Slide

Do You Wanna Get Married?

Penultimate chapter! No warnings for this one.

* * *

and I'll do anything you ever dreamed to be complete

little pieces of the nothing that fall

put your arms around me

what you feel is what you are, and what you are is beautiful

do you wanna get married?

or run away?

* * *

December 2023

* * *

Baz

* * *

The cold air whips right through my hair as I lock the car and hurry to our apartment building. I check my wristwatch—it's almost nine o'clock by now. Fuck.

At this point, I feel like I can't take another late night. Both Simon and I's schedules have been hectic lately, between work, chores, events, family, etc., etc., etc. I'm so exhausted that walking makes my legs feel like dead weight.

I let myself into our apartment and slump against the back of the door. "Honey, I'm home."

Simon laughs from somewhere in the flat. The saying reminds me of the spell that let us into our room in Mummers—although Simon always preferred good-old-fashioned blood on the knob—and I think he's reminded of it, too.

He appears down the hallway, carrying a basket of laundry so overpiled I can barely see his face. "How was the office?" he asks teasingly, kicking his arse with his heel in his best imitation of a 50's housewife.

"Very funny." I take the laundry off his hands and head to our room, dumping it on our bed. "The office was fine, for your information. I had to help Mordelia with a school project," I tell Simon wearily. "Can you believe she's in fourth year now? They're all so grown up."

"Remember the beginning of Sophie and Petra's first year?" he asks, smiling. "When they put the flowers down for your mum?"

"But they put them down all over the White Chapel because the actual Catacombs freaks them out?" I laugh. Sweet kids. "Of course I remember."

My system with my siblings is all very organised and well-oiled. I never thought I'd be a working cog in my family—I'd always felt like the wild wrench thrown at it, never quite fitting in. But it's worked out better than I could've ever thought.

Sophie, Petra, and Delia spend nine months a year at Watford, and I make the drive down there a few days a week to do substitute teaching. I give them hugs and sweets and help them with their homework. My parents and I even have a group chat to keep track of them. I send pictures of the girls often, so that my father and mother can know they're doing fine, even being so far away for so long. (Wading through my notifications has been hell since Daphne discovered how to 'heart' someone's text.)

Occasionally a picture of Swithin will appear in the chat, one where he's unaware and immersed in Legos or television, since he's extremely camera shy. I'm not ready to think about him going to Watford in just four years. (They're all so grown up.)

"I'm sorry I'm home so late," I say to Simon.

"Don't be sorry," he replies, "I just got home, like, fifteen minutes ago."

"Long evening at work?" I ask.

He grunts, which isn't a yes, but it's as good as when we're both this wiped. I'll give him a pass. Simon's been managing a new building project, which I know is incredibly exciting for him, but it's not exactly easy.