#vics parivaar

[baljeet]

in which baz yeets to cairo to avoid simon

or, a snowbaz high school au featuring a kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen, fall out boy, and snowbaz as oblivious gays™

word count: 2328

First of all, my date with Samantha was a mistake. Of course, I didn’t think it was a mistake at the time. She’d caught me off-guard after class one day, and I didn’t realize that dinner on a Friday qualified as a date until we were staring awkwardly at each other across the table at a decidedly grimy Italian joint, and she nearly threw her water glass at me when I said, “So, shall we split the bill?”

Needless to say, Samantha and I don’t speak much anymore. I suppose that’s a good thing—but really, it was nice to have the distraction from some of the more difficult things in my life.

Namely, the fact that I see Simon Snow every day, and he still wraps me in an infuriatingly casual one-armed hug like we’re best bros on the football team. Not that Simon Snow would be caught dead playing football, but that’s beside the point. The point is that I’ve known him for years, since we were both in middle school and I somehow wound up at his lunch table with nowhere else to sit one day, blasting Fall Out Boy on my iPod shuffle and pretending like I wasn’t looking at him smile. I wish I could wax poetic about how I’ve come a long way from then, say some profound shit about how much I’ve grown, but really—

It’s four years later, we still eat lunch together, and I’m still blasting Fall Out Boy and trying to sort out this knot in my chest they like to call emotion (for what it’s worth, however, I’ve graduated to an iPhone). He knows everything about Samantha, though, which was definitely a gutsy move on my part. But something in me is waiting for that moment when I go too far and he calls me back. Scratch that, I realize two days after that disastrous date, staring at the wall because it’s better than looking in the mirror at the confusion in my eyes. He knows everything about Samantha except why I’m leaving her.

Because despite it all, despite the time and the relationships that have come and gone, despite everything that’s happened in these past four years—

I’m hopelessly in love with Simon Snow.

I’ve written about it a thousand times, everything from poems to stories to haikus, and one day I even made a playlist (featuring exactly zero Fall Out Boy songs) for him, but my finger always hovers just above the send button. When did something so small and hospital-blue become so intimidating?

Simon, of course, is completely oblivious. He has no problem hitting that button, sending me random thoughts he has throughout the day, something he thought was funny and wanted to share, the occasional meme—normal friend stuff.

I wonder what it’s like to text without over-analyzing every character.

But it’s something I’m going to have to keep wondering, because I’ve been staring at my phone for the past hour or so, trying to figure out the best way to tell Samantha that while I appreciate her asking me out, it’s not a relationship I’d like to pursue. A sentiment that sounds nice enough in my head, but every time I try and type it out, it reads: ur cool but i’m kind of in love with someone else. and that someone else is a guy so uh have a heart ig and don’t hate me bc i have to sit next to you in bio every day for the next 6 months. Sending a text like that, however, would be disastrous. So I don’t.

Instead, I find her after class on Monday, and say, far too quickly, “Friday was fun but I don’t like you.”

“What?” she replies, stopping in her tracks.

My first thought is that now we’re those irritating kids in the hallway who just stop for no reason, and we’re probably holding everyone up, and it’s only when she says, “Um, Baz?” that I realize she’s asked me a question.

“I don’t like you. Like that. I mean. We can still be friends. If you’re chill. We’re chill, right?” I’m speaking in fragments; it’s probably incoherent, but she seems to get it. Or at least, it looks like she does.

She nods. “Sure. Friends.”

“Perfect!” I reply. “I’m so glad we worked this out.”

Samantha doesn’t reply, but the hallway is too crowded for her to slip away, so we continue to walk side by side. The silence is palpable, and I debate whether or not it would be rude to put my earbuds in until it’s too late because I see my bus.

I practically barrel over to the kid I sit with—I forget if his name is Jack or John—and strike up a conversation. “Hey, man, what’s up?”

Jack/John just gives me a strange look, opting to sit somewhere else today. I slide into my empty two-seater, and my heart skips a beat when I see a text from Simon. did you talk to samantha?

I debate whether or not to reply, though honestly, what would I even say in reply? He thinks I’ve broken things off with her because of some carefully placed comments about “not being over my ex,” but lying to Simon is something I’d rather not do.

I don’t reply, and I’m grateful when a text comes a moment later from another classmate. you really dodged a bullet with samantha, i heard she’s a homophobe.

Without thinking, I forward the message to Simon.

His reply sends chills down my spine that really shouldn’t be there. only one way to find out.

Tuesday brings with it a torrential downpour. I think it’s rather fitting. Today’s music is Paramore, which I haven’t listened to since freshman year, but the rain plus the uncertainty is definitely a Paramore mood.

Despite the rather dreadful weather, Simon’s wearing his brilliant smile, as always, and finishing the last of his breakfast scone, as always. “So, I heard about Samantha—Baz, you went on a date with her. Did you know?”

“Simon, I didn’t even know it was a date until the end,” I reply, shaking my head.

He punches me in the arm. “You’re kidding, right?”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “How was I supposed to know?”

“My god, Baz. It was dinner. On a Friday night. What class do you even have with her? AP Bio.? How on earth are you managing an AP class when you can’t even understand that was a date?”

Now that it’s all spelled out, I suppose it makes sense. “I wish I hadn’t done it. And if Samantha really is a homophobe, then I really wish I hadn’t done it.”

Simon shrugs. “It’s alright. It’s like the time I almost kissed Victor during gym when he was just trying to reach past me to get the badminton racquets.”

I laugh as though the story is an old memory I haven’t thought about in ages, when really, that can’t be farther than the truth. Simon’s story about Victor had been his way of coming out, and it had been the day that I’d realized there was a real chance for us.

“Embarrassing love stories aside, we should probably head to class. You need all the extra education you can get, clearly,” he cuts off, swiftly changing direction and making a left towards the science hallway, where he has chemistry and I have physics.

We’re about halfway to where we usually part ways when I see her out of the corner of my eye. Samantha. She hasn’t seen me, though; she’s talking (rather loudly) to her friends about some encounter with a kid in her PE class. But then she says, “He’s such a f*g, you know? Like my god, I get that you’re gay but you don’t have to be so obnoxious about it.”

I don’t catch the name of who she’s talking about. It doesn’t matter—I’m seeing red, my hands are clenched in fists, and I’ve spun around on the spot to face her direction.

“Baz—” Simon says.

I’m so angry I barely register that he’s grabbed my hand.

Samantha’s seen me now; her eyes catch mine and widen in recognition. I’m only two steps away from her when Simon tugs me the other way. “Baz. Take a deep breath, getting into a fight won’t solve anything.”

“Can you believe her?” I snap back in reply. “Who the fuck does she think she is?”

I’m coming up with more terrible things to say to Samantha when Simon’s grip tightens on my wrist, moving further up my arm.

“What are you—”

“This will really piss her off, and I’m not even going to say anything,” Simon replies with a smile.

His eyes are so close and so bright.

It’s the last clear thought I have before he presses me against the lockers and kisses me.

I wish I could say I kiss him back.

I don’t. I freeze. Hands pinned to my sides, eyes squeezed shut, balance wavering, wondering if this is all a dream.

But then I dare to open one eye, just a crack, and there is Simon, clear as day.

He pulls away, but one of his hands remains on my arm. “Baz, I—”

His words are cut off by the bell.

“See you at lunch,” is all I manage to stammer out, before stumbling half-dazed into Calculus.

I do not see him at lunch; apparently, Simon has a club meeting. I don’t know if I am more relieved or upset when Penny reminds me that there’s band practice today and he won’t be joining us.

I don’t recall what I say to her in reply. My mind is far-off, on a constant replay of that moment, over and over and over as I wonder how I managed to fuck up so badly.

I’d literally frozen. Up against the lockers, not even moving, hadn’t even kissed him back . . .

It’s still replaying through my head when I get home, skipping the stairs on my way up to my room.

Simon Snow kissed me.

It doesn’t seem real.

But it is real, because Samantha’s un-added me on Snapchat, and there’s a text from Simon saying that he’s sorry, and everything is catching up with me and I’m not thinking.

I’m only typing as fast as my hands will let me.

hey simon. so there were a lot of opportunities for me to tell you this today, honestly i couldn’t find the words and i didn’t even know if i should tell you. but i feel awful and i think you should know the truth. so here goes. i didn’t want to break things off with samantha because i’m not over my ex. it was because i realized i might have feelings for you. i don’t expect you to feel the same way at all, but i’m so tired of keeping this secret. so yeah, now it’s out there, i guess. —baz.

I stare it it. Everything I’ve wanted to say for years, all condensed in the tiny message box, and the only thing stopping me is that damned blue button.

One . . . Two. . . Three.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I press send.

Then, I promptly throw my phone across the room. There’s a resounding crack as it hits the wooden headboard of my bed. I’ve probably fractured the screen, but I don’t really mind.

I start to walk downstairs, but after two steps I whirl back around, sprinting to my room and grabbing the phone.

No answer.

I start a movie. Some Michael Bay trash I can focus on without really thinking.

An hour passes.

No answer.

I finish the movie and debate whether or not to start another one, before deciding to play Solitaire.

Another hour passes.

No answer.

I actually do my Calculus homework for once, spending two hours trying to figure out what the fuck a derivative is.

Two hours pass before I check my phone again.

There’s a text from Simon.

I almost throw my phone down the stairs, but I restrain myself, turning off my speakers so Twenty-One Pilots isn’t blasting louder than my thoughts anymore and I can focus.

i really don’t know how i should reply to this. this is honestly a surprise to me but i’m glad to know the truth, even if it complicates things. i’m not quite sure how i feel, but this feels like a conversation we should have in person. talk to you soon?

I read it no less than twelve times before beginning to type my reply. ok, see you.

Then I pace back and forth across my room until I’m dizzy, wondering if I’m supposed to call him or he’s supposed to call me or if I should invite him over, or if it’s too late to, or if I should ask him when exactly we’re going to talk, considering tomorrow I’m leaving for a family reunion in Cairo and I won’t have my phone for ten days . . .

But I don’t say anything else.

I do not sleep that night. I stare at the ceiling and wonder at the possibilities. Wonder at the fact that Simon kissed me and even though I didn’t kiss him back he didn’t completely shut me down, that there’s something hopeful about that text, about the future.

About our future.

Maybe.

That maybe lingers for the rest of the night, and for that morning as I pack for Cairo.

It lingers as I leave for the airport, staring out the car window and trying not to look too much at my reflection, eyes brighter than they’ve been in a while.

It lingers as I get on a direct flight to Cairo, and though it’s reckless of me, I send Simon a text that says, i’ll miss you.

My phone loses service a few minutes before cruising altitude.

I think it’s oddly appropriate that my Simon playlist comes on my shuffle.