Snowbaz Oneshots

My Little Notes (Part 1)

Hi! I'm going to put my writing notes in the beginning this time.

This story is a non-magical world/Normal Snowbaz AU. 

I may have cried while writing this.

Additionally, during this two part oneshot, I delve a little into some issues regarding personal self esteem and depression. So please stay safe and read as you see fit!

And, if you come across anything relating to Simon's struggles in this chapter you find incorrect or upsetting, please, please, please reach out to me and let me know! I know this is a sensitive subject and I want to make this story accurate and welcoming for everyone. Thanks!

And of course, thank you so much for reading! If you have any Snowbaz oneshot ideas, feel free to comment about what I could write! Or comment just to say hi! Have a great day/night!

Bye :)

Simon's POV

When I wake up, my first sense is stinging all over my arms. I was up really late last night, with the Pen. Trying not to wake Baz and writing things on my arms- how I really feel, unbridled. How useless. How stupid. How unaccomplished I am. Everything that crowds my head during the normal waking hours.

The sun seeps through the window and burns my sleepy eyes. I get ready for my morning shower and turn on the water spicket, feeling the hot water gently cascade against my back.

When I hear the door to our bathroom open, I'm so startled out of my stupor, I nearly slip on the wet tile and fall on my bum.

Baz strides in already ready for the day in his somehow formal black skinny jeans and a green cashmere sweater. He sets an extra towel on the counter and turns to me- immediately stopping stiff. He raises his eyebrows at me.

No, not what you think.

When I look down, I see the picture I've seen everyday for months- blueish blackish pools of ink melting in splotches covering the shower floor. I assume it's also draining down my arms. I don't even specifically remember what words that ink used to form; the memories started to blur together after the first couple weeks.

Baz is still gaping at the scene, but I don't really know how to explain it. Before I can start stammering out an answer, Baz says,

"Crowley, Simon, are-are you bleeding?!"

"I bleed red, Baz," I snap.

"Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. There's no need to be terse. I-I can tell you're upset. Um...um." Baz's nose scrunches with worry- which I still find adorable- and he leans towards me hesitantly, like I might spook and flip to the ceiling like Spiderman. When he blushes and his whole face turns red, I hastily grab my sleep sweats and pull them on, the dark water making peaceful sloshing sounds when I move out of the shower. Baz and I sit together on the floor. I stare straight down, while Baz keeps glancing at me, concerned.

It doesn't really surprise me that the suave, collected Baz I got to know for seven years would be so fumbly and soft like this. He's probably always had it in him.

I breathe evenly successfully for about two minutes before I start breaking down. Raw emotions. I snatch up Baz's hand like we're playing that game kids play where one sticks out their hands and the other has to get to them before they're super-speedily slid away. Worry is eating away my chest, and I feel like the waves of sadness are rippling across my body. So I pretend Baz's hand is my anchor. It's still a little sticky from the lotion he puts on dry hands in the winter, but it's never felt more homey, I realize.

After a bit more crying and silence, Baz crouches up to flick on the lights- not dropping his tight grip on my hand- and looks me in the eyes caringly.

"So...do you want to talk, love?"

I'm blown away at his efforts to be understanding. I mean, I put myself in his shoes- walks in bathroom, sees ink all over showering boyfriend, sits on the stone hard ground as said boyfriend starts sobbing. God, I'm such a nuisance.

I owe him an explanation. How do I even start? I try to tell him about my nightly ritual. How awful I feel 24/7. He doesn't interrupt me, but I must have been radiating "I need cuddles", because by the time I've got everything out there in the open and cried even more, I'm practically in Baz's lap. Our legs are intertwined, and I can feel the muscular grooves of his chest on my back. His arms are wrapped completely around me, protectively, and he's resting his chin atop my head of hair.

"Oh, Simon." Baz's soft and strained voice is quiet, thankfully, because my head hurts from the dramatic happenings of the last twenty-five minutes.

"I'm so, so sorry," he continues. "I swear, if I'd have know, I would have been there for you."

"You were there for me."

"But I didn't know! I should've been able to tell. That you had to go through this alone, it, it kills me. I promise it'll get better. I'll do whatever it takes. And if that means you're still feeling bad for a while longer, then, well, that's okay. Just keep me in the loop. I'm always by your side when you need me, Simon. That's what I'm here for. Please. Tell me anytime you need to talk." I can hear the longing to help in his eyes, if that makes any sense. I squeeze his hand.

"Don't you have to go to work today?" I ask quietly.

"Well-"

"No. Slash that. Forget I even said it. Please stay with me."

Baz pecks the top of my head and nestles into our corner of the bathroom wall.

"Always, love."

That night

I want to be strong for Baz, but I don't think I can. The cotton sheets scratch uncomfortably against my legs, and I'm resisting the urge to let my restlessness loose and toss and turn in bed.

The Pen is in my bedside table drawer. It'd be so easy to grab it. Why shouldn't I, anyway? It's the logical solution to the torments that keep me up at night. Like paying penance, sort of.

When I can't stand it anymore, I reach over and slide the drawer open. Where the Pen usually is, my fingers close around a small rip of paper. I squint in the dark to read it, but I'd recognize that ink anywhere by now.

The paper says,

I stole your pen

with a little heart drawn next to it in Baz's slopey handwriting.

A breath I didn't know I was holding exhales, and relief floods me. I concentrate on each individual cursive letter, focused, until my eyes fall shut and I drift asleep.