Chapter Text
SIMON
I’m beginning to regret ever starting this.
So, yes, okay, fine. I did start it. Whatever. I didn’t realise that not only is Baz a snobbish prick, he’s also apparently an evil genius. It’s been two days since the glitter incident, and he’s already managed to make me regret all of this. Yesterday he taped clingfilm across my doorway, and I’d walked right into it in the morning on my way to breakfast – it had taken ages to cut enough of it down to be able to get out, and I’d been ten minutes late to my tutorial. (Although I guess I might have deserved that one, for making Baz go to his lecture covered in glitter.) The morning before that he’d emptied out my toothpaste and filled it back up with vodka. He’d moved all my food into the freezer overnight, too, which was actually more of an inconvenience than a prank, but still just as annoying. (I’d almost cracked a tooth on my cereal, yesterday.)
I have no idea where he comes up with this shit.
I’ve never put much thought into this kind of thing, before. I’d never even pranked anyone before – at the home, we tended to work things out with our fists, instead. Penny is refusing to help me come up with ideas – “I won’t be an accessory to your childish feud, Simon, we’re not kids” – so I’ve mostly been using all of my free time in the last few days browsing Reddit for something that will piss Baz off enough.
Which is what has led me here, kneeling on the carpet outside Baz’s room and trying to pick his lock with a hairgrip that I borrowed from Agatha. I’d even managed to rope her into helping, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because she’s just as curious to see Baz’s dorm room as me and Penny are. Baz doesn’t let anyone in his room, not even Niall. (He says it’s because we’re all messy and he doesn’t want his stuff messed up, but I’m almost positive he’s like, drawing pentagons or summoning demons. Something evil, definitely. Something to justify the vampire-esque widow-peak haircut.)
“When the police ask,” she’s saying, “I was never here. This feels very illegal, Simon.”
It’s not illegal, I’m pretty sure. (Mostly sure?) Anyway, Baz broke into my room first, so, if anything this is just retribution. If it is illegal, the two crimes definitely cancel each other out.
“Exactly!” Penny says, over my shoulder, which is impressive because Penny and Agatha never seem to agree on anything. “This is breaking and entering.”
“Technically, we aren’t breaking anything.” I point out, wiggling the hair grip. I have no idea if I’m doing this right or not, and this isn’t anywhere near as easy as it looks in the movies. “So it’s just entering, really, isn’t it? Unlocking and entering. That’s really not the same thing.”
“Oh, and I’m sure that would hold up in court.”
It takes another two minutes of me fruitlessly trying to shove the grip into the lock before Penny gives in on her no-involvement policy and takes over. Of course, she manages to get the lock open in a minute flat. (She’s brilliant. It’s kind of terrifying.)
Baz’s room is hugely disappointing. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t really expecting pentagons and an Ouija board, but I was expecting something, at least. A voodoo doll with pins sticking out of it, or a bullet-pointed list of his evil plans to ruin my entire life, maybe. But it’s actually just a normal dorm room, except it’s compulsively neat – shoes lined up perfectly straight by the door, everything on his desk completely straight. There’s even a picture of him and a little girl – I assume his sister, she looks just like him – grinning at the camera on his bedside table. It’s oddly humanising. Like he’s normal, almost. (There’s no evidence of any evil plans anywhere – I check the notebooks on his desk and everything, just to make sure.)
I’m actually pretty proud of this prank, mostly because I’m positive it will piss Baz off. Penny’s armed with a huge multipack of plastic solo cups that I pilfered from the flat beneath us at a party a few nights ago; the plan is to fill the cups up with water and cover the floor of Baz’s room with them. I’ve thought it through, because, again, what’s the point in fucking with Baz if I don’t find the absolute optimal time to do it? I know he’ll be in a rush after his lecture, because we have football practise twenty minutes after his lecture. (This whole thing has also meant that I now know Baz’s schedule better than I know my own. Penny says I’m halfway to a restraining order, but I’m just being vigilant.) I’m hoping that he won’t be paying attention when he’s walking into his room, and that he’ll end up at least slightly drenched. (It’ll be properly embarrassing if he does look before he walks into his room, but then again, I suppose it will still be a pain to get rid of all the water, anyway.)
“I don’t understand why you guys are doing this. Can’t you just, like, fight and get it over with?” Agatha asks, as she’s filling up cups of water from the sink in the corner of the room.
“Fighting is never the answer, Agatha.” Penny says, impatiently. “I’m not saying I approve of the pranks, Si, but it’s a better option than scrapping. I’m proud you haven’t gone off at him, yet.”
It’s a small miracle, if I’m honest. Baz gets under my skin like nobody else does – it’s like he knows where my weaknesses are, and he always takes the cheapest shot. I’d love nothing more than to deck him right in the face. (I can’t stop thinking about how satisfying it would be to break his nose. It’s kind of crooked at the bridge, like someone has already broken it before. Lucky bastard.) But no matter what Baz (and Penny, actually) think, I do have some common sense. I’m not a complete idiot.
Kids like me – kids who grew up in care – we don’t get many chances. My grades aren’t very good, compared to a lot of people on my course. My behaviour record from school isn’t too great, either. (I got in trouble with the police, too, once, for shoplifting. Not my finest moment. There weren’t many fine moments in my childhood, if I’m being entirely honest.) The only reason I ever got into university is because I managed to get myself back on track before it was too late, and then worked my ass off in the last year of school. If I’d met someone like Baz back in the home, I wouldn’t have hesitated to hit him. (He’s tall and broad, but I’m an immovable force when I’m mad; he wouldn’t have even seen it coming. I could have him on the floor in seconds.) (Yes, I spend a disproportionate amount of time fantasising about punching the daylight out of him, but can you really blame me?) But it’s not like that, now. Watford feels almost too good to be true, and I worked too hard to get here. I’m not saying I think the administration would kick me out over one fight, I don’t think, but I’m not risking anything. I can’t jeopardise my chance. My only chance.
I don’t tell Penelope this, just roll my eyes and tell her to fill some more cups. I may not be able to punch Baz, but that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to make his life hell.
Penny drags Agatha away to the common room to meet Shepard after we finish, muttering something about plausible deniability, so I change into my football gear, sit in the kitchen, steal Niall’s bread to make a sandwich and wait. (I’ve still not quite got the hang of shopping for myself. I ended up with a trolley full of cereal and cake, last week, and Penny’s banned me from going without her.) We managed to cover every square inch of Baz’s room with dangerously full cups of water, and still had some left over, so we put some inside the wardrobe and along his windowsill and desktop, too. (I hope his stupid fancy clothes get drenched. Who needs that many fucking floral shirts? Posh twat.)
He flounces into the kitchen (Baz is incapable from entering a room normally) and looks annoyed from the moment he sees me, as per usual. He’s got an armful of boring-looking books – the same ones Penny’s got – and his cheeks and nose are flushed from the wind. “Still here, Snow?”
“Yes.” I snap, glowering at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He smiles nastily at me. “Just wondering if the Uni had figured out that letting you in was a mistake yet. I hear you’re failing your classes. Unsurprisingly, of course.”
My stomach twists. (Why does he always go for the lowest blow? Why does he have to be so awful?) Anyway – I’m not failing my classes, necessarily. Just not doing too well. But it’s fine, it’ll be fine – first year just barely counts for my degree, anyway. I just need to scrape a pass. (I have a sneaking feeling that Baz must have seen the F graded across the top of the essay that I left on my desk. I would be indignant about the invasion of privacy, but I did go through his notes. I suppose we’re even.) “Fuck off, Pitch.” I growl, and he just sneers at me on his way past me through the kitchen. Prick.
I get my vindication when there’s a crash and the slam of a door a moment later. Ha.
“Fuck! What the fuck!” – and then, a half second later, “Snow! You fucking imbecile!”
BAZ
I’m almost ashamed that I didn’t think of this one first.
I’m definitely ashamed that I didn’t see this coming. (I’ve been more vigilant than usual, recently, waiting for him to pull something – but he’d glowering at me from the moment I’d walked through the front door, and he’s just so fucking distracting.) I was too busy thinking about his ridiculous bronze curls and the way his face had fallen when I’d brought up his grades. (I don’t know why I’m so awful to him. I suppose I really don’t know how to act around boys I find stupidly attractive.) Now I’m completely soaked – and fuck, so is my fucking carpet – but, well. I’m almost impressed that Snow had enough brain cells to do this. I’m surprised he even managed to get into my room. I haul myself up off the floor, crushing plastic beneath my feet as I do, and turn to glare at Snow.
He’s stood leaning a shoulder against the doorway adjoining the corridor to the kitchen, with this ridiculous, shit-eating grin. He’s already in his football kit – he wears a long-sleeved under-armour beneath his shirt, and he looks unfairly fit. (Jesus Christ, I’m so weak – Snow just soaked me and potentially ruined my carpet and all I can think about it how good his arms look.)
“I’ll fucking kill you, Snow,” I hiss, stepping forward – right into another cup of fucking water. It soaks right through my shoes, and he looks all-too pleased with himself. Smug bastard.
He grins wickedly, then looks down at his watch. “But then you’ll mis practise, Baz.”
I kick a crushed plastic cup at him in retaliation, and he laughs all the way back down the corridor.
---
I’m five minutes late to football, out of breath from running from the dorms. My socks are still wet.
“Alright, Baz?” Dev grins as I jog to the edge of the pitch. Snow’s already on the pitch with Rhys, dribbling around cones. (His footwork is terrible.) Dev claps me on the shoulder, and then frowns at me. “Your shirt’s on inside out, mate.”
I curse, yanking my t-shirt up over my head and turning it the right way round. Snow’s looking at me when I pull it back over my head, and I give him the finger as we start drills. He scoffs – it’s a whole scene – and goes back to kicking angrily at the ball. I despise him. (Him and his strong legs and muscled calves and – no. No. Jesus Christ. Get the hell out of my head, Simon Snow.)
Snow’s a decent player, actually, as much as it really does pain me to admit it. He’s good – good enough to make the team, clearly – but in an unpolished, careless kind of way. All brute force and directionless energy. I don’t want to think too hard about how he could probably be the best on the team if he was a little more careful and practised. I don’t have to worry, though, really, because Snow isn’t careful with anything. (I think he thinks he can solve all his problems, on and off the pitch, if he just kicks hard enough.) I mostly try and block him out, during matches, because I can’t afford to get distracted, but it’s almost an impossible feat. Simon fills up every room he’s in. Every pitch he’s on. I can’t stop looking at him, running across the grass, all strong and competent and beautiful, forearms grass-stained and knees scraped bloody. (Simon gets injured more than the entire rest of the team put together; we’re less than a month into season and he’s already been benched for injuries three times. He’s a walking disaster, honestly. I have no idea how he’s survived this far in life.)
Anyway, however good Snow might be, I’m better. This is at least a little consolation for the fact that I have to share a locker room with him, which is an entirely different brand of torture. I kick the ball hard at Dev to stop myself thinking about Simon in the locker rooms, steam still clinging from his skin after he’s showered, curls falling in his eyes when he bends over to knot his laces – anyway. Fuck. Anyway. I’m good, and I’m not just being cocky, either – I know I’m good. (There’s a reason why I’m captain of the freshers team.) I’ve been playing for years, since I was old enough to kick a ball around with Dev in the huge gardens of the family estate. I had the opportunity to go semi-pro, once, back when I was younger, but my father wouldn’t even consider it. He doesn’t think that sport is a real career, no matter how well it pays. He barely thinks football is a real sport, at that. He thinks it’s ‘common’, apparently. He’s been trying to get me to play lacrosse instead for years now.
Coach starts us up on a five-a-side, then, which is ideal, because Snow ends up on the other team, and it’ll give me the chance to get some sort of retaliation – maybe if I can kick him in the shin hard enough I’ll feel marginally better. (That’s not to say I’m not currently thinking up ideas for an actual retaliation. I have a whole list of ideas to fuck with Snow, at this point.)
I wait until he’s close enough and shoulder him, hard, getting the ball out from under his feet and kicking it at the goal. (I score, obviously. I hardly ever miss.) The force of it sends him crashing to the grass, and Coach Mac blows the whistle. Dev’s glaring daggers at me from across the pitch, but I don’t really care. It’s not like it’s a real match, and it’s well worth the vicious twist of satisfaction I get from watching him drag himself to his feet, growling at me.
“What’s your problem, mate?” He shouts, shoves at my shoulder.
Snow is ridiculously easy to provoke. The highest points of his cheekbones are stained red, flushed with anger. “You’re my problem, mate.” I tell him. “Always you.”
“I didn’t even do anything to you!” He shouts. He’s proper fit - jaw set, shoulders squared, fists clenched like he’s physically stopping himself from hitting me. There’s this twisted part of me that almost wants him to, if only for the chance to get my hands on him. (I’m deranged. Ask anyone.)
“You soaked my carpet!” I don’t shout, not quite, because I refuse to stoop his level. I’m all for a good dramatic flair, but Snow manages to turn everything he does into a goddamned scene. It’s exhausting. Coach is trudging over to us, looking thoroughly unimpressed, and the rest of the lads have started playing without us. I suppose they’re all bored with us bickering every practise.
“You froze my cereal!”
I did. It was hilarious. I taped clingfilm across his doorway and watched him walk into it, too, which had been even more hilarious. “You put glitter in my shampoo!” I snap back at him, which is about the same time Coach Mac gets close enough that we both turn to him. He looks heavenward, like he’s completely done with the pair of us. (And, yes, okay. I’m aware we sound like children.)
“Lads.” He says, slowly. “I understand you have some issues with one another. But please – please, for the love of God – can you leave it off of my pitch?”
Snow ducks his head, but not before I catch the flush of red high on his cheekbones. “Yes, Coach.”
He looks at me expectantly. “Fine.” I shrug, crossing my arms over my chest. (I can almost hear Fiona’s voice in my head telling me that I look like a petulant toddler. Like she can talk. She and her boyfriend Nicky argue like schoolchildren.) (Not that Snow’s my boyfriend. ) (Fuck.)
“Right. Two laps, and then get back in the game.” He says, and then pauses before turning away. “Glitter, really? You’re eighteen, lads. Not eight.”
Snow sticks his tongue out at me the moment Coach turns his back. He’s ridiculous. He’s the most immature halfwit I’ve ever met. (I also want him to stick his tongue down my throat. Amongst other things.) (Fuck.) I sneer at him and start jogging, trying to ignore the swooping feeling in my stomach.
Simon fucking Snow.