april 28 @snowbaz-feda (it’s almost over?!)
“you’re my favorite up and coming author and i go to one of your signings, oh my god your handwriting is so pretty, wait did you just write your number in this book” au (not mine).
ok so baz is a pretentious prick but that’s nothing new.
word count: 549
Simon’s bouncy today. It’s one of his most adorable, if ungraceful, qualities. But he’s dragged me to the local bookshop, the one run by our favorite old lady, Ebb, the one that I introduced him to, and the one that’s featuring the magnanimous Basilton Pitch, aka Simon’s crush (though he would never admit that). Simon’s read all of his books after stumbling across his author’s page a couple years ago. He mostly writes fantasy—merwolves, goblins, mages, and vampires—but this one’s supposed to be different. It’s just out today, and Simon’s been up since dawn, dragging me out of a caffeinated stupor, to go buy the book and meet the guy.
“Simon, I love you dearly, but I’m going to have to hit you over the head with the nearest book if you don’t stop that,” I yawn.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m just, I’m so excited, Penny. And nervous. What do I say? What do I do? I mean, this is Basilton Pitch. He’s probably expecting a sonnet or something. Oh god, Pen, what if he hates me?”
“He won’t hate you, Si. He’ll sign your book, you’ll say something awkward about how much you love him, and then the hordes of women behind us will close in and I’ll be forced to pour hot coffee on them to get us out of here.” Some girl at the shelf beside me scoffs at my comment. I’m not wrong. Basilton Pitch is gorgeous. It’s why half his readers started on his books.
We get to the front of the line and Simon’s clutching the book so hard I think it’s going to break. It’s gorgeous—hardcover and embossed—but I try not to pay attention to the way he holds it.
Simon holds out the book, eyes wide, mouth dropped open, to the one and only. “Who should I make this out to?”
He sounds just as posh as I would expect him to through his writing (of course I read it, Simon would kill me if I didn’t), and glances between the two of us expectantly.
“Simon Snow. It’s for Simon.”
Basilton meets Simon’s eyes and grins slowly. “Snow spelled just how I think it is?”
He opens the front cover and tilts the book—he’s left-handed I notice—and pens out a message. He writes what appears to be more than a simple sentence, and finishes it with a signature.
“I just—I love your writing,” Simon gushes when Basilton hands him the book back. “I’ve read it all.”
Basilton smiles again. “I’m glad to hear that. I hope you like this one, too. It’s been a pleasure.” Basilton holds out his hand and Simon shakes it, shocked.
We pay Ebb, who insists on a family and friends discount and gives us both large hugs, and on the way home, Simon cracks open the book.
For Simon Snow,
May your name be a testament to yourself and your originality. I will never meet another Snow like you.
Enjoy the read,
The note is finished with a series of numbers that make Simon’s face go bright red.
“Simon, is that a phone number?”
I cock one eyebrow but say nothing else. Apparently, those of Basilton’s readers who began because of his beauty never knew he batted for the other team.