Carry On, Basilton

Bloody Stubborn Blokes

                                                                                      Simon

My ears first detect the slight crackle before my skin feels the tingling sensation running up and down my arm, and soon to the rest of my goose bump covered skin. The tingling begins to change, to mold into a burning feeling. No. Not a burning, a surging. A surging power racing through my entire body until it reaches behind my eyelids, painting my vision red. I have the urge to close my eyes before realizing they're already closed. The tendrils of smoke finally make it up my nose before seeping slowly into my lungs. Now the burning is in my lungs, in every part of my body, and it's choking me. It's drowning me in a sea of red, raw, familiar power.

"Simon!"

My back goes rigid as my eyelids are finally released from their position of closure. There's a look of panic settled on my face that slowly evaporates while I take in my surroundings: a huge room furnished with a paisley sofa, a fireplace I could guess to be as tall as me, and various knickknacks that looked to be small but expensive. Although expensive was not something I was too familiar with, I still recognized the room.

"Simon!"

My field of vision is taken over by the also panicked face of my boyfriend, whose clammy, pale-skinned hand clutches my own tanner arm. I inhaled deeply, and along with the hint of smoke, I detected recognizable cologne belonging to the one and only Baz. My Baz.

I hadn't told Baz about the nightmares. I didn't see any reason to upset him with them (although I'm not sure he'd trouble himself to worry about me anyways). It's not like they were life-threatening or anything... I think. Now, seeing the look of concern and confusion, I know I should've told him when he asked me to spend the night ("asked" translation: made out with me until it was too late to leave), and the least I could do was explain it to him. Besides, I can't resist his face. God knows how I did for 7 years straight.

"Simon, why were you yelling about 'the red'?" he questions with a thin, raised eyebrow and questioning grey eyes. I could tell he was being serious because he almost never calls me Simon.

"It's nothing," I begin to say and hope that he drops it. I'm too tired to actually coherently explain anything.

"Were you... Were you dreaming about going off?" I wince at the phrase and his question that had hit the nail on the head perfectly. I push the covers off of me before standing, my head hanging down to gaze at my bare feet. My golden curls fall just at the top of my vision, telling me I'm in need of a haircut soon.

"Answer me." There's more demanding in his voice now rather than concern. A sigh pries my lips open to escape.

"Yes," I manage to get out.

"Is this the first time you've dreamt about it?" Aaand now the inevitable string of questioning begins.

"Since the Mage... you know..."

"Crowley, Snow! You've been keeping this from me for months?" My only response is a struggle to swallow the anxiety welling up. Baz sighs and the breath sways my curls.

"Are they all about going off?" he resumes questioning me.

"No."

"So they're different each time? Or most of the time?"

"Yes. I mean, yes to the first question," I stumble over my words and fall face flat on the metaphorical floor.

"How often does this occur?" Baz asks after pausing to roll his eyes at my mistake.

"Once a week maybe," I admit quietly. I absolutely hated talking about this. I sucked pretty badly at carrying on conversations normally if they weren't an argument. But this was different. It gave me a sense of being out of control. Of course, feeling out of control has just been a given for me my entire life, but now that my magic's gone... It should be different. I don't know why it should be, but it should.

"Why haven't you told me about this in the several months it's been going on?" Baz's cuts into my thoughts, his tone sharp enough to probably give me the haircut I need. I lift my head and stare at him straight in the eyes.

I'd never noticed Baz's eyes much until now (I'd avoided all eye contact with him for the past seven years). Except, now that I was paying attention to them, I could tell that they deserved to be paid attention to. Most people would describe grey eyes as being dull, but Baz's were anything but dull. They appeared to reflect an entire stormy sea complete with a slew of clouds surrounding it.

"Snow, answer me." I nearly wince from his tone of voice and the expression painted on his face.

"I didn't want to upset you," I say finally (and lamely).

"Well good job with that, I'm upset now."

"I didn't want you to pity me," I try again to give a reasonable response.

"I never stop pitying you, Snow."

God, how could someone be this bloody stubborn?

                                                                                           Baz

I don't understand how someone could be this bloody stubborn. Except, I could understand how Snow could be this stubborn. After all, I'd lived with him for seven years (Only god knows how I did that). I can't tell if I want to comfort him or bite him (or both). I watch him search around the room lit with only the light of the fireplace for his shirt.

"I think it's over there," I point to the complete opposite direction from where it actually is lying, crumpled up in heap. I'm enjoying the view to much to let him find his shirt, at least not for a few more minutes.

When he finally finds the tight-fitted, white shirt, he pulls it over his head in one quick motion. Does he just go in front of the mirror and practice putting on shirts in different ways to find one that looks incredibly attractive? I feel like he does that. Nobody else seems to be able to make putting on a shirt look so good.

Since he'd begun getting ready for the day, I figure I might as well, too. I rise from the beneath the also grey sheets (I really like grey, okay?) and walk to the door that attaches the bathroom to my room. I always liked having my own bathroom, but I find I like it even better to share a bathroom with Simon Snow.

I begin my daily routine (which consists of, like, two things), and I slick my hair back, staring into the bathroom mirror. I watch the reflection of Snow as he walks over and leans against the doorframe. His eyebrows furrow together in confusion. I raise my own eyebrow in response.

"I just thought vampires couldn't see their reflection in the mirror. You told me that yourself," Snow opens his mouth, and of course something of tremendous stupidity comes out.

"I only told you that to see if you were dumb enough to believe it." My eyes almost naturally roll themselves at this point.

"Oh, sod off."

"You sure you want me to, Snow?"

That shut him up.