If You Must

All That We Are Is Excited

Baz

The wedding is only two weeks away, and I feel as if there's confetti in my stomach.

Si and I have spent three weeks going on Penny's errands, sneaking off, kissing at the tops of ferris wheels, eating ice cream, and practising magic. It's been amazing (if Fifth Year me could see me now...), but I'm beyond ready to take him to church, so to speak (we can't have the wedding in a church, as one of us is allergic to crosses). I'm ready to slip the ring on his golden finger. I'm ready for the wedding night (I've been anxiously awaiting our wedding night since Fifth Year). I'm ready for the honeymoon, for which we've rented a beach house in the south of France. I'm ready to go from saying, 'this is my boyfriend, Simon' to saying, 'this is my husband'. I'm ready to spend the rest of my life with Simon Snow.

I'm laying on the couch, reading, Simon sitting beneath my legs, when the doorbell rings. Si goes to stand up, but I kiss the top of his head, closing my book.

"I'll get it," I say. Simon smiles up at me.

"Thanks, darling." Aleister Crowley. Have I mentioned I love it when he calls me that?

Grinning, I walk to the door. In the hall stands a rather bemused-looking postman, holding a large parcel.

"Delivery for a mister..." he checks the label on the parcel, "Mister Grimm-Pitch?" I nod, taking the pen from his hand and signing for the delivery.

"Thank you," I tell him, wondering what on earth could be in the package. The man gives an awkward wave.

"Have a nice day," he says, like the words have been drilled into his brain. From the couch, Simon shouts,

"You too!"

Trying to stifle a laugh at the startled look on the postman's face, I close the door. Carrying the package over to the kitchen table, I set it gently down next to a glass of icewater I got myself ten minutes ago and forgot to drink.

"Open sesame!" I say, pointing my wand at the parcel. The box springs neatly open, and I grin when I see what's inside. "Simon," I call over my shoulder, "Come and have a look at this."

Two suits lie in the box, perfectly folded. We ordered them online, and they look even better in person.

Simon wraps his arms around me from behind, rising on tiptoe to perch his chin on my shoulder to look at what I'm showing him.

"Wicked," he breathes, and I can hear him grinning. Resting my head against his, I pull mine from the box.

"Fancy a bit of a fashion show?" I ask him. Simon laughs, reaching around me to grab his own suit.

"You know I do. Which of us should go first?" I turn my head to kiss his cheek.

"You, thanks." Simon rolls his eyes, but he's smiling.

"Fine," he faux-huffs, "I suppose I'll do it." Turning on his heel, he marches comically into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. I sink into a chair, grinning to myself.

About ten minutes go by before I hear the rattle of the doorknob. I sit on the edge of my seat, staring expectantly at the door.

Simon steps out of the bedroom and the whole world stops spinning. The breath whooshes from my lungs as completely as if he's punched me.

In a suit of shimmering, deep blue that brings out those diamond eyes, he looks like a god. And I want him, more than I've ever wanted him or anything else in the world. My hands start to sweat, my heart beating so wildly against my ribcage I'm surprised he can't see it, like in one of the cartoons Mordelia used to watch. My mouth is bone dry. It feels like the night with the Crucible-- when the entire world disappeared except for that magnetic pull deep in my belly, drawing me towards that beautiful, ultra-human, beyond Magickal being that was, and is, Simon Snow.

"What do you think?" He asks. His voice sends me over some type of mental edge. Licking my lips, I swallow heavily, unable to tear my eyes from him. My thoughts (and imagination) race a mile a minute, full of nothing but Simon, Simon, Simon. I think I might spontaneously combust.

"E-excuse me, for a moment," I stammer out. Standing up, water glass in hand, I walk further into the kitchen, drape my head over the sink, and dump the cold water from my glass onto my head.

I think I'll just... stay here a while. Just long enough to get a goddamn grip. Aleister fucking Crowley.

Simon's in hysterics, laughing at me. He's doubled over, clutching the back of the couch for support.

"Enjoying the view, Pitch? Seems like you've got a bit of a problem, over there," he guffaws (I don't often have occasion to use that word, but Simon has officially achieved an actual fucking guffaw). Giggling, I extricate myself from the depths of the sink, flinging my sopping hair out of my face.

"Fuck you, Snow," I laugh. Wiping literal tears of mirth from his eyes, Simon grins evilly at me.

"I thought the point of dunking your head was to make you not want to do that," he teases. I flip him the bird, grinning. Walking up to him, I wrap my arms around him, burying my soaked head in the crook of his neck and running my lips along the warm skin there. Being careful to keep my wet hair off his new suit.

"You're horrible," I say, unconvincingly. Simon's still giggling (at least he's gone from a guffaw to a giggle), his arms wrapped tight around me.

"It's why you love me, and you know it," he replies, "You're just lucky you've got yourself such a good looking husband." I grin against his neck.

"You bastard. You're lucky you're so damn pretty, Simon." His fingers push through my wet hair, bunching at the back.

"Come on, Baz, it's your turn. Go get dressed, and you'll see what pretty really looks like." Laughing, I steal one last kiss before grabbing my suit and striding into the bedroom.

The image of Simon in that suit plays over and over in my mind as I dress.

He may be a disaster, but he's a fucking beautiful one.