(So, this is the first time I've written anything outside of school in about… 4 years, maybe? Anyway, I just wanted to share this because I love these two a lot, and I've been with them for so long. I connect with Baz on a spiritual level and I just LOVE him.

p.s. This fic features a little Easter egg and very cute Simon and it's basically just a fluff one-shot, although I may be convinced to carry on (no pun intended) since it's pretty open ended.)


Okay, so maybe I spend a little bit too much time looking at his mouth. Who cares…? That's a stupid question. I care. He's too bright to look at sometimes, yet I look anyway. It's not my fault he looks like the sun is shining out through his pores (like happy incarnate, I swear to bloody Christ) and his messy curls seem to have been crafted out of a million pieces of gold and bronze and copper by the gods themselves and his eyes are bluer than the place where the sky meets the sea… and… I'm babbling. Pitches don't babble. (Fuck it, he's too cute to not babble about him) It's not my fault that his adorable ski-jump nose is covered with light brown freckles, or that his pale gold skin is covered in little marks and moles (although it is my fault that I find them as sexy as I do).

It's not my fault that I have zero control over how much I look at him, whether it's his mouth or anywhere else on his body. I also have zero control over the amount he notices me, which, as aforementioned concerning my control over how much I look at him, is zero. What a fucking tragedy I am. What a disaster. Oh, if only my mother could see me now…although, to be honest, her spirit would probably live on through Fiona whacking me on the head with a pillow, saying "Get on with it, Basil!" and shoving me into him. (Who knew that a punk hijabi could have such fury? Punk hijabi… what a fucking oxymoron.) As though that would solve any of my problems… and before you say anything: yes, I have thought of every single romantically surprising way we could end up speaking for the first time.

So I suppose I'll just sit here, peeking (covertly, I hope) out of the corner of my eye to get glimpses of him, completely at peace in the next study carol. How jealous of him I am. How I wish that I had no care in the world and was idly bobbing my head to whatever he's listening to through his ear buds. One of them is almost falling out of his ear, and though I'm sure he's noticed it by now, it probably hasn't occurred to him that anyone within 5 feet of him can hear what he's listening to (I love crappy Apple earbuds that are worth about £2 and we pay nearly £21 for). It's fallen out now. As much as I would like to stuff the ear bud back in his ear (if not to just have an excuse to touch him), I would also very much like to know what he's listening to. The beat, tinny as it is, comes out steady, with a background of blues guitar and a roughly sweet voice.

I guess you could call this song

My gamble for a rose

Oh with your hand in mine

I may be battered

But I will never be broke

With your hand in mine

Oh I will never be broke

I'm startled. This song has come on my Spotify Discover Playlist before… In fact, only a couple weeks ago I added it to my own "Listen To This :)" (With a smiley face at the end, sue me.) Playlist. I glance at him from the side of my vision again… and am shocked to find that he has removed both ear buds, has turned, and is staring right at me.


Saying that I didn't notice him the first time he walked into this library would be a blatant lie. You can't miss someone who looks like that, someone who looks like a male supermodel that just happened to run away to join Cambridge. His looks are in no way conventional, but he is breathtakingly beautiful, all deep reddish gold skin and long legs and high cheekbones and eyes so pale grey that they're almost white.

The best thing is his hair: impossibly thick and smooth, falling from a stark widows peak and waving up and down in layers to his collarbone. Said wave makes the front locks of his hair refuse to be secured behind his ears, no matter as hard as he tries. I've even seen him bring little barrettes, to no avail. So far the only thing I've seen work for him is a topknot, and even this takes a couple of tries, a significant amount of huffing, and a lot of ripping the hairband out in one swift motion before he finally gives up on trying to get the finer pieces of hair at the nape of his neck into the bun. I think it's incredibly endearing. Of course, I still like his hair best when he leaves it down and it falls lazily around his face.

Honestly, though, my favorite thing about him is how much he seems to look at me. At me! I'm only aware of this because of superior peripheral vision that I've developed from walking around while reading in my youth. As far as he knows, I've never looked at him, but that is only because I'm incredibly sneaky and never look at him when he's looking at me.

It's getting late and he's still here, still watching. My watch reads 22:43, my ear bud is going to fall out soon (such a shame, because this song is so nice), and he's still watching. I've made a decision: I'm done, just sitting here, watching this beautiful boy look at me without making any movements. I'm going to talk to him… but my brain seems to be sabotaging me, because as much as I would like to turn to him and speak, I can't seem to even get my fingers to twitch… It's so easy, Simon, get it together. My ear bud has fallen out now. Bloody fucking- my fingers have responded to my brain signals. Hallelujah, willpower has returned.

My fingers shaking, I take the other ear bud out and place it with the other on my lap. The quiet of the library is almost deafening after the constant music I've been playing for the last hours that I've sat here. His fingers tap deftly on the keyboard of his laptop (he's a full ten-finger-typist, something I never learned how to do. Penny calls what I do "chicken pecking" and I almost hate her for it). They're beautiful fingers; long, with well-kept nails. The nails on his left hand are cut significantly shorter, and I can see little callouses on the tips of his fingers. Just turn around, Simon, this is getting ridiculous. For once I seem to be able to listen to myself. I turn in my seat to face him, just in time for him to send another sideways glance my way. A look of shock flits across his face, although he is quick to compose himself. His eyes are even more beautiful than I thought; like if you looked at a light thunderstorm through a glass of water. I don't really know what to do, so I do the only thing I can trust myself to do without any real thought necessary:

I open my mouth and speak.