If You Must

All That We Are Is Relieved

Baz

Simon's waiting on the couch when I get home, all nervous hands and golden energy. Every so often tendrils of magic whiplash from him like lightning. Like he's the eye of an anxious (albeit beautiful) hurricane. As the door clicks shut behind me, he gets up, walking over to where I stand.

"How did it go?" His voice is a hoarse whisper deep in his throat. Nervous, fiddly fingers grasp my arms, on hand brushing gingerly across my scar (a new habit of Snow's. He likes my scar as much as I like his moles).

On the drive to my parents' house, I debated teasing him if things went well-- pretending momentarily that my father didn't approve. But after the actual encounter, I haven't got it in me; relief at my father's approval has left the idea of joking bland and flavourless in its wake.

So I meet that tempestuous blue gaze and offer up a small, tentative smile.

"He told me 'good choice'," I inform him, my own voice deep and slow, just as cautious as my smile. A grin lights up Simon's handsome golden face.

"He approved?" His smile is contagious, and my own lips spread. The air is cold on my canines.

"He approved."

---

That night, we sit curled up together on the couch, both of us nursing glasses of wine. Simon's nestled into my side, my arm wrapped around his waist. I like him here. Right where I can hold him and keep him safe. We've been talking-- about everything and nothing all at once-- for a couple of hours, the conversation occasionally drifting to a stop to let the soft music drifting from my mobile fill my flat. And as much as I love loving Simon-- kissing him senseless and caressing that warm golden skin-- I think nights like this, where I'm holding him or he's holding me, where we just lay still and talk for hours on end, are my favourite.

We're sitting comfortably in one of those miniature lapses of conversation right now. Simon plays lazily with my hair with the hand not holding his glass of wine. The air is sleepy and heavy and warm, and I feel my eyelids start to drift shut.

"Baz?" Simon murmurs suddenly, lifting his head off my shoulder to look up at me. I meet his gaze with a vague 'hmmm?'.

"What are we going to do about names?" those blue eyes are earnest and diamond-sharp. Multifaceted. Shining. Clean-cut.

"What do you mean?" I know perfectly well what he means, but I want to hear him say it. I want him to look me in the eyes and tell me who should take what name. Because I'm getting married. Because the idea sends a thrill through my stomach.

Simon's eyes never leave my own. I think I might drown in the blue.

"Baz..." A deep inhale presses his back against my chest, "I'm so tired of being Simon bloody Snow. So, if it's all right with you... may I... may I please have your name?"

The air is knocked from my lungs. I am shocked. Taken aback. Flabbergasted. Of all the things I was expecting him to say, this was not it. I blink, trying to clear myself from my surprised stupor. Once. Twice. Thrice.

"I..." I start to say. And then I look back down at him, and the muddled mess of my mind immediately clears. "Of course. Aleister Crowley, of course, Simon."

And then he's kissing me, and it feels like our first kiss again. Like something messy and perfect and quintessentially, beautifully, novel.

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Author's note:

Sorry for the spotty updates lately, guys! My writer's block is mostly gone, but I've been exceedingly busy, so haven't had much time to write. I actually wrote the majority of this chapter while I was bored in class. Also, sorry for all the Baz chapters-- I have no idea why I've been writing so much from his perspective lately. I guess I'm just in a distinctly Baz-ish mood? The next chapters will be narrated by other characters (sorry Basil, you'll have to wait your turn).

-Lefty