My Better Half (Sequel to My Cup of Tea)

Chapter Eleven

"I don't know, Wellbelove."

They were in Baz's flat. Agatha was on the couch (an expensive, black-leather one) and Baz was standing in front of her, running his fingers through his hair. He was so exasperated––so beyond done with this conversation. They'd had it a few times now, but Agatha never really got it. She never understood that he was trying everything in his power to make her see that he wasn't right for her in every conceivable way. Instead, she pushed him. She wanted to know why he was the way he was and how she could try and fix it.

"Is it because of Simon? Do you think it'll ruin your friendship?"

"Crowley, no. It's not that."

The truth is that the mere thought of sleeping with you makes my blood boil. It makes me want to throw up. The truth is that I'm helplessly and incurably gay and in love with Simon Snow even though I can't have him. The truth is that I hate having to date you because you're everything that he's not.

She huffed and rolled her eyes. "I'm so tired of having to talk about this, Baz. I'm so tired of feeling like you don't want me."

It had been fine to pretend that they were dating. It had been fine for Baz to take her hand in his when they were in public. To kiss her cheek. To kiss her chastely on the lips when he needed to. It hadn't been good, but it had been doable. He could manage it for his father's sake, if he had to. But making out with her or making love to her seemed like crossing a line. If he crossed that line, would he ever really be able to go back?

It wasn't like he was afraid that she'd "turn him straight" or what have you, but he was afraid that if he slept with her...she'd want more. She would never stop wanting more. If he slept with her, she would want to say "I love you." If he said "I love you," even through gritted teeth, she'd want to move in with him. If he let her move in with him, even if it killed him on the inside, she would want him to propose. If he had to propose, even with the shittiest ring he could find, she would want to get married. 

Baz didn't want to marry her. He didn't want to have to do any of those things. With Agatha, anyway.

But he couldn't exactly tell her all of that. He couldn't just sit her down and explain that their entire relationship had been a hoax––a way to please his father. If he did that, she would be outraged. Rightly so. She would run off and tell her father who would run off and tell Baz's father and...it'd be a proper mess.

"I have intimacy issues," he tried.

She glared at him. "Do you want me, Baz?"

"You're beautiful," he said. It was true. (He was gay, not blind). Agatha was, objectively, gorgeous. Her hair was always perfect and she was graceful and she had this air of independence about her that was absolutely delightful. If things were different, Baz thought that they might've made good friends. She was easy to talk to, even if he hated to admit that. He could see everything that Simon had seen in her all that time ago––her kindness, her grace, her beauty, her perfection.

"That doesn't answer my question."

He sighed. "Who wouldn't want you?"

"You don't," she whispered.

Baz needed to protest. He didn't want to fight for her, but he knew that he needed to. He needed to lie and tell her that she was everything he'd ever wanted and more. He needed to talk to her like she was Simon and this was his one chance to right all of his wrongs.

"I think I need some space," she said, not giving him the time to come up with anything to say.

"You––"

"Just for a bit. I think that we both need to think about what we really want out of this relationship."

He nodded, trying not to look to eager. "If that's what you want."

"It is. I'll...I'll talk to you after Christmas. You were going to go to Hampshire anyway, so we can meet up and talk after the holidays. On Boxing Day, if that works. I think it'll help for us to be apart, just for two weeks. Just to really think things through."

She got up and kissed his cheek and left without another word.

He was too dumbfounded to say anything, but that was alright. She didn't seem to mind, anyway. She had already decided what she wanted and there was nothing Baz could say or do to change her mind.

Well, he probably could have just had sex with her. But that didn't really seem like an option.

When she left, he felt this weight fall off his chest. He knew that they'd have to talk in two weeks, but that felt like forever away. And, even though there was the distinct possibility that Agatha would decide that they should still be together, Baz couldn't bring himself to see that possibility. Instead, he felt an overwhelming happiness flow through him. It filled him up. He was practically overflowing with it.

So, to celebrate, he called the one person that would always pick up: Simon.

"Baz?" Simon said, picking up on the first ring.

"Are you busy? Can you talk?"

There was some sort of shuffling in the background. "Yeah, I'm free. What's up?"

Baz couldn't help but smile, even before he even told Simon the news. "Agatha was just here."

"Oh. I––"

"No, Snow. She said she wanted space. She doesn't want to talk to me until Boxing Day."

Simon didn't say anything for a moment.

Maybe Baz had read this all wrong. Maybe Simon didn't have feelings for him anymore. Maybe all this was was friendship. But, Baz knew that he felt something. He felt it every time they hugged and Simon pulled away with a blush across his cheeks. Every time their hands brushed accidentally. He felt it especially when Simon had told him about how he got those scars on his wrists––in the way that Simon had pulled Baz into him and babbled calming things into his hair. In the way that he had wiped off Baz's tears with his thumb.

"Snow? Are you there or have you had a heart attack? Should I dial 999?"

"S––I'm here. I just...I don't know what to say. Are you...you seem happy about it."

"Of course I'm happy about it. I feel like I was diagnosed with cancer and healed magically overnight. I feel like I could hang the moon and stars."

"That's good then. I'm...I'm happy for you."

"Can you come over?"

"When?"

"Now, preferably. Or should I have worked this wonderful fake-breakup around your busy schedule?"

"I mean, I can come now. I just––yeah. I'll be there in about an hour. I'm in the middle of decorating a cake."

"Bring the cake," Baz said.

I'm want to have my cake and eat it, too.