Don't Leave Me

Don't Leave Me:: Part 4

After Penny is officially gone, swallowed by the thick white fog, silence takes her place. Filling the space she left, filling in the cracks. Sealing us in. Baz and I sit there awkwardly for a few moments, clutching onto our drinks; and it's just so wrong. I hate fighting with him, I hate not knowing what we're fighting about, I hate the fact that the fighting isn't even projected at me, but that he's still acting weird, I hate the fact that we're not even technically fighting... I hate everything about this. Most of all, I hate that I'm fighting (or whatever the bloody hell it is we're doing) with Baz, instead of someone-- anyone-- else. And missing him this much feels like a punch in the stomach. 

Baz opens his mouth like he's going to say something, and I feel myself tilting forward a bit in my seat. We're still holding hands under the table, and his fingers are still tight around mine. I don't want to let go... I don't want him to let go. Instead, I force myself to sit back, hoping my cheeks aren't flushed. Baz doesn't even raise a graceful eyebrow. 

Instead, he closes his mouth, looking down. I feel my stomach sink to the floor. And then I silently curse myself for hoping-- however slightly-- that maybe Penny leaving would break the curse between us. Somehow. As if that makes any sense whatsoever.

"We should go, Snow," he says softly, his voice deep and modulated and slow, "It's getting late." Through the haze of disappointment, I feel myself nodding.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's go home."

___

The walk and the taxi ride back to the flat are as dismal and silent as the last moments we spent in the Starbucks. Surprisingly, the fact that we're still holding hands just makes it worse. It makes me feel like I'm violating him... like I'm some deviant person. Fuck, maybe I am that kind of person, and that's why he's acting like this.

Still, I can't make myself let go. And I make up arguments in my head to defend my doing so. Baz's fingers are cold, I'm just warming them up, or, it'll just make it more awkward-- more like he's slipping away from me, things like that. It's all pretty stupid, but I do it for the rest of the way home.

When we reach the flat, I have to let go of his hand so I can fish around in my coat pocket for the key. Once I finally find it, I push it into the lock and open the door. I hold it open for Baz, and after he steps inside, I follow him.

The hall light is out, but we left the living room light on when we left, so it's not completely dark. Baz's face is thrown half into shadow, accenting his high cheekbones and the curve of his imperial nose. The weird lighting makes his eyes look almost black, highlighted with silvery-gold. And in that moment, something breaks inside of me. I just can't take this anymore. I step forward, putting my hand on his cold, pale cheek. Rubbing my thumb gently over his sharp cheekbone.

"What's wrong, Baz? You seem so... not you..." I murmur. He tenses like he's going to pull away, but relaxes again like he's thought better of it.

"Nothing's wrong, Simon," he whispers in reply. I shake my head and take a step closer.

"I don't believe you," my voice is barely more than a breath, "Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at me?" He really does pull away this time, shock flooding his graceful features.

"What? Fuck, no, Snow, I'm not mad at you. Is... is that really what you think this is?" His voice gets quiet and concerned on the last sentence, and worry swims in his eyes. I shrug.

"I dunno... I guess I did," I reply, looking down. He steps forward and puts his hand on my cheek.

" Well you were about as wrong as you can get..." he sighs, looking down, "I could never be mad at you-- not like that."