#Baz signed off on this post says it's accurate

[southern-continent-skies]

Mirror Barrayar

I’m not writing this fic, but I wrote out a bunch of world-building/bios for a Barryar Mirror Universe while I was trying to write something else that ended up being too dubcon to fit into canon, and instead went sideways into this.

The concept of Mirror Barrayar is basically like the Star Trek version. The main difference is that the Terran Empire in Star Trek is inherently atomized and selfish; everyone is murdering/sleeping their way to the top on their own, with no personal or community ties except to The State. Mirror Barrayar still has the feudal aspect to it, so it’s different, in that you do have some residual notions of Family, Honor, and Loyalty (especially loyalty), but there’s a great deal of F You I Got Mine, as well. 

Generally, the Vor see an obligation to their proles and liegemen, but its the same way you might see an obligation to a pet. It’s reprehensible to, say, chain them outside with no food, or beat them for personal entertainment, or abandon them. But it’s also reprehensible to just let them do what they want, because they’re animals; if they snap, it’s because they’re poorly trained, and if they’re obese, it’s because you overfed them. You have absolute authority over their lives, so you need to step up and exercise that authority responsibly. But you don’t go through the motions of making sure your terrier wants you to pet it, that’s ridiculous. If it doesn’t growl, it’s fine - and if it does growl, obviously it needs more training. Keep them well-fed and happy, but never make the mistake of offering them respect.

Bios behind the cut because Long.

Emperor Gregor is recognizable, but much more Ezar-like; sharper, less concerned with ethics and more concerned with keeping power. Vordrozda was a much more conscious ploy to smoke out any actual disloyalty of Aral’s; he knew what Vordrozda was doing, and he played both sides against the middle. He didn’t want to execute Miles, but he would have done it without an existential crisis; he’d rather keep the campstool than his cousin. Not only is the position of Emperor intrinsically valuable, but it’s the only way he stays alive. Ride the tiger, however many of your friends it eats. 

He’s still depressed (neurotransmitters are a bitch), but his saving grace is duty, which he knows he can do better than anyone else - he took a swan dive on Komarr primarily because he was temporarily convinced otherwise. He wants to avoid civil war, because that needlessly endangers proles and civilians, but he’s not remotely above strategic assassination. He found Cavilo entirely attractive, and very Vor, but he didn’t really want to sign up for a marriage where he’d always have to watch his back. He doesn’t really want a partner, either; feudalism doesn’t understand the concept. Sorry, Laisa; you (and his conception of Kareen) are more like chivalrously-accommodated pets. It’s less male/female than political combatant/civilian, but the distinction is definitely there. He respects and relies on Alys, but he watches her like a hawk because he knows she has ambition. He almost wishes Ivan were a woman, because he’d hate to have to execute his favorite social General for treasonously plotting his replacement. Maybe they can come to some arrangement anyway...

Aral Vorkosigan really is loyal, because he recognizes Vorbarra authority as legitimate and therefore voluntarily submits to it. However, he’s more apt to seize power himself as a “last” resort if he feels Gregor couldn’t keep it in his own right; better, in his version of honor and duty to Ezar, to have Gregor as a puppet than a corpse. He’ll be glad to step down as Main Power Broker in Gregor’s favor, but mostly because that shit is exhausting and he’d rather retire than die. The post to Sergyar is less a compassionate sinecure and more a board-clearing move on Gregor’s part, that happily also allows him to avoid killing them (he really does like Aral and Cordelia, but you can’t make compromises on power). On a personal level, Aral is the “switch” he sort of is in canon, except he’s not remotely that self-aware, and just chalks it up to Authority Moving As It Should, i.e. Sempai Is Always On Top - which is also why he and Ges were so explosive. Technically Aral, as a Count’s heir, outranked Ges, but they weren’t in each other’s chain of command, feudally or militarily, so they had to continually fight about it. That’s what made their affair so transgressive, not the m/m aspect.

Ges Vorrutyer needs no alterations. 

Neither, for that matter, do Ezar and Serg. Really, this is just a universe where Barrayar never socially progressed beyond Dorca’s Game of Thrones bullshit, except that now they have spaceships and fast penta.

Cordelia Naismith ran ALL the way out of fucks to give after Mehta, and is much more convinced that nice gets you killed. She still wants to be nice, if it’s possible, but she’ll shank you pdq if you might be a threat. Her advice that Aral execute Carl Vorhalas was on purpose, here: show them you’re ruthless enough to kill their sons, and they’ll fall in line. And if they fall in line, they won’t threaten our own children, so win-win (except for Carl; sorry Carl. But not too sorry). Aral’s “fountain of honor” is, uh, a very relative term. (And then, of course, her Carl Vorhalas ploy backfired horribly, because that sort of relentless back-stabbing is what the Mirror Universe attitude generally gets you in the end.)

Piotr Vorkosigan died much earlier on; Cordelia isn’t taking those chances with her son, and Bothari knows which way his bread is buttered, too.

Miles Vorkosigan is much more like the caricature of himself that he and Gregor feed Cavilo, except not nuts; that same scene happens here, but it’s full of a lot more barbed back-and-forth between them, with Elena watching not in incredulous giggles but in the kind of silence that means you’re storing up actionable intelligence for later use. He loves Admiral Naismith because it gives him a stage for the plots he’d be executed for in Vorbarr Sultana, and Gregor likes it because, again, he can make use of his family members without having to execute them for being themselves. Miles nearly gets executed for his Memory falsified report business, because if Gregor can’t trust him absolutely then he just has to die. He definitely sleeps with Bel; if he can’t swear it into his service personally, establishing a sexual pair-bond is the next best thing - and besides, it’s a willing subordinate and it’s hot. Likewise, the Elli/Miles relationship is much more fraught, and Miles’s involvement with other people is much more pointed in her general direction. Elli has too much non-Barrayaran self-respect to take the hint and *submit* to Miles, but she likes him enough to put up with way too much of his power-dynamic shenanigans anyway.

Elena Bothari is much more ruthless. She leaves Barrayar because she’s tired of the barriers put in place on her gender AND her class. She wants to play the game, to be a combatant and not a civilian, but on Barrayar she was born unarmed and would be trampled sharp-ish. And that’s why she wouldn’t ever marry Miles; she wants to be an officer, not a pet. And even though she has to leave the Imperium to do it, she’s still very much operating in the Barrayaran style. Baz, the poor puppy, still doesn’t quite know what hit him; but for a pardon, a Vorkosigan connection, and a kickass, gorgeous wife, he’ll do whatever she wants.

Lady Alys is the reigning domme of Vorbarr Sultana. She rules the entire social scene, and social ladder, with an iron fist, tastefully draped in very plush velvet. Marriage contracts for the High Vor go through her first, or good luck getting an invitation to any of the Residence events this year - and she absolutely insists on her version of droit de seigneur. Unlike in canon, she is very much not in a hurry to get Gregor married off, because then she’d have to step back, and fuck that noise. She may have sabotaged a few potential matches by fucking with their gene scans. If Ivan were a woman, that dynastic loop would have been closed yesterday. As it is, she’s been hinting since forever that it might be a good idea for him to cultivate a, ah, “closer” relationship with his cousin, ifyouknowwhatimean. And her relationship with Simon Illyan is equally pragmatic, though no less enjoyable for it. After all, if Gregor dies without heirs, who would be better placed to pull her son’s strings right into the campstool? “Dowager Empress” has a ring to it, don’t you think?

Simon Illyan, Negri’s student in every way, has internalized enough Barrayaran class sensibilities to accept, and even enjoy, reflexively submitting to the Vor - as long as they’re at least as competent as he is. He’s loyal to Aral, and to Gregor, as he was to Ezar before them - but in a much more “I have weighed the pros and cons and come out on your side” sort of way. Aral and Gregor both take proper care of their vassals, after all, and better to be 2IC in heaven than to scrabble for a fighting chance in hell. If Gregor died without heirs, he would have some serious problems trying to decide between Aral and Alys (i.e. Ivan), but until that happens, he is more than happy to let them both think him Their Man. If they require assurances of such in bed, he’s more than happy with that as well. 

Ivan Vorpatril still has the whole “no ambition I prefer my head thanks” vibe, but it’s more pointed this time, because this Gregor would actually execute him if he put a toe out of line. He doesn’t want to get married, not only because then he’d have to deal with a wife, but also because it would put him in the middle of his mother’s schemes and potentially at odds with Gregor, and no thank you. The Arquas’ “analysis” in CVA that he’s been kept in the capital on purpose is actually accurate here; Gregor won’t risk such a photogenic descendant of Xav anywhere he can’t see him, and/or shoot him if necessary. Definitely potential Gregor/Ivan sequel here, in case this one doesn’t have dub enough con for you. Ivan generally tries to make himself as small a target as possible on that end of things - but he also does a great deal of “swiving” of his social inferiors, because he’s the Emperor’s cousin and he can. The Vor/“high prole” young women don’t like him very much, primarily because he expects something for nothing, but it’s easier to go on a few dates than to try to refuse. The “low prole” women who end up in bed with him… don’t bother to complain.

Laisa Toscane is as ruthless as the Barrayarans - all the Komarrans are. They cut their teeth on cutthroat capitalism, after all. Adapting to the feudal structure of the Imperium has meant some sacrifices, mostly of their pride - but pride doesn’t earn shares. She’ll bend both her knees if she can win her children, and her conglomerate, advantage in the process. Gregor’s not a bad husband - and the more he underestimates her, the more she can slip by him. Her gene scan came certified from a Komarran doctor straight to the Emperor’s personal physician - no Vorpatril fuckery possible. She hasn’t yet acquired the social capital to tell Alys to fuck off, but she’ll get there; she’s one of those Toscanes.

Duv Galeni is at least as ruthless as Laisa. He left his academic post for the Imperial Service Academy, because of course he did; he knows which way the bread is buttered, and he wants as much butter as possible for himself. His father was a naive idiot; fighting an overwhelming force for “principles” gets you nothing but pain. Duv, having learned from that experience, will do what it takes, whatever it takes, to get his. Bend over for the Butcher? Why not? It works for the Vor.

Byerly Vorrutyer only has one hand of cards, for the moment, but he plays it really, really well. He’ll suck anyone off for the social capital - and then promptly sell their pillow talk to ImpSec for extra points. Fuck you, pay me - twice, if possible. He may not be a high-level player yet, but give him a decade and a metric ton of blackmail material acquired along the way, and then we’ll see. Loyal to Dono, and to Gregor, to the extent Gregor can spare the attention; he’d gladly serve his Emperor in any sense of the word his Emperor wanted. Byerly’s attracted to power - in other people. What he wants for himself is security. His ideal endgame is to level up out of the game entirely, and just be someone’s pet - but he’s having difficulty finding anyone who would keep him in the style to which he would like to become accustomed. Dono doesn’t count - they both have had it up to here with the Vorrutyer penchant for incest, thanks. His second choice is to acquire enough cards to be untouchable in Vorbarr Sultana. Failing those, his contingency plan is to retire to the District on Dono’s pension and play court jester, but they both hope it doesn’t come to that.

Oliver Jole, bless his heart, is a junior prole officer whose competence is more military than social. He still has enough stars in his eyes to be dazzled by Vor authority, and he hasn’t been spoiled by having to serve a bad boss. On both a personal and a professional level, he’s completely in love with the idea of submission to the Vor - but whereas Simon is doing the same thing in self-awareness and as Part Of This Complete Strategy, young Oliver actually considers it some combination of personal choice and cultural obligation. It’s a good thing he’s pretty, and that Cordelia takes him in later, because the ingenue never quite grows up in that regard.

Admiral Kanzian, as a likely irrelevant-to-the-hypothetical-fic side note, is an absolute dragon of a superior officer. He got his position on the General Staff through both merit and social savvy (and, in his younger years, a bit of, uh, “personal competence”), and he’s not giving it up this side of the apocalypse. Junior Vor members of his office staff reportedly have to suck his dick before they start work, just to get them in the properly subservient frame of mind, for once. Rank hath its privileges - especially on Mirror!Barrayar.

#vorkosigan saga #au #background #not a fic #mirror mirror

[femslashy]

begin again | chapter one

 two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | masterpost | ao3 | playlist

It’s been three years since Baz left the sleepy Isle of Mage to attend university in London, and he hasn’t regretted a thing--except maybe leaving Simon behind. Convinced he’ll never be forgiven, Baz refuses to even visit until a frantic phone call from his stepmother sends him running home. Once there, Baz is forced to confront his past, question the future, and maybe, just maybe, get that second chance he’s always desired.

genre(s): angst+fluff+smut (in later chapters)

chapter length: 3163 words

triggers/warnings: none for this chapter

author’s note: a giant thank you to @amandaisnotwriting & @rainbowbaz for the beta/britpicking! full acknowledgments will be posted with the last chapter

The Isle of Mage is six kilometres long and six kilometres wide. It’s home to a mere 1,078 citizens who inhabit its three villages--Salisbury, Thistledown, and Watford. The island relies on tourism as its main source of income, and every year people flock here to see the various sights. There’s no shortage of those; everything from the natural tide pools on the rocky beaches to the castle that looms on top of the hill. It’s the type of idyllic place everyone fantasises about living in.

Everyone who isn’t me, of course.

I hate this place. I’d hated it then, and I hate it still. I hate how small everything is, how everyone seeks to know everyone else’s business. I hate the near constant stench of fish that never seems to go away--despite the fact that the fishery shut down close to a decade ago--and I hate all the fucking sheep.

I hate how everyone is content to stay here, to waste their lives in this mediocre village on this mediocre island where no one has ever actually accomplished anything noteworthy. At all. Ever. (If you don’t believe me, check the Wikipedia page.)

The thought of living here forever--of being stuck--had terrified me as a teenager. I’d always known I would leave when I could, that I had no future here. For most of secondary school all I focused on was getting out. I worked hard to stay at the top of my class, and had my eyes set on uni (any one, really, as long as it wasn’t here) as long as I can remember. It had been the perfect plan; I wasn’t attached enough to anyone on the island to miss them. Not enough to stay.

(Except maybe Simon.)

“I’m going to bed,” Daphne says once she turns off the car.

Her voice sounds remarkably different than it had when she rang me in a panic yesterday afternoon to let me know that she was at the hospital with my father, and that he’d had a heart attack. She hadn’t explicitly asked me to come, but the expectation was obvious. So I did. I came back, like I said I wouldn’t, to play the role of the dutiful son, standing by my father's bedside and consoling my stepmother as she cried.

I nod to show I’ve heard her, but make no move to exit her SUV. I’m not ready to enter the house just yet. (Or at all, really.)

Eventually the lights inside shut off, and I crack my neck before I climb out, slamming the door harder than necessary. The empty space where my car used to sit makes me sadder than it should. I’d only had it for a short time, but it was long enough to grow attached.

The fact that my father sold it is old news—he wouldn’t allow me to take it to school unless I went to Oxford like he’d wanted. Which I didn’t. So I left it and he sold it. (Bastard.)

My gaze flicks to the right and a slow grin spreads across my face, because on the opposite side of the garage is my father’s most prized possession: his forest green Jaguar, kept in perfectly pristine condition, with the top down and the keys still in the ignition. Growing up I’d barely been allowed to look at it, never allowed to ride in it. Definitely never allowed to drive it.

Taking that car would be a spiteful, juvenile thing. Petty. Immature. Unnecessary.

I do it anyway.

* * *

Once I’m far enough from the house, I slow down and just let myself enjoy the drive. The car hugs the line between the road and the grass, and I feel my shoulders relax. This is nice, this is familiar. I feel grounded now, like I might actually be able to make it through this in one piece. (And then proceed to get properly pissed with my best friend on the beaches of Ibiza once I get home.)

A rabbit darts out onto the road, and I swear as I swerve to avoid it.

And that’s when I notice Simon.

He’s running along the side of the road in my direction, and I groan. Because of course it is. Of course I couldn’t slip on and off the island without seeing him.

(I must be cursed. It’s the only explanation.)

I speed past Simon, and he double takes so hard I swear I hear his neck crack. I don’t look back, and I think I’m in the clear until I glance in the rearview mirror and see that he’s turned around. He’s fucking turned around and is now jogging in the opposite direction. Towards me. After me. I speed up, and so does he.

(Cursed. I’m definitely cursed.)

***

I only stop because I have to there’s no more road. Or, more accurately, the bridge in front of me is blocked off, with a large orange sign declaring it to be “IN REPAIR” hanging from heavy-looking chains. I park, and wait for the inevitable.

When Simon finally catches up, he only looks slightly out of breath as he approaches the car. He’s smiling. (Why is he smiling? I wish he wasn’t smiling.)

“I’m not here to see you,” I say coolly, cutting him off before he can say anything, because we’re not doing this. We’re not going to talk.

His smile falters. “I didn’t think you were.”

“I’m not here to see you.” My tone is harsher than before.

“I know.” He steps forward, “I just wanted to...”

“Did it ever occur to you,” I sneer, “that I don’t want to?”

Confusion flickers across his face, followed by hurt. Good. Maybe he’ll leave.

“I just thought--”

“That must have hurt.”

His hands ball into fists. “Shut up.”

I smirk, because I’m getting to him. “I don’t remember you being so sensitive.”

“I don’t remember you being such an arsehole.”

“We were enemies; I hated you.”

“Not the entire time. Not at the end.”

“And yet,” I remind him, “I still left you.”

He’s glaring openly now. I’m playing with fire.

And I can’t stop.

Simon’s eyes widen as I throw open the door of the Jag and stalk towards him, forcing him to back up until his back hits a tree.  I get right up in his face, and chuckle as he flinches.

“Don’t you remember that day, then? How I told you I was leaving? How you practically got down on your knees and begged me to st--”

The pain is a shock, and then it burns , a throbbing ache spreading steadily outward from my nose. It hurts like hell, and I’m bleeding; it’s running down my chin. I lick my lips and taste copper. Fuck. I can’t believe he just punched me.

“Typical Snow,” I tut, “resorting to violence. You never were good with your words. A pity, really. Maybe if you had been, you could’ve actually convinced me to stay.”

He lunges forward at that, causing me to stumble until I’m the one backed against the tree. There’s a second punch coming my way, and I only just manage to duck in time. The resounding crack is satisfying, especially considering what he just did to my bloody nose.

(Pun very much intended.)

“What the fuck!” he yells, curling his arm into his chest, “You broke my hand!”

“You did that to yourself, you idiot.”

Simon growls, and yanks his white t-shirt off. The world stops for a moment as I catch a glimpse of his bare torso, and I have to swallow a few times before I manage to snap, “Christ, Snow, what’s with the bloody striptease?” with any sort of convincing indignation.

Simon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand like he’s trying not to laugh.

“What? What is it? What’s so funny?”

“It’s literally…” he lets himself go, almost wheezing too hard to answer. “It’s literally--literally a bloody strip…a bloody striptease.”

My jaw drops, and this sends him into another fit of hysterics. The situation has become so ridiculous, and I’m so fucking sleep-deprived, that I find myself laughing along with him, all the tension from earlier gone.

“I’ll drive you home.” It’s a statement, because I’m afraid that, if I make it a question, he’ll say no. But I want him to say no. Don’t I? Christ, this is confusing.

“Here”, Simon says, holding out his shirt, before climbing in, “so you don’t drip on the seats. I know how you get about your car.”

“It’s fine,” I say, “it’s not my car.” I still take the proffered shirt and use it to wipe my nose. Simon appears unbothered, even when I hand him back a significantly bloodier shirt, as I sit down in the driver's seat. (To be fair, Simon is unbothered by most strange things, so I’m not concerned.)

Simon’s eyes flick around his surroundings, and it’s like he’s only just realised where he’s sitting.

“This is…”

I turn the key. “Yes.”

“And he let you…”

“Nope.”

Simon nods like he gets it, and goes quiet. He starts to fiddle with the radio, and I don’t stop him. Eventually he settles on a station-- one of the mere three available on the island--and turns his head to look out the window.

I can feel my eyelids growing heavy as I drive, but, luckily for us, I’ve made this particular journey often enough that it’s basically muscle memory. With Simon in the seat next to me, it’s as if I never even left.

I hate it.

* * *

“This isn’t my house.”

I look from the house in front of us to Simon and then back to the house.

“What do you mean this isn’t your house?"

“I mean I don’t live here anymore.”

“What, did you move?”

Simon acts as if he hasn’t heard me. “You need to get back on the main road and make a right instead of a left by the school. I’ll direct you from there.”

I bite my cheek to avoid asking the questions that are threatening to spill off my tongue, and check to make sure the street is clear before reversing and driving off towards Simon’s mysterious new place.

***

I recognize it instantly, even though I’d only visited a handful of times.

“You live with Ebb?”

Simon shakes his head, and pushes the car door open. I quickly do the same when it becomes obvious that he’s not going to wait for me, and it’s only the burning curiosity that convinces me it’s a good idea to go with him.

We climb the steps side by side, and I watch as Simon digs his hand around in his pocket, wincing a bit as he does--presumably from the drag of denim across his scraped knuckles. He produces a key that requires a complicated set of manoeuvres to open the lock, and then he’s pushing the door open and I’m following him inside.

(It occurs to me that I haven’t actually been invited, but when have I ever cared about that?)

Simon kicks his trainers off and nudges them with the side of his foot so they line up with the wall, then looks at me. “Tea?”

“Please.”

He brushes past me to get to the kitchen, and I drift towards the lounge.

The interior hasn’t changed much since I was here last; the furniture is still sparse and mismatched, and there are knick-knacks covering every inch of available space. The only new thing that stands out is the sofa I’m currently staring at. It’s a terrible pea soup green, and it’s fucking corduroy, of all things. It screams charity shop. Severely discounted. It’s absolutely something Simon would buy without another person around to stop him.

Which means Simon must be here alone.

“When did Ebb leave the island?” I ask, making sure my voice carries so he can’t pretend not to hear me this time.

The sound of the mug shattering seems to echo off the walls, and I flinch. Simon’s still facing the window, but I can see his shoulders starting to shake. I stand up to help clean the mess and Simon holds up a hand. “I’ve got it.”

I don’t listen, and approach his now crouching figure. He’s scrambling to pick up the broken pieces, and one grazes the side of his hand. It’s not large, but blood still begins to stream.

“Shit!” I jump up and grab a dishrag, rushing to run it under the tap. Simon doesn’t fight back when I hold it to the cut; he just sits there, looking at the wound like he has no idea how it got there.

My knees start to hurt after a moment, and I pull back the rag to inspect the cut. It’s stopped bleeding, and looks a lot shallower than I’d expected. Definitely not deep enough to require stitches. Simon is still staring at it, looking bewildered, and I’m half-tempted to leave him there on the floor. (I would too, if I didn’t feel like it was my fault he dropped the damn thing.)

“Come on, Simon. Up you get.” I haul him to his feet, and guide him (push him along, really) over to the ugly sofa. The kettle begins to whistle, and I push Simon back down when he starts to stand. “Stay. I’ll handle it.”

(Miraculously, he listens.)

I prep the tea in record time, and even remember how Simon takes his--no sugar, lots of milk. Our fingers brush as I hand the mug to him, and I almost drop my own; it feels like I’ve been electrocuted.

Simon drinks his tea, his throat working as he swallows. (I’d almost forgot how ridiculously long he takes to swallow. It’s a whole ordeal with him.)

My own cup sits neglected in front of me. I couldn’t find any sugar, and I don’t have the energy to pretend I like it any other way.

After what seems like an eternity, but in reality is closer to five minutes, Simon finishes drinking. His cheeks are noticeably rosier as he leans forward to set the mug on the coffee table next to my discarded one, purposefully not looking my way as he says, “I am happy, you know. To see you. I know you’re not, but I am.”

I blink. I wasn’t expecting that.

Before I get a chance to respond, Simon’s mobile buzzes on the table in front of us. He grabs for it, answering it immediately and leaving the room with a quickly mouthed sorry. I hold up a hand to let him know it’s fine, and rest my head against the back of the sofa, closing my eyes and trying not to think about how many hours it’s been since I last slept. Leaving the house was a mistake, and I should really go before I do something mental, like fall asleep on Simon Snow’s sofa.

(As if that would ever happen.)

***

The door to my room opens, and someone’s moving around with no regard for the person (me) sleeping in here. I don’t open my eyes before snarling, “Mordelia, leave.” But she only continues to make noise, finally prompting me to lift my head and glare at her. Except it’s not Mordelia, I’m not in my room, and I’ve been lying on the world’s most uncomfortable sofa.

“Sleep well?” Simon asks.

I’m up and off the sofa as soon as I realise what’s happened. “Did you leave me alone in your house? Are you mad?”

Simon shrugs. “I had to. Someone phoned in sick at work and I had to go in.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I tried, but you kept pulling my hair.”

(Okay, so maybe Andrea wasn’t lying when she accused me of doing that to her. I’ll buy her apology chocolates once I’m home, the fancy kind with the lavender and sea salt.)

(Speaking of chocolate…)

“Why did you bring me cake?”

Simon looks down like he forgot what he was holding. “I didn’t bring you cake. This is my cake.”

“Alright, why do you have cake?”

“Because it’s my birthday,” he says, like I should have known.

“It’s your birthday,” I echo, because of course it is. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Simon shrugs (again) as he sets the box on the kitchen counter. “I didn’t think you’d care.” He seems to realise what he’s said, because he quickly follows it with, “I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just...well it’s not like you’ve acknowledged it at all since--”

The since you left hangs in the air, a topic neither of us want to touch--especially not after what happened earlier. Suddenly, I can’t be here anymore; it’s too much.

I clear my throat. “I should go. My stepmother will be wondering where I am.”

Simon looks like he wants to argue, but I don’t give him a chance before I’m stalking past him and walking out the door.

I hadn’t expected him to follow me,  and he nearly crashes into my back when I pause to take in the night. It’s later than I thought; the sky is pitch-black, but clear, and littered with stars. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed seeing them until this moment.

That thought unnerves me; I don’t want to miss anything here. But it’s only the stars, only the sky. It’s normal to long for those things;  I'd be ridiculous to think it meant I missed anything else.

Like the island. Like Watford.

Like Simon.

Simon, who’s moved to stand beside me now, hand next to mine, barely centimetres away. It feels strange not to be holding it. (We did a lot of that when we were together. Handholding. Almost more than kissing.) There’s a chill in the air, making me even more hyper aware of how close we’re standing. Simon’s body is warm (so warm) and it’s coming off him in waves.  

I tilt my head back. “There’s so many stars. London doesn’t have stars like this.”

“Do you miss them?” he asks, and I know he doesn’t mean the stars.

“Yes,” I say, because neither do I.

“Enough to come back?”

“London has stars too, Simon.”

“But not like this.”

“No, not like this.”

We’re silent then. The night is still, and the air feels charged with something both familiar and new. I fight the urge to indulge, reminding myself that I left and there was a reason, and that I really should get home and pack because I’m leaving first thing tomorrow.

“I really do need to leave.”

Simon hums in acknowledgment, and I push off from the rail, standing up straight until I’m taller than him again. He doesn’t move, or even turn his head towards me. Feeling my way across the porch, I make my way down the stairs.

“I’ll see you around then,” he finally says as I climb into my car, and I wave before driving off.

***

I’m halfway home when I remember he won’t.

chapter two 

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