Disclaimer: I'm currently revising this and it's undergoing quite a few changes. Thanks for reading! Please let me know if you have suggestions, requests, or comment on your favorite parts :)
There was a boy in Simon's room.
His hair was raven black, and he looked anemic. "That probably explains the long sleeves in August", Simon thought. Or maybe he was just rich. No, he was definitely rich. Rich people in Watford always wore long sleeves for some reason. Maybe because their cars and dorms are always air conditioned. Or charmed to feel air conditioned. That was the biggest perk of being a mage, Simon thought—being able to charm everything however you need it. If his roommate was a mage, (and he probably was, by the looks of it) then hopefully Simon wouldn't be dripping wet at 3 a.m. every summer night. Or maybe he would be dripping wet, if his roommate was indeed anemic.
The boy with the black hair looked up. It was then that Simon noticed his eyes. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, like he had been staring at a computer screen all morning. His irises were a deep brown, almost indistinguishable from his pupils. His young face was sharp, but his cheeks were full. His lips were thin and sly.
"Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch," said the boy, sticking out his hand. "My family just calls me Basil."
"Like the herb?" Simon asked, shaking the boy's hand. Cold. Skeletal.
"Basilton is a perfectly respectable noble name, I'll have you know." Basilton ripped his hand from Simon's grasp. "It's a family name."
It struck Simon then—Grimm-Pitch. Basilton was an aristocratic mage. Simon had only heard that name in political discussions at the dinner table with the headmaster, during which he usually zoned out and focused on how delicious his brisket was. It's not like the foster home ever had brisket.
"Well, I see we're off to a good start," said Basilton, sarcastically. "I'm taking the side farthest from the door. If we get invaded by trolls, they'll eat you first."
Simon's shoulders tightened. The box he was carrying grew heavier as he held it in his arms, and he set it down beside the bed closest to the door.
"Great," Simon said, sighing.
* * * * *
Simon hadn't slept well that night. When he woke up, Baz had already showered and gotten dressed. His long black hair was wet, slicked back like a crooner. His uniform fit well on him, his pants legs just reaching below his ankles and his shoes perfectly shined. He sported a sweater vest that day, one of the school branded ones. Simon wondered why he always looked as good as he did. When Simon wore his uniform, he circulated between three different shirts and three pairs of pants throughout the five days. He owned five t-shirts total that he wore on weekends and on outings, and he owned two pairs of shoes: his dress shoes that he wore everyday for school, and a pair of gray Nikes. Baz had so many clothes, excluding his school clothes, that he had to bring an entire extra dresser into their dorm to contain all of them, not to mention all the school clothes that were in his closet. All of Simon's clothes fit inside one dresser drawer.
Simon rolled over. Suddenly, after being forced to wake up, he finally felt like he could actually sleep well if he wanted to. Or, not if he wanted to, but if he could. It was 6:30, and breakfast was over in thirty minutes. Class started at 7:45. Simon needed to shower.
* * * * *
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Misfired: a Fangirl AU
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