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“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
— Bilbo Baggins
Stepping out from the glass-walled prison of his workday, Basilton Grimm-Pitch tightened a black woolen coat around his body to protect against the February chill. He had very little time to spare, and no hat to warm his head; he’d left it at home.
“Tuesdays,” Basilton muttered, leaning against the wind with chattering teeth after merely three minutes outside his father’s company headquarters.
He never left his hat at home, and yet, here he was: head bare and lunch hour dwindling. Which meant only one option for food.
The Chosen One Bakery.
Basilton hated that bakery. He hated the Tolkein quotes on the wall and cutesy mismatched plates. He hated the cat that roamed its linoleum floors. Bilbo. What a stupid name for an animal.
But what he hated most was the shop’s owner: Simon Snow.
“Welcome to the Chosen One Bakery,” Simon beamed from behind the counter. “Would you like to try one of our signature scones?”
With a scowl, Basilton removed his white scarf and threw it over one shoulder. The bakery felt oppressively hot compared to the waning winter outside. Like a warm hug.
Another thing Basilton hated.
He unbuttoned his coat and strode to the counter. “Black coffee and whatever passes for a ham sandwich here,” he ordered, ignoring the stubby brown lashes that blinked rapidly over Simon’s blue eyes in disbelief at Basilton’s rudeness.
“Coming right up,” Simon gritted through crooked teeth and chapped lips.
It was almost enough to make Basilton smile.
He settled into a back corner booth, throwing his coat over the pink (pink!) leather seat. He scowled when Bilbo sauntered over, rubbing his white fur all over Basilton’s charcoal grey slacks.
“He likes you,” Simon said, passing over a mug with foam on top.
Resisting the urge to punt the gremlin into one of the many, many flowering houseplants, Basilton took a sip of his coffee.
And nearly spit it out.
“This isn’t what I ordered,” he growled.
Simon allowed one corner of his mouth to lift up. “I know,” he replied enigmatically, then walked away.
Basilton watched the perky twin globes of Simon’s arse shift with his departing steps and Basilton found it within himself to hate that, too.
He’d almost finished the (tasty, though he’d never stoop to admit it) beverage when Simon brought over the sandwich he’d requested.
“I can see you hated it,” Simon smirked, looking down at the near empty mug.
Basilton refused to accept defeat. Instead, he deflected. “This bread has butter on it.”
Simon blinked. “It’s a sandwich.”
Whatever immutable truth Simon tried to convey, Basilton wouldn’t stand for it. “I refuse to eat butter on bread.”
Taking the plate from the table with an angry sweep of motion, Simon stomped away. “Who the fuck doesn’t eat butter on bread?” He muttered in a mock accent of Basilton’s voice.
Basilton couldn’t help it; he smiled.
When Simon returned with his sandwich, sans beurre, he held a second offering in his hand.
“Since I got your order wrong,” he said, setting down both plates (differing styles, of course) on the table. “Enjoy a signature scone, on the house.”
He disappeared before Basilton could muster an objection.
Curiosity had him break into the scone before the sandwich, but shock kept him in his seat. He stared at the words written on the slip of paper baked within the pastry’s folds and he felt the deep well of discontentment within himself start to overfill.
Basilton Grimm-Pitch believed in things he could see, touch, smell, and taste. He was not the sort of man who believed in destiny. Or fate. Or fortune. He was a man of action. A man of results.
He was not the sort of man who would have an existential crisis over a goddamn piece of parchment!
Eventually, anger sent him out of the cafe and into the street, his sandwich and scone left behind. Uneaten, unpaid for.
And completely fucking unwanted.
Basilton fumed about that scone for weeks . Even if he wasn't the cause of continuously dragging it out of his subconscious, it felt like, no matter which figurative corner he turned, he couldn't escape The Chosen One Bakery.
Their muffins found their way into a mid-morning conference.
Lisa from HR raved to Mildred from Accounting about their specialty lattes in the breakroom.
Even Basilton’s father, who rarely deigned to visit the third floor where Basilton worked, dropped by his son’s cubicle to mention the bakery’s chocolate chip cookies and asked, “Do you think the owner would be interested in franchising opportunities?”
Through it all, Basilton grew more and more incensed.
Because he’d heard about the signature scones. Of course he had. Good Morning London did a three-episode arc on Simon Snow and the prophetic pastries which contained a slip of paper that told you a truth you weren’t ready to hear.
(And wasn’t that a trip? Watching the male host sputter over his fortune paper, which stated he couldn’t be an ally to his female co-anchor while also demanding to remain the higher paid of the two.)
That didn’t mean he believed it! How could a baked good possibly contain a truth to which he wouldn’t want to listen? All Basilton did was listen to voices that told him things he didn’t want to hear.
How he’d never live up to his father’s legacy.
How he’d never find love in the bathrooms of gay bars.
How he’d never build a relationship with his half-brother and -sisters if he refused to accept his stepmother as part of his family.
Basilton Grimm-Pitch was accustomed to hearing harsh truths about himself, his choices, and his future in the texts from friends he now ignored, the tabloid pages he wouldn’t read, and the guilt-ridden ‘thinking of you’ cards from those he used to love.
But what he wasn’t ready to hear were seven words that cut deeper than any insult ever had:
Some of your problems are your fault.
It got worse. Basilton found the words appearing, handwritten, in the foggy mirror of his bathroom. In e-mails sent from anonymous addresses. On the supplemental text of grocery store receipts.
Your fault. Your fault!
He hated those words.
(He hated himself.)
He stormed into the bakery.
“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” He screamed.
Simon leaned over the glass display case, an indulgent smile on his face. “I was wondering when you’d come back.”
And in that moment three things dawned on Basilton in succession:
- This bakery was featured on Good Morning London three times. Why was it always empty when Basilton visited?
- A pumpkin mocha breve sounded amazing right now.
- He didn’t hate Simon Snow, not at all.
“Did you want me to?” His eyes stung with the vulnerability of it.
“Baz,” Simon said. “Can I call you Baz?”
Slowly, with a deep swallow, Baz nodded.
“I built this bakery just to meet you.”
The truth came out in slow drips, as soft as the butter on Baz’s sandwich. As sweet as the pumpkin mocha breve Simon made. As sharp as the words on Baz’s latest fortune:
You were meant for each other.
Simon extended one hand, palm facing up. Baz took it.
“I don’t understand.”
Simon smiled. “You don’t have to. Not yet. Not ever. Not unless you want to.”
For the first time in his life, Baz felt comfort in the unknown. Bilbo rubbed his white fur on Baz’s navy blue trousers. Baz read the Tolkien quotes on the wall. He inhaled deeply from the flowers of the many, many house plants.
He opened his heart and let Simon in.
In the days that followed, Baz found new words written on his bathroom mirror. A new phrase printed at the bottom of his receipts.
Good morning, darling.
I’m so glad I found you.
But instead of using some magickal means Simon wouldn’t explain to send anonymous messages via e-mail, Simon spoke these three words into Baz’s ear one morning:
I love you.
Basilton Grimm-Pitch believed in things he could see, touch, smell, and taste. He was not the sort of man who believed in destiny. Or fate. Or fortune. He was a man of action. A man of results.
He was a man adrift.
Until Simon Snow found him.
“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be.”
― Douglas Adams
Except that’s not all!
One year later.
Stepping into the warm hug of a bakery he shared with his husband, Baz threw off his floral coat and was immediately knocked off his feet by three little rascals.
“Delia! Sophie! Petra!” He laughed, mussing their hair in sequence. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Delia trained her brown eyes on Baz’s grey ones. “What are you talking about, Basil? We’re always here.”
Pushing back his siblings in order to stand, Baz gave Delia’s black hair an extra tossle. “Don’t be smart with me, little puff.”
“Can’t help it,” she smirked, then skipped away on a path to something sweet.
Daphne walked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Hello, dear.”
“Hi, mum,” Baz smiled, keeping one hand on each of the twin’s heads. “The kids are extra rambunctious today.” He patted their hair and they beamed up at him.
Daphne rolled her eyes. “Someone thought it was a good idea to let them taste test his new brownies.”
Stepping out from behind her, Simon gave them both a sheepish grin. “They’re book-brownies,” he explained. “Meant to help them settle down to read a good book.”
“More like bounce-brownies,” Daphne complained.
“I haven’t exactly perfected the magic.”
Sophie and Petra demonstrated Simon’s failure with three precise (and energetic) jumps.
“I see,” Baz drawled. Then, he kneeled down in front of the twins. “What say you show Simon how well his magic works by sitting down and reading one of your mystery novels?”
They nodded in sync and then plopped down into one of the many reading nooks, suddenly calm despite their previous energy; Simon’s magic always did work better when Baz was around. Frodo and Gimli sauntered over to curl at their feet; Baz spared a moment to wonder if Simon would ever stop adopting strays.
Then he allowed a smile to grow on his face. Probably not, Baz thought, considering the way Simon so easily adopted him, the grumpiest stray of all.
“Hi,” Simon said, coming up from behind Baz and wrapping his arms around him, tight. He pressed a kiss to Baz’s cheek, and Baz closed his eyes to relish the sensation. “You ready for the interview?”
“No,” Baz pouted.
“I know what you need,” Simon whispered, sending a shiver down his spine. “Come get your pumpkin mocha breve.”
Curled up in his favorite corner booth with Bilbo purring on his lap, Baz sipped his too-sweet, just-right coffee and smiled at the fresh-faced journalist from the Times.
“How did you meet?” The man asked as an opener.
Baz took a second to look around the teaming cafe, never once empty during opening hours, not since those early days before Baz believed in the power of what Simon had to offer. He remembered the quiet he used to hate, the mismatched plates he used to judge, and he took a deep breath.
“Amazing grace,” he said, reaching over to take the hand of Simon who sat beside him. “How sweet the sound.” He pressed a kiss to Simon’s knuckles. “That saved a wretch like me.” The journalist, Shepard, smiled patiently despite the fact Baz chose to answer his question with a cryptic song. “I once was lost but now am found. Was blind,” he blinked back tears, “but now I see.”
“Beautiful,” Shepard said. He leaned forward. “I’m not sure what a word of it means in this context.”
Baz smiled. “It means that there is magic in this world you or I have yet to understand. But,” he lifted an arm to curl Simon into his side, “it turns out that some of your problems are your own fault.” He kissed the top of Simon’s head. “And that means something wonderful. It means, if you’re unhappy, you have the power to make things better.”
Shepard blinked. “And that’s how you two met? You were looking to… change?”
With simultaneous laughter, Baz and Simon exchanged knowing looks. “I was lost but didn’t know it,” Baz said.
“And I was looking for him, but he didn’t want to be found,” Simon added. “Magic,” he winked at Shepard, “or fate or destiny or… something. Something brought us together.”
Baz hummed. “Something indeed.”
A purple-haired girl approached their table; Penny. Simon had hired her just the previous day.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” she said. “Only I wanted to ask…” She turned to Shepard. “Would you like to try our signature scones?”
“Oh!” Shepard’s eyes widened. “I really shouldn’t–”
Simon opened his mouth but Baz spoke first. “You really should,” he insisted, reaching over to drape a palm over Shepard’s arm. “It’s on the house.”
Shepard broke open the scone. He read the words on his fortune. His jaw dropped and he turned to catch Penny’s wrist before she turned away.
“I used to chase storms,” he blurted.
Penny furrowed her eyebrows. “Ok…?”
“Only,” he blushed, “my fortune said I’d meet a purple-haired tornado, and I’ve caught enough whirlwinds to know you shouldn’t let a force of nature slip away.”
“Perhaps we should let them get on with it,” Simon whispered.
Sneaky as cats, Baz and Simon left the two new lovers behind in the pink leather booth, the interview over before it started, allowing something more precious and rarer than a newspaper article to begin.
Besides, what good were answers in the face of whimsy? Some things are better left unexplained. A good mystery, Baz had learned, was worth more than all the answers he’d ever sought.
No, no! The adventures first, explanations take such a dreadful time.”
― Lewis Carroll