Summary: "Your music is lovely, Baz. I can't even describe it. It's like—like a spell, only with notes instead of words. A unique kind of magic." – SnowBaz.

A/N: I thought I was over this book and this pairing. Nope. Not even close.

Disclaimer: I do not own Carry On.

Chords

Baz's music is… beautiful.

The sound is rich, confident, and each movement of the bow makes its own distinct vibration. He just makes it look so easy, Simon observes as he leans against the doorframe, unable to take his eyes off his boyfriend. Graceful strokes follow one another in consecutive gestures; the blond can only imagine how handsome he'd look performing in a suit tomorrow, leaving the crowd speechless as everything else fades away and the only thing left will be the rhythmically structured echoes coming from Baz's violin—from Baz himself.

The music will resonate with the hearts of everyone in the room and they will all be as mesmerized as Simon finds himself to be right now. Baz is barely even looking at the music sheet in front of him; his eyes are mostly closed as the musician himself is completely lost in the song, giving his full attention and soul to the strings in his hand, underneath his chin. Incredible.

Simon wishes he had heard more of Baz's playing in the past. (Well, he really just wishes that he got to know more about Baz and what makes up who he is. He never would have guessed that the violin would be such a big part of the dark-haired boy's life, and he certainly didn't know just how bloody well Baz is able to manipulate the instrument to produce such a striking melody.)

When the last chord rings and Baz lowers his bow, when the song comes to a conclusion, Simon is unable to move from his spot. He blinks, because although the playing has stopped, the music is still there, hanging in the air. It's a sensation Simon has never experienced before, this feeling of being filled up by little black dots with funny-looking stems transferred from paper to strings. The notes have always been just notes to Simon, but now, they're heartwarming and eloquent and meaningful.

"Well, don't just stand there, Snow," Baz speaks first, tidying up his music sheets, "what did you think? Do I have a chance at the competition tomorrow?"

Simon inhales, snapping out of his trance. "You'll do great. You'll do better than great; you're going to win. No one will even come close to beating you."

Baz gives him a nervous smile. This competition is important to him, Simon knows. It'll be the first time that Baz will be performing in front of an audience that isn't made up of solely his family members and friends. There will be judges with years of experience in the musical field and other competitors who are hoping that he'll screw up some notes and an entire stadium full of people who paid money to see a good recital. The pressure will be overwhelming.

Simon walks over and holds Baz's calloused hands in his own and massages them, rubbing softly. "Don't worry about it," he murmurs reassuringly, leaning in for a kiss. "Your music is lovely, Baz. I can't even describe it. It's like—like a spell, only with notes instead of words. A unique kind of magic."

It's Baz's own, personalized magic, and Simon just knows that he will take the stage tomorrow and win the audience over.