Sixth Year (Snowbaz)

20. Simon Cancels Baz

A/N: Yikes this update took a while. 

Baz

My time alone with Simon Snow is coming to an end. We don't do all that much. Just hang about on armchairs and play football. I read my new Dostoyevsky, which has unsurprisingly taken up almost the whole week. I make Snow re-read the History of Mages. He seems peeved by the activity, but I have assured him it's his own fault he couldn't be bothered to read it fully in First year.

Snow sits at my windowsill now. Nestled up against two cushions that he's pulled from the couch. He says that everything in this house is either too dark or too uncomfortable, and that my family ought to invest in more colourful things. I mocked him, but really I think it's adorable. Lately I've been letting myself imagine what our house would look life if we lived together (well technically we do live together, but I mean a real place). The couch would be cream, and Simon would dress it with pink cushions to make it look alive. And we  would argue over what type of subway tiles to use in the bathroom, regular or beveled? The bedsheets would be stone grey Egyptian cotton and the pillows would be filled with duck feathers, just like at Watford. I would spend each night next to him. Not three feet apart in seperate beds, but right up close so that his warm golden skin is against mine, and close enough to run my hands through his bronze curls. Each night I would kiss every mole on his face and ravish him wholeheartedly. 

Snow is oblivious to my daydreaming state. The big grey sweater I leant him in exchange for his dirty old hoodie makes him look like a Pinterest model. All that's missing is a string of fairy lights and a mug of coffee. As per usual, his expression is puzzled. 

"What's got you confused this time, Snow?" I pretend to be invested in my book.

"Are gay people allowed to be Mages?" he asks, looking up from behind the hardcover. 

Not what I was expecting.

I look up from Dostoyevsky. "Technically, yes. They can't exactly strike you from the book. Maybe 50 years ago they could, but not now. Hate crimes aren't politically favourable."

"Oh, okay. That's good I guess."

I look back down at my book. "It's common decency, Snow."

Snow nods. "So...," he begins, "do your parents know?"

I scoff. "Unlikely. I'm the only heir to the Pitch name. Therefore I have to produce an heir. Technically Fiona is an heir as well, but she's somewhat of a lost cause."

Snow stays quiet and contemplative. 

"I'm pretty sure Fiona, knows about me." I say. "She's good at reading people."

It's true. She definitely knows. When we're watching the tele she's always pointing out the handsome actors, saying things like, "Oh, he's handsome Baz, don't you agree?" Although, I'm not sure how intuitive you have to be to understand that a teenage boy having half-naked posters Jude Law on their walls isn't exactly the quintesential picture of heterosexuality. 

"If she's so good at reading people then why is she under the impression that I'm a failure?"

"Because you are." I shouldn't have said that.

Snow throws himself up from the windowsill and the History of Mages falls down on the floor with a bang. 

"Fucking Hell Baz! Why are you such a fucking prick all the time. Do you ever think to just not say things? I thought we were friends for Christ sake." 

Snow swears like a Normal when he's really angry, especially at me. He's storming around the room now, hands raking through his barely-there curls. The jumper is too big for him. His fingertips poke out at the cuffs.