drunk snowbaz
SIMON
Her nails are purple. She would scold me for calling them "purple." Penny would too, but for different reasons. Penny would tell me to be more articulate. "What type of purple, Simon?" she'd say. "You aren't going to get any better at casting spells if you don't learn how to say what you mean." Agatha would just be mad at me for not appreciating the exact shade that she picked for her nails. She probably painted them herself -- Penny says she likes to do that -- which probably adds to her pride over them.
But now isn't really the time to make such casual comments on things like nail colour. Or to point out that we're missing dinner right now.
Agatha squeezes my hand. "Simon, are you alright?" she whispers. I don't know why she whispers it. I guess because we're pulled into an empty classroom and we're probably not allowed to be here. Or maybe she's trying to comfort me. Probably that.
"I just--" I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. "I don't understand. Did I do something wrong?" I open my eyes again and I must look as crushed as I feel because she flinches. It makes me feel worse.
"No, Simon. Of course not." Her other hand -- the one that isn't holding mine -- reaches for my shoulder and rubs soothingly up and down. Small motions.
Small steps, I say to myself. Small steps. Breathe and take small steps. Small thinking steps. I repeat it over and over again in my head until I decide what exactly it means. Penny. What would Penny do?
I instantly begin to draw up a mini board inside my head with two sides. "What I do understand" and "What I don't understand" takes up opposite sides of the imaginary board. What I understand: I love Agatha and Agatha loves me. What I don't understand: Agatha doesn't love me. I furrow my brows together and wonder how both of these things can be true. If Agatha loves me, why is she standing here telling me that she doesn't? And if she doesn't love me, why did she stand with me for years telling me that she did? Was it because of my title? Was she using me for my power?
I shake my head free of these thoughts. Penny didn't help. Penny made it worse. Then, in a moment of self-betrayal, I think what would Baz do and I inwardly groan. Baz. Fucking Baz. in the end, it's always him. He crawls his way into my brain and invades every single thought of mine and suddenly, I'm so sick of it. I can't even be fucking dumped without thinking about how he's plotting against me, and he is isn't he? He's probably sitting in our room this very moment plotting my downfall and here I am asking myself how to be more like him.
Sometimes I think about the complete disaster that is my life, but most of the time I try not to. I like to push it to the very back of my mind and convince myself that I'm going to return to the thought tomorrow and sort it out when I never do.
Baz isn't like that. I can't do that with Baz. I'm not sure I've even ever fully tried. It's an impossible feat. It's not even worth my time and energy to make pointless efforts to try to stop thinking about him. I think if I weren't so distracted by my worries regarding Baz all the time, I would've already found a way to defeat the Insidious Humdrum. I'm sure Penny would agree; She hates it when I go on tangents about Baz.
"If you really despise him as much as you say you do then you should stop feeding into his games by allowing him to fill your time and eat your wits. He's consuming your life, Simon."
"Exactly!" I had said.
She rolled her eyes dramatically; The kind of roll that goes all the way around the room slow enough to sit in silence for a few seconds. It's an Agatha thing to do but Penny has picked up on her dramatic nature over the years. "Not like that, Simon." I threw my hands up, annoyed. She rubs her temples like a mother dealing with an impatient toddler. "It's almost like you force him to be more evil in your mind than he actually is."
"Evil plotting vampire, Penny. He's a threat!"
"Not the biggest threat. Big picture, Simon."
I knew that Baz wasn't my biggest threat. Even then, I knew. But, I think a part of me thought a little differently. The Humdrum is a mystery. The Humdrum is erratic and unpredictable and odd, but Baz is too. Baz is dark and sharp and cool. Baz is dangerous because he's extremely gifted in the art of sneaking his way into your every thought and action. He carries himself like he already knows everything that you don't want him to. He's dangerous because he's in control. He's everything I wish I was and everything I'm glad I'm not all at once. Just a single mention of him can set me off balance for the rest of the day. It makes me angry how easy I make it for him, but I can't help myself.
"I think I've just decided that this isn't what I want," Agatha says now, eyes wide and nervous.
"Me?" I regret saying it as soon as I see the look on her face, but I couldn't stop it. With my brain in this confused state, it just tumbled past my lips without warning. The small classroom (a tutor room maybe?) feels empty and cold; like all the warmth in the room has been sucked out. I try to control my face to stop myself from showing how truly hurt I am. I try to be a wall. Be like Baz. Why can't I be like Baz? I wonder how it is that Baz is always so cool and collected? Surely he must have feelings sometimes. It's infuriating the think of all the times that I've gone red in the face from him poking at me when the most I get is one raised perfectly arched brow.
She sighs. "Simon--" I put my hand up to stop her. It's not like I hadn't seen this coming: Agatha and I have been on and off for the past year. I guess now it just seems so permanent.
"No," I say. I think about how unhappy she's been lately and how unsure I've felt. "You--you don't need to explain yourself. It's okay. I'm...okay." She looks at me like she wants to anyways, but she clamps her mouth shut and looks at her shoes. "Hey," I add. "I just want you to be happy." I cup her face with my hand. She smiles sadly and puts hers over mine.
"Now, Simon." She smiles. "Don't go making me second guess myself." I laugh but almost cry. She hugs me. "Thank you, Simon. I do love you just--not in the way I'm supposed to."
"I know. I love you, Aggie," I whisper back. Be Baz. "Thank you. You know, for...telling me? I wouldn't want to keep you where you're not happy." Be Baz.
I think I'm going to cry.
We stay like that -- my face buried in her long hair and her arms wrapped around my middle -- for a couple minutes; just until the awkward aura is back. She pulls away first. Her eyes are glossy and soft when she looks at me. I find myself hoping that she changes her mind. Tell me that you've made a mistake. Tell me we're too good to give up on. Tell me you love me.
She rubs my shoulder once more and takes two steps back. "Well," she starts, smiling. "I've made you late enough for dinner." I nod in the polite I-don't-know-what-to-say way and wait for her to say something else. She doesn't. We walk out of the small room silently. When we get to the hall, I turn for the cafeteria. I only get about three steps before realising that Agatha hasn't moved from the doorway.
I reach out to grab her hand but stop abruptly and blush red. I hope that she didn't notice, but I think that she did. "Aren't you uhh--coming? For dinner?"
She shakes her head. "I think I'm just gonna study for a bit. I'm not really hungry." I nod and swallow roughly.
"Okay," I manage. "Well. I guess I'll see you tomorrow. At breakfast?" I say the last part as a question. Will I see her tomorrow? Does this mean we won't sit with each other anymore? I think my mind is still trying to grasp the fact that I was just dumped. Not dumped. Dumped seems too strong a word for what just happened. She was so nice about it that I couldn't even be upset with her. She's perfectly wonderful, even when she's telling me that she doesn't want to be with me anymore.
"Sure, Simon." She walks away like she just finished a fucking dance solo--all power and grace. She looks like she's walking on water; like she's free.
I don't feel powerful or graceful. I don't feel free; I feel like shit. It feels like there is a weight at the bottom of my stomach that is pulling at me to just fall on the ground and never get up. I don't understand if this pull is coming from my hunger or my mood, but it makes me feel full nonetheless so I decide to skip dinner and start walking towards Mummer's House. I can't possibly imagine explaining to Penny why I was late for dinner. I can't even imagine what she would say, much less how I would respond. (Would I tell the truth? Well, I wouldn't lie to her, but how much of the truth would I tell?) The only thing that I can think about is Agatha walking away. Agatha being free. Why don't I feel like that? Why does she? If she really loves me (no matter which way -- romantically or otherwise) then why does she walk away like I was holding her down? Does she like someone else? Is there already someone else? No, Agatha wouldn't cheat on me. She might be the most beautiful girl at Watford -- one that could have anyone with a single glance -- but she never would. I know Agatha. She's good.
She's so good. She's sweet and caring. (She seems to feel sympathetic for even Baz sometimes.) (I'll never understand.) But now my thoughts are tumbling further and further into the dark pit of my mind and I can practically see my magic in front of me. It's like I've created my own atmosphere of smoke and heat and just pure magic.
Did she break up with me because I'm a terrible mage? Because I can't defeat the Humdrum. Because I can't even defeat Baz? Because I'm weak and stupid and I'm an awful boyfriend?
I squeeze my eyes shut and throw my hands over my ears to stop the throbbing hum of my erratic magic around me.
When I finally reach the stairs at Mummer's House, I can't help but wonder if Baz keeps any fancy alcohol in our room.
—
BAZ
The end of my day is always, undoubtedly the worst part of my day. While I'm away from Snow during the better part of the day, he makes up for his absence by being a complete nuisance in whatever way he can in our room. My time at Mummer's House is always as short as I can make it but even after spending hours in the catacombs to avoid Snow, the light in our shared room is still lit. I check the time on my watch. 3:04. What the fuck is Snow doing awake at 3 in the morning? I outwardly groan because nobody can hear me and because he's probably "sneakily" waiting for me to return. It's times like these when I seriously consider laying down on the grassy hill, closing myeyes and falling asleep peacefully for once.
When I nudge open the door. Snow is propped against my bed, his head leaning back to rest on my mattress, and his feet stretched out straight in front of him. Several empty water bottles are scattered throughout the room; some besides him and some in the corner by the door where I stand.
"Snow," I start. His wide blue eyes spring open and instantly meet mine, so quickly that it's creepy. "What the fuck is going on." He grins.
"Baz." Snow throws his head back against my bed again and laughs maniacally. I stare at him quizzically. "Baz. Baz Baz Baz," he mutters in between laughs. He says my name so many times, by the end he's just buzzing: "bzz, bzz, bzz." His eyes are closed now, so I take a moment to look at him closely for the first time in weeks, really. I've been trying to limit myself lately. It hasn't been working.
His hair is tangled and pointed in every direction, which isn't at all a surprise to me -- he never tends to it. He's blushing slightly. It's not his normal burst of colour -- all red and angry; the type that spreads from your cheeks to your neck and the tips of your ears. This is a slight tinge of pink brushed across his face, ear to ear; so light that I'm sure no one would notice unless they had nearly obsessively mapped out Snow's face the way that I have.
I nudge a bottle with my shoe before kicking it to his side of the room. He's still muttering at the ceiling.
"Why the fuck are there bottles everywhere?"
"Tequila!" He shouts far too loudly, throwing his arms above his head and resting them on my bed.
"Get off my bed," I say because I don't know what else to do but to act like everything is normal.
"M'not on your bed." He bites his lip in a smile and looks at me mischievously. My eyes flicker to his lip between his teeth and I feel a warm blush spread across my cheek as I inwardly curse the rats I have just drained in the catacombs. He's completely smashed, I think to myself and smirk.
I put my hands in my pockets and lean against the doorway, swiftly crossing my ankles. "Exactly how plastered are you?" Snow grins.
"M'not." His stomach growls loud enough that I hear it clearly from where I'm standing.
"Drinking on an empty stomach, are we Snow? Have you skipped dinner?" I say, then wonder if I sound too needy so I add, "I wonder what they'll do with all the leftovers without you there to ensure that not a crumb gets left behind."
"S'fine. Y'know, I heard once or read once or-" he pauses to hiccup, "-something once that if you're hungry then you aren't really. You're thirsty, so," he lifts his bottle and takes a hefty swig.
"No, Snow. You have no idea how wrong that is."
"If this is wrong, then I don't wanna be right," he says, giggling.
"Are you even aware of what you're saying at this point?" He shrugs.
"Doesn't matter"
"I can assure you that in the morning you will be saying something different."
He gestures to the room around him.
"This," he says. I raise my brow and step into the room.
"This?"
"This. This! Everything." He's laughing again. A sad sort of laugh. One that sounds like he's on the verge of a breakdown.
I never thought I'd see the day that Simon Snow gave up. I start walking towards him and I think he thinks I'm going to hurt him because he squeezes his eyes shut and leans his head back against my bed. I don't. I lean against the side of his bed and slide down next to him. He looks at me, eyebrows raised in surprise. I roll my eyes in an attempt to hide my own surprise and snatch the plastic bottle out of his hand, first taking a sniff, then a huge swig. It burns my throat all the way down to my stomach.
"You couldn't have bought nicer tequila?"
He shakes his head, eyes still wide and doleful.
"I didn't buy it."
"Well, who bought it then."
"No. No one. I spelled it."
"You spelled it," I repeat dumbly. He nods. "How?"
To my absolute horror, he begins to belt out the song Tequila, focusing mainly on the instrumentals, but ending with a strong, "TEQUILA!"
I stare at him dumbfounded. "That's not a spell." He shrugs. I stare at the bottle in my hand, wondering for a second if he even is able to comprehend the magnificence of his uncontrollable magic. I quickly shake the look of awe off my face and settle for my usual bored glare as my eyes meet his. "At least try to spell some Don Julio next time, would you? Can't even work your own fucking spell right." He just shrugs again and I can tell that he's done talking right now so I wait for him to take a drink and then I do too.
So this is the great Chosen One. No, I think. He's not the Chosen One. He's just a boy. He's a teenage boy. One who experiences difficult exams and boater hats and breakups.
We drink an awkward silence that, as more bottle become empty, becomes less awkward and more peaceful. I wonder silently why he's drinking, and whether he's ever gotten drunk before. Then I wonder why I'm drinking. Probably because the boy I love is destined to kill me and happens to be holding an unlimited supply to tequila, so why not?
And that's just what we do. We sit, silently passing a plastic bottle between us. Snow refilling a new bottle whenever we need.
—
"You know what I just realised, Baz?
I give him a questioning look that equally shows my lack of interest and that he has my full attention.
"This is our last year."
"Astute observation, Snow. I simply don't know how you do it."
"See what I mean?" he gestures towards me with a wave of the half-empty bottle. "My last October with an asshole of a roommate. Fuck you."
"So what is this? A celebration then? A little soon for the confetti, wouldn't you say, Snow? Or perhaps you're preparing for when I inevitably end you this year." He looks me in the eyes and tilts the bottle in my direction.
"Fuckin cheers, mate," and he chugs what's left of the liquid inside. I watch attentively as a drop escapes his lips and drips down his throat, not nearly sober enough to even consider looking away.
"So, if this isn't a celebration of our ending time together, what is this?" He stares at the space of floor in front of him, shakes his head, and bites his lower lip.
"Agatha dumped me." I raise my brow, eyes still concentrated on his mouth.
"Again? Well, I wouldn't fret too much about it, Chosen One." I smile angrily; Anger saved for the fact that Agatha can toss Snow around as she does and he'll always take her back.
"No," he says sternly, turning towards me. "No. I'm done. We're-We're done." I look at him and fail to conceal my surprise."I just-" he begins but cuts himself off. "We just-"
"Use your words, Snow." His eyes cut down on me.
"We don't work out. I-I don't think she wants to work out. So, yeah." He looks at me and must decide that I'm not dazed enough because he spells another bottle. "I mean, everyone wants to be loved, right? I want to be loved. I deserve to be loved, right? Agatha loves me and I love Agatha. But it's not..right. I want to be loved with passion. Like Romeo and Juliet or The Notebook."
"You watch too many rom-coms, Snow. Nobody loves like that. Nobody's loved like that."
"Well, maybe not you, but I 'spect that I'll have a bit more luck, won't I?" He laughs, then quickly stops. A tense silence fills the space as what he said seems to settle into his clouded mind. "I'm sorry, Baz. That's--that's not what I meant-" I cut him off, angry and morse.
"Shut up, Snow and pass the fucking bottle."
—
"I thought tequila was supposed to make you happy. It's a party drink. I want to feel party."
"Generally, that is the mood given off after drinking tequila. I don't know. It's all the same chemical at the end. I think that alcohol just enhances whatever mood you want to feel. Or whatever you are feeling. I don't know, Snow. Stop asking questions. We're shitfaced."
"I think this is the most we've ever talked in one day." I scoff.
"I wouldn't say that, Snow. remember the chimaera?"
"I'd rather not." I laugh louder than I normally would allow myself. "This is the most pleasant we've ever spoken, anyhow," he mumbles out.
I give a slow, thoughtful nod and purse my lips. He turns towards me and stares at the side of my face. I tell myself that I will refuse to make eye contact. Just keep looking forward. But, I've always been weak when it comes to Snow. I turn towards him. My plain grey eyes meet his plain blue ones and suddenly all I see from him is life. He has so much life in him. He's all blues and yellows; freckles and moles; courage and loyalty; burning magic and a heart of gold. He's better than me in every way and I love him for it. He's so good. It hurts me that he even has to know me.
His mouth opens slowly like he's actually thinking about what he wants to say for once. He never thinks before he speaks. I love it.
"I like us like this," he whispers like he's afraid if he says it too loudly it'll snap me out of whatever trace he's got me in. Oh, Simon. It's going to be harder than that to break this spell.
I open my mouth to say something undeniably cheesy or stupid like "I fucking hate you" or "I fucking love you" but I can't decide which one so I close my mouth with a sigh and look at the window again.
—
SIMON
We've been sitting here all night. It's the most time we've ever spent in the same room sitting this close together not fighting about anything at all. I mean, there are the occasional insults thrown half-heartedly back and forth, but for the most part, it seems like we're both just tired. Tired of being enemies. Tired of fighting a war that isn't ours.
I think I understand that now. This isn't my war. The war, whatever it is, is everyone's war. It isn't even about the Old Families or the Mage or me; this is about the Humdrum and the magic community. All magic is in danger and everyone's worried about families like the Pitches.
Admittedly, the Pitches are a concern of mine. But not right now. Right now, a Pitch is just a tired, drunk, cold boy. Our shoulders are touching enough for me to feel the cold that seems to be radiating off of him. He must feel my warmth because he seemed to instinctively press against me after our first accidental brush.
I don't mind it much. It's nice to know that someone is here with me, even if it is Baz. Still, after Baz shivers slightly, I jump up and latch the window closed. He's been staring at it for ages, so it felt like he was silently asking for my permission to close it. That's a thing now. Manners. For instance, he always waits until I've taken a sip of our shared drinks before taking his own. And he never asks me to conjure another, just keeps going as long as I do, I suppose. When I sit back down, I wonder if this means we can stop being enemies now. Then I wonder for a moment if he's trying to get me drunk so he can kill me. I voice these things out loud to him.
He throws his head backing laughing, eyes squeezed shut and wrinkled in a way that's so innocent and more childish that I've ever seen him that I can't help but to grin as well. Then we're both laughing. I duck my head between my knees trying to stop my face from turning red because we're still laughing after 5 minutes. Every time it dies down, one of us makes a noise of struggle that starts up a whole new round. It's the best kind of laugh; The purest amusement. Finally, when he's settled down enough to answer (I'm still holding my breath trying to stop long enough to take a drink) he does:
"Aleister Crowley, Snow," he huffs. "If you want to stop being enemies, you probably shouldn't follow with the accusation that I'm trying to murder you."
"I will admit, it was poor delivery." He nods, taking the bottle when I hand it to him, lips pressed in a tight line trying to hold back a smile. He's a lot worse at hiding the fact that he has feelings while he's drunk. It's a nice change; One that I could get used to. I tell him this too.
"I'm completely pissed, Snow. You try being an asshole all the time. It's exhausting."
"Can't be any worse than following you all the time. You're plotting is taking up all my studying time. I should be asking you for notes to go out of my teachers."
"'Please excuse our dear Chosen One, Simon Snow from all of his exams. He has been terribly preoccupied from important Mage work such as stalking an innocent and well-respected student. Best regards, Innocent and Well-Respected Student, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.'"
My laugh is embarrassingly enthusiastic, but it's quickly matched by his so I don't blush nearly as much as I would've under normal circumstances.
"It is true though," he says, rolling an empty bottle to my side of the room.
"What is?"
"I am plotting." My eyes grow wide and I sit up taller.
"Wh-"
"Plotting to curse you to never taste food again. I wonder what you'll next purpose in life would be." He belches out a deep, evil laugh that soon turns into an uncontrollable fit of giggles. I slouch back against his side, frowning, but then grinning right along with him. I shove him playfully with my elbow.
"Sod off, I don't eat nearly as much as you seem to think."
"Are you kidding? Simon, 95% of the time I see you, you're either talking to Bunce while shoving multiple sour cherry scones in your mouth or 'secretly' eating butter out of the dish." I blush, but laugh and shove him again, this time pressing my leg against his as well.
"You just don't appreciate truly good food. I'd take a dish of butter over frozen pizza any day." He scrunches his nose in distaste.
"Frozen pizza?"
"Yeah," I tell him. "The Orphanage. Over the summers."
"Why doesn't the Mage take you in? Why does he keep sending you to those fucking shitshows? They're terrible places. You come back looking more and more dead every year."
I shrug. "Who fucking knows. I guess he's too busy with the war. Raiding houses and all that."
"You are the war. What if the Humdrum comes for you at one of your care homes? Then what?"
I shrug again. "I go off, I guess." He scoffs and furrows his brows.
"That's fucked up." I nod, touching a nearly empty bottle to my lips and swallowing the rest. But I don't spell another. Not right away, anyways. Instead, I tell him about my summers. I tell him all about my old friends and how many homes I've been to. I tell him my favourites and my least; the good things and the bad; about when I discovered magic and how I thought it was a dream; I tell him about how I never think about Watford while I'm gone and I just have to hope that it'll all be waiting for me when I come back.
And he listens. He watches me with shiny, grey eyes. They follow my wild hand gestures and watches for changes in mood by the curl of my lips. He grins and frowns when I do; he laughs at all the right parts; he gets mad and sad and amused and he listens. It's more than I ever thought we were capable of.
In return, he tells me about his summers when I ask.
"There isn't much to tell," he drones dully. "I study and read and play my violin." I roll my eyes.
"You must do something else. What is your favourite part? About being home." He thinks for a moment, sucking on his fangs. I wonder if he'd answer if I asked him to tell me about them.
"My little sister."
"You have a sister?"
He nods. "Mordelia."
"Tell me about her." He looks at me as if I'd just said the most absurd thing possible.
"I suppose that's fair," he decides after a moment's thought. "You did spill to me the great activities of Simon Snow's Super Sweet Summer." I roll myeyes but smile warmly.
"Get on with it then."
"Mordelia and I do a lot of things." And he tells me all about the things that he does with his little sister. He tells me all about how they go shopping and buy similar outfits; How they visit Starbucks and try the most obnoxious drinks; How they listen to music as loud as it can go with the windows all down in the cold of the winter; How they watch insanely terrible Christmas movies and drink sparkling grape juice until they get sick. They bake and read and do normal things. Things that make him sound so human.
He is human, I tell myself, then change my mind.
No, he's a vampire. He's a monster.
He's not a monster, he's a just a boy.
He's not just a boy.
He's Baz.
Then I stop thinking altogether.
—
I just watch. I watch how Baz's eyes light up when he tells me a story that he knows I will like; one about him and Mordelia stealing a dog from the neighbourhood and harbouring him in Baz's bedroom for a week -- and I'm suddenly captured by the way that Baz runs his hand through his hand when a strand falls in front of his face. I watch the way that he lightly bites his lip to stop himself from laughing too loudly or smiling too broadly. And I love the way the lamp on the desk shines light on just the side of his face.
I rest my chin on his shoulder, suddenly aware of my increasing close proximity and using it to gaze at Baz even more thoughtfully. He doesn't say a word about it, just gives a quick glance my way and continues telling me about trying (and failing) to teach Mordelia to play football. (Mordelia kept wanting to fight the other kids.) (Baz said she's better suited for boxing.)
The casting of light makes Baz look like an enchanting work of art in a museum far too important for me to even see. But that's what makes masterpieces so important, right? Not many people deserve to see it, but that's not the point. It's that everybody needs to see it. So I try to memorise every detail of Baz -- every line, every habit, every speck of colour in his cool, grey eyes -- only to find out that I already have. I already know everything about Baz. I know that he's stubborn and brilliant and horribly posh and beautiful and a prick. And I love him.
—
BAZ
He's been quiet since I started talking about my family and what I get up to during the holidays. He stopped conjuring more drinks a while ago, not that I'm complaining: I've been sporting a fairly decent intoxication level for about an hour now. But still, his level of intrigue worries me more than I care to admit. I kept talking about Mordelia, telling more and more amusing anecdotes as the minutes wore on. Snow kept getting closer -- he had been all night -- but now he was so close that he had finally rested his chin on my shoulder, just staring at me, and I could feel his warm breath against my neck, moving my hair with every exhale. I give him a side glance of a look at first, but pull myself forward and continue mindlessly ranting about different times I was just as much a mess as him to make him feel better.
But then he freezes. He tenses up in such a way that I stop mid-sentence and turn to face him. He's already staring at me, of course, like he has been nearly all night.
"Snow?" I ask shyly, worried that I might've said something wrong. He ignores me, but lifts a hand to the side of my face, fingers fiddling with my dishevelled hair.
I whisper "Simon--"
"Shhhh." His eyes don't leave mine when he spits it out. He stares at me hard and cold like he's angry. He's almost always angry with me, but today I can't think of anything that I could possibly have done. (Not that I need to do anything to spark anger within him. I let him do most of the work for me.) (Dev says I've gotten lazy.) Maybe it's because I crashed his drinking party and made it my own. Maybe it's my presence alone.
I start again, quieter this time. "Sim--"
"Don't you ever shut up?"
Then he kisses me.
His lips touch mine tentatively at first, but after a while, it seems like he's decided that I won't bite him because he grows confident enough to press himself firmly against me. His hand comes to cup my face and I can't form a complete thought. All that I'm able to comprehend is that he smells like fire, tastes like tequila, and is here: kissing me.
Then, I'm kissing him back.
He hums softly and I jump a little in surprise which makes him smile against my lips. I feel his smile. Merlin and Morgana.
Eventually, after a few minutes of our bodies awkwardly tilting and reaching to be close to each other, Snow finally pulls back, breaking our kiss. I stare off for a moment, dazed and disappointed before he loops his arms around my neck and pulls me forward to meet him again. I reach obediently forward to reach him, surprising even myself, and vaguely feel his legs wrap around my waist.
Fucking hell. Simon Snow is sitting in my lap.
We continue snogging with decreasing precision and elegance in our haste, but his legs grow tighter around me as I slide my hands under his shirt and rub up and down his back, simultaneously using my new hold on him to draw him impossibly closer to me. I moan when he opens his mouth and leads the kiss into a more intimate territory. His hands are pulling at the hair near the nape of my neck, pulling my head back to allow him to kiss me without any uncomfortable bending.
Then, one of his arms leaves from around my neck and rests on my shoulder instead. He's rubbing my face with the pads of his thumbs. Tracing light circles across my cheeks and stroking my hair.
"You okay, Baz?" he whispers like it's the most casual thing in the world. I don't know how he can be so calm. This isn't normal. This isn't right. Normal is screaming and fighting and cold stares. Normal isn't his legs wrapped loosely around my waist; my hands gripping his hips; his soft fingers on my cheek; and it definitely isn't sitting on the floor on a Thursday night snogging each other into oblivion.
"Yes," I say despite myself. He smiles. I just stare at him.
"Okay, good." He leans in closer. My eyelids flutter shut as I lean to meet him, eagerly anticipating his lips against my own.
—
SIMON
His eyelids are fluttering. They're actually fucking fluttering. I grin and press my lips to the corner of his mouth. His chin. His bottom lip. "I'm okay, too." And then we're kissing again.
This doesn't feel like kissing Agatha. As guilty as it makes me feel to admit it, kissing Agatha felt more like a chore than something that I actually wanted to do. This I want to do.
I want to run my fingers through Baz's inky, black hair. I want to tug lightly on the strands as our lips clash. I want to taste his lips against mine, even if he's drunk and I'm drunk and I'm not even sure what we're really doing anymore. I don't mind that we're changing everything right now. How will the war go on after I've heard his breathless moans and seen his lustful, wide eyes staring into my own? How will we go on?
I hope we go on just like this.
I break our kiss again.
"Baz?"
"Hmm?" he hums out softly. I bite my lip and drag my eyes from his swollen lips to his pale grey eyes.
"I like us like this." I've said it before, but now it feels much heavier; Now it feels like I'm asking a question. I am.
He looks at me almost sadly.
"Me too."
—
BAZ
Snow kisses me for a while. And then I kiss him for a while. I use this time as a moment fulfil all of the things that I've ever wanted to do to Snow.
I kiss his lips, obviously, for quite some time, but then Snow pulls back and takes a breath for a moment and I just look at him. I look at his messy curls. A flush that starts in his cheeks spreads all the way down his neck to his chest. I watch his chest rise and fall as he catches his breath, eyes closed and hands holding my shoulders as if he needs support. He probably does considering he's still sitting on my lap. My eyes glance over the moles covering his neck and I move forward, fighting against the pressure caused by Snow holding my shoulders back. He tenses up for a moment and flickers his eyes to me when I lean towards his neck, but with a soft kiss to a mole he gasps and lets go. I wrap one arm around his body, resting my hand on my back to hold him while I focus on the numerous moles that I need to kiss. He shivers all through each kiss, making me smile.
After I've kissed every mole there at least twice, I look up at him. His eyes are closed and a soft smile graces his lips.
"Tired?" I ask, but my voice isn't mine. It's low and husky and I think he likes it because he looks at me, sighs, and kisses me gently.
"Yes," he says. "But I don't want this to go away. When I wake up, I mean."
I say nothing. I haven't thought about when we wake up. What happens when we wake up? Surely he won't go back to Agatha. But he would, wouldn't he? He's Simon bloody Snow. The Chosen One. The Golden Boy. I can't have him. He doesn't belong here, in my arms, no matter how badly I want him here. No matter how right this feels. It's all wrong. It's all unfair.
"Baz," he says, seemingly taking notice in my panic. "I don't want this to go away."
He's asking me a question. I know he is. He's asking if we can go like this. If we can forget the past 7 years and the war and our supposed rivalry and just go forward with this.
"Simon-"
"Just-" he stops himself, looking at me closely as if he's trying to remember every detail of this moment. "don't go away?"
"I can't. Go away."
"I'm not talking about being roommates, Baz."
"I know. Neither am I. I mean how I feel. This won't go away." He smiles at me, leaning down to press his face into the crook of my neck. I feel his warm breath brush my skin and I shudder. He kisses just below my ear. "Loving you is as inescapable as breathing."
He looks back at me and my eyes widen in a small panic. I hadn't realised that I had said it.
"Well, we all know what happens when you hold your breath." Simon holds my face in his hands and gives a quick, soft kiss to my nose. "Breathe, Baz."
—
He falls asleep in my arms. At some point in the night, we decided that snogging on a bed would be much more comfortable than on the floor, so we both crawled under the covers of my small bed and continued. He hovers himself over me and makes me reach for his mouth and I do. Eventually, he brings himself lower and lower, overcome with fatigue, until he gently lays himself onto my chest, drooling nearly instantly and mumbles "Basil," softly. I smile fondly, rubbing his back and relishing in the feeling of his sleepy embrace as I fall asleep as well.
—
We're in much the same position when we wake. Simon is draped completely on top of me in such a way that I wonder how it was that I even breathed while I slept, but it feels nice. The warm weight of him on top of me reminds me of everything that happened last night, even if the mind splitting headache and general bad feeling is working hard to suppress all memories.
After a few minutes of debate, I slide myself out from underneath Simon, smoothing placing my pillow under him instead, and awkwardly move to the bathroom.
I look like shit. As soon as I step into view of the mirror, I wince. My hair, suffering from last night's festivities, is mangled and looking more like the usual state of Snow's than my own. Through combing my hair, I wince as the fabric from my sweater brushes against my collar.
It's not my sweater really, it's Simon's. He gave it to me at some point while sleeping because he was too warm and I was too cold.
"Look at that," he had said. "We match."
"That's not how it works, Snow. We're opposites."
"That's just the thing though. You have to be opposites to match as we match." I laughed softly and kissed his forehead.
"Go back to sleep, Love. You're delirious."
I pull at the sweater to reveal 3 dark bruises adorning my pale skin and blush ever so slightly. Who would've thought that Simon would be the biter of us two?
And then I think of us two and I see him through the reflection of the bathroom mirror. He's laying on my bed still in the same place that he had been all night. But then I remember something that I hadn't before. A whisper in the darkness; A secret for only us to know: "I love you, Basilton."
And I must've thought it up; imagined it in my drunken state. But I start to cry because I know that I didn't. I can still feel the breath of the words as his chest rose and fell against my own. I didn't say anything. I didn't move. We both knew and that was enough.
But now it's too much.
Simon Snow is laying in my bed. He's laying in the bed of his arch nemesis. I'm going to kill him one day, I say to myself even though I know it's not true. I'm not going to kill him, he's going to kill me. And he has to, doesn't he? He's our saviour. He's the one that is going to save us all; He's going to save me. I don't know what happened last night, but it couldn't have happened at all. Simon Snow needs to save us all. If he can't, then who will?
He can't love me. I'm a monster and a Pitch. He belongs with Wellbelove. He wants to be with Wellbelove. Fuck, half the night he spent moaning on and on about how he isn't quite sure where his happy ending will be now. I've been so fucking selfish this entire time. Simon deserves his happy ending. I know that Simon could always find it in himself to love, even if that person was a monster. I squeeze my eyes shut as I try to console myself, remembering the feeling of his soft lips against mine, his murmurs of affection and light whispers of "Basil" that will haunt my daydreams. This is enough, I tell myself. I've taken enough. I'll remember it all so that he doesn't have to. So that he can be happy.
So I do what Simon does. I try not to think about it.
I try not to think about his face pressed against my pillow, hair spread out across the surface.
I try not to think about how warm he is as I take him in my arms. I try not to think about the way that he buries his face into my chest.
I try not to think about how his sheets are cold as I lay him down because his bed has been empty all night and mine has held two boys holding each other.
I try not to think about the sunlight that pours in from the window onto the moles adorning his chest.
I try not to think about how this is the last time that I'll ever run my fingers through his hair. I don't think about how I'm ruining everything I've ever wanted.
But this isn't about what I want, I think as I walk back to my side of the room.
This is about what he wants.
I lift my wand.
What he needs.
A tear falls.
"Forgive and Forget."
And it's not me.
YOU ARE READING
breathe // snowbaz
Fanfiction"Loving you is as inescapable as breathing." "Well, we all know what happens when you hold your breath." Simon holds my face in his hands and gives a quick, soft kiss to my nose. "Breathe, Baz."
