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Honestly, I would be lying if I said this all started a few months ago. It’s been going on for way longer than that – since I was eleven and I first saw his stupid face, basically. A big part of me, the part of me that is currently demanding the most attention, has always been in love with Baz Pitch, and a little part of me will always hate him.
Let’s start in the middle. Obsession came easy to me; it always has. I don’t like words, or feelings – I just do things, and it was easier to obsess over him than work out why I wanted to anyway. He’s a tosser, an absolute bloody posh wanker (has been since he was eleven) and I still managed to fall in love like a total sap. It did take me a while, though.
I think I realised it more whenever I wasn’t around him. During the long, boring summers spent in cramped concrete rooms with angry boys, the only angry boy I wanted to be with was him. I would look up during dinner and see a kid with black hair sneering at me and wish that it was Baz. I was too tired, or hungry, to fight, though – if it was Baz I would have made more of an effort.
In Watford classes without him, I tore myself to pieces wondering what he was doing. I hated any moment spent around him, with his stupid hair and pretty face and fancy clothes and clever remarks – but I hated any moment spent without him even more. I convinced myself he was plotting; plotting against me, the Mage, anyone, I didn’t care. Someone who made me feel things like he did had to be up to no good.
So, obsession. Fifth year. It drove me insane to not know where he was – therefore, I couldn’t let him out of my sight. I could never figure out what made him hate me so much – therefore, I analysed his every move. I decided he was evil.
I was right about one thing. He is a vampire. (Thirteen-year-old-me would be so proud.)
And he is still always an absolute bloody posh wanker, make no mistake. It’s just in a more tolerable way now that we… don’t hate each other, and are in fact, quite intimate. It sounds odd, but sometimes when we fight I think to myself, ‘I don’t even like this boy. He’s pretentious and annoying’ and he tells me all the time that I am also ‘ridiculously thick’ and ‘a half-arsed excuse for a mage’ but I guess you can love someone without liking them all of the time.
…
He lies on his back, his head in my lap, and I stroke his dark hair.
“Your hair is ridiculous,” I cry for the thousandth time, mouth full of chocolate. The vibrations from his laughter reverberate pleasantly throughout my body. His mouth is open (and he calls me a mouth breather) and his fangs are on display. I’m not thinking about the Mage, or Agatha, or the War, or the Humdrum – just Baz. I grin down at him and stuff more chocolate in my face.
“Oi,” he says, and snatches the rest of the Mint Aero from me. “Save some for later, you pig.”
“M’not a pig,” I huff.
“You snore like one.”
“I don’t snore!”
He snaps the rest of the Aero and throws half up at my face. I don’t catch it in time, but it does end up just falling onto Baz and hitting him in the eye. “Yes, you do.” He sulks.
I lean down and kiss above his eyelids. “Do I really?”
He smiles softly, openly, letting our noses touch and searching my eyes, and if I wasn’t already sitting down my knees would go weak. But then he closes off again, and his smirk reappears… Baz pets my knee fondly. “No, you don’t.”
“Baz!” I shriek, and shove him off me. He rolls away, laughing too hard to breathe.
…
Here’s another example of him being a pompous arse – in case it wasn’t already clear – right now. We’re in Greek. He keeps answering the questions in a terribly smug voice and covering his book when writing so I can’t even copy. He stills does that thing, even now, where he looks straight ahead and smirks just because he knows I’m watching, and it still makes my blood boil. I can feel my magic leeching out of me, and I know he can feel it too because he grins wider and turns away.
It’s offensively attractive, that smirk of his. I told him that once, and he raised an eyebrow infuriatingly and said, “Offensively attractive. Did you steal that line off me, Snow?” (I did steal that off of him. He used it to describe my moles. I suspect he struggles with compliments, because he always adds an insult right before he says something nice, like my very existence is a crime to his intelligence. I prefer to think of it as; I render him speechless.)
But anyway. He’s playing. I’m getting wound up. Probably we’re going to fight later, or have a very heated snogging session, or most likely a complicated combination of both. He admitted to me once that his favourite hobby is figuring out new ways to torture me, and that was before we were, uh, a couple. Or whatever we are. His view of the world is fully messed up – to him, fighting comes as easily as breathing, and so does romance. So the two get a bit mixed up.
That’s how the whole romance thing happened between us, actually. We were having a good old-fashioned brawl like normal and - and it just… turned into snogging. Out of nowhere. Or, well, I guess it came from somewhere… my subconscious, probably… that’s what Penny would say.
Not that his taunting turns me on. That would be ridiculous. But, I mean – yes, it does sort of do that.
We sit next to each other all the time now. Sometimes, if he’s feeling nice, which is rare, he lets me copy his answers. Other times, he holds my hand under the table. One time, I almost set the room on fire because he put his hand on my leg. He didn’t even do anything dirty. But it almost set me off. That pleased him, I think – he highly enjoys getting a reaction out of me. I’ve figured out that he doesn’t care if it’s good or bad.
…
Penny knows, of course. I didn’t even tell her anything. I’ve been quite good about keeping it all very secret, the relationship thing. But she’s known since the first time Baz and me – uh- kissed, and I came to breakfast late and she looked at me and said, “What did you do, then.” She could just tell. I think she might be psychic.
Baz hasn’t told anybody. He does have friends – or minions – but he doesn’t really talk to them about important things and stuff. Or that’s what he tells me. Apparently Dev and Niall don’t even know he’s gay, which surprises me, because it’s not that hard to figure out.
“They don’t know,” Baz insisted, leaning against the wall.
“Are you really, really sure about that,” I said.
“Well, I didn’t tell them, and unless my father phoned them up, then they’re basing it entirely on my appearance, which is a stereotype and I don’t have to confirm or deny anything.”
“You do look sort of gay,”
“Yes, I know, are you even listening?”
“I just mean, they’d be right. If they guessed. And it is a bit obvious.”
“Snow, you spent seven years thinking I had my eye on your girlfriend. You actually never figured it out - you’re just saying that because you already know. You’re the boy snogging me.” I couldn’t argue with him on that.
They do make jokes about his sexuality though, a bit homophobic if you ask me but these are teenage boys I guess. I heard them once in the corridor telling Baz his hair looked “well queer”. It did look well queer. Baz is, indeed, well queer. But he swears that’s not really the point.
I suppose I am too. Well queer, I mean. I’d have to be, wouldn’t I? I broke up with Agatha for him, who is the most beautiful girl on the planet. She seemed relieved when I did it:
“I think it’s best if we break up,” I said.
She opened her mouth. “Oh?” was all that came out.
I couldn’t really think of anything to say. “Yeah.”
“I think you’re right. It was going to happen eventually. We’ve drifted apart.” She smiled. “We can still be friends, Simon, right? Nothing’s going to change.”
“Of course we can be friends!” I said quickly. “I do care about you a lot, Agatha, I just… you deserve someone who can give you more than what I can. I’m good at saving the world, but really bad at being a boyfriend. Also… I’m pretty sure I have feelings for someone else. I thought you should know.” I shrugged nervously.
She raised an eyebrow. Not as well as Baz. “Really? Fascinating. Who is she?”
I stammered, and she waved a hand. “Actually, no, I’d rather it be a surprise, and find out with everyone else.”
“Okay,” I said, biting my lip. She patted my shoulder.
“Good luck.”
…
We lay on our beds, stretching our hands out to meet in the middle.
I watch his fingers interlace with mine – he watches my face with cold eyes. Everyone thinks Baz Pitch must have the softest hands in the world (or am I the only one that ever wondered about that?) but actually his fingertips are quite calloused from playing violin and from fire spells.
The window is open and a breeze plays with his hair.
“I broke up with Agatha,” I say suddenly. He pulls his hand away.
“So?”
“What do you mean, so? I thought you’d be glad.”
He rolls his eyes and grits his teeth. I’m trying to figure out why he’s mad, but it’s hard to think. His standoffishness is contagious. He’s always like this, on and off, and I never know why. “Congratulations, Snow, let’s throw a fucking party.”
“Well, I thought you’d be happy!” I yell, but quietly. “Now we don’t have to sneak around, we can be happy boyfriends and whatever.”
“Is that even what you want?”
“O-of course that’s… is that not… what you want?”
“I don’t know what I want!” he hisses, and I recoil.
“Well, I’m sorry for thinking you could ever want me.”
He exhales, closing his eyes. I roll to face the wall. “No, Snow, that isn’t what I meant.” I chew my lip and don’t reply. “Simon.”
I hear him get up and come to sit on my bed, feel his weight roll me closer. I don’t answer him because I want him to show me that he means it. Maybe I’m petty. He says I am.
“Simon,” Baz says again, lips on my ear.
“Simon,” he murmurs, lips on my neck.
…
Agatha and I hang out in the library.
“So, how’s it going, with your mystery girl?” She whispers, and then laughs. I like her a lot more now that we’re not dating – she seems freer, happier, looser.
“Oh, er – fine. I mean. Fine.” I have embarrassing flashbacks to all the things Baz and I did last night. Based on the noises I discovered that I can make him make, I would say that it’s going very extremely well.
“Cool,” she says, leaning back, tucking her hair behind her ear. We sit in silence.
“So, you and Baz?” I say jokingly, to fill the quiet. Obviously I am not worried about her and Baz anymore, but I will base what I say next on her reaction… She snorts in a very un-Agatha-like way.
“Merlin’s beard, no. He’s dropped all interest in me – I guess he was really just trying to get under your skin. What a player.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think I was super interested in him anyway. I just wanted something, ehh…” she looks at me, realising she’s said too much. “… different.”
I laugh. This is good.
“Yeah, he only ever acted interested when you were around,” she continues, “and now that we’re not a couple he’s stopped looking at me and stuff. I’m glad, to be honest – anyone who would date a vampire would have to be properly bonkers. I pity the girl who falls for him, really.”
I choke, my face an unappealing red. “Yeah,” I manage. “Who could possibly date him?”
…
I think I could.
I think I will.
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed anxiously, sitting on my hands to keep them still. Baz is at his desk, hunched over like a troll and tapping his foot slowly. He only has good posture when he thinks people are watching. Well, people that matter.
“Baz.”
“What, Snow. I’m studying. Some of us care how we do in school.”
“Baz.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“What?”
He looks over at me, partly annoyed, partly confused for a second. He seems to struggle to pick an expression, but settles for a kind of bored amusement. It is his default around me. He finds everything I do exasperating and ridiculous.
“Go out with me.”
This seems to genuinely take him by surprise. “Go where? What?”
“No, I mean – er – I’m asking you out. Officially. It’s what I what. I don’t care what you want. We’re going out as a couple, on a date, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
The corner of his mouth lifts up. He turns away. “I don’t know. I’m more of an indoor person.”
“No you’re not! You play football! And are you listening to me? I’m asking you OUT!” I snap.
“And you’re doing a terrific job, Simon.”
“Shove off.”
“So romantic.”
“I hate you.”
“I love you too.”
I flop back onto my bed, and cover my face, which is bright red.
“Hey, Snow,” he says, nonchalantly, which is how I know he’s nervous.
“What? And you called me Simon before.”
“I’d like to go out with you. Officially. And no, I didn’t.”
…
For obvious reasons, me and my secret vampire boyfriend cannot go on dates while at a boarding school. This is why I’m here, during the summer, wasting time in a sweaty room with too many boys that have violence on their minds, waiting for him to pick me up. If I had the choice, trust me – I would not be here. Then again, he offered to take me to his house for the summer and I declined on the grounds of “I’m not your holiday homework, Basilton” so I guess I did have a choice and I wasted it.
Oh well. He’ll be here any day now, I know it.
I lay on my stomach. The room is organised with four bunk bed pressed end-to-end against the two side walls, with the middle wall having a door and the other side with a window and set of drawers. I don’t own enough things to justify taking up space in a drawer, apparently – so my stuff is under my pillow. That’s fine with me; the pillow is so flat and threadbare that my meagre possessions fluff it up a little.
The boys in my room, like me, have absolutely nowhere to be, and no one that cares about where they are anyway. Some play cards, some gossip about whatever teenage boys in orphanages gossip about, and others just cram themselves in their beds against the wall to avoid everyone and not cause fights. That’s what I’m currently doing.
Summer’s barely started and I’m already thinking of the list, but right now there’s only one thing on it, so it’s hardly even a list anyway. I lie there, kicking my feet in the air, letting him occupy my thoughts without shame for once.
Baz.
…
We said goodbye for the summer in the dorm room, bags already packed. He worried his lip.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I think me staying at your house would just kick-start the War. Besides, your place is far too posh for me.”
“I know; I’ve seen you eat. You look like a werewolf. Have you ever even used cutlery before?”
We stood in awkward silence.
“We could just go away together. Right now. I could whisk you away on a romantic boat ride and never give you back.”
“That’s not romantic, Baz, that’s kidnapping.”
“Not if you consent.”
“Well, since you’re offering… I would like to see France.”
“It feels odd letting you go back to a boy’s home now that we’re… we do have an estate there. In France.”
“I know.”
I suddenly felt like crying. I pressed the palms of my hands into my itchy eyes and tried to breathe it out, but the tears were building up and my throat was tight. I hadn’t cried in ages.
“Is this what it’s going to be like forever?” I choked out.
He wrapped his arms around me, tucked me away inside his fancy sweater forever. “No, not forever. Just today. Maybe tomorrow…”
“You’re not really helping,”
“Sorry.”
He buried his face into my hair, whispered funny things to make me sob/laugh. Told me family secrets, ancient spells, recipes, the exact step-by-step plan of how he’s going to steal me away to France on a boat. We took deep breaths together until I didn’t need to cry anymore.
And then he kissed me until it was time to leave.
And then I made him stay a bit longer, just because I could, and made sure that I ruined his hair and did my best to leave hickeys so that everyone would see that he’s mine, yes, and no one can touch him (but he doesn’t have enough blood to bruise, really, so maybe it was an excuse to kiss his neck).
He gave me his fancy sweater, put on his fancy sunglasses, and left in his fancy car with nothing but the scent of cedar on me and cigarette taste in my mouth.
And a phone number written on my hand.
…
He picks me up one day in a black, shiny convertible. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and the other boys in the home watch me with wide eyes when the car horn sounds and I leap up. These people know nothing about me – only enough to be afraid. The constant smell of smoke, (even though I haven’t gone off in weeks), the fact that I wear the same thing every day (my shirt, my pants, Baz’s jumper), the scars on my back and arms. I must look like a street fighter or something – apparently there’s a rumour going around that I set my last home on fire and that’s why I always smell of smoke.
I don’t tell them anything.
“Where’re you off to then?” They stare suspiciously. I pull my jumper, err, Baz’s jumper, over my head. I don’t ever leave the house. I tend to stick close to warm things, and the place with food. As I find my shoes and put them on, I hear Baz slam the car door, and hurry up.
“Out,” I smile, let a little magic simmer, and they shrink back. They do, however, follow me lazily down the stairs while I sprint to the front desk and sign myself out, as Baz leans stylishly in front of the expensive car waiting, ankles crossed, super-sweet coffee in hand. I can tell he’s extremely pleased with himself. He’s such a show off.
The woman at the desk takes her time while the boys congeal in the corner, glowering.
Finally, she takes the papers away and gives me the pass. Warily, she looks at Baz, then at me, and frowns. He’s wearing sunglasses and all black, his long hair loose and brushing his shoulders. I guess it does look a bit like I’m meeting with some kind of badass gang leader or something.
Would it make her more or less reassured if I told her that he’s my boyfriend? I don’t think she’s overly religious. A gay vampire – a double whammy for religious people. Nuns must hate him.
As if on cue, he taps his watch slowly. The woman sighs. I guess mob boss it is.
“Tell your friend you need to be back by nine.”
I grin wider, and leave, feeling all their eyes on my back.
When Baz takes me forcefully by the waist and kisses me passionately right there, in front of the glass doors, I stick my middle finger up at them all behind his back.
“Nice sunglasses, git,” I say against his mouth. He smirks. “Nice jumper, thief.”
“Where are we going?” I ask when he pushes me into the car. Before he closes the door, I just glimpse the faces of some of the boys in the home, pressed against the glass. I look away.
“I’m taking you to a secluded cabin in the woods…” he mutters, getting in the driver’s side (because I seriously cannot drive to save my life), “no one will hear you scream…”
I punch his shoulder, even though I’m not sure whether that would be a bad thing. He glares. “It’s a surprise, Snow. You’ll have to wait and find out.”
…
He takes me across the city and into the countryside. The convertible roof is down and we have to yell to be heard – so we don’t talk much. We listen to his music – I pretend to hate it all – and then the Magickal community radio.
“The Insidious Humdrum, known infamously by Magicians worldwide, hasn’t made an appearance in weeks. Theorists and specialists alike agree that whether or not this is a good, or bad, sign, we must all be prepared for an attack soon.”
I turn it back to his music. I didn’t even know there was a Magickal community radio. I tell Baz as much, and he scoffs and says, “Where have you been living, under a rock?” I roll my eyes and say, “Yeah, London.”
He tries to hide his smile, but I see it.
And then he takes me to dinner.
“We should do this more often,” he drawls, wine in hand.
“Mmm,” I agree with my chin resting on my palm, just watching him. The candlelight flickers across his face, drawing out the warm, golden tones from his usually chalky skin. The restaurant is quiet, (it’s a bit early for dinner, for most people), so we speak in hushed tones, over the soft music playing from the sky.
I say absentmindedly, “what do you reckon, about the war?”
“What war?” he grimaces.
I laugh. “Ha! You’re right. What war?”
He puts down the wine glass, and leans on his elbows thoughtfully.
“Well, you aren’t planning on killing me anymore, I gather?”
“No…”
“A shame…” he muses, and I kick him under the table.
He continues, unaffected. “So if you and I run away together during the war, off to France to live in a flat above the Seine, feeding each other chocolate and olives and cream,” I glare at him, “then hopefully we can avoid the War altogether and not be missed.” He picks up the glass again and takes a drink.
“I told you that in private.”
“I think it’s a good plan,” he says mildly.
We make small talk until the waitress brings our food over, obviously flirting with me at every chance. (I’m not thick. I can tell when people are flirting with me. Pushing someone down the stairs is not flirting.) I ordered dessert – a raspberry cheesecake – and Baz ordered spaghetti. It came with garlic bread – I find this hilarious.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything else I can do for you?” the waitress asks, looking just at me. I glance at Baz’s murderous face.
“I’m su-ure,” I say. She smiles. “Not even another drink?” (We’re on a DATE, girl. Do boys often platonically go out and drink wine together at a table for two at seven o’clock in the evening?)
“I’m alright,” I set my jaw and turn to Baz, “what about you, darling?”
Baz’s eyebrows shoot up. He immediately looks a million times more invested in the conversation. Waitress girl pales.
“I think I’ve had enough to drink this evening,” he says softly to me, and then turns, like an afterthought, to the waitress, “but thank you.”
She stammers and leaves.
Baz twirls spaghetti around his fork and gives me a smug look. “You’re not as oblivious as you look, my darling.”
“Put some garlic bread in it, Pitch.”
“Anything for you, love.”
…
He drops me back at eight fifty-two.
“We should do that again some time,” I say anxiously, stalling.
“Oh, so you enjoy my company now, do you?” He says haughtily, his hands on my hips again.
I nod. “Uh, you know. You’re tolerable. It sure beats this place.”
He glances over my shoulder at the run-down boy’s home and his face twists.
“I’m going to make you live with me,” he says eventually. “When this is all over. I’m going to make sure neither of us die, and then make you come and live in France. I’m serious.” I know he is.
I kiss his nose. “Lucky I like French food.”
“You like all food, Snow.”
He comes for me again the next day, and the next, until the end of the holidays.
…
My favourite thing about Baz is his hands. I like to hold them, and kiss them, and watch them play violin. They move through the air while he talks sometimes. Sometimes they land on me absentmindedly, like when we’re talking and he puts his hand on my shoulder for no reason and I get a thrill out of it. It surprises me every time.
When we fight, they go still.
“It isn’t about me! We’re talking about you, and what you deserve.”
“You’re too good for me, is that it?”
“That’s literally the exact opposite of what I’m saying, idiot! I’m saying that maybe you should think about the fact that you’re dating a corpse!”
“You’re not a corpse!”
“Simon, I should have died twelve fucking years ago. I’m already on borrowed time. This isn’t a discussion; I’m not breaking up with you. I’m just pointing out what you’re too afraid to say.”
“You’re alive, though! You’ve aged. You breathe.”
He looks at me sadly. “Not really.”
“Do you feel dead?” I ask desperately.
“Sometimes.”
“Well I don’t think that you are.”
He groans, his teeth popping. “These are just facts, Snow. I wasn’t trying to fight with you.”
“You made it a fight. You’re trying to make me hate you so that it’ll prove you’re a bad person, and you’ll be right.” One of us is yelling.
“I AM THE LIVING DEAD!” He says with gritted fangs.
“THAT’S NOT THE SAME THING AS BEING A BAD PERSON!” I shout, and shove him.
“You can talk, which means you have air in your lungs. You care about people, which means you have empathy. You make good decisions, which means you have a brain. You can bleed, which means you have blood in your veins.” I keep shoving him until his back is against the wall.
“S’not my blood, though,” he says quietly. “And I can only bleed a little bit.”
“Merlin, you are so annoying.”
“Yeah,” he whispers.
He drops his head down and his forehead hits mine. I rest my hands on his shoulders, and we stay.
…
Are we a couple? We’re a couple. Aren’t we?
I bite my fingernails anxiously, and watch Baz out on the football field. His team is winning, and there’s only a few minutes left.
Before he went out, I was waiting with him in the change rooms. He tied his hair back, showing off his cheekbones and ears. He caught me looking and sneered. He can always tell when I find him attractive – it’s frustrating. After the other teammates had gone out, I told him, “no matter whether you win or lose, you’ll always be a loser to me,” and he kissed the mole on my cheek and said, “I’ve already won.” Which made me feel a bit mean in comparison, but then again I am dating a boy who has tried to kill me multiple times. Because I’m an idiot. Ask anyone.
I think I’m going to come out. The horn sounds – Baz’s team run into each other, celebrating. He looks up at me from all the way down there – I can tell it’s me he’s looking at, because I can practically hear him thinking, “See? I always win.”
Fuck it.
I don’t cheer with the rest of them and instead run down the stands, pushing past people, and Baz runs up, and we stop. He crosses his arms, and uncrosses them. The students around us tense, expecting a fight (because neither of us ever back down from a fight).
“Do you know what you want?” I ask him.
“Do you?”
“Yeah… I do.”
“Well, so do I.”
“You can change your mind if you want to.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay, good, glad we sorted that out,” I say impatiently, (he laughs), and grab him by the front of his shirt. We meet in the middle.