Chosen~ Snowbaz

Other Half

CW: Mentions of self-harm

~SIMON~ 

Circle. Star. Heart. Smiley face with fangs. Peace sign. Weird half-deformed spirally thing that kind of resembles a snail but doesn't really. 

shut the fuck up. I'm trying to do my homework. 

There he is. Some days it's easier to get a rise out of him—the harsh, angled cursive I have yet to put a name to. 

I'm not talking :) 

tosser. 

you love me. 

No reply yet. I don't worry. He will. He always does. 

We've been communicating since we were twelve. We used code names for a while, and they sort of stuck—he went by 'Prince,' which is stupid and pretentious, and I called myself 'Bob,' because it was the first name that popped into my mind. 

I don't know a lot about Prince, or whatever the hell his name is, but he knows more about me. My birthday, for instance, because we didn't get each other's messages until the moment I tuned twelve. (I'm thankful it was twelve for me, like everyone else, because it's hard enough being the Chosen One; I didn't want shit for having a weird soulmate connection, too.) 

And he knows that I like Harry Potter, because I doodle the deathly hallows symbol on my arm when I'm bored. And that I pick my scabs, because if you get injured enough to bleed your soulmate gets the wound, too. (The first time I woke up with slashes on my wrists, I wrote him an entire lecture, full of spelling mistakes and 'I love you's and smudges because of my tears. My fingers were cramped up for weeks—I hardly ever write by hand—but it was worth it.) 

He knows that I went through a year and a half of compulsive heteronormativity before I accepted that my soulmate is a bloke and that's perfectly okay. 

He knows that I love scones, but immediately after I told him that, he went off on a tangent about how no, I wasn't allowed to mention scones, he hears enough about them already, thank you very much (whatever that means).

He knows that I go to Watford, just like him, but we haven't gone into that particular branch of our lives much more because neither of us are quite ready to find out the other's true identity. 

That being said, I've told him a lot about Baz. Not his name or anything, of course, just small things. Like the colour of his eyes (grey). And his worst subject (Political Science). His nervous habit (chewing his bottom lip) and his three facial expressions (plotting, sadistically amused, and resting bitch). 

I know four things about him: his mother died was he was young, his roommate doesn't like him all that much, he doesn't have many friends because most people are afraid of him, and he supports Manchester United. 

Just to piss him off, I write go arsenal on my forearm, and watch as he adds ^fuck yourself  between the two words. A grin spreads across my face. I have his attention. 

I'm thinking of a number between one and a hundred.

not right now. 

one and fifty. 

eleven. 

wrong. 

There's a pause, and when he starts to write again the pen colour is purple instead of black. 

cool. now let me work. miss possibelf needs my essay by tomorrow afternoon. 

just guess.