If You Must

All That We Are Is Together

Baz

To this day, Simon Snow still looks ravishing in a grey suit. He's filled out since our Eighth Year; those shoulders are a bit broader and more muscular, his chest tighter against the fabric of the white shirt. He looks less like a lost, scared ex-supervillain and more like the powerful, beautiful supermage everyone knew he would be. I keep glancing over at him as I drive, watching as the yellow glow of passing streetlights turns him into this supernatural being of gold and silver. Sometimes he catches me looking, gifting me one of those crooked smiles before tapping my jaw with one finger and saying, 'eyes on the road'. I do as he asks every time, though it's never more than a few blocks before I find myself peeking at him again. Simon Snow (soon to be Simon Grimm-Pitch) is as irresistible as the sun he so resembles.

"Where are you taking me?" Simon asks, grinning at me as he turns my head towards the road for the millionth time. A returning smirk quirks one corner of my lips.

"And where's the fun in telling you that, Simon?" He laughs softly in reply, resting one hand on my thigh. A shiver runs up my spine. Taking one hand off the steering wheel, I capture his fingers with mine. Simon promptly pulls my hand up to his lips, brushing a kiss across my knuckles.

"I love it when you call me Simon," he whispers against my skin. Smirk widening, I glance over at him.

"Distracting the driver is dangerous... Simon," I tease. His returning grin is the only reply I get. The cocky, beautiful bastard.

---

Simon laughs when he sees the restaurant.

"Isn't this the place--" He starts.

"Where you spilled lemonade on me on our fourth date?" I finish. Simon groans, taking my hand (Simon and his hand holding).

"I thought as much." I laugh, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek.

"To be fair, we had a wonderful time when we went back to my flat to get me a change of clothes..." I murmur against his skin, earning a laugh and a playful shove.

"Knob," he teases. I gently shove him back.

"Tosser," I jest in reply.

We reach the door, and I hold it open for him. An overly-chipper waitress takes us to our table, giving Simon a too-appreciative once-over. With a sneer, I take his hand in mine-- a silent 'laissez faire'. Maybe it's a bit overkill, but I'm in a very... Simon-centric mood, at the moment. At any rate, the waitress sees the gesture and looks away, disappointment flitting briefly across her face.

We get a bottle of wine along with our meals, and the names of the latter are so obnoxiously French that Si has trouble pronouncing them. Throughout it all, I can't keep my eyes off of him. It's worse than the drive over here; now I don't have the excuse of watching the road to look away.

After a while, Simon blushes, taking a self-conscious sip from his wineglass.

"Is everything all right?" He asks, once he's finished. I smile softly at him, nodding once.

"Of course. Why do you ask?" The blush on those golden cheeks deepens.

"You're staring at me. Any particular reason why?" I laugh, reaching across the table to grasp his hand in mine. Rubbing my thumb across his knuckles.

"I'm staring at you because you're terribly fucking beautiful, Simon Grimm-Pitch." My voice is a low purr. I can hear his heart pound against his sternum in response. The rush of blood through the arteries in his neck is enticing, inviting me to lean in and kiss him right on that mole. I don't-- it's too much fun to watch him suffer while he waits for a kiss. (I'm still a bit disturbed-- just ask Simon).

Simon's eyes widen into twin blue saucers, a grin spreading slowly across his face. His hand tightens around mine, and he leans in, kissing me unexpectedly. I'm too surprised to reciprocate the gesture.

Too soon, he pulls away. Just far enough that I can see his entire smiling golden face.

"Say that again," he whispers.

"Which part?" I ask, wanting nothing more than to kiss him again-- this time with a bit more vim and vigour.

"The part where you said my name," he breathes. He's closer now, those lips barely inches from mine. I'm not sure when that happened (not that I'm complaining in the slightest).

"Simon Grimm-Pitch." I drag out every syllable, loving the taste of his name on my tongue. It's liquid and smooth and bloody perfect. A devilish grin spreads across my fiancé's handsome face.

"Basilton Grimm-Pitch, you say my name like it's Magic." I kiss his cheek softly.

"It is Magic."