If You Must Lose

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Baz's chest is warmer than the rest of him. Usually. Right now, it's veritably hot (both literally and figuratively). And a little sweaty (which is also hot). (Figuratively.)

We made our way to his bed, earlier, and now the blankets form a warm, tangled cocoon around us. I'm laying with my head on his bare chest, trying to keep my eyes open. My fingers draw nonsensical patterns on the soft expanse of his skin. Every so often I tip my chin down, brushing vague kisses wherever my lips happen to land. Baz has his arms wrapped loosely around me, his chest rising slow and deep. He's got to be exhausted-- I know I am. The lights are off, which isn't helping me stay awake. Every noise except for our breathing sounds muffled and far away and vastly unimportant.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice raspy and hoarse, "for today. I... I needed it. I think... I felt like I was losing my mind." Baz kisses my forehead in reply, and I can feel the smirk on his lips (the tosser) (my tosser).

"Anytime, Snow," He drawls, teasing me. "It's always a pleasure." Laughing, I flick his stomach. He beams at me, showing all of his teeth. He does that more often now, and I love it. I'm in love with Baz's irresistible, perfect smiles. With those ridiculous, needle-sharp canines and all their toxicity. With Baz, full stop.

"In all seriousness," He continues, his voice soft and sweet, "If you ever need anything, Si... I'll always be there for you. I'll do whatever it takes to make you happy."

My heart blooms in my throat. I feel my cheeks reddening.

"You too, Baz," I choke out through the ridiculous amount of emotions clogging my throat. "You know I'd do anything for you."

Baz doesn't answer. He just crooks his finger under my chin, lifting it and arcing his neck until our lips meet in the gentlest, sweetest kiss. A kiss that makes it feel like the world could never go wrong for us ever again. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up at the almost musical novelty of the prospect.

"I'm, like, absurdly in love with you, Baz. You know that, right?" I whisper when we pull away, nestling myself more comfortably into his chest. He strokes my hair with one hand, the other still wrapped around me, holding me to him.

"I'm more in love with you than anyone has any right to be," he replies, voice slurred and sleepy. My own eyelids begin to droop.

I keep talking, too tired to filter, saying everything that comes to my head.

"It's like, when I'm with you, I'm home. And it's better than Watford, or Magic, or any other 'home' I've ever had... because... because you're Baz Fucking Pitch, and that's really all the explanation for whatever I'm feeling I'll ever need..."

"Home..." Baz murmurs, half-asleep, "If I could have any home, I'd still choose you, Simon Snow..."

I smile, closing my eyes. Then the smile turns into a yawn. And then I'm asleep, tucked in the arms of Home.


A phone is ringing. Insistently. Urgently. Its voice disjointed and off-kilter.

Baz shifts beneath me, his muscles pulling and tugging under my cheek.

"Hello?" He croaks, voice heavy with sleep. Crowley, what time is it? Groggily, I open one eye, examining the clock on the bedside table. 4:46 AM.

Who's calling Baz at 4:46 in the morning?

Adrenaline and worry spike through me, waking me up. I roll off of Baz, sitting beside him on the bed instead. Watching his face for any clue as to what he's talking about. He reaches out for my hand, gripping it tightly. I give his fingers a reassuring squeeze, still watching him intently.

"Yes, I know she was there," He replies to a voice I can't quite hear, his brow creasing with concern and confusion.

"N-- she was, as of last week. Why?"

Silence. A garbled reply issues from the phone clutched in his pale hands, but I can't make out any words.

Baz's face goes white. Every muscle slackens, something akin to fear blooming in those pearly grey eyes.

"...When?" The word drops to the floor like a brick. Sitting there. Watching us. Waiting for a reply. Deadening every other noise.

"Thank you for calling me... I'll--" His voice breaks a little. Clearing his throat, he finishes, "I'll be in touch."

The phone drops leadenly to the bed. Those eyes turn on me, full to bursting with fear, the pupils so big they start to hide the grey.

"Baz..." I ask cautiously, my fingers gripping his smooth arm, "What's happened?"

He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe. Just stares off at something neither of us can see, disbelief taking over the fear on his face.

"It's my Aunt Fiona..." He says, finally looking at me, "She's been kidnapped."

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