In the early hours of the morning, when the sun's rays are just breaking over the peaks of the mountains and the air is still fresh and new, that's when Baz slots his key into the lock of the bakery and pushes his way inside.

It's then, with sunlight slanting in through the enormous windows, that the place seems to be caught in a spell, frozen in time. The polished cherry floorboards reflect the light back into the air, catching tiny dust motes in their dance across the open space, the black furniture is a stark but elegant contrast to the softness of the rest of the shop, and the air is filled with the scents of pastries at the back; lining shelves and filling refrigerators, sitting daintily on display.

It's in the kitchen, though, that Baz feels most at home. His hands are rough and steady, meant for kneading dough and mixing batter, making careful flowers out of icing. His shoulders are broad and strong, meant for hefting sacks of flour and enormous wedding cakes. He has an eye for detail and mind for remembering formulas and recipes. He's a Pitch, born and bred to sculpt masterpieces from sugar and flour and yeast.

There's an apron hanging just inside when he steps into the room and flicks on the lights, and he barely has to think at all, slipping it over his head and tying a neat bow at his back, rolling his shirt up past his elbows, drawing his hair back in a small ponytail. All routine, engrained into him and not soon to be forgotten.

Hours later, flour rises up in small, sparse clouds and settles over everything. It finds refuge in his hair and burrows into the creases of his clothing, makes an off-white winter wonderland of the room.

The proof box is filled with slowly rising bread, the oven is turning out a cake, and Baz is bent over a batch of specially ordered cupcakes, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he fills them with swirls and dots and tiny shapes, creating twisting patterns.

His employees should be arriving soon, so he sets aside the frosting tube and pushes his way back into the real world, brushing flour off of his hands-creating more clouds of white sent off to find new places to roost-and unlocks the door for them. One after the other, they filter in and a kind of systematic and close-knitted chaos arises in the kitchen, customers drift through the door and form a line in front of the counter, perch themselves on chairs, lean their elbows on tabletops, lounge back in couches, and poke around the shelves. The air is all warm laughter and the smell of baking bread and chattering voices.

This is a haven of serenity, a place filled with things that are familiar, that put Baz at ease.

And it's all shattered by a golden hurricane, hurtling through the door and looking crazed. He's half-stumbling, half-hopping, his hands fumbling desperately with the strings of his apron, so he has to shoulder his way through the door and it's loud. There's a crash, the bells on the door tinkling, and the whole place slowly falling silent to leave a single voice ringing through the air, "SHIT! I'm so sorry, Mom, this is the last time I'll be late, I swear to..." and then, once he's standing in the middle of the room, his eyes finally make a sweep of his surroundings, and his ears turn a bright shade of red.

"Oh."

Baz clears his throat and the boy's eyes snap toward him immediately. It's disconcerting, not because of the color of irises or the confused mass of curls piled on top of his head and spilling off the sides, but because of the intensity of his gaze. He is not intense like Baz's father, who Mordelia has described as a viper with a widow's peak, or intense like Baz himself, who could slit a man's throat with his words alone. He's intense like the sun, too bright and too much to look at.

"I don't believe you're meant to be here," Baz manages, eyes still locked on the boy. Sometimes an eye for detail is a curse because he's noticing the moles under his ear and the caramel of his skin and his biceps.

The boy takes a faltering step back, "I... uh... I work..." He gestures vaguely to the right and Baz's eyebrows shoot up, his mouth tugs upward at the corner.

"Flower shop?"

His expression tightens up, his face flushes further, and he bites out a "yeah" that's strangely defensive. It's only then that Baz realizes his tone wasn't as questioning and politely interested as he'd intended.

"And I'm late." He finishes with a scowl and whips around, apron strings flailing wildly, and marches out the door.

-

When the day is over-the last pastry is sold, the counters are wiped, the floors are swept, the equipment is cleaned, and the door is locked-Baz makes his way over to My Rosebud Boy with a basket of sour cherry scones and an apology slowly forming in his mind.

Normally, Baz is not one to apologize, but normally, Baz is in the right.

The shop is quietly beautiful and teaming with more types of flowers than Baz knew existed. From the ceiling, baskets dangle from chains and spill flowers over their sides, on windowsills, flowers crowd and drink up sunlight. They're on top of vintage dressers and peeking out of the drawers, they're arranged beautifully on a huge display in the middle of the floor, they're on vines, crawling up columns that support the ceiling.

What makes Baz smile wryly, though, is the Elliott Smith music blaring from the back room, where the door is propped slightly open and two people are singing along with enough passion that they don't hear the door chime.

"Hello?" he calls, and one person swears while the other-or others, it seems-laugh loudly and the music shuts off abruptly.

A tall woman with golden blonde hair-it's swept into a wispy bun, strands of it falling free and framing her face, reaching for the ceiling, drooping to the floor-and blue eyes appears from the back with smile lines crinkling around her eyes and a grin spreading across her face. "Sorry about that, what can I do for you?"

"It's fine," Baz waves her off with the hand that isn't holding his basket, "I actually came here to speak to someone."

This makes her expression fade into something more mischevious, "Oh?"

Baz nods, "One of your employees, I think? Your son?"

"Ah. I'll get him for you, one moment please."

She disappears and a few seconds later, the boy-his name tag says Simon Snow-from earlier is in her place, staring him down guardedly. "Is there anything I can do for you, baker?"

Baz blushes slightly at his rigid tone and straightens his shoulders. "Yes, actually. I came here to say that I'm sorry." Already, Simon's eyes are clearing and his shoulders are losing some of their tension. "I didn't mean to sound so rude... I brought you some scones as a reconciliation."

Immediately, his expression brightens 100 watts and he takes the basket from Baz with childish enthusiasm. "Thanks!"

"No problem. They're sour cherry, I hope you like them."

Simon's mouth falls open, "No way! They're my favorite."

Baz feels his mouth curling into a small smile before he can help it, "I guess I have some sort of intuition, then. That, or it was an amazing stroke of luck that we happened to have so many extras today."

Simon's pulling back the cloth that's draped over the top (Baz has always had a soft spot for all things old and classic and tried), and his eyes practically roll back in his head at the scent. "Intuition is probably more likely, I don't believe in luck."

It hits him suddenly that just a few years ago, when he was still stuck under the roof of the Pitch mansion and hadn't seen enough of the world to be cured of his endless disdain, he would have sneered at this statement. His rudeness from earlier would have been intentional, this boy would probably have had him clenching his jaw and spitting poison.

Now, though, he likes to think that he has grown.

"Destiny, then?"

Simon's eyes twinkle with laughter, "As long as it wasn't chance."

Baz just shrugs, looking off to the side--amusement tugging at his expression--where a large, thrifty clock hangs on the wall. "Oh, of course. Anything but." He takes a step backward, switching his gaze back to the golden boy, "Maybe I'll see you around the bakery some time, Snow."

Simon is grinning and Baz's chest is just a little tighter than usual when the door swings shut behind him.

-

As a rule of thumb, bakeries are most busy early in the morning. It's when pans full of fresh-baked pastries are just being dragged out of scalding ovens and office workers want something flakey and sweet to start off their day.

People crowd inside and fill up every corner, voices take over anything pouring out of the speakers. It's homely, but it's also hectic. Baz tends to forget that he has flour on his hands and it gets on anything and everything, including his face.

The hours just after, though, are always slow. Customers trickle in at irregular intervals and take their time, the space is filled with the soft sounds of classical music, and Baz drifts from activity to activity without much thought.

He's sweeping a smattering of crumbs into a pile, humming tunelessly under his breath, when the bell above the door chimes merrily to announce the arrival of a new face. Baz glances up, the standard welcome already forming on his lips, but when he takes in Simon Snow, arms crowded with a large flower assortment, it's replaced with a wide smile.

"What brings you here?" He folds his hands over the end of the broom, settling all of his weight into one leg so that his hip pops out.

Simon hefts the arrangement and offers a smile of his own, "I thought I'd repay you for the scones. They were amazing, by the way."

"Oh, you don't have to repay me anything." He's settling the broom against a nearby table and taking a few steps to bring them closer together, "I brought you those as a reconciliation, remember?"

Simon's eyes widen in exaggerated surprise, "Oh, that's right! I guess you're in my debt now." His expression is mischevious in a way that makes Baz's whole chest quiver.

"Am I?" Baz's right eyebrow has a habit of climbing up his forehead when he uses this particular tone.

Simon pushes the assortment toward him and, on instinct, Baz takes it and pulls it toward his chest.

"Now you are." He says it with such a combination of triumph and tumbling curls that Baz finds himself smiling and hides it behind a group of camellias on the pretense of pulling in their scent.

He keeps his face buried in the petals for just a moment longer, partially because he likes the smooth texture of them on his cheeks, but mostly because he's trying to buy himself some time. "Then I'll have to think of a way to repay you."

Simon narrows his eyes at him and lets out a short huff of breath, "It had better be good. I spent a lot of time on that arrangement." With that, he turns and casts a flashing grin over his shoulder as he strides out of the shop.

Baz is very pointedly ignoring any comments coming from behind the counter.

-

Simon's visits become a part of Baz's schedule. He finds himself setting aside pastries and making things with a certain shade of blue in mind. His bakery is not solely black and white anymore, this is mostly due to the flowers that sit atop just about every flat surface. (They've developed a habit of trading goods.) Baz wouldn't admit it, but they keep a smile sitting on his lips all day long.

Mornings have always been his favorites, but now he looks forward to them with a kind of fluttering excitement that can't quite be matched by anything else.

Simon waits for him outside every day without fail, wearing a smile and holding a matching pair of coffees from the shop down the street. (Baz doesn't know how he managed this before.)

They have a loose kind of routine, it is not something that happened consciously. Neither of them wants to change it.

It starts at the table closest to the entrance, where Simon wanders in and drops down as soon as the door opens. They tend to sit and throw words back and forth until their cups are drained and at least one of them is choking on laughter.

From there, Baz shakes his head and stands up, discarding the cup with a rueful smile on his way to the kitchen.

Simon likes to sit on top of the counter and watch him work with wide-eyed fascination. Baz doesn't mind answering his endless questions or smearing frosting across his nose to make him laugh.

The whole thing makes them both feel slightly breathless. (Baz wants to push their lips together and swipe the frosting from his skin with his tongue; the thought makes his chest seize and his knees go weak.)

On days when Baz doesn't have places to be after hours, he likes to wander into the flower shop and find Simon carefully tending to his mother's plants. Simon always looks to be in his element here, curls drooping to frame his face, as bright and silky as the petals surrounding him.

He strips thorns from roses with a knot in his eyebrows and curses when he manages to prick himself, he tips watering cans over pots of orchids with a smile on his face, and trims away dying boughs of small, flowering trees and whispers apologies as he works.

What Baz enjoys most though, is watching Simon make arrangements. Every single one is unique and thoughtful, every single one is more beautiful than the last.

A woman comes in and tells him that she needs a bouquet for her wedding and Simon wanders the shop for an hour, murmuring to Baz how lilies are for refined beauty and daisies mean loyal love. He trims away the very best ones and does not rest until he's made a bouquet that actually brings tears to the bride-to-be's eyes.

It's a lazy Wednesday afternoon and the steady patter of rain has made things slow at both the bakery and the flower shop, so Baz has abandoned his post behind the counter, trusting that Niall and the rest can handle it.

Simon is slumped against the front counter, leaning heavily against his fisted hand while he sluggishly marks down the orders he needs to place in the next couple of days. His cheek presses up against his knuckles and bunches up, making him look like a grumpy toddler. Baz is trying his hardest not to laugh.

"Snow," he implores, and grins when Simon merely grunts in response. "Snow, just take a break for a while."

That gets Simon's attention. His eyes flick upward and catch on Baz's, "And do what? You know I have to get this done."

Baz snorts, settles his elbows on the counter and leans forward. "Since when are you Mr. Responsible?"

"Since when are you not?" Simon retorts, and then mutters something about hyacinth and baby's-breath, scrawls shortly in the book he's been staring at for the past hour.

The only sound for a couple of seconds is the rain. It's comforting, makes Baz want to close his eyes and curl up on a comfortable couch, just listen. He sighs softly, "I just figure that if we're not doing anything here, I might as well go back to the bakery."

Simon jerks his focus upward again, "Oh, no you don't. You're the only company I have here today, Pitch. If you leave, I will drive myself insane."

Baz's lips curl upward. His eyes are filled with laughter. "Alright, then. How about this: we have fun and get some work done at the same time?"

Simon narrows his eyes at him. A strand of his hair has tumbled down his forehead, is just brushing against a tiny mole just above his eyebrow. "And how do you propose we do that?"

"I'm glad you asked." The smile on Baz's face is positively wicked and Simon looks doubtful, so he rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, please. It's not like I'm going to suggest that we hold a frat party in your mother's shop."

Simon snorts disdainfully. Baz is smiling again.

"Look, you still need to make all of those arrangements, right? The pre-made ones that people can just come and pick up?"

Simon nods slowly, so he continues, "Alright, so how about we make it a challenge. I give you a topic, and you have to make an arrangement based around it."

Now Simon is smiling too. He's set his pen down. "But what's in it for you?"

Heat is collecting in Baz's cheeks. He looks away, out the window, and watches the rain clash with the pavement, streak down the glass. And then shrugs. "I like watching you work." It sounds like a deeply guarded secret.

They set a time limit of twenty minutes. If Simon isn't done with the arrangement by then, Baz wins the round.

One hundred minutes and five arrangements later, and he still has yet to fail the task set before him. Baz watches with wide eyes as he bustles around, clipping and murmuring softly and slipping stems into vases or tying them together with beautiful ribbons and cellophane. When he's finished, he flashes his teeth and breathlessly walks Baz through the meaning of each and every flower, how it correlates with the topic. He never fails to amaze.

Now he waits impatiently, bouncing on the balls of his feet, for Baz to name his next category, and Baz is frowning thoughtfully. He's decided that in order to stump Simon Snow, he'll need to get creative. And then inspiration strikes. His eyebrows flick upward, Simon leans forward.

"Me."

Simon rocks back on his heels, blinking. "What?"

Baz grins, "Me. Make an arrangement for me... that represents me."

It's very quiet for a moment. Simon looks decidedly frazzled and Baz's heart is thrumming so hard he's afraid it might actually leap out of his throat.

"Okay."

Twenty minutes later, he sets it down on the table so gently that Baz is afraid it would have shattered otherwise. It's a combination of white, blue, purple, and red. All deep, rich colors.

Simon clears his throat, looks down at the flowers, "This is flowering basil. . . because of your name. But it means 'good wishes.' This is hollyhock, it symbolizes 'ambition'. . . because you're a Pitch. This is delphinium, it means 'boldness,' because you're not afraid to speak your mind. This is gladiolus. . . for 'strength of character.'" For every name he speaks, his fingers brush against a new flower, "Elderflower, meaning 'kindness.' And. . . This, here, is salvia," His voice is smaller than Baz has ever heard it. He raises his eyes up slowly until they meet Baz's and a smile touches his lips, "It means that I always think of you."

Baz's breath halts.

Simon's smile gets even bigger, "And the dark red roses are for 'unconscious beauty.'"

They stand there, staring at each other for several seconds until Baz lets out a long, shaky breath and says, voice clogged with awe and disbelief, "Simon Snow," and makes his way around the counter toward him, his fingers brushing over the cool marble surface all the way.

Simon just stands there, his eyelids half-closed and his lips parted the slightest bit, and lets Baz close the distance between them, his fingers slipping over his ribs and then up his back, into his curly hair.

Simon's lips are the softest petals. Baz's skin smells like cookie dough.

Simon has never kissed another boy before, but he's been thinking about kissing this one for a long, long time. And it's perfect.