flower crowns and pastel boots- chapter five
pastel punk au
tw: homophobia, vague suicidal thoughts
chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine, chapter ten, chapter eleven, chapter twelve, chapter thirteen, chapter fourteen, chapter fifteen, chapter sixteen, chapter seventeen, chapter eighteen, chapter nineteen, epilogue
he’s every name but his own.
he’s pitch-bitch, degrading and insulting and painful-
he’s whore (and he’s slut and street treat and something he doesn’t want to repeat, not even in his own head)- even though it’s a lie-
he’s frosty, he’s rainbow, he’s freak and bitch and arse, and he’s breaking apart.
baz is the shadow of a soft pastel almost, hollow and light and quiet as a whisper.
simon feels something when he looks at him- like a star collapsing in his chest. and he thinks he knows what it is, because he used to feel like that when he looked at agatha.
he turns his fear and disgust into rage and finds baz and everything the he thinks will hurt him and he unleashes it all, a torrent of insults and jabs and low blows. and as he watches baz’s shocked eyes he feels a surge of savage pleasure breaking over him, growing and growing until-
it’s guilt, it’s not pleasure at all, but he continues because that’s all he knows how to do.
and he watches basilton pitch break into a thousand pieces, right before his eyes.
i made a mistake, he admits to himself. alone.
i made a mistake, and there’s something wrong with him but there’s something wrong with me too.
and then the rest of him beats that part down (like pretty pink boots and hair and sprinkles of red) because no, he’s not a freak like him he’s not he’s not he’s not-
he likes girls. he likes agatha.
it wasn’t meant to turn out like this.
baz lies in bed and stares at the ceiling and feels nothing.
he wonders, from far off, if he’d care if he’d die.
simon wouldn’t care.
no, simon would care- simon would dance with joy. simon would be happier than he’s ever been.
baz has disappointed so many people.
his family, for being who he is.
his mother, for not being strong enough to save her.
maybe he could make one person happy.
even if it’s simon snow.
(especially if it’s simon snow.)
simon knows people.
he knows people who know people and eventually he gets baz’s number because anger and bitterness is seeping through his seams and he needs an outlet.
so he slips outside, where it’s cold and he can think, and texts him.
baz is lying on his back in a room full of shadows when his phone beeps.
he considers not answering it, but it might be one of his parents, and they’ll be upset if he ignores their text. he slides his phone open, and- an unnamed number, not his parents. he’s about to put it down, he doesn’t care, but his eyes skin it-
hey, pitch bitch, it reads, and baz’s blood runs cold. he stares, frozen, until another message pops up.
so after i made u cry today how did u feel? bc u looked really pathetic
he doesn’t answer. (he hadn’t actually cried, just hidden his face in his sleeve and stayed that way until they left.)
cmon fairy r u even there
baz puts his phone down, gently, and lies down, and pulls his pillow over his ears. he can still hear the phone buzzing, over and over and over again.
he doesn’t get any sleep.
it’s like he’s being prodded closer and closer to the edge.
he would turn off his phone- he has, several times- but he always turns it back on, out of some twisted curiosity. and he’s always greeted by insults and mockery-
he doesn’t answer back, though.
he never does.