dick grayson is the kind of person to talk and bruce wayne is the kind of person to stay silent, so at every sunrise, after dragged-out, tiring gotham patrols, suit half-torn and blood trickling under the cowl, batman puts on recordings nightwing started making on long boring stake-outs. the entire drive back home is filled with bruce listening to his son rambling about everything and anything, just like the old days. and it makes a difference
it’s carry on countdown day threeeee and that means pastel/punk aus !! i’m sorry this is so late but just know that i’m actually dead from all the sports i did today and i swear i can barely walk rip- anyways! here y’all are.
i hope you guys like it! in which simon&davy have a tattoo shop and baz&fiona own a flower shop, because i love role reversals as well as pastel/punk aus
baz doesn’t honestly know what he’s doing here. it’s been a part of his life for so long, he rarely stops to question it but today aunt fiona was on his back even more, ranting on and on, that it sort of just hit him again. what is he doing? why does he bother to be here? what is this thing that they’re doing and why does it matter so much to him?
the alleyway is chilly, but baz is wearing a very heavy, very knit, very pale pink scarf that just so happens to match his nails and his boots that are shiny and supple and very warm. still, he can see his breath. it’s nothing like the heat of the furnace inside the flower shop, the alley is basically the polar opposite.
it doesn’t smell like geraniums, it smells horribly like rotting garbage and possibly like dead flowers if anything. the brick on either side of him is rough and dusty, nothing like the walls of the shop which are always pristine whites and soft blues offset by all the spectrums of color flaring out from the vases sitting all around.
baz’s favorites are the marigolds, the flowers that are perhaps the most opposite to the shades he usually prefers, but for some strange reason, he can’t get past how much he adores them. small petals that come in every shade of the sun, and they make any one of his bouquets a little bit more cheerful, like he’s just added a touch of light.
today, with the orders he had to fill, he found that there were quite a few instances that he could insert the flower, which was nice, even though the brash yellows and oranges really did clash with his outfit.
his mittens also match in part his scarf, a soft-toned pink and he hates that he has to wipe his nose on them because they are by far his favorite.
would he just hurry up?
his break will definitely be ending soon, and fiona really doesn’t take tardiness lightly, besides the fact that baz already hates being late.
isn’t he always late? baz doesn’t think he can remember a day where he wasn’t the first one to their spot, so in the winter he’s always been half frozen by the time the boy arrived.
it annoys him. but then again, what can he do about it?
he already doesn’t really know what he’s doing here yet again, why he comes here almost every day to wait in the cold, hiding from fiona who’d probably be reaching the conclusion to her third rant on ‘david snow and his goddamn tattoo parlor’ by now?
‘jesus christ, can he just not?’
‘basilton, are you seeing this’
‘he’s decided to put his sign a full inch over the line between our properties, the absolute audacity of that man!’
baz finds it almost humorous, the feud and everything. how the pitch florists ended up sharing a building with ‘that menacing scumbag of a person, how dare he demand we pay more of our share of rent, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me’
but he can see his aunt’s point of view, he supposes. the rivalry, the utter hatred between their families isn’t really anything new, he’s heard all the stories. how david snow came in with his million dollar smile to a deal that his aunt had practically already taken, and turned it into an all out battle over who would get the lease on 6th street, right across from ebb’s coffee shop.
it was prime property, and fiona had wanted it so bad.
baz knew that it had been her dream, and then she had been forced to come to an agreement with this ‘inked up old bastard’ (not that fiona didn’t have any tattoos, baz hadn’t tried to argue this point with her, it really wouldn’t have made a difference) to split the building in half.
now they were constantly fighting, and baz considered himself to be right in the middle of it. not that it was a real war, just practically one of sabotage.
it just was what it was, and he had to play his role. this included doing extra work at the shop, when he already carried so much of the workload, and fiona sending him on her missions, which really never amounted to much other than a lot of screaming and threats that david snow was going to sue her for being a ‘crazy hag obsessed with her geraniums’.
for another part, baz was not to be friends with anyone related to the snow family, and if he ended up being, it was merely an advantage for espionage and further attacks, nothing personal or emotionally attached about the matter.
the thought makes baz snort. the visible puff of his breath in the air reminds him just how chilly it is and he tries to pull his collar up further.
the single rose bud that he’s carrying in his pocket is burning a hole in it, and baz dislikes the feeling because he rather likes this jacket. it’s long, and soft and a shade of cream that could almost match the snow.
he’s noticing that it has started to snow now, because he can feel the flakes melting on his eyelashes and he can see them settling on the ends of his hair, white against the the faint lilac that he’s dyed it.
fiona loves it, says it makes him match the lavender, the catmint, possibly the canterbury bells.
he’s just thinking that the snow is pretty appropriate, when he hears the footsteps he’s been waiting for and he looks around quickly-
eager, he’s always so eager. he hates it.
but when he sees those eyes- it’s always the eyes that strike him first, like he’s plunged into the coldest water- he forgets about all of that. the snow is settling in the curls of simon snow’s goldy hair and looking at him, is like getting the sun in your eyes.
his shoes crunch in the snow on the pavement, and baz starts to notice everything about him, all at once.
he’s too much, everyday, it’s just too much.
how he’s wearing these destroyed sneakers like it’s not below minus ten degrees outside, with the darkest shade of coal jeans, the knees blown out, and baz’s favorite shirt, simon knows that it’s his favorite, the one the simon designed himself, a sketch in black and white of dying sunflowers that makes it look like the flowers themselves are simply dissolving into nothingness, withering into oblivion.
baz’s attention goes to the piercings next, simon’s nose, where his septum sits a dusty silver, and his ears, where the beads and metals travel in uneven intervals all the way along each.
baz’s eyes always finish with simon’s tattoos last.
he knows the placement of every one of them by heart, and they play back in his mind for hours before he can fall asleep. his hands, dotted with lines and symbols making constellations, to his arms, to his neck and behind both his ears.
at this point he’s standing across from baz, just close enough to touch and his lips are hanging open, a pink that is terribly over saturated.
you’re so much, baz wants to say, you’re too much.
instead, he lets simon blink once more after his eyes give baz a scalding once over and state the obvious.
“i’d hoped you’d noticed,” baz says, and he feels like his chest might explode.
“i’m sorry i’m late,” simon says, and his voice is husky. he fiddles with his earring, the rose gold ones that clash with his entire aesthetic. the ones that baz had lent him.
baz can feel his knees grow weaker.
“i’ve come to expect it.” baz had been about to say, but then he doesn’t because simon says,
“i brought you this.” and he opens up his ungloved hands to reveal a little piece of hectograph paper. baz takes it in his hands as if it were a snowflake.
the sketch on it is incredibly detailed, yet tiny, a miniature image of a violin and a bow, with a rose vine wrapped gracefully around the horsehair.
simon smiles, which also clashes terribly with his outfit, punk boys do not smile, but it’s so much that baz feels his breath catch in his throat.
he can feel something inside him completely shatter. the pleasure of it so intense it could be mistaken for pain.
this is what you do to me.
he takes his mitten off slowly, and he can feel simon’s azure eyes watch his every movement. he reaches into his pocket.
“put out your hand,” he says, and “close your eyes.”
simon just stares at him for a moment, and baz has to laugh.
fianlly, simon’s head seems to snap out of the clouds and he laughs too. it sounds like music.
“sorry,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “i got distracted.”
baz resits the urge to roll his eyes and then simon snow is holding out his palm, and baz is gently taking his wrist, touching the mole in between his thumb and forefinger. his hand is freezing.
simon shivers and baz can’t tell if it’s from the cold or-
then baz places the rosebud on simon’s skin and simon’s eyes fly open. he stares. baz stares at him.
for a moment, he looks a bit helpless.
and baz is pretty sure he looks the exact same way.
then they’re surging together and it’s impossible to tell whose lips met whose first because simon has his hands around baz’s waist and baz’s hand is fisted in simon’s hair.
his mouth is so hot and it tastes like rebellion, it burns baz’s tongue, at the same it’s like sugar, too sweet and too gentle and too much like baz is a fragile object which proceeds to shatters baz’s heart even further because simon snow has never had to be gentle to anything in his life.
he is hard stone, hard rock, black, and as much of a klutz than baz has even seen- it’s really quite astonishing how he manages to tattoo people so beautifully when he can’t even stand up straight.
even now, he’s pinned baz to the brick wall and he kisses like it’s the air he needs to breathe while he leans like he doesn’t have the ability to hold himself up.
their tongues clash before baz can kiss a line down the tattoos on simon’s neck, leaving simon in the perfect position to breathe low, breathless words into baz’s ear like-
“your eye shadow is like pixie dust, i can’t stop staring at you.”
and “fuck, baz, my god.”
and baz kisses the mole under simon’s left eye saying
“you know this is my favorite tattoo you have”
and simon will laugh, before baz’s hand on his thigh makes it turn into a moan. and he tries to speak, but he stumbles on the words-
“-t’s not a-a tattoo, i’ve- told you this… s’many times”
and baz just smiles against simon’s skin because he knows, of course he knows, but he likes asking as his way to remind the boy beneath his fingers that even without his piercings, his tattoos, his clothes, he’s the most beautiful boy that baz has ever seen.
all at once it is too much, but now, it’s also not enough.
and baz murmurs
“i’m going to have to leave soon.”
again, not getting far into the sentence because simon’s lips are at his jaw and the last words come out as more of a loss of breath than actual sounds.
simon’s moved down his neck and he smells like the rosebud that he’s still got clenched in his fist and baz tries to forget that he’s got to go back to work in a few minutes and push away the fact that this had ever happened.
“stay just five more minutes.” simon pleads into baz’s collarbone and baz snorts.
“fiona is going to kill me.” he says, but simon’s hands are now in his hair and it just feels so good.
simon’s quickly back at his mouth, they’re so close, and he’s kissing with such an urgency that baz fears he actually might fall over.
“fine, five minutes” he mumbles, and he can feel simon’s smile.
the snow keeps drifting around them, hands attempting desperately to relearn every part of each other in the seconds that pass so quick, and baz knows that there’s nothing that will ever feel as good as this.
simon says, “i don’t want you to leave.”
and baz kisses him deeper, because for all that he knows, this could be the last time. simon’s just moaning and sighing, like he’s all at once so beautifully happy, but all at once so devastatingly sad. his eyes look even more helpless, and baz’s heart agrees.
simon’s taking his hand and swinging it in between them, and then baz’s pulse jumps as he does something so oddly right, he kisses the back of baz’s hand.
“i’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, a declarative sentence. but it sounds more like a question even though baz can tell he’s trying not to let it.
and then he’s gone. the alleyway is just an alleyway.
the drawing in baz’s pocket just turns into something a friend gave him, the footprints in the snow where simon stood become someone else’s. baz tries to wipe the happiness off of his features as he opens the door to the shop, but it’s like trying to erase permanent marker with a white board eraser.
when he’s inside, and he’s warm again, and fiona’s said ‘welcome back’ and shoved the next list of his duties at him, he takes the sketch out of his pocket.
he considers that it might be loveliest thing that anyone’s ever given him, he knows it is. and he turns it over, he hadn’t noticed that there was writing on the back-
can you sneak over sometime? i’d really like to make this permanent.
in simon snow’s horrendous handwriting, (baz is serious, he has no idea how this boy is an artist), and fiona comes back into the room, just as baz’s lips are turning up into a smile that takes over his whole face, his whole body and he can’t stop it.
she gives him a funny look.
“what’s so pleasant, basilton? has david snow decided finally to close up shop?”
he just looks at her, because he can’t speak, because simon snow is too much.
simon snow, the only one boy in the world he’s not allowed to have.
how does he ever manage to leave him everyday, how does he ever manage to let go?
tbh snowbaz is such relationship goals 👌👌👏👏👍 i want a someone to treat me like baz treats simon 😩😉😝😏 i want someone to kiss my moles and feed me scones and try to steal my voice and flirt with my girlfriend and push me down a flight of stairs and attempt to feed me to a chimera!! 💕❤️👌💞👏 too bad baz isnt real 😫😩😡😡😭
the door shuts behind simon, and baz looks up from his textbooks, sneer already plastered on his face.
“how was your little session with the mage?” his voice is taunting, mesmerising, almost haunting. like a siren’s song. simon watches the shadows shift over baz’s face and can almost believe baz means him no harm.
“fuck off.” it’s tired.
simon turns his back to baz. he doesn’t see baz frown. this isn’t the simon he’s used to at all.
baz’s voice floats across the room to him. “aw, what’s wrong? does the mage not like widdle simon anymore?”
simon’s shirt makes a soft rustling noise as he gingerly peels it off his body. he instinctively holds his left hand over the giant bruise on his stomach, prays baz doesn’t see it.
“or maybe,” baz continues tauntingly, “the mage finally realises how idiotic this whole thing is and he’s called it off? aleister crowley, i hope so.”
he thinks baz’s voice sounds like music, the sharp noise bouncing off the silence of the night. a breeze blows through the window, and he shivers.
simon pulls off his socks and leaves them on the floor. baz lets out a disgusted sound, but simon really, really doesn’t have the strength to care right now. he climbs into bed, pulling the covers over him.
baz sighs loudly. “i can’t believe i’ve put up with six years as roommates with this prat.”
“baz.” simon’s voice is soft. monotone. nothing like a siren’s song at all. “shut up.”