Sixth Year (Snowbaz)

30. Soggy Weetabix

Baz

I'm playing the violin when Snow finally slinks in the door. It's so late I've already been to the catacombs and sucked the life's blood out of 4 rats. Snow's face is weary, careful almost.

My chin falls from the chin rest.

"Simon, where have you been?"

"Thinking." His voice is rough, like he's been screaming or crying.

I rest my violin on the bed and wander over to him. The Sword of Mages hangs heavy in his left hand, his chest rising and falling in slow shallow breaths.

"About what?"

"Us."

I nod again. Snow chants under his breath, holding the hilt of his sword by his hip until it disappears. He hangs his head looking down at his muddy leather school shoes.

"I can't do this if it's temporary."

My stomach sinks. An ultimatum. Simon Snow wants me long term or not at all. I  thought about kissing Simon all the time but I rarely let myself fantasise about being his boyfriend. It just won't work. Simon Snow is the Mage's heir. The Mage is my family's enemy and Simon is my enemy. That's just the way it is. Kissing Simon Snow is the greatest experience in the universe but it's not mine to have forever. He deserves better anyway.

"Okay," I say.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, it's not permanent. We'll stop."

"That's it?" Red rises to Snow's cheeks and his shoulders draw back, pushing out his chest.

"What do you want, Simon? For me to bring you home to my Tory, slightly homophobic, Father? Who, by the way, wants your precious Mage spelled into oblivion."

"I just don't want to kill you. I told you, it's not our war to fight."

He's so bloody naive. We don't get to chose. We never did. I was Simon's enemy at 11 because that's the role I was made to play. I can't change that now as much as I want to. As much as I want to run away with him and hide him from all that threatens to hurt him. I can't. I'm just a kid and this isn't my world. Tears sting my eyes but I don't let them fall.

"It is our war, Simon! You can't just wish your way out of it. You'll throw a match at me or I'll lace your scones with cyanide. Whoever wants the win more. Loving you isn't enough."

Shit. Fuck. Bollocks. Bitch. Piss. Fuck. I just confessed to loving him.

Simon softens before me. The angry red melting away then blooming again as a boyish, embarrassed, pink.

"Isn't it?" He says, foolishly hopeful.

"No, it isn't Simon."

Snow's jaw clenches, maybe to stop himself from screaming at me. He glares at the wall. Hands rigid at his side, dancing in and out of fists. For a second I think he might summon the sword again and decapitate me.

I was supposed to tell Simon I love him Romeo and Juliet style. Tragic ending. Before the fire caught the cuff of my Guess jeans, I'd utter the words that bring me peace before my end. Instead it just slipped out carelessly. And now I think Snow is breaking up with me. Wait, not breaking up with me we were never boyfriends. Cutting off ties. Promising to return to our old ways.

Snow stares at me with a familiar hateful glare. "You don't have to call me Simon anymore."

He rips off his tie like its suffocating him, throws it on the floor (I hate that) and stampedes into the bathroom turning on the shower. When the echo of running water fills the room I collapse to my knees like some hopeless downtroden maiden and sob silently into my hands. It's barely crying, just silent screaming, shut eyed and open mouthed. An emptiness hums around my body like static TV. Snow has slipped through my fingers like grains of sand, trickling away before I truly had him. Gone as soon as I created a large enough gap. A few pitiful howls escape my mouth but as soon as I hear Snow shut the water off I change and go to bed. A portrait of the completely unfazed. 

***

I'm not calling him Simon anymore. In fact, I'm not calling him anything at all.

The next morning we're back to the dance. Avoiding each other's gaze, not talking. Certainly not kissing. Snow even opens the curtains this morning because he knows it burns my skin. I throw the covers off slightly and let the sun rays nip at my skin like a dozen stingy nettles. It's what I deserve.

Before I leave our room I study myself in the mirror. Conjuring all the unfeelingness of Malcolm Grimm I can muster. My matching widow's peak and mean-looking eyebrows are the only things I inherited from him. The cold-bloodedness only came to me through years of practice. I'd been working at it since before I started at Watford. Hours spent perfecting the nonchalant arrogant stance and glare. Acting tough. Never wanting anyone to poke at any unhealed wounds. I'm scarily good at it. Staring back at me my stern jaw and icy eyes almost have me convinced that I truly am a heartless wretch. Almost.

I stroll to the dining hall on my own. Drink two cups of tea, pinky up, making political and sports related conversation with Dev and Niall. Dev asks why I didn't walk in with Simon. 

"Trouble in paradise?"

I kick his shin hard under the table. He doesn't bring it up again.

Penny and Simon sit together at the other side of the room. Agatha sits with her lacrosse friends now. Simon's picking up spoonfuls of his soggy Weetabix and letting them splatter back into the bowl. Every now and then Penny looks over at me and scowls. Shouldn't she be glad we're back to our normal selves? Feuding like Vader and Skywalker (except we're not related. Gross).

After Latin, Penny catches up to me in the hallway, grabs my sleeve and shoves me against some ancient mural. 

"What the fuck, Baz?" she says.

I smirk. "Good afternoon to you too, Bunce."'

"Why did you break things off with Simon?"

"You don't give him enough credit for his part in the inevitable downfall. Stubborn little twa-"

"I'm being serious, Baz."

I give her one of Simon's famous shrugs. "Enemies to lovers stories never work out in the end. One of us will fall on the other's blade."

"Well, in that case, I hope it's you," Penny spits.

"Me too," I remark, walking past her, the facade faltering momentarily.

I hate hating Simon Snow again. Drawing back all the negativity that I rid myself of is utterly exhausting. If I could click my fingers and wish for the war the end and the Humdrum to spontaneously combust, then I would. If I had to give up my family, my house, my nice jeans, my magic, just to spend the rest of my days telling Snow I love him, I would.