Chapter Text
Dear Death,
It’s Baz.
And I hate to say this, but I, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm Pitch, think I owe you an apology.
I always said you were too good to take me, kill me, relieve this body of this soul and rid the world of a monster.
I resented you for that. I resented you for being too aloof to reach down and scrub out the rot, put out the molding heart.
But I guess I have to thank you, Death. Because you didn’t carry me away on your arms, and you left Simon here with me.
I’m pretty sure you almost took his soul.
You should’ve seen his face after the Mage. Actually, I’m pretty sure you did.
I’m nearly certain you peered into his eyes for the next few months, checking in to see if he was ready for you to take him away.
It broke the pieces of my heart.
Because his eyes were empty, life nearly snuffed out, and all it would take was a puff of air to extinguish the flame.
I used to say he would burn me. Now, I wished he still did.
That flame faltered and flickered and nearly died so many times that I lost count.
I know how it feels.
I know the creeping sensation of guilt growing over your once-pure heart, covering it with shame, dimming the flame of your soul until it almost sputters out. I know how it feels to reach for explanations of why someone died and coming up with only...yourself.
Because I know how it feels to think you’re the root of the mold, the cause of the suffering, and your flame deserves to die.
I know.
Because I felt it before in a flame-ridden, vampire infested room when I was five and I saw your face for the first time, Death.
When Simon stood up that day, half-dead like the rest of us, I saw myself in his eyes.
We match, did you know that?
Both broken.
And someone once told me that two broken parts don’t make a whole.
They make a tragedy.
But I’m not going to believe that. Because his brash, bright-eyed antics relit the flame of my flickering soul when we were cast together in that dorm room so many years ago, and I’ll be there every step of the way now.
I’m here for him.
I’ll be here until my molded heart stops beating in the cavity of my chest because my love will be the tinder for the flame of his life, and I will burn for him to turn back into a roaring flame.
I’m used to it.
He’s still everything he used to be. Inflammably handsome, even with the tail.
Just mellower, softer. Stuck more in his head.
I think he’ll recover. I mean, I did.
So I’m sorry, Death, but I’ll need one more favor.
I know I’m a monster, the bane of humanity, and I’m sure I should be dead.
I might be dead. I’m not sure.
But Simon Snow is here, back in my room, sleeping on the sofa with his soul in his body, and I’d really like it to stay that way.
Christmas is around the corner, so I’d like a miracle, if you didn’t mind.
Because last Christmas, I gave you my heart.
You didn’t take it.
So this year, to save me from tears, I’ve given it to someone special, and they’ll make better use of it than you ever did.
Please delay the collection of my soul as long as possible, and stay away from Simon.
He’s not going out or burning up.
He’s just recovering for now.
And I love him.
Happy Christmas, Death.
-Baz
PS. If you can’t postpone my death that long, at least give me until I can decipher all the rest of Simon’s chicken scratch that he left on those other letters. I love him, but I can’t read it at all. I’m sure it’ll take me at least another ninety years to figure it out.
++++++
Three days later, the letter was taken from the cabinet. Twenty minutes after that, it was returned.
With a few changes, of course.
++++++
Dear Death,
It’s Baz. (And Simon. Baz, I know you’re reading this. I mean, I hope you are; I don’t want to have annotated this entire letter for you to forget it in the bottom of this bloody drawer forever.)
And I hate to say this, but I, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm Pitch, think I owe you an apology.
I always said you were too good to take me, kill me, relieve this body of this soul and rid the world of a monster.
(Baz, there are so many things wrong with this statement, I’m talking to you about this tomorrow.)
I resented you for that. I resented you for being too aloof to reach down and scrub out the rot, put out the molding heart.
(I’m pretty sure I already addressed this in my other annotations Baz! Quit it with the rot, that’s not how hearts work, especially when they’re made of gold.)
But I guess I have to thank you, Death. Because you didn’t carry me away on your arms, and you left Simon here with me.
(That’s...surprisingly sweet...I’m starting to get the feeling that I shouldn’t be reading this, but you’ll already know I’ve started. There’s red pen everywhere. Might as well finish.)
I’m pretty sure you almost took his soul.
You should’ve seen his face after the Mage. Actually, I’m pretty sure you did.
I’m nearly certain you peered into his eyes for the next five months, checking in to see if he was ready for you to take him away.
It broke the pieces of my heart.
(Baz...I-)
Because his eyes were empty, life nearly snuffed out, and all it would take was a puff of air to extinguish the flame.
(These words are so pretty, but...Baz...you noticed?)
I used to say he would burn me. Now, I wished he still did.
(I never meant to hurt you, really Baz, I mean it.)
That flame faltered and flickered and nearly died so many times that I lost count.
(...you were counting?)
I know how it feels.
I know the creeping sensation of guilt growing over your once-pure heart, covering it with shame, dimming the flame of your soul until it almost sputters out. I know how it feels to reach for explanations of why someone died and coming up with only yourself.
(Baz, no, your mother was not your fault, she didn’t even know you were Turned, it wasn’t your fault and I don’t have the words to say this but it wasn’t, really. Please believe me.)
Because I know how it feels to think you’re the root of the mold, the cause of the suffering, and your flame deserves to die.
(I killed the Mage. You didn’t kill your mother. You have no reason to feel like that, Baz. But I do.)
I know.
Because I felt it before in a flame-ridden, vampire infested room when I was five and I saw your face for the first time.
(Death’s rather pretty, isn’t he?)
When Simon stood up that day, half-dead like the rest of us, I saw myself in his eyes.
We match, did you know that?
Both broken.
(...Thanks.)
And someone once told me that two broken parts don’t make a whole.
They make a tragedy.
(They were wrong. We aren’t a fairy tale, but at least we make a bloody good story.)
But I’m not going to believe that. Because his brash, bright-eyed antics relit the flame of my flickering soul when we were cast together in that dorm room so many years ago, and I’ll be there every step of the way now.
(I really don’t understand this. I didn’t do much, but...thanks, I guess?)
I’m here for him.
(You always have been and always were, even if I didn’t see it, even if you didn’t act like it. Thank you, Baz.)
I’ll be here until my molded heart stops beating in the cavity of my chest because my love will be the tinder for the flame of his life, and I will burn for him to turn back into a roaring flame. (Baz…)
I’m used to it.
He’s still everything he used to be. Inflammably handsome, even with the tail.
(I know, I’m sorry, alright? Yes, it’s not anatomically correct and looks like a cartoon, but I was a bit pressed for time when I made it, thank you very much.)
Just mellower, softer. Stuck more in his head.
I think he’ll recover. I mean, I did.
(Of course I will. I’ll be fine.)
So I’m sorry, Death, but I’ll need one more favor.
I know I’m a monster, the bane of humanity, and I’m sure I should be dead.
(Stop saying this, you’re not. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, and I was the bloody Chosen One.)
I might be dead. I’m not sure.
(You’re not dead. I’m sure.)
But Simon Snow is here, back in my room, sleeping on the sofa with his soul in his body, and I’d really like it to stay that way.
(...You still stare at me while I sleep?)
Christmas is around the corner, so I’d like a miracle, if you don’t mind.
Because last Christmas, I gave you my heart.
(The very next day, you gave it away. Did I guess that right?)
You didn’t take it.
(Nope. But hey, I’m sure Death would love to have your soul. He’s just...busy.)
So this year, to save me from tears, I’ve given it to someone special, and he’ll make better use of it than you ever did.
(I really will.)
Please delay the collection of my soul as long as possible, and stay away from Simon.
(Aw, jealous?)
He’s not going out or burning up.
He’s just recovering for now.
And I love him.
(I still can’t believe you can finally say this now.)
Happy Christmas, Death.
(Happy Christmas!)
-Baz (and Simon!)
PS. If you can’t postpone my death that long, at least give me until I can decipher all the rest of Simon’s chicken scratch that he left on those other letters. I love him, but I can’t read it at all. I’m sure it’ll take me at least another ninety years to figure it out.
(You still haven’t read it?...Baz...)