except, I’m not exactly sure where this is going.

I think I’m ready for anything, though. Emotionally, and physically.

Although, the “anything” crossing my mind at the moment wasn’t his tongue, licking a stripe down half my back.

I gasp, involuntarily going rigid as I take hold of the sheets and bury my face into the pillow in front of me. It’s some posh goosefeather one, with a decorative sleeve that’s probably hand stitched and shit, I’m probably going to wreck his family’s outrageously expensive bedding.

Which probably shouldn’t turn me on more, but it does.

It so fucking does.

Baz takes his time, nipping at my exposed bum as I shuffle, pushing a shoulder hard into the bed as the other arm reaches back and grips onto his hair. He hums, sending tingles down my spine as his hands take hold and spread me apart.

His tongue trails down, swiping delicately around the tight ring of muscles once, then twice, probing at me carefully before I feel the pressure of his tongue release. All I hear for a second is my muffled panting, then the tingling shock of his breath blowing against the newly wet and exposed spot makes me shutter and whine in a voice I’ve never heard myself use. “Oh!”

He dives back in nearly immediately, my hand clutching a good fistful of his hair as his tongue works careful circles. Slowly, his tongue presses into me.

I gasp, face sinking deeper into the pillows as my back arches, hips pressing back while he licks in with his tongue moving in lavishly slow cycles.

I huff, another involuntary whimper escaping my throat as I grind my hips back, nudging his head forward and feeling his hum run up through my spine. I shiver, then push, trying to ride the flickering of his tongue as I keen, huffing indignantly. “Fuck, Baz,” I grunt, “harder.”

He pulls off after a moment, sounding breathy as he nips at the sensitive spot near my side, leaving me to whine haplessly below him.

“What is it?” He murmurs, kissing up spots along my back. “Need something?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, balling my fists around the bed sheets as I unceremoniously wiggle my hips. I hear him chuckle at me, so I end him a quick glare. “Can you just get in me, already?” I snip.

He smirks a bit, and I can tell he just absolutely adores the power. Wanker.

I practically snarl, flipping over and pulling him down on top of me. He laughs, though, trying to push off.

“Hold on,” he chuckles, “give me a bloody minute. I--Simon--” he stops, moving to pry me off his neck as he continues to laugh. “I need to get us a condom. Hold on.”

I let him go, with a bit of protesting, and watch him sit up and walk over.

“Did you bring condoms?” I breathe, forgoing any of the awkward bubbling from earlier. It’s a bit hot now, thinking he was ready for this, too.

He pauses, then nods, cracking open the box he’s got and ripping one of a strip before grabbing the tube of lube from his bag. “I like to come prepared regardless,” he says, pushing the flap back over it (as if someone will see).

I raise my brows, and hoping I come off as more smug and cocky than needy. “Or hoping that you’d get lucky?”

He raises a brow, smiling a bit before leaning down and catching my mouth with his. I push myself up, steadying on my elbows as we snog for a good minute.

Eventually, he peels away, sitting aside and moving to undress.

I pull myself up fully, leaning back against the headboard and watching him strip. “How should we do this?”

He throws me a glance over his shoulder. “How do you want to?” he asks, wiggling off his trousers and pants before folding them and setting them aside (he’s fucking ridiculous).

I shrug, watching over his back. “What would be easiest?”

He turns around, sitting with our knees knocking as he thinks. “You want to ride me and see where that takes us?”

I shrug again, then nod, pushing away the hair plastered to my forehead. “Sounds good,” I breathe, exhaling slowly, then smiling. “Fuck.”

He quirks his brow, and I reach out, smoothing a thumb over his cheek.

“No, it’s just… it’s new. It’s good, but new.”

He relaxes, eyes closing. “Good.”

I chuckle and push myself across our laps, planting my lips onto his as pulling him close.

His chest knocks into mine, our legs slotting up awkwardly as we shift, my thigh rubbing up his cock as he lets out a low, rumbling groan. I rub it again, feeling him rock a bit into it before nudging me back and laying me flat as he pulls off, fumbling with the lube.

I shift, hips lifting as my legs spread and heart races at the sight of his lubed fingers. Fuck.

“Are you ready for me too…?”

I nod, shifting myself again before surging up and pulling him down against me. He nearly knocks over, steading himself while I clumsily pull him in and properly snog him. It’s not the most romantic, but it sure feels right. Awfully right. Undeniably, absolutely right.

Nothing feels more right than to have him kiss me, especially as his fingertips press around, middle finger slipping into me with ease. I groan, tugging him in closer.

I let his tongue poke and prod into my mouth, eliciting helpless groans as my face goes beet red. One hand slips back into his hair while the other snakes down his chest, taking a moment to stroke down his cock and feel him whine into me with each coaxing move.

He works his way through three fingers before pulling them out one by one, my hips rolling with each movement.

I groan, panting as he pulls away and lets us roll and reposition. It feels a bit odd, at first, as I hover above on all fours and watch him roll on the condom and pile on plenty of lube, but then we settle with my hips above his, arse grinding against his cock, and it all falls back into place. His hands travel then sit on my sides, thumbs stroking circles onto my skin as I suck in a breath, raising my brows at him. “It doesn’t really hurt, right?”

He breathes out a laugh, head falling back. “Are you really asking this now?” he manages.

I nod, blushing as I move to tease on top of him, guiding the head of his cock around the crown of my arse. “Maybe.”

I watch his eyes fall shut, hands tightening around my sides as I suck in a breath.

“Not terribly so, no. You’ll be sore after.”

I nod, chewing on my bottom lip. Right. Not a terrible cost for the action, I suppose. “Alright,” I mutter, settling my free hand onto his. I feel it slide, then link our fingers together. “Are you ready?”

He nods back as my eyes fixate on his chest, watching it move up and down before I slowly start sinking down, shutting my eyes along with it.

“Fuck,” I hiss, low and deep, as I sink deeper onto him. My knees wobble a bit, and all that’s running through my head is that he’s right--it doesn’t hurt that much.

Instead, it just feels like pressure, at first. A new tightness. A heat in my core as I settle my palms onto his chest and sink myself deeper onto his cock, carefully start to rocking myself up. I feel myself involuntarily gasping out into the air, searching to find his hands.

He rubs up my side, then down, grasping my hip as our fingers squeeze together.

I shift, starting to rock myself up and down.

“D-do you want me to--” I cut him off, nodding immediately and feeling his hips start to grind upwards, making me gasp and whine in a shaky, slow grumble.

I groan, lifting our hands off my skin and holding them both tightly while experimentally pushing harder, feeling my head spin and vision fizzle with it. “Fuck--fuck!”

His hips shift, then thrust up, sending me spiraling as I rock down to meet them.

I give him a few bounces, then grind back down, feeling his fingers squeeze mine tighter before one lets go, moving to my cock and closing around it. He gives me a quick questionable eyebrow raise, and I just nod, huffing out a vague “Please” before he starts stroking.

At first, I think I can take the stimulation, but the sight of him watching me sends me spiraling faster than I thought possible. And it’s all too much--too overwhelmingly there, pushing me off the deep end in seconds before I even know what to do besides ride it out, whimpering helplessly while spilling onto his chest.

He pulls me off, letting me sit against his hips as it comes back down.

Only issue left is his cock, flushed hard and throbbing against me.

I don’t even let him try to tell me not to, reaching back and stroking him carefully as I lean down and kiss everywhere--kiss his neck, his cheeks, his lips, his forehead, his eyelids. Kiss the slope of his jaw, the dip of his cheeks. Kiss the notch of his adam’s apple, and the turn of his clavicle.

I shower him in kisses, stroking him fast and hard until I feel him come, spilling out onto my hand and back (and probably onto these overly expensive sheets) as I grin, panting along with him and only having two words left for the both of us.

“Holy shit.”

He tips his head up to me, a broad smile spread across his face as he relaxes, rubbing my back. I sink into the touch, face pressing into his neck as I exhale. Shit. Shit. I need a shower. I need a nap. I need a round two--a lifetime of round twos.

I want to do that to him.

We relax, my nose pressing up against his jaw as his hands trace up and down my back. It’s serene, if only for a second, to hold him close to me. To feel his heartbeat against my nose, pulsing sweetly onto my skin as I breathe in, cheeks aching from smiling too much.

“Alright,” start, forcing myself up. He stares at me, raising a brow as I stretch. “Fuck. Shit. Alright. Got to shower.”

He pats around for his mobile, checking the time, then nodding. “Care if I join?”

I smirk, pushing myself off him and getting up. “Never thought you’d ask,” I tease, starting to head off into the bathroom.

There’s already soaps in there--posh ones. Some used, like the wash and shampoo, but the bar next to the sink seems pretty newly unwrapped.

Definitely was some maid that went through, then.

Which, of course, feels a bit odd.

Not too odd, since the Wellbeloves had one, but even the Wellbeloves weren’t this wealthy. This feels more “We’ve owned the country club before your bloodline existed”, rather than “I’ll give you 100p if you eat that weird looking grape” sort of rich.

Wonder what Baz sees in me, then. After all, I don’t have shit to my name (which is why I’m at Watford, really). That’s why I’m here.

I’m here because I didn’t have any of this.

I don’t know why he’s there with me, if he has so much money.

I sigh and pull at the faucets, letting them run until the shower stream’s steaming hot. Standing outside the shower’s door, I looking in through the glass and completely space out while focusing on this.

All I can think of is this.

How much better Baz could do--how much of a better life he could live, if he wanted. Of how he doesn’t need me (not that I ever thought he did), and if he didn’t want me, I could be a ragdoll tossed aside.

I close my eyes, head settling against the glass.

A hand closes around my hip, startling me back as he lets go. “You alright?”

“Hm?” I shake my head, rubbing my eyes as I sink back. “Yeah. I am.”

“You’re still thinking.”

I take a glance at him, doing a once over, before stepping into the shower.

He follows, pulling the door shut behind him.

“It’s the same thing,” I mumble, back to him as the stream flows over me. “It’s nothing too important.”

“It is if its wrecking your holiday,” he says pointedly, stepping beside me and nudging me a bit for the water. I let him, leaning against the tiles as he scrubs his hands over his face.

I swallow, studying the details of his arms, his hands, his face, his movements. Some being subtle rubs of his fingertips, others being the harsh pushing of his head. All making me feel dizzy. “I just don’t get it. If your family’s so rich, then why are you teaching? Why do you live on campus? Why don’t you just live as some playboy in London?”

He peers over at me, giving me a bored look. “You know why,” he says, and for some reason, it hurts. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

I stop, breath sucking in. “I…” He’s right. “I just…”

He stares over, lips twitching before he turns to grab soap. “I don’t want their money, or their lives. I want my own. I just reap the benefits of my upbringing, on occasion.”

I reach for him, hand brushing his waist. He lets me, but doesn’t move to reciprocate. “It feels like a waste.”

He snorts. “Then you don’t know my family’s relationship with money.”

“You’re right,” I say softly. “I don’t.”

He turns to me.

“I don’t know your family.”

His lips purse, then he exhales, offering a hand over to me. I take it, letting him pull me in as he starts to scrub soap over my arms.

“And I intend on keeping it that way.”

“What? Don’t want to be seen with a poor boy?”

He snorts. “Don’t want you to suffer the travesty that is my family for an extended period.” He kisses my forehead. “If you want to meet them, though, I’d be glad to set it up. It’s just beyond dinners that get excruciatingly lonely.”

I watch him through my eyelashes, chewing on my lip. “How so?” I whisper. I know what it’s like, childhood loneliness, but through a much different lens.

Alone with your thoughts, no books to write in, no real friends to chat with. Isolated socialization, barely learning to choke out words until you’re forced into school and not allowed to be silent.

“Long corridors,” he says quietly, hand trailing down my back. “Dark rooms, wall sconces. Suits at dinner. Being miles from anybody relatively friendly to play with, and when your cousins come to play, your father always talks business with their parents in the other room. Your father is always there. Your father likes when you’re cold and distant, because that’s what men in the family do. It’s right--it’s proper.”

I look up, and his face is borderline twisted, stuck in a snarl. I try to reach up, and he shakes his head.

“It’s lonely, Simon,” he whispers. “Feels like being suffocated slowly. Choking on your own spit.”

Choking. Drowning.

The death of childhoods and wanting something new--something fresh. Something unrecognizable.

“I know,” I mumble. “I don’t know in the same way, but I know.” I exhale, reaching for his face. He lets me, this time. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” His eyes fall shut.

We’re still for a moment, watching one another under the beating of the showerhead before I muster it up. I push it out, swallowing back any apprehension from before.

“Baz?”

“Yes?”

“I want to be out this week.”

He goes silent, studying me carefully as I exhale and lean my back fully against the tile. It’s still cold, as compared to the heat of the water. It’s nice against my skin.

“I mean,” I start, watching his eyes travel. In a moment’s hesitation, I reach for his hand and squeeze it. “I want to kiss you in public, and hold your hand. I want to call you my boyfriend. I want everything that comes with being out while we’re here. Nobody knows us here, so what’s the harm in trying?”

He exhales quietly, raising a brow at me. “You’re really sure about that?” He’s quieter than usual, jarring me enough to be taken aback.

Still, I nod. “Call it a test run,” I whisper, bringing his knuckles to my mouth and kissing them sweetly. “A preparation for the real thing.”

[diningpageantry]

The Distance Between

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/46309534

Chapter 10/13 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 3047

Chapter Summary: Simon and Baz's relationship is solidified, but the public state of it isn't.

~~~~~~~~~~

You weren’t lying.” His hands undo my necktie, brows knitting fussily as I watch his long, nimble fingers pull out loops and slide each side of the silk fabric down his palms. I think, for a split second, that Baz thought I'd said I can barely do my tie just to get him closer.

“Not something I’m particularly proud of.”

Baz’s lips stay still, pursed as he squints down at my outfit. It takes him a fraction of the time I (shittily) tied my tie for him to get it right.

After laying it flat against my chest, he rests his palms against my breast and smoothes down my button down that he ironed for me. It’s hypnotizing to watch him touch me. Delicate brushes and heavy, whole-handed pats. He lights my skin on fire each time he touches it, and I’m still not entirely sure what to do with that information beyond savoring it.

“I don’t think I’m ready yet,” I say, his hands still on either side of my heart.

read the rest on AO3!

[diningpageantry]

Drinking

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/45163501

Chapter 6/13 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 4483

Chapter Summary: Excuses, longing, and the bitter bite of impulsive actions can turn a happy night sour.

By now, I think I've finally got my daily schedule down. Sure, it's the middle of December, but at least it's done.

I wake up, grab breakfast from the kitchen, eat in my office, fuck around on my computer, maybe see a student or two (if needed), eat lunch, fuck around more, then go grab dinner. Easy. Work day complete.

What's odd today, though, is the unusual knock at my door around 12:30. Typically, students avoid the office like the plague in their study hour, but not long after I'd sat back in my seat did I hear footsteps. They've stopped now, and the soft rap at my door gives me a somewhat pleasant surprise. It isn't often people are personable enough to not barge in.

“Come in,” I call, clicking out of Solitaire.

A student steps in. They're maybe 10th year, a little on the shorter side, and with shaggy hair down to their shoulders. Immediately, there's a wave of discomfort--more than that of a typical young teen. Awkward. Out of place. “Hello, um. Mr… Mr. Snow? Is it?”

“Yes, it is,” I hum, swiveling my chair around and gesturing towards the couch. I reach around as they walk, grabbing for my notepad and pen. “What can I do for you?”

They sit for a minute, eyes towards the now-closed door as they just think distantly. Something in it makes me swallow back my expectations, settling down my stuff and folding my hands. I inhale slowly, exhaling as I follow their attention.

Their eyes are laying on my Safe Spaces sign. A printed, colourful paper that Baz had offered me when I'd asked why some teachers had it hanging. It isn't much--not really grand or showy, just simple. Thoughtful.

By the time I'm looking back, they're already crying. Their lip trembles as their hands clench. “I, uh,” they start, nearly silent. “I think I might be, uhm… a… well... I want my gender and name changed in the books.”

It’s a shock at first, and I try to think over how to react beyond nodding and completely setting aside my notepad and pen as I lean back in my seat. I wave a hand, letting them nervously stare at me before continuing, exhaling.

“I'm sorry. I… I didn't know where else to start with this. It all started really coming to me over the summer and hearing my name all year has just been a kick in the face, a-and with winter break coming up, I don't know what will happen when I get back. My mum and dad know, and they booked an appointment with a gender therapist when I'm home, but, I, well… I don't want to come back and be seen as… you know… a boy.”

It takes me a second to think of the proper answer, head nodding. Where do I start? Dress code questions? Name change? Then, I figure that it’s really the student's call. “What do you want me to help you with? I'm here to help as much as you want me to.”

The student exhales, chewing on her lip as she looks down. “Can you change my birth name in my books to Amanda?” She gives me her name, letting me pick up my notes and jot it down. “I'll be emailing teacher during break, it's just in case, but it’d be great if they got an official-looking email. And, erm, what can I wear?”

I bite my lip, exhaling. “Given it's a historically ‘all boys’ school, there's no assigned skirts or dresses, if that's what you're referring to.”

She nods, shifting in her seat as the leather squeaks below her.

“Right, well. I can talk to the dean about an exemption case. There's a few trans and gender nonconforming students who have gotten permission, which is sadly needed, but they're relatively liberal when it comes to the clothing change. With that said, there's no guarantee there won't be backlash from your peers.”

She pushes her hair away, eyes not moving from the ground as she goes silent for a minute.

I purse my lips, thinking over the situation. “Can I get you in contact with an adult who can really help you there? I can't promise he's the most cheery of blokes, but he's nicer than you'd think when it comes to this.”

She seems a bit confused, but nods anyway.

After giving her a quick, (hopefully) promising smile, I swivel back around and glance at my phone. The number log takes me a second, but I eventually find the right room.

It rings once before an answer comes through, clear as day.

“Professor Pitch speaking.”

“Hi, Baz? It's Simon. I have a student who might need a little help, do you have a minute to spare?”

He goes silent for a second. “I'm not teaching a student how to use proper grammar, Snow. If anyone needs a lesson on their elocution and voice, it's you.”

“Not that sort of help, you tit. A different kind of help.”

He's silent again before I can practically feel it click. “Send the student down, then.”

I thank him (with no reply) before hanging up and writing out a paper pass for Baz's room, handing it over and telling her the room.

“Of course we of can meet again after break to finalize everything and make sure we have the proper paperwork after we've contacted your teachers, but this is what we can do as of right now. Oh, and don't let Professor Pitch scare you. His bark is much worse than his bite.”

She nods hesitantly, looking confused as she thanks me nonetheless and leaves, closing the door softly behind her.

I study the wood grain of it for a minute, exhaling slowly before going back to working. Our conversation keeps in the back of my mind as I type away. I don’t think about it much beyond making the note and starting the permission form, not expecting another knock at my door just over half an hour later.

This time, it's Baz at my door, letting himself in before I get an opportunity to tell him to come in.

He stops at the doorway, glancing around for what must be the first time. I listen to the soft clank of the rattling door knob being let go as he drops it, focusing on holding the wood of the door. My lips loosely smile, heart feeling full as I exhale. “You alright, mate?

His head shakes as he snaps back, looking at me with wide eyes and a hesitantly hanging mouth. I want to do his eyebrow thing, but I don't quite know how.

“Yes?”

“I… do you want to go get drinks later? My treat.”

I'm stunned by his sudden offer, blinking curiously as my mouth turns to an unsure frown. He continues, trying to cover his words.

“No. I--fuck off. it's to thank you for that. You handled that really well, for someone who hasn’t quite been trained, and I wanted to say something for that.”

My chair swivels a bit as I turn my hips, looking up at him. “Sounds like you just want an opportunity to get off campus.”

He smirks an odd, mischievous smirk. One that seems like it’d get us into trouble if it was verbalized. “Maybe it's just to go out and get a little drunk.” I can’t quite argue with that logic (especially if it includes free booze).

I stare at his ridiculous face, clicking my pen a few times as I think it over. Sort of want to mock him like he’s an alcoholic, but it also seems like he’s only truly personable when he’s drinking. “Fuck it, yeah let’s do drinks. Six-ish?”

“What, so you can eat the shitty cafeteria foods?”

“Maybe.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes and over-exaggeratedly setting his shoulders. “Fine then, six works.”

I grin, sweetly telling him to close the fucking door behind him as he leaves, ignoring the gentle thrum of that re-occurring odd feeling pressed to my rib cage. In so many ways, it hasn’t truly left. Not since that night we’d held hands. It’s a catching, curiosity feeling, making me numbed any time that we don’t have that contact (which, now, is almost always, except for the occasional mistaken brush of our passing arms).

I wish I could tell him I want it. It feels too needy, too out of character for us to be blunt of our feelings. I’m cautious, and he’s not too caring. Far too bitter, far too rough. We’re mild turbulence on an unwanted jet ride, at best.

After that encounter, I can’t quite focus. I’ve been scraping by at the minimum of getting a few things wrapped up, and managing through menial, thoughtless work. Still, it all falls into a blur. A Baz-centric, ever-losing blur. Even through dinner, that weird enthusiasm from before sort of falls flat in my own mind. Like I’m trying to compensate for my own excitement.

What does keep me afloat is Penny’s rambling commentary as I shove bread into my mouth. I really do adore the fact that I almost never need to talk, she just keeps the conversation afloat herself. Long, winding stories of class, or telling me about the book she’s reading (and whether she likes it or not, judging by her women’s empowerment scale). All I’ve ever got to give is quick answers, nodding my head as she goes along.

During dinner, we agree to go do something before winter break, since she’s going off to see her fiancé over the few weeks.

I can’t help but steal quick glances across to Baz’s lone table. It’s starkly empty in contrast to everyone else, and I can’t help but wonder how lonely he truly is.

Penny and I finish up a little bit after him, cleaning up and walking side-by-side back to the dorms before parting ways. I struggle with the keys, as always, and while I don’t see him in the living room right away, I hear the running of the sink from our bathroom. It leaves my cheeks a light pink for no good reason besides knowing he’s in there getting ready for a night.

Looking in my closet, it dawns on me that I don’t really have anything “nice” to wear. While yes, sure it’s just drinks, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look any less plain than I usually do. I manage to find one good button down in a dark grey, and decent black trousers, and nothing like a blazer to compliment so this is as good as it’s going to get.

I don’t need to check my mobile’s weather to figure that it’s going to be an absolute fucking freezing nightmare tonight.

Digging around a bit, I find my old leather coat and my least-scuffed up shoes to really tie together the “I’m not exactly shitty looking, but I’m damn well not anything good”. Hell, to make it a little better, I even fix my hair before stepping out into the living room.

Baz is already in there, fixing the cuffs to his sleeves.

I don’t want to say this lightly, but he looks bloody fucking stunning (not in some odd “rip off my clothes now” way, but in a magazine cover way). A lavender shirt, tucked into deep blue trousers and a black floral embroidered jacket. The white, light pink, and purple stitching hike up his breast pocket and wrists, traveling across his width and barely letting my attention slowly track back up to his face. It’s nearly buffed from being washed, and his hair’s pushed back without being fully slicked. I can already see the slight wave in it, pushing into the nape of his neck as he turns and looks towards me.

We catch each other’s shocked stares, and I try to desperately ignore the grin on my own mug as we gawk openly towards one another. Lingering for the moment, we awkwardly wait out the moment before one of us turns our attention away. I shuffle a bit, weight shifting from here to there as he keeps rim-rod straight. It’s hard to find the words, but I finally speak out into the distant space between us. (Far too distant. We’re always so far apart). “Are we off, then?”

He blinks at first, looking me up and down before pulling back at his sleeve for a time check. “Yes.” It comes out forced, dropping an octave from his usual voice. Makes my heart jump.

On the walk out, we aren’t looking at one another anymore. In fact, if feels like we’re looking anywhere but. The ground, our feet, our hands, the sky. Buildings passing, sidewalks curving. The world around us, leaving us to feel so distant from one another at just an arm’s reach away.

“Are you against walking?” I ask, halfway down the pavement and towards the employee parking lot. “I’d rather not drive if we’re drinking.”

He nods, biting off any snippy comments as we stroll. We’re always this space between our steps--our shoes almost brushing each end of the walkway squares. An empty reach between us.

It’s awkward. I’m awkward. I am seethingly awkward, uncomfortably trying to make gentle comments between us in efforts to resuscitate the moment we could be have. “Thank fuck it isn’t snowing, huh?”

He looks at me, eyes shining lighter in the harsh street lights as they flicker overhead. No comment.

“I mean, icy roads and shit. I’d always be worried I’d slip and fall on my bum as a kid, so I’d shuffle my feet while leaning forward to get around, like a penguin.”

Finally, I get a snort out of him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

It’s not harsh. It’s actually borderline soft--a child’s scissors sort of comment. It makes my lips start to part into a smile, unconsciously walking a bit closer. He doesn’t even do as much as pull his arms into himself, walking with the same outward rigidity as before (a step up, perhaps).

“Suppose I was. Maybe that’s why the other kids would push me into the ice anyway.”

He laughs at that, eyes forward as his elbows lift outward from his pockets. I hadn’t realized how close I’d drifted, since his arm bumps into my side harmlessly. I smile, joining him in a simple, quiet laugh beside him.

The town isn’t incredibly far off the school, and the bar isn’t ridiculously busy either. Granted, we’re a bit before the usual work let out on a Friday. The benefits of the schedule, I assume.

At first, I don’t know what I’m expecting. I knew there was a decent place in town with live music, and then a cheap pub nearby. But Baz has never seemed to be one for the easier, quicker option, which is probably what wound us up sitting by a live jazz performance. He’s sipping scotch and I’m practically tossing back a gin and tonic as we lean across a table that’s no bigger than our combined laps, trying to hear one another speak.

“My half sister’s still a nightmare to shop for,” Baz’s thought finishes between songs, the music calming enough that we don’t shout. The story of his youth drifts between the long sip of his drink, phasing him into a new conversation. “It took me months to find the proper Christmas gift for her. Granted, she’s a teen now, so it was easier to narrow down rather than the thousands of things she absolutely ‘needed’ when she was younger.”

I nod along, clueless to the dynamic in personal experience, but engaged to hear how it works. As the music starts picking back up, I lean in closer to hear, my hand brushing his arm.

It doesn’t move.

“Are you visiting your family this holiday? Or someone special?”

He dismissed the latter, nodding his head casually while his drink settles down. My hand’s still there, resting warmly on his arm. “I’m going back to my family’s estate further south. My siblings threw a fit the last time I couldn’t make it, and they’d have my head if I didn’t come this year. It’s awfully lonesome down there, though--empty halls, echoing rooms. I feel bloody Victorian in that house. As if I should be having a dramatic, Wilde-esque affair.”

I watch as he trails off, eyes drifting to the wood floors of the stage. They’re worn in--timeless. His childhood seems to have the same impact on him as history does on the floorboards.

Between the distracting brush of his leg against my calf, and the second drink I’m nursing, it takes me a shrug and a half second thought to remember what my actual plans are. “‘M planning staying here,” I mumble, sipping away. His foot stops moving up, pausing right near my knee as his attention flicks back at my hand, tracing my knuckles tentatively.

“What, at school?”

I nod, bottom lip pressing wetly against the glass. My breath fills out around the rim, making it all foggy as I drink. “Nowhere else, really. Don’t really have anywhere to stay in London, or anyone to see. ‘M much happier alone here than alone somewhere crowded.”

If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he looks sad. But, I do know him. I know him too well.

I know him well enough that a quick steer away conversation will clear it all, as much as it breaks my heart to change where we’re going with this.

“Tell me more about the estate,” I mock, lips turning up as I tease happily. He takes it in stride, tongue running over his bottom lip before he speaks again.

We stay like that--mindless conversation. He keeps the drinks flowing, and I keep my hand on his arm. It’s cozy there, and when I move to his fingers, I find that they’re bitterly cold. The only real answer here is to warm them with my own, pressing out hands together and holding his to my skin. No protests from him, only a compliant raise of his eyebrows towards me.

Still, I make no move to look back.

It’s a good bit of night later before I start feeling too dizzy to safely go on without getting completely wrecked. It’s never good to walk back to your work’s campus while you’re piss drunk, even if it’s not a school night. “How’re you feeling?”

“Probably better than you, Snow.”

“Are you?”

He grins, and in the diluted bar-light, it looks like he’s happy for once in his life. His eyes droop, his cheeks press outwards and glow in the deepest of pink lights. I want to see if they’re really a smooth as I think they are.

“Not quite sober, sure,” he mumbles, the grey in his eyes standing out in the glossy light. “But I feel like you’re gonna need some help getting up.”

I want to protest, but I know my knees will be a bit wobbly (and so will my legs. And arms. Fuck it, a lot of me). I shrug shamefully, biting back my pride with a quiet “I won’t let go if you won’t.”

His fingers curl tighter around my wrist, the few resting on the flat of my skin and rubbing up and down the protruding vein. It’s familiarly soft in such a new, exciting way.

He picks up the tab, sliding his card in carelessly and waiting for second that he gets it back before we head off. He helps me with my jacket, and I help him with his, thoughtfully sliding my hand back down against his. His skin’s much warmer now, and I can’t help but slot my fingers around his and press against the sparse hair on the back of his hand.

We walk side by side now, arms twisted around each other to hold our hands as closely as possible. It isn’t long, though, before I nearly trip over uneven ground and he lets go of my hand. I almost protest, missing the feeling of his body against mine until the weight of his arm pulls around my back and side, palm slipping under my jacket and pressing to the side of my shirt. I turn into him, shoulder slipping under his as my hand finds its place snugly against the curve of his back. He leans, head unwavering but body falling into place with mine. It’s almost like hugging while standing; walking while sharing space.

As if it makes up for all the distance since last month.

We stay stuck to one another all the way to the dorms. He even reaches around himself for the key, leaned up against me as his keys scrape into the lock. It turns quietly as a slow winding click lets us in.

I don’t let go until we’re outside our rooms, sides pressed to the wall like we were all those weeks ago. The time between then and now both feels like an eternity and like we’d never left.

Something it that time’s changed. He’s even more smoothed out than before. The gentle slope of his lips, the heavy blinks in his eyes, the lack of crease brows. Even his hair is falling into his face, coming down in soft, waving piece and covering his eyes. Makes it difficult to see him clearly.

I don’t think before reaching up, looping my finger around it before carefully tucking it behind his ear. His face gets all funny, and I take a second to process that the reaction is a smile.

Is this where I thank him for the night? Our extended moment of closeness before it’s all rushed away again? In our moment of weakness, how do I allow myself to be that of less composure?

I wonder whether or not it’s the smile that’s getting me more drunk than the liquor, because it’s giving me a ton of funny ideas that all boil down to my lips going somewhere on his skin. The first reasonable place being the cheek I’d just exposed.

So, I lean up, filling the gap between us and pressing a lightly open-mouthed kiss to the curve of his cheek. He stiffens slightly, arms leaving his sides as I linger against him. His skin’s as smooth as I’d imagined, smelling faintly of aftershave and booze. As my mouth drags away, barely parting from him, I exhale a sigh of relief as his hands find themselves on each side of my torso. I grin, eyes falling onto the corner bit of his lip. It’s so close, and incredibly welcoming.

It doesn’t take me any thinking before my lips are there, too. They stay, feeling his head turn with mine as I part back away. I can’t bring myself to look into his eyes, scared of literally any reaction he could have. But he’s turned into me, head tilted at just the right angle that I can brush my lips onto his.

The moment I see his mouth part, my eyelashes flutter shut and I settle our lips together. Almost instantly goes he breathe out onto my cheek, arms winding around my waist.

We keep like that. He’s cooler and sweeter than I’d expected, and I feel like every movement of his is a hesitant, unsure motions. Our noses brush, and our mouths don’t exactly fit like building blocks at first, but when I finally steady my hands onto his chest, he relinquishes all his built up tightness and kisses me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever held.

I easily get lost in the moment, taking no time to worry about the consequences while we let this go on.

He’s much smarter than me, as per-usual, and stops us once I take a tiny step forward.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he murmurs against my open lips. I can’t open my eyes. The spinning of the room will make me want to puke.

“I’m pretty damn well sure that I’m kissing you,” I whisper, head dropping slowly and settling against his forehead. I try to will for the touch to give him back to me, but he doesn’t give up whatever it is stopping him.

“Are you really sure you want to be doing that?”

That’s what I break with, a hand racing up and curling into the bottom of his hair. “I’m mostly confident,” I mumble dumbly, pulling him back in.

He takes a second longer to respond, kissing me back carefully. I feel like I’m unreal, and if he jostles me too hard, I’ll disappear.

My hands curl around his jacket, starting to peel it off his shoulders before he stops me, head shaking and mouth pulling away.

“You’re making a mistake,” he says quietly, making me really open my eyes. He’s going on like he’s pleading with me, swallowing back anything that would get me to stay. “You’ve been drinking, and you’re clearly straight.”

I shrug at the last part. At this point, who knows if I actually am.

Baz scoffs, brows knitting together as it turns to a disgusted sound. There he goes again, closing himself away right before my very eyes. I back up towards my door, frowning and raising my hands up as his arms drop from my sides. Taking another step, I make it very clear that I don’t want him to step closer.

My throat goes tight. My vision spins then shuffles from dark to light. It isn’t the alcohol--it’s the anger. It builds up, making my hands shake and head weave a bit as I mumble an unclear “Fuck you”.

He does nothing to stop me, staring forward with his hands dangling at his sides. It makes it worse, my stomach churning as I fumble and reach for my doorknob, slamming myself inside without another word.

I don’t know how I’m feeling anymore. Am I sobering up on rage? Am I too drunk to actually know what just happened?

My first move is to sit, and then to lay. Then to bite a pillow, fully clothed and fighting off any other reaction including crying, because the walls are surely too thin and Baz doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing I’m crying over his rejection. Fuck it, he isn’t even worth the tears I’d cry nonetheless.

I all culminates to me, breaking, breath sputtering out and making my chest ache until I’m finally asleep.

I wake up mildly hungover, in the clothes I went out in, and missing the feeling of his lips against mine.

In desperate efforts, I step out of my room. I’m disheveled, broken, and ready to be used by a man who already pushed me away before. But instead of my hopeful ending, I step out to an empty flat. His bedroom door hangs open, the bathroom’s silent, and nothing comes from the kitchen and living room. Not even a note.

He’s left me.

[diningpageantry]

Moving In

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/44282941

Chapter 1/12 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 2289

Chapter Summary: Simon’s introduction to campus isn’t quite what he expected. Especially not the roommate...

I see the gates before I see anything else. The heavy wrought iron pillars, hanging open in the centre of the long traveling brick walls.

Of course, there's a flashy, decorative, wood-carved sign settled into the stone, reading the school's name in a fine, spindly cursive. Watford Academy. Freshly painted in mustard and maroon, it stands out proudly from the old greyed brown stone.

I'm not far in before I'm stopped at what seems like a moat, blocked off by vehicle security. I lean out, giving my name before I'm let in with a wave.

“There it is," I whisper to myself, turning the wheel as I follow the winding path down campus. It really is gorgeous; bright green and lively, yet so ready for the season to turn. Given it's only a week before the fall semester begins, it's clear that the fading summer is still being clung to by students and faculty alike.

Manicured gardens, people wearing shorts. It's all reminiscent of warmer days.

I somewhat feel out of place now, given my choice of outfit. I'd worn my everyday best--button down, blazer, and corduroys, but looking around, it seems like even teachers have opted for the jeans and a light shirt look. Now I just seem like an arse.

As I slowly drive closer to the main grounds, I see signs guiding me around to the office, and finally to the main building. Even the lot seems stuffy--cobblestone is a nightmare to drive on. Maybe that's why rich bastards like to keep it.

Stepping inside, I'm hit with the aging scent of dust and antiques. At the desk sits a wound up secretary, typing away at her keys and even before I reach the table, she's eyeing me up and standing. “Mr. Snow?”

“Uh,” I say (brilliantly). “Yes, that's me.”

She seems unamused, as she probably should be, and waves me back with her towards what I assume is the Dean's office. We go through three sets of doors, turning down corridors that I definitely won't remember before stopping off outside a room as she's presenting me with yet another secretary. He looks up, then towards the woman who brought me, nodding at her as he looks back. “Go on in, Mr. Snow. He's been expecting you.”

I can't help but feel like I'm 15 again, going to the headmaster's office after punching another student. It's awfully grim to hear yourself called into an office, regardless of what reason.

I open the door slowly, peeking inside and seeing the dean sitting upright. He scribbles something down, looking from his computer monitor before nodding his head towards me. “Ah, come in,” he says, pulling himself away from his work. I'm a bit shocked at first, watching him approach me and offer his hand. He's quite a zealous grip.

“My apologies if I'm a minute or two late…”

“Nonsense.” He seems quite charming, yet I can't help but be distracted by his green suit. “Why don't we take this outside? I've been cooped up all day.”

More walking? Brilliant.

I'm compliant, nonetheless. I follow along as he brushes past all the doors I'd walked through and out onto the large stretch of the lively grounds. “Did you have a chance to visit campus before today?” He begins as we stroll, the occasional person waving at him in passing.

“No sir, I haven't.”

“Don't call me sir. David works just fine.”

Dean David. I acknowledge him with a nod, eyes following the curve of the sidewalk as we head around a building.

“Right, well, since you're new, you should get well acquainted with the land. It's valuable to respect the age of the buildings while also seeing our times change here. New technology, old feeling.”

Ah yes, the classic gimmick speech. It's almost like a selling to the school, despite the fact that I already accepted the job. Although, granted, it is a lovely school. State of the art facilities, well regarded educators, and now, I suppose, it's got me (I really wouldn't consider myself something to brag over, though). What I do get a tad over excited over is the housing.

“Where will I be staying?” I slip casually into conversation, noticing a group of students spill out of what seems to be the library. The dean turns to me, his hands behind his back.

“Right. About that. You, of course, are housed under us, as you chose to be, but we're having a bit of a shortage on single adult living arrangements. You will still get an individual bedroom, but the living space, kitchen, and bath will be shared with another on-campus faculty member.”

Oh.

“That's no problem,” I lie, forcing a dismissive smile. I've shared plenty of flats in my life, but it'd be a lie to say I'd be thrilled to share another. “Are the arrangements already made?”

“Yes, yes. There's a teacher roughly your age that was housed alone in a two-room flat, so you'll be with him. It is, though, on the bottom floor of the main dorms building, so the pre-agreed responsibilities remain.”

Ah yes, the first aide knowledge and practically going back to being an RA. Still, I'm willing to live like that if it means I can have a place to stay.

“Lovely. That works out fine.” I give him yet another smile, punching myself internally. Lovely. I will absolutely adore this.

We speak briefly about my position, finding ourselves back at the main building before he shows me up to the guidance office. It's small and dark, and there seems to be only one other counselor. “Your office will be in here. Feel free to personalize it, just make it appropriate.” He opens the door, revealing a private room. There's an older leather couch, shelved walls, and a desk set up with a computer. It's plain. It's stuffy. It's boring.

“This is perfect.” I should join a lying Olympics. “Thank you for the tour.”

“Of course!” He clasps a hand on my shoulder, making me recoil instantaneously. “I'm glad to know my students will have a second social worker to rely on this year.”

Ah. Great. One of two.

I thank him again, nodding to him as he walks off before letting my shoulders sag. Relenting to the realization that I have no other choice in office, I flick on my light. It's old, and it  hums like it hasn't been checked since the 1960s. In fact, my whole office doesn't look like it's been of use since Monroe died. Well, all but the computer, but by the looks of that, they put that in no more than a month ago.

I step inside, inhaling the masked hints of mildew. The only natural light comes from the small window side window, overlooking the grounds below me.

Everything's too posh--too constrictive. I've never done well with rigidity, even after all those years with Aggie's family.

I think of them briefly, hand running over my mobile as it sits in my pocket and stays as silent as always. There's no reason for her to text me, or really me to text her, but there's the settling ache of the break up still wearing tight in my throat. I don't think she'd like it here. She'd turn her nose up and say something about the ancient feeling of it all, then question why I took the job.

In all honesty, I wonder why I took it, too. I spent so long fighting a uniform and regular schedule that this might as well be my worst nightmare.

Or maybe that's why I took it.

I don't have to be the same Simon Snow out here. I don't have to sit with kids, telling them I was in their shoes while reliving house-jumping and couch surfing. I don't have to scrape together pennies for dinner. Fuck it, I don't know if I have to scrape together anything, after this. Solid salary, only a small cut for housing and meals. A steal, dare I call it. I can save up for years, then fuck off after I'm tired of posh arseholes telling me their father's sending them off to a nice London school, even with shit grades.

I look around, swiping my hand over my desk as I sigh.

It's only a few years.

I turn off the headache inducing light, reminding myself to buy a lamp to replace it as I find my way back downstairs. As I'm gripping the front door's handle, I hesitate, then ask the secretary where the dorm building I'm housed in is. She looks at me, the bored glaze over her eyes still holding as she tells me where to go. I try not to get overwhelmed (and fail quickly) as I hop back into my car and follow her directions. Eventually, though, I see it.

The lot's across the street, and I've got too many boxes for one trip, so I stick to the lightest two and my bag for the moment being.

Room 106. Room 106. Room 10… aha. Room 106. There's a small slotted identifier outside the room, reading who's inside, as well as a little drop down note.

Professor Pitch

Any and all funny business is taken seriously. Do not approach unless serious matters must be attended to.

It's in a scribbled longhand, unlike the professionally engraved name placard. Makes me wonder what sort of bloke this Professor Pitch is.

I don't have to wonder much longer, because he's opening the door before I even get to knock, staring down at me.

I say staring down lightly, although usually I don't get stared down at. I'm nowhere close to towering, but I'm not particularly the shortest one of the group either. Yet, he's got a good few inches over me, making him probably a few over 6 foot.

“Hi,” I start, a little stunned as his eyes drag over me. I don't think I've ever met anyone as judgmental as he seems to be. Sharp, studying eyes and dark brows knit. He's got the slickness and lanky stature comparable of a fox and a skin of warm brown. He reminds me of every speech teacher that belittled me through primary school.

He sneers in response, letting go of the door as his arms cross. The button down he's got on pulls a bit at his elbows, but his trousers seem perfectly fit. Like they're tailored, or some other posh crap. “You must be Mr. Snow,” he begins, voice spitting out in a tight, aristocratic hum. “I'm unimpressed, to say the least.”

I nearly choke up at that alone, jaw falling open at him.

I scratch everything I'd thought about this campus being livable. If there's an epitome of living in your posh, little bubble, this dick take the bloody crown. “I…”

He steps aside, eyes rolling as his arms pull closer into his chest. “Don't touch anything,” he hisses, ”just put your shit in your room. We can figure out arrangements at another time. I'd rather not bore myself with that now, given I have lesson plans to attend to.”

My eyes follow him in, but my body doesn't. Not for a few seconds, anyway, until I can manage to pull myself forward and inside.

It's minimalistic, to say the least. The lack of all but one window really doesn't help with the entire stuffy vibe of the room. It's a cross between modern and classic goth. Neo-gothic? Sleek vampire?

I dare a quick look back at him, swallowing as I nod my head towards the hallway. “Which, uh… which one's mine?”

“Closest on your left,” he says, borderline emotionless as he closes the front door behind us.

With that, I'm inside. It's not terrible, just… blank.

I try to avoid him on my few trips back and forth to my car, emptying the boxes into my compact bedroom space.

In moments like these, I think of what Ebb would've told me. “Sit back on the bed, close your eyes, and count ten things that make it worse. Then count the things that don't make you sad right now. There's never fully bad and fully good. Grey is grey.”

My eyes open slowly, scanning over my books as I exhale

Every building feels stuffy. I'm somehow back to the uni-life with a God-forsaken roommate. It's a decent hike to the nearest city. I miss having someone to talk to. My office feels like it's a broom closet. I'm hungry. I'm extremely out of place here. This bed doesn't feel incredibly comfortable. I don't know the wifi yet. I really wish I had someone to call right now.

There. 10 shitty things.

My attention trails out to my window as I think, watching the sun set into a purple-ish orange and filtering into my room. It scatters onto the hardwood floors and up my white sheets, making my skin nearly golden in the light. I smile at my hands, even though it's just for a second.

The campus is gorgeous. I don't have to worry about the majority of my meals. I didn't have too much shit to carry. I can start fresh. The season is lovely right now. I'm warm and safe. I have a roof over my head and a bedroom to myself. I have a stable job. I'm not held down by an uncomfortable relationship anymore…

I stop for the 10th, thinking it over for a while before it hits me.

I have a bag of crisps in my bag. There's the 10th.

I grab it out, pulling it open and happily shoving a mouthful in as I watch the sun sink further towards the earth.

Well, it can only get better from here.

[diningpageantry]

Contact

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/45342436

Chapter 8/13 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 1868

Chapter Summary: Simon thinks he'll spend winter break alone--thinks being the operative word.

xxxxxxxxxx

I wake up in his bed. Bags gone, room cleared out, and sheets beside me empty. My button down’s undone, and I’m in my boxers. My lips still buzz like they’ve been kissed only moments ago. Something in it feels empty, while something else in it feels full.

We didn’t say much last night. There wasn’t really much we could say. He’s not really one for saying sorry (clearly), and I’m not one to speak. So, instead, we just kissed then slept. Nothing more, nothing less. I told him, towards the end of the night, that I’d miss him. He held my knuckles to his lips, kissing them before telling me he’d try not to miss me too hard back. When I asked him why, he said it was because he didn’t want to grow me into something I’m not in his imagination.

Makes me wonder if I want him to be more than he is.

Even now, I’m running my hand over the empty spot where he’d been. The creases in the sheets and the dent his head left against the pillowcase.

It makes it a hard day. One of many that I’ll go through, trying not to make Baz Pitch larger than life (as if he isn’t already a charactercher of himself). I get through it, though. Despite the odd, ache of missing of his sounds. No creaking in the hall, no soft singing in the shower, heard from across the flat. Instead, I eat. I sit around. I do mindless paperwork. I watch Netflix.

And, shamefully, I start to fall asleep on the couch. Not even because I’m exhausted, or because I’m already slumping, but because it feels odd to be in one of those beds alone now, not anticipating Baz to be around. It’s empty. Cold.

So, I keep the telly on, and let that dull me down to a restful sleep.

That is, until there’s a soft scraping of keys around 1 in the morning, jolting me awake as the hallway light shines through and Baz stands in the doorway, bags in hand.

At first, I’m a bit too groggy to comprehend what’s going on.

There’s those lucid dreams that people talk about. Figures around them, vividly morphing to life, feeling so real then suddenly, it’s all gone. The reality around you warps, then poof. Disappears.

That’s what I expect with Baz. From the couch, he looks twice his usual height, and not to mention he’s entirely shadows.

“Baz?” I push myself up, body aching as if I’d only been napping. He’s a disorienting mess to me. I can’t even see straight, and here he is, walking in some god-forsaken direction. Although, it seems like it’s probably forward, due to the closing of the door moments after.

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

I shrug, holding my blanket. What does he want me to say? Something romantic?

He sighs, and I can tell he’s exhausted. It sounds short and frustrated, and I can’t quite tell if he’s going to do anything but stand there. That is, until he finally does start moving about. To my surprise, he’s coming right at me and offering a hand. I look at it as the telly’s colours dance over it by spreading greens and blues over his outstretched knuckles, shadowed into stark darkness.

“What’s that for?” I mumble.

“You, dumbass.”

I frown (pout, more like), staring at it and shifting. “What’d’you want me to do with it?”

I look up as he huffs, head tipping backwards and staying there as he whispers something so quiet that I can’t quite properly hear him. Then he snaps his head back forward, raising his eyebrows and exhibiting something I thought he wasn’t humanly capable of--patience.

“Take it so I can help you to bed.”

Oh.

My own hand reaches out, lacing around his fingers. My body feels loose and gelatinous, giving me a good shake when he pulls me upright and standing. I wobble a bit, then fall into him--right into his chest. A second passes before his arms hesitantly close around me, encasing me into him and letting me exhale.

“Why’d you come back?” I whisper, finally hitting back into reality.

His neck is cold against my cheek, and I can feel it bob with his swallow. In fact, most of him is cold, even down to the hands on my back. All except his breath, which is warm and smells vaguely of coffee.

For once, he doesn’t answer. I wait for it, and I wait for what feels like forever, but he’s uncharacteristically silent.

There’s a natural feeling to prod bubbling up inside of my chest, but the steadiness of his body against mine isn’t something I’m going to risk an argument over. Instead, in my efforts to avoid whatever supernova bomb I'd set off inside of me in efforts to get him to open up just a tad, I stay silent. His shirt smells of the slightly toasty scent of a clothing iron. His hands are still cold.

Pulling back, I draw them forward and close my own hands around them. “Come on then. You’re freezing.”

“When aren’t I?”

“You should see a doctor.”

He lets himself smile for once, eyes closing. “Rather be dead first.” His voice is husky and rough, like sandpaper on my ears and barely even audible over the humming noise of the television.

“I’d rather you not be,” I whisper, looking up at the streaking blue outlines of his face. Maybe I should be glad that it’s hard to tell what he’s looking like, or else I wouldn’t be able to keep myself together.

His head tips back a little, letting the light shine more over him. I get an eyeful of him trying not to express, but rather repress.

As his head drops back, chunks of hair fall into his face. “We should both be in bed.”

“Whose bed?”

“Who said anything about sharing a bed again?”

“I did,” I say boldly, raising both eyebrows at him.

I know I’m fully shadowed, but he can probably see at least part of my smugness staring up at him while I'm waiting for a proper response. Although, the silence lasts a good minute, breaking when he exhales and leans in for a kiss to my forehead that’s so brief that it feels ghostly. “Whose bed then?”

I shrug, stepping towards the hallway regardless of the answer and dragging him behind. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

“Mine?”

“Works,” I hum, letting go of his hand once we're at his room. He practically collapses onto the bed, still fully dressed and yet too exhausted to care.

In a moment of weakness, I find myself caring. Caring enough to sit beside him and ghost a hand up his chest.

Even though we did this the night before, it feels foreign. Like it’s new territory that hasn’t yet been properly mapped. And still, despite my reservations, Baz’s hand comes up to meet my knuckles. He traces the sloping dips as his head falls aside, facing the wall beside us. It takes him a moment's hesitation before he guides me down, letting me undo his over-shirt and trousers until he’s laying in a tee and boxers. Still facing elsewhere.

My fingertips catch his chin, tilting it towards me as he disobediently shuts his eyes. I grin, nonetheless, and kiss the lids of them before kissing his lips.

We stay for the moment, his lips lazily pressing up towards mine in the extended peck before his fingers close around my knuckles. I take it as a sign and scoot up to him, nose pressing pressing to his neck.

This is where we’ll lie. This is where 26 years of me dies--the rebirth to continue breathing into a 26 year old body.

One that works the same, and feels the same feelings, and speaks the same voice, but has a striking, lightning bolt-hitting realization that I am, in fact, attracted to a man in any possible way. And while I don’t know how closely he feels in relation, I can only hope that he has some resemblance of a commitment to what we’re doing beyond this current physical contact.

As in, will this bastard ever care about me in the way that I (uncontrollably and sadly) feel about him?

Here’s out restraints. Bed sheets, creaky windows, and the chill of his skin settled against me. The presence of my now compromised sexuality. The knowledge of his.

The way he tries not to keep his eyes on me, and the way I try to keep my hands off him.

Our hallway.

Our living room.

Our kitchen.

The outside halls, in inside one. The places where neither of us want to speak, and neither of us want to keep from either. This bed.

My fingertips ghost over the tight dip of his cheek, eyes forcing themselves open to get a good look at him. He, with eyes shut and mouth open, smooths out into an unrecognizable, marble statue. Just one that breathes, on occasion and so fluidly that I wonder how few seconds ago he passed out.

I stare. I drink it in, wondering what’ll be of this once I somehow convince him to speak to me like people should talk to one another (clearly a rare occurrence).

The lashes on his cheek are still long and dark.

The hair on his head is, too.

At a touch, it’s as thin as it was last night. Unsurprisingly. Yet now it holds a different value. It falls between my fingers, catching where my skin skips in and out of my fingers. It laces around, then falls down my palm before laying flat and open onto my moon-washed hand.

I’m careful to pull back, letting myself watch the turn of his head towards the ceiling and following the outline of his profile. A long, sharp nose. It arches just near the top, and juts forward at the bottom. His forehead had softened and now rests, relaxed and keeping the aristocratic brow without all the wrinkles of a tautly pulled expression.

He, in himself, is a Wilde-like beauty.

Of course I’m never telling him that. It’d inflate his ego too much, and he probably would laugh if he knew that I’d even contemplate writing poetry about his face.

In all fairness, his face does deserve it.

I can even joke that he’s so beautiful, his face turns straight men gay. (At least, I think I make a convincing case for that).

That’s what it seems like he’s done, but I don’t feel “turned” in any way. Well, maybe except turned-on, on occasion, but nothing dramatic. Nothing like when they say a vampire bites your neck, there’s like a weird flash and poof--you’re a vampire.

All that happened when he bit my neck was a hickey.

Is the vampirism an offset of that? Do I wait for that to settle in? When do the blood cravings begin?

The only craving I got me wanting to snog his face off.

Something in that is new, and something in it isn’t.

The snogging? Is. The feeling? Isn’t.

Frustrating? Yes. Upsetting? No.

Definitely not.

Let’s just hope he likes it this way.

[diningpageantry]

Dances

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/44712844

Chapter 3/12 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 2019

Chapter Summary: School events dig up old scars for both Simon and Baz alike.

The room reeks of fresh linoleum flooring and teenage cologne. It's bright--the lights fade in and out of aggressive tints of pinks and blues and greens. I don't know what else to expect from a school dance.

Granted, it's the first one I've ever been to, so I didn't plan on expecting much, anyway. Still, clearly not the greatest time, nor the greatest company, either.

I tried to protest my co-chaperone. Begged Penny to do it, or to help me find someone who's willing (since I still know next to no-one), but everyone's reaction was the same.

“Why the hell would I want to chaperone with Basilton?”

Which is, roughly, the same reason I've been trying desperately to get out of it. It isn't that I don't want to be at the dance, it's the concept that I'm stuck beside this prick all night.

In actuality, he doesn't need to be exactly beside me, just in eyesight. Currently, we're leaned up against the back wall, separated only by the snack table (which I keep bombarding every time I feel). He's well dressed--purple patterned blazer with a cream button up and the same coloured deep purple slacks. He must've polished his shoes, because they're shining with every flash of the changing lights.

I feel a bit dull next to him. I had a black button down tucked back in my dresser, and decent black trousers, so I somehow managed to find an outfit that makes me stand out the absolute least while simultaneously making me look like a waiter.

He doesn't look at me--or at least, I don't see him looking at me. The darkness of the room makes it difficult to see anything, and even though I can swear I feel his eyes on me, every time I look at him his eyes are forward. It's unnerving.

I can't do this cold silence of his anymore. I can't keep staring at him, hoping he'll talk. It’s driving me off the deep end.

My head lazily turns forward, focusing on the clustered dancing groups of students and their guests alike. They spin and laugh together, enjoying one of their few dances of the year.

I let myself breathe, thinking over each word before they start spilling from my lips. “You know,” I begin, steadying my attention on the elevated stage on which the DJ is set up. “I've never been to a proper dance before. Not like this.”

There it is again--the feeling of his attention on me. This time, I don't dare to check, fearing it'll drive him away. Honestly, I'm too scared to keep talking unless he does first.

The thump of the new age pop music drowns us both into a suppressed silence until he manages our a brief answer.

“Any particular reason?”

I couldn't be more relaxed by his voice.

“Well, I'd only been dating one girl through most of my teen years and into uni,” I start, pushing up my sleeves absentmindedly. “Agatha, or Aggie. I didn't have much else close friend-wise, besides her. Though, saying that out loud is a bit sad now. Anyway, the issue was, though, that she didn't like big public displays, you know?”

I dare a glance at him, and catch him staring back, eyes unwavering. It sets me off track for a second, catching the steadiness of his gaze with mine for an extended second momentarily. I turn back forward, adjusting my shoulders. “She liked the dresses and all the glitz--after all, her family is pretty damn well off--but she never liked us being us in public. Especially not school dances.

“I, on the other hand, didn't have that money. I knew I could borrow her dad's suit, and I always did for holiday events, but it made me feel too vulnerable to go out to a dance. As if everyone else knew it wasn't my jacket, because you can't hide that there. At the Christmas bullshit, you could blend me in, but in a place where everyone knew me? Felt like a joke.”

He goes silent for a long minute, head turning away from me and onto the spot I'm trained to in the crowd.

When he doesn't immediately answer, I get a bit scared, and start rambling more. “Aggie wasn't terrible. She and I just weren't right, you know? I was just with her for so long that. I don't know, I guess I wanted her to be right? I'd tried and tried towards the end, but it was dying. Or, I don't know, it'd been dead? I don't know if it was ever there. She’s just so pretty, and I thought ‘There she is. The ideal’, you know?”

“Stop rambling about your heterosexuality, Snow. It's unappealing.”

This time, I use the silence to stare at him, following the bobbing of his neck as he swallows. He stares off, seeming unaffected but shockingly harmful. I let it drop, my throat feeling tight as I watch over him.

It feels like an eternity that he just stares, spacing off into the crowd.

At first, I feel like he's going to tell me off, like he usually does. I don't know why he's so bitter--my old therapist would probably say some shit about coping, but I doubt that. Most posh boys cope over dumb shit, like daddy stealing their cigs.

He's got the look of someone with a “Woe is me” attitude. I wish I could shake it off him--jolt him into a new person.

Shaking him is wrong, though. And so is what I'm thinking, probably, but my shaking-thoughts are a solid distraction for other thoughts trying to occupy my mind. Thoughts like how the glittering lights catch the sharp greys of his eyes, or how lovely the falling shadows on his young face frame him in such a picturesque way.

He seems to have the mind of someone twenty years his senior, but the body of a man in his mid-20s. I wonder how all of his thoughts are carried--chaos of a young adult, or filed away like the proper Englishman he was seemingly raised to be.

It makes me feel sick, knowing how gorgeous he is. Unfair. It's unfair how pretty this man is. I want to clench my fists and pound them down on the table, asking why bitter people get model bodies and faces.

He's so stunning that even in the slow drop of his jaw, he remains flawless.

Wetting his lips, he goes to speak, not leaving his forward gaze. “I've never been to one either.” His voice comes out slow--rhythmic. Like a growing tune, built up from his long time's hesitation. “I wish I could say I have, but I haven't.”

“Why?” I ask a bit unnervingly quickly, studying his expression. It doesn't drop, or drag up to the usual sneer. Rather, it's keeping its stone-cold composure.

“I went to a posh all boys boarding school growing up, like this. My father sent me off to be out of his hair--happened every year since I was eleven. There was this dance for the older students that I'd dreamt of for years. The outfit, the hair, the dance, even. I thought it'd be the shining moment of my schooling. My grandiose exit, if I may.

“Except the school had different presumptions over my attendance, for when I went to buy my ticket, they stopped me and told me no same sex couples. I tried to take it up with anybody who would listen--I wasn't going with a date, after all, but with friends. Still, they stopped me from getting in. Said they had the authority to stop me, and, of course, they won. I never even got a glance in.”

I'm left in a state of shock, blinking as he nonchalantly goes over the event. Even as he finishes, adjusting the cuffs of his blazer, he seems completely unphased by it.

I now worry that his steadiness is a mask, pushing back old angers.

“I'm sorry,” I offer, wondering whether or not I'm the first person who'd ever apologized for it. “I hadn't… I'm… shit that's… I'm sorry, Basilton--”

His hand raises to stop me, and I get a good look at it. He's wearing a thick silver band around his middle finger, and a tinier silver band around his pinkie. Not a usual look for him, but it definitely suits him. Makes him more dramatic than usual.

His palm dances pink in the light, falling into the harsh shadow we're contrasted in. Somehow, it all feels grey.

He doesn't say another word. Just stops me and stares off, mind miles away from us. He has to be a borderline genius somewhere in there, given the sharp tongue, but the question as to where is relevant. Where is he when he doesn’t speak?

Not here, apparently. I wonder if, perhaps, it's out on the dance floor with all the students. It's swaying and laughing--having the time of its life. Just far away from us here.

I hold my hand back, only reaching between us to occasionally grab a handful of pretzels on occasion. He seemingly doesn't take notice, spacing off and staring out into the crowd.

Once the event wraps up and the students clear out, we both quietly thank the custodians before starting the walk back to the dorms. It isn't a long walk, and thankfully the sidewalk is relatively wide--just wide enough that we have a foot in distance between us. It's not a bad night. There’s the dullest shine on the pavement, remnants of the day's long rain. In fact, everything's got that early-fall coating. Even the air has a crispness to it, despite the waterlogged piles of decaying leaves.

I try to look at him, hoping he's enjoying the moment as well, but he's still flattened in expression. Cold. Still.

Even as I unlock the front door, struggling slightly with the keys (and the old, fussy locks), he's completely blank. All except for the seemingly natural downturn of his lips.

He steps in before me, and I pause, watching him walk halfway into the living room before clearing my throat. “Hey, uh,” I start, fiddling with the keys in my hand. He stops, too, and turns on his heel. He's got a good few inches to stare down from, but I'm not afraid to look up to speak. Not after what he said earlier.

“I'm really sorry you never had the opportunity to go to a dance. I sound like a bit of a dick, since I just didn't take my open chance to. You… you should've been able to. I'm sorry.”

He stares down at me for what feels like a minute, eyes traveling in the slightest as he takes his time, looking over me. Looking into me, it feels. I'm trying to be vulnerable, goddammit, and it's like he's just waiting for me to add more.

I might as well ended with calling him a cock, because that's normal. That's what we've become. A bitter spat--a back and forth. Like the shittiest married couple on the face of the earth.

I worry I may've spooked him now, since his face contorts to its usual mockery, going for the low blow. He's all set up for it now--a dark flat, the only light coming from the window and the open door. It's like his cave built to fucking haunt me.

He sort if looks like a vampire. Creature of the night bullshit, and all. Maybe I'll call him Dracula--or Vlad the Impaler (is that homophobic? I don't think so--I don't know? Anyone can impale. That’s equality.)

His hair falls into his face as he stands more upright, adjusting his jacket. You'd think it makes him more human, but it makes him look darker--brooding. Helps with the vampy aesthetic.

His lips part, and I brace for impact before he melts down slightly, shoulders slumping as he exhales. Part of me wonders if he's about to throw my for a loop, until he starts speaking softer than he ever has before. “You should have gotten a chance to have your dance, too.”

[diningpageantry]

Meetings

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/44808160

Chapter 4/12 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 2046

Chapter Summary: GSA Meetings, nostalgia, and Simon barely being able to hold a conversation.

Mr. Pitch's classroom is much nicer than I was expecting.

Granted, I'd anticipated very little more than blank walls and maybe a cursive guide on the board (I fully acknowledge these are nearly adults that he's teaching, but he seems to be the sort of bloke to do something that condescending). Instead, I was pleasantly greeted with an essential oil diffuser running, posters of fine art from galleries, and quoted texts from famous literature scattered about.

I'd assumed he was a bit of a nerd, given he teaches Queer Lit, but I hadn't nearly imagined that he'd have a miniature Oscar Wilde bust on his desk. Bold.

He doesn't take much notice of me when I step in, despite the fact that I'd knocked. He simply sends a brief glance my way before proceeding with his set up. I don't let it discourage me enough to not set myself up in the back regardless to his distaste.

He has a grand windowsill, jutting out and shining warmly over his muted mahogany room. I get myself comfortable there, leaning my back against the warmed glass as my shadow casts long and thin across the room. While he works, I get myself situated. Laptop, extra notepad, and a single black ink pen. At the top of the page, I scrawl down quick information in a tight, scribbled note.

GSA Meeting - 23rd of October

“Why'd you wish to come?” Mr. Pitch's voice echoes clearly throughout the room, making me jump a bit in my seat as I'm pulled to his attention. Maybe that's his trick in being strict teacher--he's unavoidable.

I click my pen a few times, to his disgust (I know he hates it), and shrug in response. He responds in an equally annoying manner.

“Oh pray tell your ever-so important thoughts, Snow.”

I shrug again, opening my laptop and logging in as I speak. “I just want to be able to understand and connect with my students better--all of my students. I can't trust that they will feel comfortable coming to me with anything if they don't know whether or not I support them, and of course I do.” Wrapping up my sentence, I lift my head and see him across the room, standing at his whiteboard with Expo in hand. He looks almost golden in the sinking orange daylight.

His face is unreadable. It might be the distance, or it just might be how unreliable he is, but he's got such a bitterness to him regardless to the situation. What I can tell is he's turned his nose upwards in a disheartening snooty gesture. Is there a superiority complex in being already “woke”? How does “woke” even go? Do I have to “wake” myself up?

“Yes, well,” he begins, turning his back towards me as he starts dragging out a dramatic Welcome Back onto the board. “Stay out of the way, then.”

Wow. Okay. “Of course.” Dickhead.

I watch him from behind, paying attention to the tight pull at his shirt as he reaches, writing with unfair grace. He's got the penmanship of a proper gentleman, with long, elegant lines and soft swirling edges. Seems like there's some artsy spirit hidden behind his uptight attitude (fuck it, who knows how much of a personality he actually has)

He keeps at a distance, preparing print outs and papers--stacks of name tags, pens to fill them out, and optional buttons that read pronouns. He pops one onto his lanyard, a small one reading, “My pronouns are: HE/HIM”.

I use it as an opportunity. “Can I have one of those?” I ask, gesturing towards them. “I'm uh… I'm a ‘he’, I suppose. Is that how you say that?”

He looks quite bored as he delivers it, fingertips brushing mine as he passes it over. It inadvertently makes me blush. I believe it's the first time we've ever touched skin-to-skin…

“You'd introduce yourself with your pronouns,” he says borderline condescendingly, raising a brow towards me as if to mock my little knowledge (which feels unfair, given I'm trying to learn). “Such as ‘Hello, I'm Basilton, and my pronouns are he and him’.”

“Oh.” I pop the pin onto my jumper, watching it gleam in the light. “Well, then my pronouns are also he and him.”

As I'm looking back up at him, head maybe chest level, two students step in, bags over their shoulders as they stare at us. I turn away slightly, yet take notice that Mr. Pitch is still standing right in front of me, staring down onto my head as I wave.

The students share a quick glance at one another before approaching. As they grow closer, I take note of who they are. One's a bit taller, and has shoulder length grown-in fuchsia hair parted in the middle, as well as black nail polish and black smudged eyeliner. The other one, the shorter one, is a bit more clean cut. Undercut with dark brown hair, and big, round glasses that take up most of their face.

“Hello,” I start with extending my hand. “I'm Mr. Snow, I'm the new guidance counselor, and I'll be sitting in today to just observe and learn.”

They exchange another glance between each other, wordlessly making quick expressions before both swiveling towards Mr. Pitch. He doesn't move much, except turn his head to them. They all look at one another, clearly staring unreadable thoughts that only the three of them seem to understand (or maybe I actually am clueless). What I do understand, despite my own confusion, is it leaves the two students snickering as Basilton just frowns.

“Hello,” the shorter one starts, enthusiastically gripping my hand. “I'm Ambrose, I go by he and him.”

I nod at him, and go to shake the other student's hand.

“Sam. They/them. We're the co-presidents.”

I nod again and smile, folding my hands on my lap. “Thank you both so much. I know it's a bit odd, but I promised I'd keep quiet.” I send a quick glance at Mr. Pitch, which makes the kids laugh a bit again. I could swear I Basilton's his cheeks get pink.

I would ask him why they're all acting so strange, but he's already giving both of them pointed looks before they both roll their eyes and go off to set themselves up. It isn't long before the first few members start trickling in, slowly filling up the room. They all sit in a hum of continuous chatter until the hour chimes.

Mr. Pitch starts it all off, giving an introduction of himself and the club before entirely letting the presidents take over. I jot quick notes that follow, remarking on the flow of it and what they're teaching generally, followed by the setup of the workshop they had planned.

It's a brief one--a gender identity and gender expression workshop. I listen intently, copying the graphic for myself into my notebook.

Nearly halfway through, I take notice that Basilton is slowly sneaking his way back, standing now beside me and subtly looking my way. “Are you getting anything out of it so far?” It sounds so condescending. As if I wouldn't understand or relate in any way regardless of my own identity.

“I'm quite enjoying this,” I whisper softly, lips turning up into a smile, even though he himself is giving such a bitter attitude. “I'm learning a good bit.”

I watch his slow movements, bending slightly forward to get a good look at my notes. He stands silent and statuesque, eyes studying my pages as he leans further down for a look. Something about it makes me hold my breath, eyeing over down his body.

He's got an odd way of approaching. Hawk-like and akin to an arachnid, all at once. The surveyor of the land, I suppose. Nobody's probably ever taken to calling him something sweet, like a sheep.

Eventually, he tires himself, standing back upright and sneering at me before stalking off.

It resonates in such an odd, heavy way. An unfairness to it--it makes me bitter. He gets to be a prick to me, and I have no line of defense. No way to complain about the shit he pulls, no matter how small it is. It always just feels like primary school taunting, brought up into adulthood.

It's sad, because I wonder where his life is. Then I realize that this is it. I wonder if he's happy here, because he doesn't seem like a happy person period.

The students work fabulously, discussing the topics at length and filling out paperwork while interacting. Soon enough, I'm filling up a page of quickly written notes, looking around on occasion to take it all in.

Once they wrap up, all the students (except the presidents) pack up their belongings and head off, leaving papers and stickers here and there throughout. I instinctively jump up, going to help tidy up. Both presidents look at me, give me a smile, then look towards Mr. Pitch.

He, as always, looks bitter.

The presidents run off to do whatever they need to get done for dinner, leaving Basilton and I alone in the room. He doesn't pay much attention to me--not until I speak.

“You have quite a lovely classroom,” I say aloud, eyes focused on my moving hands as they collect the scattered markers. “Really. A great room.”

I don't know if he can see me smiling, but I am. A timid, little smile as I settle the markers into the bin they'd started in. In fact, he doesn't even respond before I start speaking again--this time, barely thinking.

“I wish I had this sort of experience when I was young, you know?” It doesn't quite process well the moment I say it, squinting and frowning as I think through the words. He doesn't seem to know what to think of it either, because I'm looking at him like a deer in headlights. He's simply blinking, eyebrows raising again in his classic judgmental posture.

“I-I meant,” I start, going to backtrack. “I'd meant the classroom and all. Never really got all this.” I wave an arm around, then look down dismissively before going to collect my belongings.

I feel his eyes on my back, and I can't help but wondering if they're meant to be of disapproval of me or not.

I finish packing up my belongings before slinging them over my shoulder, glancing in his direction. His face doesn't seem half bitter for a split second, changing to a typical glare as my heart sinks.

“Yes. Well.” He adjusts his cuff sleeves, rolling his shoulders. “I suppose the help is appreciated, but you don't bring anything intellectually stimulating nor useful to me right now.”

“I-I-”

He cuts me off with a sharp upturn of his chin. “So I'd expect you to be leaving now, given I have work to do.”

I helplessly blink at him for a minute, trying to process his words as my hands unintentionally ball up into fists. He stands, unwavering as I glower in frustration. It takes me a second before collecting my thoughts and somewhat managing a less-than rude face. “Fine, yes. I have better things to do than waste time in here.” I tug my bag closer before stomping off, trying not to get terribly worked up as my feet pound against the wooden floors.

It feels like a blur before I'm in the flat--our flat. Our shared flat. The one I live in with that bastard.

Is it my fault for trying to express friendliness? Or his for being emotionally distant? It can't be all me, because I try. Yes, it wasn't all for him--why would it all be for him? Nonono. It was an olive branch that he broke. Not my fault--never my fault there.

Fuck it. I should be blaming him.

If he wasn't so atrociously unfriendly, then this would be a different story, but he's an absolute nightmare. No wonder he sits alone--no wonder nobody wants to be around him. He's a bitter prat with no sense of gratitude or remorse for his terrible personality. If I didn't have to deal with him, I'd feel better immediately.

Maybe I should do that.

Maybe I can get a room transfer, if I beg hard enough.

[diningpageantry]

Avoidant

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/45299905

Chapter 7/13 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 2153

Chapter Summary: Winter breaks comes up all too soon, and Simon has to decide whether or not to speak up or let their brief interaction die with time.

xxxxxxxxxx

These past seven days have been, perhaps, the worst sevens days I’ve ever experienced.

Emotionally draining doesn’t even begin to describe them. Emptied rooms, the sound of doors at dawn, and quick turning heads to avoid eye contact during breaks. I’m getting desperate. I stare, until Penny notices, and then I have to act like I hadn’t meant to look at him. I try to catch his hand, or grab his shirt--grab his attention. Something, somehow, to get him to see me. To get him to care.

I want to know why we can’t talk it through like the adults we are. It’s like playing cat and mouse with a grown man.

I kissed him. I know I kissed him, and I kissed him twice. No matter how he feels about it, we should at least talk about it and not live our lives like avoidant ghosts of what we were.

We were nearly friends (or, at least, anytime we drank). It was bearable. It was life.

It was what I wanted. Maybe I even wanted a little bit more.

Might’ve been my downfall that I never stopped to think what else I could’ve wanted. I just kissed him, and wished all the pieces would fall into place the moment his lips brushed mine, but it set us off like a time=bomb. I can’t even look at him for longer than a minute before it all blows up again.

There’s something deeper that I’m aching for--something that swells deep in my gut. A gnawing, hungry feeling, craving his hands on my skin, and I can’t figure it out that missing piece without him.

It’s been seven days since he’s been home when I could see him, and it could be another 20 before I get to again, if he doesn’t stop packing his bags.

A few moments ago, I was letting myself in. Unlocking the door, tossing aside my bag, hanging my jacket. Exhaling, at last, for it’s finally the start of a proper break.

But now I’m here, trying not to creak the wood as I step down the hallway, socked feet and empty hearted. I can hear him. The soft rustling sound of his suitcase, the occasional step against the floorboards below him. Only the basement lies beneath us, echoing into nothingness. He’s outlined, figure entirely darkened by the quickly falling light of late December. I stop there, outside the bathroom and adjacently his bedroom, mindlessly watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he folds a shirt to fit with the others.

I stay silent. Observant. Borderline obsessive. I know he doesn’t want me here, but I can’t help it. It’s the first time I’ve really seen him, in full, in days.

My chest tugs, and that feeling swells back up at full force. Is it abandonment?

That one’s not an unfamiliar feeling. A childhood waiting for my parents (or any parents) to show. Crying at 2 in the morning after my first family dinner at the Wellbeloves. The craving of permanent attention. The acknowledgement that what’s done is done, and sometimes you can’t quite grasp onto what’s standing so close.

I need to know how to work my hands. My fingers--curl them into opposable knuckles and grip what I want.

My arms hang, breathing restricting as it washes back. He’s leaving me. Purposefully. Deliberately. Leaving the conversation, leaving the possibility. Abandoning it.

I want to dare myself to reach out and touch him. Lock him in, keep him there. Ask him to put down those clothes he’s meticulously folding and keep here until we sort this out--until we sort us out.

He catches me, head lifting and turning towards me before quickly snapping back. He’s acting as if he hadn’t seen me (something that’s grown quite regular over the week).

I won’t take it this time.

“What?” I start, bitterly crossing my arms over my chest. I’m really in for it now. He’s looking right at me, blinking with that all critical, no-care type of expression. “Not going to tell me off again?”

“I’m just trying to leave, Snow.” It’s a bit shocking how defeated he sounds despite his collected expression. He just comes off as exhausted, ready to wave me away not because he wants to, but because I’m not worth his effort.

“Oh, okay. Just going to leave an even longer space to not talk about it then, hm?”

He goes flat, leveling his eyes with mine and emotionlessly spitting out, “I don’t want to argue with you when you’re angry.” As if there was a time to do this when I’m not.

I will myself closer, stepping over the threshold into his bedroom as he stands his ground, chin tipping down towards me. I have to lift mine, shakily clenching both fists as I laugh right at him. He takes it, shocking me as he makes no effort to give one of his usual disgusted looks back.

“Well you sure wanted to argue when I was drunk and latched to you,” I spit, arms flying out before I frustratedly pull them back in. “So I don’t really see the harm in starting now.”

His jaw sets, skin tightening around his face. I catch the bobbing of his throat, followed by the more continuous downturn of his lips as he settles on the slow bow of his head. Eyes darkening and lips parting, he hits me with a sharp, disorienting blow. “Don’t lead me on, Snow. It’s not very fitting for you to play with someone else’s emotions.”

All I want now is to throw a tantrum. A full on, screaming match. It used to work often enough when I was little, so why can’t it work now?

“Who said I was playing with your emotions?!” I practically shout, feeling myself go a bit red in the cheeks. “I was clearly into you and you pushed me away like the absolute prick you are, and now you have the nerve to tell me that I’m playing with your emotions?”

He downright huffs at me, his arms crossing as he starts rambling. “You were drunk, Simon! I can’t trust feelings while drunk, and you’re an idiot if you do. Doesn’t even surprise me, given you’re an idiot already to start with.”

Everything’s fuzzy. The room’s warping, he’s spinning, and the edges are all going numb. My head goes everywhere but into a clearing, and I have no thoughts besides making him shut up and listen to me for a second.

So I stop, stomp over until there’s no space between us, and grab his face to pull it down to me. I don’t give myself (or him) any time to really react, pressing our mouths together to shut us both up.

He flails at first--hands flying up, then grabbing onto my shirt collar. I don’t know if he was speaking for me or himself earlier, because he’s starting to play tug of war with his own responses. He first jolts me away, far enough that I break the kiss and pant for him for a split second before making up his mind and yanking me back. He closes his mouth around mine, knuckles tightening around the fabric of my shirt.

I start grabbing too. Grabbing everything, everywhere. Hair, hips, shirt, arms, wrists. Anything I can hold onto for long enough to make it last.

I feel him start to nudge me one way, and I follow. All the way back onto his bed, feeling it hit the back of my knees and letting it send me tumbling back. He follows, pressing a hand down onto the bed to keep himself above me as he practically growls into my mouth. Occasionally, he breaks to say “Should’ve said something”, or “Fucking imbecile”, to which I get to the point where I can’t take it anymore and grab him by the shirt, and pushing him off.

“I tried,” I pant, glaring at him and watching him panic for a split second before grabbing him back and pulling him down. He relaxes slightly, hand slipping under my shirt as I shuffle back onto the bed. He follows suit, half-ignoring the pile of clothes we’re knocking over (and by half-ignoring, I mean stopping for a second to push them aside properly before kissing me again). He tastes sober, and smells like so, too. He’s how he should be--right against me.

I break us apart, carefully moving further down and tucking my face into his neck. I lift the collar of his shirt to give a proper love bite to his clavicle. He squirms a bit, making my heart race.

I finally lose it at the tug of my hair, his fingers winding around various loose curls and giving them a proper pull. “Stay here,” I plead breathlessly. “Don’t leave. Stay.”

He goes suddenly still, making me raise my head and stare at him dead on as I mutter a soft “I want to work this out. Us. I want to work us out.”

He still fiddles with my hair, gaze forcing anywhere but my face as he clears out his throat. “This could just be adrenaline speaking, and we’ll go back to mutual hatred in an hour.”

I scoff, not thinking to really fight back from his response while clearing the hair from his forehead. “Oh, shut up, you bloody bastard, and kiss me.”

For a second, he just pouts, lips drawn tight together and refusing to move an inch before he tugs me back up for a slow, careful kiss. I take it, sweetly tasting the movements of his mouth. We both give in, melting onto one another and just kissing for what feels like forever.

It all fits into place. Moving parts start turning in the right direction, and my mind stops and starts all at once. I don’t particularly think about anything but what’s going on. The movement of his jaw, the flow of his hands, holding my body so tightly to his. The private, new sounds he makes when I hold him like this, or kiss him like that. We let the sky sink around us, falling into the inky blackness of winter. Only the glow of the moon and the far off shadow of the living room light illuminates us.

For the first time, I realize how warm his room is. He’s even got a space heater, tucked over near the corner.

For the longest pause in what feels like hours, we stop, pressing our chests to one another and echoing each other’s heart beats. I think of letting myself speak, but I feel him fighting off words, so I let him say them first.

“I have to go,” he whispers, out into the dark. “I’m aware that it’s the absolute worst time, but my family, and--”

“I know,” I exhale, eyes closing. It doesn’t make much of a difference in light. I can still see his face, burned into my mind. Sharp, sloping angles. I can map out his lips in detail now. How they curve, how they feel. I trace him out in my mind. His deep eyes and those thick, dark lashes that fall against his marble-smooth skin.

His hand settles onto my cheek, and I trace that too. It’s bigger than mine, and a little rougher on the inside palm. Mine’s all scarred up on the outside.

He pauses, then strokes his thumb over my right cheek. It takes me a moment to think over my face, and realize he’s tracing over my moles. Voice ringing quiet over the room, he murmurs out a few soft words meant just for me. “If you don’t want this to be over, then it isn’t. I just can’t stay.”

We stay silent for moments after, and I nod a slow, careful nod before speaking. “At least stay until tonight, then leave in the morning?” I whisper, letting myself be the weak one here. Not weak enough, though, to tell him that I just really miss sharing a bed with someone.

As my eyes open, I catch the sight of him watching me. It’s hard to tell in this light, but it’s clear as day when I see it. For that, I smile. A soft, private smile. Almost a knowing one.

He seems to know, too.

He doesn’t give me an answer immediately, settling a hand onto my chest, right between my lungs, and sprawls it out. Breathing out slowly, I focus on the flowy outliers running out the sides of his hair. They stand in contrast to the moon’s glow, giving him a bluish halo.

“One night,” he promises. I still watch his shadow of a body, glowing cyan in the night.

I settle my hand on top of his, finding right where my fingers fit between his, and close my eyes again. “Good.”

As per his promise, he’s gone by the time I’m up.

[diningpageantry]

Stew

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/44928196

Chapter 5/13 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 2384

Chapter Summary: Nostalgic meals, red wine, and hand holding.

Chilly, late fall nights have always been a favorite of mine.

I’ve always found myself inexplicably drawn to the harsh crunching of leaves and soft, wispy scent of their decay.

I get to wear those nice jumpers the Wellbeloves bought me for Christmas, and cooking doesn't feel as much of a chore rather than a comforting task. It’s feel warm all fuzzy--like the recipes were made for me to indulge in, rather than scarf down.

My favorite of all was always stew. Whenever there was stew nights at care home, I was always begging for seconds. It's hard to really mess up stew to the point beyond any recognition, and even with canned vegetables, it somehow managed to hold a home-cooked feeling.

It's so deeply ingrained into me that it's now one of the only recipes I know by heart. Probably only because I'd made it about 40 times over the course of one fall/winter. Made it so often that Aggie got sick of it while I was off memorized every little bit.

There isn't much in life I pride myself on, and stew is one of my top things. While I'd taken the recipe from a classics cookbook, I call it my own now. I've added some flair here and there to the point where it feels like it should be mine. Aromatic and thick--I feel like it could entice anybody with it.

Hell, it somehow even got Basilton in a shock.

I hadn't heard the door open, but I hear it fall shut, taking notice of the tall man standing at the door with his eyes fallen shut.

I turn down my music respectfully, raising both brows at him as I wipe my hands on the drying cloth. “Office hours over?” I ask, half expecting no answer (per usual). He treats me to one anyway.

“Mhm,” he hums, eyes still not open as he visually inhales. “Are… you actually cooking? In that shitty little kitchen?”

“Yeah. Of course I am.”

He finally takes a look at me, back straightening as his hands hover over his jacket buttons. “Oh. My apologies for intruding. You're probably expecting someone. I can leave--”

“Bullshit I’ll make you leave your own flat,” I shrug. “I don't have anyone coming over. I've got who in my life, Penny? That's about it. You're fine, come in.”

He stays put, not seeming convinced.

I exhale. “They're not serving dinner. Unless you plan on paying someone else or starving, I'd expect you to stay here. Take a seat, I'm nearly done.”

He runs his eyes over me and hesitantly slides out the top, thick black button of his coat. I stand at the small kitchen's entrance (it really is ridiculously tiny), hands on the towel as I watch him slip out of the jacket and his shoes.

He approaches slowly, one foot falling in front of the other almost like a skittish animal’s would.

I let him step closer on his own, heading back into the kitchen and eyeing my leftover wine. Enough for us to split a good bit.

Wordlessly, I settle a glass in front of him at the table and pour it up about halfway before settling the bottle in the middle. His gaze follows my hands, lips pursed hesitantly as I step back from him. I feel like a hovering parent, watching him somewhat nervously as he lifts the glass and brings it up for a taste.

He cringes slightly, frowning. “Tastes like cooking wine,” he mumbles, still going for another sip.

It makes me smile. “Wine is wine,” I shrug, walking back over into the kitchen. I can't see him, but I hear his tiny scoff. Still, there's the short scrape of glass behind me, roughing up against wood as he picks it back up. Soon enough, I'm sure he’s emptied it because I peek at him pouring another.

As I’m cooking, the creeping familiarity of the sense of being watched falls onto me. Like I’m his prey now, and his eyes are closely locked and not letting me go. And, as unnerving as it is, it’s harshly too regular now. It seems like every time we’re in a room, he’s watching me when I can’t see.

I pop the cast iron pot into the oven and silently go to fill my own glass. For now, I’m trying to stay focused on my own tasks, rather than Basilton’s concentration on them. Well, somewhat. I'm thinking about him thinking about and watching me, but that's completely different than thinking about him just watching me (isn't it?)

We're silent, but much closer than we usually are. As I lean against the table, he sits and blinks up, sipping at his own wine. Our eyes catch briefly, staring back at one another as the timer in the room over clicks rhythmically. I feel myself hold my breath, shoulders squaring out as I take an extended drink.

His head drops, index slowly tracing the rim of his glass as I struggle to find anything of use to say.

“How have your classes been going so far?”

He seems a bit shocked by the sudden interaction, snapping back into reality and staring up at me. “They've been manageable. The class average for my highest class was exemplary, but the papers of my fourth period class make me want to strike them from the gradebook, given how horrendous they turned out. It's like they learned absolutely nothing.”

I nod slowly, glass settling against my lips as I chat. “How's the students? Your schedule?” Easy enough talk, especially since he seems loosened up in the slightest from his drink. He's even got a small drop in his shoulders.

“Students themselves are fine. There's one student who wishes to be called ‘The Behemoth’, since that's what his rugby mates call him, and he might be the most obnoxious arse I've ever met.”

“Behemoth?”

“I'm assuming it's all in irony, given how short he is. He's not scrawny, but definitely not the biggest kid you've ever met.”

I feel myself chuckle, watching the downturn of his lips as he speaks. It makes me fight the impulse to simply reach out and rub my thumbs over the corners, smoothing them out to a more tolerable expression. “Well then, why is The Behemoth a nightmare?”

His head lazily tips back, eyes falling shut. “I can't begin--it's everything. Incessantly rude, impulsive and disruptive, no sense of respect for the classroom. I caught him trying to carve another dick into the table, and when I sent him off for it, he said ‘Thought you liked those’. It's a wonder I can't get him expelled.”

“Students can just… say that you?” I ask in a bit of a shock. He seems a bit amused by my surprise, raising a brow at me.

“With the amount their parents pay, they can call me a fag if they want to.” He simply stares up at me, glass reflecting spots of light down his wrists as we keep a shaky eye contact. I don't know what to say, if there's even anything left to he said.

“Fucking hell.” That's all I can manage from that. “Bloody fucking--have any students said that to you?”

He shrugs, soothing my anxious gaze by glancing out the window across the room. I listen to the settling of his glass against the table, making note of his uncharacteristic response. Does this mean I should comfort him? How the hell do you react to the person you like the least feeling like shit?

He finally speaks after what must be at least a full minute of silence. “Once. I gave the class a history on the word, and made it so tedious that nobody ever wanted to say it again, since they'd have to sit through another lecture.”

That's funny to me. I don't know why, but I'm laughing. And, suddenly, as if by a miracle, he's chuckling along. A quiet, hand-covering-face chuckle. One that, if he had his usual composure, would've never slipped out. It's stunning--soft and melodic. So much of him, yet so foreign and new to his usual reactions that it's making me smile openly.

We stop ourselves short to the beeping timer, signaling me to grab the pot.

We're calmed by the time I carry two bowls over. We sit adjacent to one another, hands only at reaching distance. The tiniest, cowardly part of me wonders what it'd feel like to push his skin against mine. To know what his hand feels like is to empathize, and to empathize is to bring that compassion we lack.

I don't know if I really like our fighting. I've never been a fan of pointless bickering or condescending arguments. If he was more like how he is now, a few glasses in, he'd be a lot more tolerable.

He polishes off that second glass and goes for a third, eyes blinking heavily as he stares down into the cheap drink. “How has your first quarter gone?” His voice is near-silent; a quiet chirp over the clinking of our bowls and spoons. I nearly could've missed it.

“Can't particularly complain. Boring, frankly, but it's temporary.”

“Temporary?” I suppose that's the best of a conversation spark as I'll get from him.

I shrug mindlessly, watching my carrots push around in the bowl. “Only a few years, then I wanna move back to the city. I miss the people being around me. It's far too quiet here.”

He raises his brows briefly before they drop back down. “Back to London then?”

“Back to London.”

The look on his face makes it seem like he has something to say, but nothing comes out. I let the moment between us pass in a safe silence, finishing my first bowl and going back for seconds.

As I sit, I allow myself to break the space again. “Thank you, Basilton,” I say, letting him meet my eyes quizzically before continuing. “I'd never properly thanked you for letting me come to your meeting a few weeks ago. It was really nice, and I never really go a chance to say that.”

He takes a moment between us, eyes traveling over my face and focusing on every little detail before he silently relents. He nods, eyes soft and a very faint blush spread over his cheeks. The light rosiness, of course, he can't really hide.

No matter how much I may want for it to be progress between us, I'm really sure it's entirely from the wine.

I find myself nodding back to him, a smile creasing my cheeks as we hold an equal gaze. One second, two seconds, then it's done. He drops his face, focusing on finishing up his dinner.

I start to do so too, barely able to enjoy it from the distraction of his closeness. Part of me says to not get too close--a dog may not have rabies, but that does mean it won't leave a nasty bite.

Although, the smallest part of me wonders whether or not his bark is far worse than his bite.

He finishes his food as I do, and I make the quick move to clean up after finishing my second glass. He doesn't make to stand, watching me go take them to the sink. There's an odd comfort in the feeling of him studying me now. In it gives an equal peace of mind to where he is (so he can't really sneak up on me). And yet still, there's an equal concern to where his mind is. Plotting a rude snap, trying to get me to move out faster. Something. Anything evil.

I quickly look at him while I'm wrapping the leftover container, and he immediately turns away, finishing what must be his third glass. Innocence doesn't fit him well--it's like a cheap suit. Stressed.

He stands once I'm done, following me nearly side-by-side as we step off to our bedrooms. He halts right as I'm reaching for the door, and I feel the flashing grip of his hand closing around mine, holding my skin to his. My breath catches, mind melting into a confusing puddle as he simply gawks at me.

He stays silent for a full moment, jaw hanging as he searches for something clear to say. Hesitantly, I turn my palm around, comforting him with a soft squeeze back. It does nothing but stun him further. It's a long minute before he speaks, chin tipping up as he finally manages out, “You're welcome to come to meetings anytime.” It's barely choked, and comes out in a quiet rushing flow of words. He exhales slowly, looking down upon me as I stare. “And… don't call me Basilton. Makes me sound sixty. Baz is just fine.”

I relax a bit, nodding a bit as we keep our eye contact, and I keep hold of the soft hand of his. It's warm at the palm, and cool at his fingers, making me worried briefly for the state of his health. Still, it's a mindless comfort of knowing right where he is, looking back at me.

Seconds pass, and then minutes. It starts dragging onto a staring competition--one where I feel set to win as I'm now stuck on the sight of his strong grey eyes. They're less harsh now, softened by the night and the alcohol in his blood. They're nearly human. Like I could do this forever.

I contemplate doing so briefly, but the touch of his hand and gravity of his gaze keeps me longing for such an odd moment.

It finally breaks when I yawn, noticing how flushed his cheeks are now. I bet they'd be warm to the touch. “Tired,” I mumble, eyes finally falling shut. I feel his hand loosen. “I think I'm gonna get ready for bed.”

His hand drops mine fully, and as I'm opening my eyes, he's already retreating to his room. I can't help but feel empty, watching the door of his swing shut and closing him away. As if there was a missing touch there, or a final word, before we let this night rest.

I'm too tired to fight it, and just slightly buzzed enough to respect it. So, I take my leave to my own room, letting our moment pass us by.

[diningpageantry]

Fooling Around

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/45869827

Chapter 9/13 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 2588

Chapter Summary: Spending break alone in their flat should be a grand holiday, if it wasn't for one small issue--Simon's sexuality. (Note: There is smut in this chapter--for a safe synopsis, look at the end of the chapt for the notes--happy readings!)

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Boxing Day with the Wellbeloves was never the most fun.

Almost always it’d start off with me turning to Agatha, who was usually up before me, and joking about a “Happy post-Christmas fuck”. Every year, she rolled her eyes and said “You must be a fucking nut-case if you think I’m even snogging you in the morning”. Which, of course, was the rule every morning, but it always sort of hurt knowing how quickly rejection was about.

Then we’d run off to the shops, even though I didn’t really give much of a shit about shopping. She thought it was an adventure, despite the fact that it felt more of her laughing at people a little poorer than her while also shoving back for discounts.

I always knew she didn’t mean it that way, but knowing I couldn’t even afford the discounted items felt like a bullet in the back.

This Boxing Day is a bit different.

(read the rest on AO3 !!!)

[diningpageantry]

First Days

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/44630452

Chapter 2/12 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 2451

Chapter Summary: Simon makes a friend, and maybe an enemy at the same time.

First days send me back to being a teen.

The anxious new faces and tired, sagging ones of upperclassmen trying to get around them. The pushing, the shoving. The new class schedules, and the confused kids who don't even know who they are, much less what they're doing.

Thankfully, now, I get to watch it from afar. Although I feel like I'm locked up in a tower.

This is the shittiest fairy tale I could imagine.

Brushing my hands over the stack of papers laid out on my desk, I let the day's weight ease onto me. I only have five appointments today, but that doesn't mean I won't get bombarded by students trying to change their classes last minute. I know how it is, I shadowed a public school counselor for a year.

The pile of work out in front of me is a bit dense, but easy. New students, all second or third year transfers. And… lunch is in four hours. That's, at least, something to look forward to.

Well, except for being thrown further into that teenaged “Who do I sit with” bullshit. I haven't left my room much in the past week, and I highly doubt Mr. Stick In The Arse will let me sit beside him (though, I wouldn't be shocked to find that he sits alone). That, of course, leaves me with no other option that the fact that I'll be standing alone, waiting to find the furthest spot from everyone else.

Brilliant.

I get halfway through my morning before the Dean stops in, standing at my doorway as I'm rearranging a student's schedule. He knocks once, sending me jumping before I straighten up. “Oh, hello. Good morning sir--David.”

His nose turns up unimpressively. “You'll be introduced before lunch so that the faculty knows you beyond a welcome email.”

Well, there's no yes or no to that. Guess it's an order. “Okay. I'll be there.”

After nodding briefly and flicking his wrist watch out for a look, he turns on his heel and leaves me without another word.

I know I've never had a father, but he's the closest thing to a disappointed, high standards parent I think I've ever gotten, and it's only been a week.

Checking the time doesn't prove to be much of a spirit lifter. 10:48. Lovely.

I stare out the window, pen clicking impulsively in my hand as I follow a few leaves fluttering across a sidewalk. Empty. It's all empty. Locked away classrooms and borderline solitary confinement for me.

I introduced myself to the other counselor. She's in her late 60s and seems very cold. I doubt I'll talk to her much except for good mornings. That, of course, leaves me knowing three people so far. The Dean, Professor Pitch, and her.

I might as well count the pigeons I fed last night as friends too. They've paid more attention to me than anyone else around here.

Exhale. Slow, steady exhale, blowing out through my mouth.

It feels like a century before lunch finally hits. It takes me a bit of navigating, but I finally find the building after roaming the grounds for a good 10 minutes. Once inside, I steer myself towards the lunch line, avoiding the watchful eyes of students and faculty alike, starting to fill up the rooms.

I'm guilty of stuffing as much food as possible onto my tray, swiping my ID, and scuffling back to the staff dining room. It's empty, all but for the Dean, who's pacing towards the back. Such an odd man. “David?” I manage out, weight shifting nervously from foot to foot.

His head perks up, fingers resting upon his chin. “Ah yes, Mr. Snow. Thank you for being early. Come, sit.”

Following orders is easy to do. Take a seat and stare at my hands as others filter through. I worry that I'm sat in someone else's “spot” as a short, unamused woman takes a seat a few chairs around away from me. She gives me a familiar once over, looking through the top of her glasses before she shoves down a mouthful of salad.

A hand clasps over my shoulder, snapping my from my trance and jolting me standing. It feels as though the entire room is staring (they probably are). Scurrying quickly, I find myself standing feet away from the Dean, nervously picking at the pills of my jumper. Everyone falls silent at the wave of his hand--it's like magic.

“I'd like to take this opportunity, as we're all already gathered, to allow our new guidance counselor, Mr. Snow, to introduce himself.” Introduce myself?

“Uh, yes. Yeah. Thank you.” I stumble over my words, eyes scanning the crowd as I pull at my sleeve. I'm absolutely shit at public speaking, on top of barely being able to form a solid sentence in the first place. Brilliant. “I--uh--hi. Hello. I'm Simon. 26, just moved from London. I-I was a social worker for kids in the system, helping them get proper care and whatnot. I took this job to save up a bit, though. Social work isn't really lucrative, and I have bills.” I try laughing, but it comes out more as a nervous chuckle. “Besides that, I-I'm always up for a chat. I quite like football, I suppose. So yeah. That's… that's pretty much it.”

My hands rest on my thighs, back hunching in the slightest as the Dean looks over, nodding and finally letting me go back to eat without all the eyes in the room on me. Except, when I do sit, the woman with cat-eye glasses is staring at me again.

Slowly, I open my mouth, trying to formulate a response. She cuts in before I can.

“You don't have to move, you're fine here.” Oh well, that's lovely information.

“Thanks,” I exhale, squinting at her ID. “Penelope, is it?”

“Call me Penny,” she shrugs off, picking up her napkin and wiping her face. The rings on the fingers shine slightly in the dull light, catching my eye as I count them off.

“Are you engaged?” I ask rather bluntly, eyes following her right hand. There's a rather nice ring on her finger--I can see it closer now, as she extends her hand and offers a look.

“Mmhm,” she begins. “He lives in America, though. He was studying abroad in uni. He flies out every summer to see me. This year, I flew out to surprise him in more than one way.” She admires the glint, and I can't help but study her. She's interesting. Smart. Large personality, larger hair.

“What's his name?”

“Micah.” Her hand settles back on the table. “Anyway. Enough about me. Who the hell are you, really?”

I hold back a careless snort, poking at my food. “I'm… nobody important, really.”

“That's bullshit if I've ever heard it. Where are you from? Your accent doesn't sound like London.”

Good question. “Here and there,” I shrug. It isn't exactly a lie. “I settled for secondary in London, though, and that's where I stayed through uni.”

She side eyes me, taking a few bites as I shovel in my own food. I'd be more embarrassed if it wasn't for the fact that my back is to most of the room. Still, she's looking at me the same way Agatha would at fancy dinners--like I have no table manners (because I barely do).

She lets me finish before she starts up conversation again. Given it's me, it doesn't take long for that to happen. “So, who'd they put you up with?”

“As in, my roommate?”

She nods, peering around.

“Well, uh… Mr. Pitch. I don't really know how to say his first name, but--”

“Basilton?!” She whispers hushly, eyes raising before she laughs. “Oh you poor bastard, they put you with Mr. Prick.”

“Mr. Prick…?”

She waves a hand dismissively, sipping her coffee as she holds back a grin. “That's what the students call him. Rightfully so, I'd say. He's quite the wound up loon, if you ask me.”

I can't help myself from looking around, trying to find him to get a good look. I catch him, eventually, sitting in the near back, alone at a table with earbuds in and a book in hand. He's got the signature scowl on his face. “What's… he do? What's the deal with him?”

She's rolling her eyes when I look back. “Tenured in. Did they not tell you what he does?” I shake my head. “Brilliant. Well, he's head of the English and Literature department--I teach 10th and 11th year Lit and Creative Writing--and everyone who has him says he's an absolute nightmare. It's a shock that anyone takes his Queer Lit course.”

“Queer Lit?”

She nods dramatically. “See, fun as all hell course. Wilde, Shakespeare, Nin! I'd campaigned to teach it, but he got first call on it, being the teacher for the Gender Sexuality Alliance.”

I stop, cogs turning as I stare down at the grease streaking my plate. It processes slowly, then all at once. “Is he… you know…”

She laughs again--this time, it's a big, snorty laugh. Once she calms down, she gives a final chuckle. “Are you asking if Mr. Pitch is gay?”

I give her a shrug, blinking back to reality. “I-I mean, there's nothing wrong with it! Nothing at all, I'm just… I didn't know, and--”

Her hand settles over mine. “Don't get your knickers twisted. He is. Just thought it was evident, given literally everything about him.”

I glance back again, and I swear on my year's salary that he was looking at me. “I don't like to assume,” I add back into the conversation.

“There's a difference between assumption and context clues, dear.” The bell rings, cutting her short as she sighs. “Well, fuck. I've got a group of clueless 15 year olds to yell at. I'll save you a spot at dinner.”

And with that, I think I've made my first friend (well, besides the pigeons).

It's a pain to drag through the rest of the day. Even though the classes usually wrap in the mid afternoon, my office hours are locked into staying until half an hour before dinner. Basis of this? Fuck everything, and I need to buy snacks to hide in my desk.

I spend roughly half of it staring out the window or playing solitaire on my computer, and the other half was spent reworking schedules to the stuck up kids whimsy. I wonder if part of my job description is “doormat”, and I just hadn't read it clearly enough.

When I'm finally able to lock up and go to eat, I'm feeling half starved and completely exhausted. Thank God Penny seems to like talking, because she spends the entirety of our meal wholeheartedly ranting about how much young boys are the absolute worst group to teach.

“I should've taken the job at the all girls prep,” she huffs, practically throwing down her soup spoon. “Imagine how much happier I would have been not having to ask a boy to not replace ‘rump’ with ‘asscheeks’.”

“Why didn't you take the job?”

“Same reason as everyone else--money.”

I nod solemnly, taking another mouthful of baked chicken.

She keeps going. Long enough for me to get the occasional word in, but not so little that I have to talk often. By the time everyone's starting to file out, she's finally wrapping up her story about her least favorite student so far.

Thankfully, there aren't many students out and about once we're done. They're all scuffling off to the library or any other hang out on campus.

Penny and I part ways by the dorms. As per usual, Mr. Pitch has me locked out (or is it Basilton? Is what what people actually call him?) When I step in after scraping my keys around to find the right one and actually get in, I find him sitting right by the door on the sofa, doing work. That bastard.

He looks up, lips curving distastefully as I carefully close the door behind me. And thus, I'd assume, begins our nightly routine of avoidance. I lock myself in my room, and only step out for maybe a glass of water.

Tonight, though, I suppose I have something to attempt a conversation. “So…” I begin, fiddling with my glass as I stand in the kitchen. The light's off, but the soft yellow of the living room lamp washes over us, making the room feel all toned down. “You teach English, yeah?”

He doesn't turn, still seeming to stare ahead. “Yes, Snow. Astounding conclusion.”

“I… I'd meant that Penelope told me--”

“So you're all pals with Bunce then. Good. She's been sat alone for some time now.”

It hurts a bit, coming from him. As if he's assuming we're both too much of outcasts to be friends with anyone but each other. I worry that, maybe, he's right.

I inhale slowly before continuing. “She said you teach Queer Lit, and that you run the GSA. That's…” I think for a second--a long pause--trying to find the right word.

It's a second too long in his eyes, because he whips around quickly and stares me down. “Don't bother finishing that sentence, Snow. I don't need to hear semi coherent blubbering about how brave I am. Yes, I'm gay. So kindly fuck off.”

I freeze momentarily, glass squeezed tighter in my hand as I stand bolt-still. He stares back, sighing exaggeratedly after a minute before going back to his work.

Taking the glass back, I try not to slam my bedroom door.

Does he have to be an absolute dick about everything? Jesus Christ, this is why they call him Mr. Fucking Prick. Maybe he deserves it. Maybe I'm not actually mad, and he's just ridiculously mean.

I scratch my arm absentmindedly, settling down my glass before falling face first onto my bed. My mind runs over things to do, body working up into a red flashing anger. Who's it for? I don't even know.

It's just… unfair.

Everything's unfair. I thought it'd be livable--I thought I could be optimistic.

I push myself up, then kick down onto my mattress, hitting my fists against my pillows.

Rat bloody bastard wants to be a little dick and yell at me. Fine. Fine. I'll just avoid the shit out of him. Let him be fucking alone, for all I care. He seems to do that to himself anyway.

I manage to sit myself up, chest struggling to heave a full breath in and a full breath out. In the corner of my eye, I see myself in the mirror. Hunched, reddened. Sad. I'm so fucking sad.

Fucking hell. What am I doing?