Snowbaz One Shots

will you wait for me?

What is up my dudes. I wrote this literally months ago and forgot to post it. Enjoy or something.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Dating Simon Snow isn't exactly the coveted grope-fest that I had always imagined.

It's been a lot (a lot) of hand-holding on the couch with the television burning away in front of us, though I'm quite sure neither of us is ever listening. There's been a lot of kissing (just one "a lot" though), too. But it's never gone much further than that. Whenever things have started to heat up, Simon goes completely numb. It's getting increasingly difficult to hide my pout when he suddenly pulls away and falls back to the couch cushions like a limp noodle as if he hadn't just had his tongue shoved in my mouth (expertly, might I add). 

Today has been no different.

Penelope is out for the day, for her monthly Saturday lunch date with her Mum. I spent the night here last night, contentedly wrapped up with Simon, our limbs entangled and chests bare. We had morning coffees in bed like we always do, and now we're propped against one and other on the couch, Simon's bush of curls resting on my shoulder and our hands intertwined. It's been a few hours since Simon has moved a singular muscle. 

"You okay there, love?" I eventually murmur into his ear. "You've gone a bit... catatonic again."

He barely reacts and does so several seconds delayed.

"Yeah, m'okay," I've become quite good at deciphering Snow's constant mumbling. "You?"

"I'm fine, Simon..." My groping hand finds the TV remote on the couch cushion and I flick the off button. "I just wish you were here with me. You're like... somewhere else entirely lately."

It's only been four months since that day. That day that shook Simon to his very core and ruptured something within him, leaving a measly shell of his beautiful being behind. I haven't yet decided which is more painstaking: watching the love of your life suffer without having the option to help them (a.k.a. the roommate days), or watching the love of your life suffer and having not a clue how  to help them, even though you now have the option to (the past four months).

"'M sorry."

"Simon, I don't want you to be sorry. I just wish I could help you somehow."

I begin to trace tiny circles on Simon's upper back, and immediately feel him shiver against me. At this, a grin escapes my lips and my eyelids flutter closed. He's still in there somewhere. I lean my head down to meet his; press my lips to his forehead, once, twice, three times. Within a few seconds, Simon has raised his head from my shoulder, peering up at me with an expectant (yet vacant) gaze. I begin to plant kisses all over his face, as gently as I can muster. Nose, cheek, chin, eyelids, forehead. He catches me with his own lips before I can continue. He holds me there in a sweet, desperate moment: the kind that lingers after he has pulled away. I find my hand cupping his beautiful, freckled face. I've never seen such a sullen gaze as when I look into Simon's eyes. He didn't used to be this way.

I reconnect our lips now as if I can fix him. As if a kiss can heal a broken being.