Sixth Year (Snowbaz)

36. Wraiths & Egyptian Cotton

AN: Figured since we're all keeping inside I might as well finally post.

Simon

Daphne's pretty accepting of the whole Me-and-Baz situation, but she does make us sleep in seperate rooms. Which is responsible of her but also highly presumptuous. I mean, nothing very X-rated ever goes on between us. It's my fault mostly. I don't think I'm ready. Also, what does Daphne think will happen here and not in the room we share at Watford.

The different room situation means I'm back in a bedroom teeming with wraiths. The duvet is pulled up to my nose. It's plump and feathery and smells of mothballs and money. My eyes dart around the room from the movement in the curtains to what looks like a pair of glowing eyes behind the wardrobe door. I swear I hear a growl from under the bed. The Sword of Mages is drawn at my side. The blade cool drawn up against the fabric of pyjama trousers.  I'm not going to Baz's room. I've killed a dragon for Crowley's sake. Even if I probably shouldn't have. I can handle a few wraiths. Anyway, surely nothing would actually kill me. Right?

My body goes red with fear when the bedroom door creeks open. The sword comes up to my defence so swiftly that it nicks the bedsheets. 

"Crowley, Snow." It's Baz. Clad in a pair of posh silk pyjamas. Warm and sluggish sounding, probably from feasting off the rabbits in the reserve.

"You scared the shit out of me."

"Have you been up this whole time?"

I can't be bothered lying or trying to sound brave. He'll probably take the Mickey out of me.

"Yep."

Baz doesn't tease me like I thought. Just steps into the room and closes the door behind himself. His bare feet pad along the hardwood floors and he pulls up the duvet cover and slides in beside me.

"I couldn't sleep either," he says as he wriggles around to get comfortable. 

Hesitantly, I whisper the incantation, vanishing the Sword of Mages. The weight of it disappears where it laid at my side. The two of us are left there breathing together in the light of the bedside lamp. Expensive bedsheets cool and heavenly on the bare skin of my arms and feet. 

I turn over on the cloud-like pillow to face him. "Why couldn't you sleep?"

"Thinking." He's staring up at the ceiling which has carved swirls and divots around the chandelier. 

"About?"

He turns to face me, cheeky grin on his face. 

"Boys in navy suits who like roast potatoes."

I grin back. "Surely they're not worth as much time in a person's head as boys in burgundy suits."

"It was maroon."

"Who said I was talking about you?"

Baz laughs at that. The loose, boyish laugh that comes out when his guard is down. It's more common with every moment we're together. We're right up close. I trace the dimple on the cheek not smothered by the pillow just as his laugh flattens out into a sad smile. His eyebrows pull into a tent. 

"What're we going to do back at Watford," he says.

"Hmm," I suck on my bottom lip, pretending to be thinking,  "kiss a lot I s'pose."

A slight blush pricks at his cheeks. "No," he looks down at the sheets, away from my eyes, "I mean, what do we tell people? Nothing or the truth?"

I think about it. Going back to Watford and being Baz's boyfriend. Officially. In front of everyone. Penny, Agatha, The Mage. I wonder what that would mean. What that would be like. To be with Baz. To be with a guy. I'm not sure what people would find weirder. The fact that it's Baz on my arm or the fact that it's a guy. I suspect most would see Baz as the stranger alternative. 

"I don't know," I say honestly.

Baz looks as if he was expecting that answer. 

"It's okay. We don't have to tell anyone."

I think about that. Sneaking around school again. Hiding in the woods, kissing around corners, confined to the truth of it all only up in our room. I'm not good at keeping secrets. I don't like to. It makes me feel icky. And I like this thing we having going on here. I love it. 

"No." I find his hand under the covers. "I want to."

Baz's eyebrows come unfurled and he looks back up to my eyes. 

"How do we tell people?" 

"Maybe we could just make out in the middle of the dining hall. Leave nothing to the imagination."

His boyish laugh lets loose again. Louder this time. Filling the room with warmth and hope. Feelings that haven't lasted for as long as they're lasting now.

"I think I should tell Dev and Niall beforehand," he laughs. "Then we can make out in front of everyone."

"I should probably tell Agatha. And possibly The Mage."

"Oh, Morgana," Baz cringes. "He'll turn into some overprotective father-figure and ask what my intentions with you are."

I falter a little at that comment. The Mage has been so distant. And if he really sees me as a son why hasn't he been there for me?

"If he cares."

Baz's hand comes up to my hair. Fingers wrapping around a curl. I close my eyes into his touch.

"You know The Mage isn't my favourite person, but I do we wish he were there for you more, Simon. You deserve all the attention in the world."

I open my eyes and looks into Baz's. They're mellow pools of dark grey. I follow the light grey lines of his iris that pull into his pupils. I see my own reflection in them. Tired and scruffy looking. Hair tossed around on the pillow and sticking up in the air.

"I'm a mess," I whisper.

"But you're the mess I want."

Then, Baz kisses me. Gently but full of promise and intention. A long hand on the side of my face drawing me closer. I run a hand up the arm of his silk pyjamas. 

I pull away. Tracing loving, nervous circles around his lips. 

"Just in case I didn't make it clear," I say, "I love you."

He let's out a sigh through his nose, relief, even though I practically said it to him earlier this morning, and kisses me again.

Some part of me has loved Baz for a while. Not always romantically. But the part he played and still plays in my life. The constantce of him. The person who always stuck around. The boy who said vicious things in the hallways but was a considerate roommate. His intelligence, his football abilities, his posh hair. The determine nature of his attacks. The idea he was always thinking of me. Whether that meant he was plotting my death or where to kiss me next. 

It's strange to have a past where I hated him. I mean, I definitely had reason to. But now, it's just strange. The past seems both an impossible truth and an extension of whatever this is now. The beginning of something. Maybe something permanent. For as long as I live at least.