Breathless...

𝗔𝘀𝗵𝗲𝘀

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Baz's POV

          I smelt Snow in the Catacombs two days ago. The smoky magick that only emanates from him lurched into my system. Forcing itself down my throat. Forcing me to my knees. Forcing me to recognize the end of us. And burning my heart to ashes.

           It was never a choice, now was it? Loving Simon Snow was simply unavoidable, as inescapable as my insatiable bloodlust—even more so. I shrug off the thought.

           Niall astutely realized I was avoiding my room more than usual, and offered to let me hang around his. I sat and read on Niall's bed instead of mine; did my homework in the library alone, instead of on my desk next to Snow; I sat in the back in every class, far as possible from Snow.

Snow. . . . I can't even say his name. I'm back to a point where it pushes me to tears. Back to hating my love for him. But this time I can't even tease or torture him.

       And it's so much worse because now I know that Si—he—tastes like those goddamn cherry scones. I know there are freckles on the inside of his thighs. I know what his breathless, pleasured moans sound like.

       I saw his blue eyes darken and cloud with lust. And now they only darken with what I hope is regret.

           Coming to the conclusion that the bloody Chosen One is trying to track me down and catch me. . . . Well it hurt, didn't it? And it was so much worse that just his stupidly, blue eyes could pin me in place. Leaving me vulnerable, helpless against him—like always. I can't let that happen again. It's not like his bright, blue eyes aren't already reigning over my heart.

            It's not as if the thought of running my fingers through his bronze curls doesn't haunt me all day. And the mind-numbing desire to sleep, tangled in his sun-kissed body doesn't haunt me all night. . . .

   I would've ended up sleeping in the Catacombs for weeks. But Snow finding me was undesirable. And maybe I simply missed mother—because my tired legs led me to the Mage's sanctum. Mother's old sanctum.

            Thankfully, the Mage is never around. Because if he found out that a Pitch sneaked into his suite. . . . He'd go right ballistic. To be fair though, his deranged mind is already lacking in sanity and any strategic skill.

These rooms made something in my stomach churn. Just one look brought my entire childhood before my eyes. It brought my mother before my eyes. Her fires. Her grey eyes. . . my eyes. They were the kind that held a strange depth—as if you'd look closer and all the universe's mysteries would unravel. As if the truth would always come stumbling out. Her eyes demanded everyone's attention. Commanded respect.

When she was headmistress she cast wards that allowed me to enter. Of course mother's bastard successor never noticed. (He wasn't even a successor. He slithered in and stole the title of headmaster.) Bloody idiot never broke the wards. I can come and go just as easily as the Mage. And that Green-Encased-Bastard-In-Tights has no fucking clue.

I could've sneaked in when I started avoiding Snow, but every time I come here, its a whirlwind of emotions. Too many fucking emotions.

Hatred for the Mage. Always bitter resentment for that lunatic.

           But the comfort that the memory of my mother brought me. . . . I felt so close to her. Like maybe I'd wake up and she'd be next to me reading a book, a little red flame flickering in her calloused hands. My own can be just as rough; not because of fire like hers, but my violin. (I'm flammable, casting fire in my palms is suicide.)

          I used to sleep in these rooms with her every night when I was a child. When she was alive. We would live here, in Watford. Father would visit sometimes, and we would all roam the Lawns together. Or eat spice cakes. I was always either in the nursery, or in mother's office. . . The Mage's office. The office that was practically a family heirloom for the Pitches.

           No one was like my mother though. She was brilliant, the most powerful Pitch even. One of the most powerful magicians, with more skill and talent. Everyone knew it. She was the youngest of all when she became headmistress. She cured the gnoematic fever. And she controlled fire like a demon, like no other—except maybe myself, I think, weaving pretty orange flames between my fingers. Lighting up the dark sanctum.

            Memories jolt through my body as her desk comes into view. Little things, like the laugh she tried so hard to hold back when—in an unusual burst of a child's impatience—I magicked my LEGO set to build by itself. It's safe to say that was a disastrous, incompatible spell cast by a five year old. The small, colorful, plastic bricks stuck to either the ceiling or my body; and Merlin, did I throw a tantrum when the LEGO was stuck to me like I used super glue. (Mother had to pick them all off with her wand) All the mint Aero Bars in the world couldn't calm me down. . . . fire did though. I chuckle at the memory.

           When we lived in these rooms she would let me run around and rummage through her books, and the second I started spewing words she found me tutors in Latin and Greek. And when I couldn't sleep, she'd show me little tricks with her fire. She taught me how to summon fire—how to draw my magick to the surface, how to harness it.

  'Light a match inside your heart, then blow on the tinder.' She would say. And that is what my magick felt like. A hissing drag, and sparking light, as orange flickers rose. And I would turn those flickers into forest fires. . . Snow thinks I'm a pyromaniac. I think he's a thumping idiot. The House of Pitch, is the house of fire. It's fitting that the only heir displays pyro tendencies, I smirk at that.

Aleister Crowley, What the fuck am I doing: chuckling to myself in the dark? And in the Mage's sanctum? What has Snow done to me?

         I exhale shakily, opening the window in the goddamn Mage's suite, gulping down the past. My mother. . . And there I am, at 3am. Swinging a leg over the ledge of a window near the top of the Weeping Tower, cackling at the thought of how if Snow were here, he would be too short to not dangle on one side of the ledge awkwardly. I laugh at the image, then chastise myself for thinking of him.

"On love's light wings!" I cast. And dive. Out the window, etching into the twinkling night sky.

It's one of those spells with ridiculous requirements, one of those that make me grateful for Snow. It only gives you the ability to fly only if you're hopelessly, and madly in love. And thanks to the blundering, bronze-haired git, I flap invisible wings until I reach the ground. Stepping warily onto the grass.

          I don't even know what to do with myself right now. . . . It's 4am in the clock I can see hanging on the Tower. Well, school should start soon enough.

         I end up walking to the Football pitch, and ripping my shirt off. I was already dressed in the team uniform when I went to the Mage's rooms. I spend the next two hours taking out all my frustrations on the pentagon-patterned ball. Kicking furiously.

         This madness with Snow has got to end. I need my goddamn room, I need my personal (okay, shared with Snow) bathroom. I need it. I need my fucking bed back. And this is the bloody problem with sharing a room with the love of your life.

       He's like a fire—luring you in, licking flickers, seducing you. Until you're entranced. So absorbed you walk straight into the flames. And for a vampire like me. . . . it means that night, it will be my ashes blowing out of our chimney.

And Merlin, I must be suicidal. Because I can't get enough. Can't get enough of him.

Then his raging blue eyes catch mine across the empty Football Pitch. His melted-bronze curls whip in the wind. He's squinting against the sun.

          I have no idea when he came, but I definitely let my eyes linger too long.