Warmth

           

Warmth. It is, to me, the color orange, with a soft red core and yellow radiation. It is playing my violin and the library at home and smelling Daphne's freshly baked cookies as they cool down the hall. It is falling into my wide open, beyond comfortable bed after a long day.

                Warmth. It is not the scent of the dry, bitter scones they offer at Watford, nor the feeling of uncomfortably tailored school clothes. The sound of silence is not fitting, as it murders my delectation and paints me until I'm feeling melancholy. And blue, it could never be a sign of hospitality.

                Well, it was, and it was not, would be the more truthful way of putting things. These days, at least.

                Simon Snow and I are on another plane. Quite literally, actually, given he's taken us back into outer space.  He found a way to bring pillows along with us this time, but one—his—floated off into the stars. Both our heads are resting on mine now.

                We are on a figurative plane as well, one of which I may prefer more. Describing it immensely would take away from its desirability. Minor details, words, simple phrases, though? They fit together like panels of an aesthetic. Perfect and precise.

                Kisses, cuddling, exchanging looks from across the dining hall when no one's looking. Refusing to partner up with our classmates during group projects to ensure that we'll be assigned to work together, walks through the wood at night, taking showers together and shampooing each other's hair. 

                My relationship with Snow is nothing near sexual. We kiss and touch and we have, in fact, stripped each other down, but we're oh-so casual about it. I think that's what I've been looking for, ultimately. A strong relationship with a boy whom I can rely on to love me unconditionally and not want me only for my body; though, Simon does love me body, he claims it's proof of God's existence.

                The only complicated part of this heaven is that we aren't officially together. He never asked me to be his boyfriend, nor did I propose to him. We call each other pet names nonetheless. I would rather us be dating, though. If we were, I would finally feel comfortable letting Dev and Niall in on everything. We could move to sit with Simon and Bunce during mealtime. Our affection wouldn't have to be shared only behind closed doors; we could go public. Above all, I would finally be able to call him mine.

                I suppose that as long as he'll allow me to be this close to him, it doesn't matter what we are.

                "What's on your mind, darling?" Simon yawns, eyes lingering on the constellations he's connecting.

                I blush and bite my lip. "Nothing too important," I fabricate.

                "Everything that goes on in your pretty little head is important, Basilton."

                We turn our heads in synch, eyes instantly meeting. His are brighter than the stars around us, softer, sweeter. I want to swim in them and their blue currents.                                 

                "Talk to me," Simon says.

                "Ask me something," I suggest, tiresome.

                Simon ponders, and it's terrifying how noticeable it is. On the rare occasion that he does think—because he most never does, as much as that seems impossible, to just not think—he carries a grim expression that never once appears at any other point in time. It's like watching a man transition into his werewolf form in an old, cheap horror film.