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In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have dressed like Jack from Titanic.
Overall, there’s a number of reasons why. First, I look extremely dressed down compared to everyone else in this vamped-up overplaying for a student-run party. I don’t know how they managed to allow this to happen. Although, I doubt teachers really care to stop the majority of the student population taking over the courtyard and White Chapel for Halloween night. Especially not with the Humdrum off ruining the rest of the Magickal world.
Second, I think I picked the wrong time period, as Penny ended up lecturing me over the moment she saw this getup.
“1909, Simon! Some of the most powerful Mages in the world died on that trip! And that wasn’t even really close to the 20s!”
“Well, why didn’t they just make the boat not sink, then?”
“Because it would’ve revealed too much to the Normals, Simon. Merlin and Morgana, you’d think they’d see the entire ship levitate.”
Despite her tutting, I’m still standing here with straight ironed hair (don’t ask how I got a straight iron) and a half unbuttoned shirt with suspenders and trousers that sort of make me look like a 1800s beggar more than a 1990’s heartthrob. Thank Merlin for whatever kids snuck in the alcohol, because I’m nursing my second drink and I could give less of a fuck about the fact that I’m not really fitting this year’s theme. Instead, I’m thinking about things that I could theoretically do now without being tied down to Agatha.
It’s funny, because she’s in sight right now, seeming more out of place than ever, despite being properly dressed. She’s all set up like a flapper girl, all down to the single-feather headband and frilly bottom of her dress. She looks like a costuming department put that together for her.
I remember watching The Great Gatsby with her one year (she has a thing for DiCaprio), and looking at her now, she looks spot on like Daisy.
Wonder if I’ll have to sit across a pond with her and Baz living a posh life together with a bullshit green light blinking on my dock ‘til I’m finally shot dead.
Now I think of it, maybe I probably picked the wrong DiCaprio to come as...
Penny cuts my pool-death-daydreams short with a nudge of her elbow against my side. She’s got a big fur ( “Faux fur! I wouldn’t dare use real fur!” ) coat and one of those super smooth hats, which doesn’t quite accommodate her hair, even in a bun. There’s spirals of brown sticking out around the edges.
“How much have you had to drink?” she questions, narrowing her eyebrows at my drink as she adjusts her glasses. I just hold up two fingers, shrugging as I sway to the remixed obscure trap-jazz music. She just squints at me, seeming to try to decide whether or not to scold me before sighing and going to get her own drink.
It’s relatively boring; nothing’s really “happening”; drunk teens and dancing, mostly, until he decides to grace us with his presence.
Of all people, I’ve never known Baz Pitch to go to a student party, and in actual costume nonetheless. But, despite, that, here he is now, and in full getup.
I take back everything I’ve said about him looking like a vampire ever . Tonight, right now , he looks like nothing but an old-school gangster. Head to toe pinstripe tailored outfit, stuffy to the t and all color coordinated. Hell, he’s even got a pocket watch tucked from the part of his waistcoat. Part of me refuses to believe he just had that lying around, but another part of me has full trust that this is something he’s had hidden in his closet that I just haven’t seen and it’s driving me absolutely mad.
His head’s tipped up, his slicked, black hair staying set into place. The nerve of this prick, too; he’s got a cigarette dangling from his upturned lips, eyes shifting from side to side as he makes his way through the crowd of students.
Mind you, I’m using “makes his way” lightly; he’s practically parting a sea. Everyone in the bloody bottom floor of the chapel turns to get an eyeful of this arse. Fucking hell, he even gives a few people one of his long, cold stares just for safekeeping. Once he makes it to me, though, he just scans over me and gives me a bored look before opening his mouth for an expected taunt. “Not surprised you can’t count your years, Snow.”
I try not to step back, keeping my chin high as I keep a leveled eye. “Seems like you never take a second from being a villain, hm?”
His lip curls up into a smirk as he takes the cigarette from his mouth, tapping it onto my feet. “Pity, you’re even worthless in your fantasy dress-ups too. Couldn’t even survive some cold water.” He reaches around me, not breaking eye contact as he grabs one of the drinks. He pops its top, raising an eyebrow to me before coolly strolling off.
I exhale slowly, letting my chest deflate as blood rushes back through my limbs. “Tosser,” I grumble into my drink, taking a long sip as Penny stares at me for a minute.
“What the fuck was that?”
“What was what?” I respond quickly, maybe sounding a bit too defensive. I should finish this drink off.
“What was what? ” She blinks at me incredulously, her mouth hanging open before she laughs. “Shit, I thought either of you was about to pounce each other, and I’m not quite sure whether it was to fistfight or to snog.”
I scoff, slamming back the rest of my drink before immediately turning for another. “I am not going to snog Baz,” I say aloud, maybe more for myself. No, wait, no not for myself; I already know I’m not going to snog Baz. Why in the world would I snog Baz?
I don’t dwell on that too long, opening my next drink and starting on it as I push myself into the crowd to dance.
There’s a lot of things I’m no good at, and sadly, dancing’s near the top of that list (next to talking and existing). Right now, though, I don’t care. I’m dancing with someone in the year below who urged me over, so I don’t think I really have to care anymore. The glow of the party lights and the thump of music in my feet drag my thoughts away.
Someone taps my shoulder as I pull myself away, catching my breath. It’s Sophie, a girl from our year, who’s holding a scarf and grinning at me. “Simon..?” She drags, smiling like she’s got some secret to share. Except there’s a scarf in her hands.
“What’s up, Soph?” I ask, leaning against the table. I finished my third drink not too long ago.
She flutters her eyelashes at me, offering the bandanna. “We may be playing seven minutes in heaven and I know you and Agatha broke up, so…”
Am I thinking? No. Absolutely not. I’m grabbing the bandanna, shrugging and saying “Why not?” as I tie it on myself. I don’t even gauge Sophie’s reaction, I just go for it and spread my arms out. “Lead me to my fate.”
I hear her giggle. “Alright,” she says somewhat weirdly (alright, maybe I should’ve thought about this).
Definitely should’ve thought of this, because now she’s pushing me forward, where I bump into people occasionally before I’m walked into what’s definitely a utilities closet, nudging into someone else before the door shuts.
It’s dark as shit. I can’t see anything, but I can definitely feel. I feel the beat of the music outside, I feel the swirling of my brain (if I could see, I’d be looking sideways). I feel the hands of someone against mine, their fingertips brushing against me.
Their breath is soft against the muffled outside of the party, coming out in soft puffs by me.
I sort of instinctively think ‘she’, but I’m not quite sure. The way their breath’s hitting me, I think they’re taller than me (and I don’t know too many tall girls in the school. Granted, there’s roughly three, but still…) They’re definitely drinking too; I can smell it on their breath. Fermented, like cider, but their scent's mixed with something so familiar, so everyday that I can’t even pin it down. It makes me feel like I’m back in my bedroom.
Their hands close around my wrists as I tumble towards them, knees wobbling and heart racing. This was probably a shit idea. I should’ve probably said no, but I can’t care too much right now, and I actually want this right now. My arms grasp out and feel the fabric of a suit. I think my mind might be playing tricks on me now because I’m grabbing the suit jackets and yanking whoever this is closer. The thought of Baz flashes through my brain, but I try to will it away. It’s just a suit jacket; there was plenty of people wearing suits.
Now, I usually think of myself as a straight man. I think. Or, really, I don’t think. I’ve never snogged a bloke before, but the breath near my forehead’s driving me nuts and there’s something in my bloodstream telling me to not think and just go for it.
Who knows, maybe I’m not straight.
I slam my lips forward gracelessly and start kissing and oh, definitely not a girl . My hands rest on the smooth dress shirt and I feel slight muscle over a masculine chest.
He pulls at my suspenders, stumbling us back towards the stone of the closet wall as his arms drape over my shoulders. I break away, feeling his breath on my face as I open my eyes to still find darkness. I wish I could see. I wish I could know why this feels right. Part of my mind is filling in Baz's features as my fingertips graze the skin of this bloke's face, but I'm nearly sure I'm imagining it. I try not to dwell on why I'd be imagining me kissing Baz, though; his face just sticks in my mind.
While my hand presses to his cheek, I find that he’s still got his blindfold on. I leave it, a little too scared to cross that intimacy line (suppose I’ll find out before he does, when the door opens for us again).
There’s not much of a pause, though, because he’s going at it again, snogging the breath out of me as his hands travel. They push aside the fabric of my mostly undone shirt, straining the bottom few buttons. Long, bony hands trailing against my skin and flattening against my chest. Without hesitation, I press forward, hands pushing into his hair and kissing him with every ounce I can really give right now.
This feels right. This feels so, inexplicably right. I push my hands into his hair, letting myself grip it lightly. Soft, slightly gelled down strands running through my fingers as I urge his head closer. This even smells right; he smells so comforting; like a candle I’ve had burning next to me for years. He tastes lightly of cigarettes, and he’s much cooler than Agatha ever was, but it doesn’t matter. He’s all I want right now.
A hand cups his jaw while the other stays locked in his hair, tugging at the strands and urging him onwards.
Neither of us tread anywhere below the belt. Seems too risky, too stupid. I’ve been drinking too much (who knows how much he’s had) and it’s not worth being that stupid. Fuck it, if it works out well, we won’t really stop after this. I don’t fancy myself as a romantic, but I also don’t fancy myself as someone to snog the life out of someone just to leave them.
As our lips part, his resting against my jawline, there’s a rattling knock to the door, giving us a few seconds to break apart before it swing open. The soft, changing lights of the party filtering into the small room and gives everything a harsh glow.
And there he is. All six feet (give or take) of him; slicked back hair, pinstripe suit, cheekbones to kill.
Tyrannus Basilton fucking Grimm-Pitch.
I stand slack-jawed, leaning against the wall we’d just been up against as he slowly lifts his blindfold off, staring at me with an expression I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him; guilt, and maybe a little fear.
He’s not angry, though. He’s nowhere near angry, but in the falter of his stone-cold persona lies this scared teen that looks away the moment we lock eyes. Before I can even form a coherent word, he’s pushing past whoever’s holding the door.
By the time I gather my thoughts to follow him, he’s mostly nudged out of the room and ends up slamming the doors open to the courtyard.
It’s frigid when I get there. Most people migrated to pack into the Chapel, but Baz isn’t interested in mingling. He’s going in whatever direction the crowd’s not, making me push through clusters of people as I shout his name.
It takes a solid distance for us to stop, hanging at least five yards apart from each other as he whips around, staring at me with wet cheeks. I feel my magick bubble and spill, working as an almost fog between us; I want him closer. I want to know what he’s thinking.
I can only really figure out one thing to ask right now.
“Did you know it was me?”
His jaw sets, arms crossing defensively over his chest as he stiffens. “Of course I did.” His voice cracks mid sentence. “I always know its you; I can feel your magick from a mile away.”
“Then why didn’t you stop?”
He huffs, laughing so bittersweet that I step forward on impulse. I want something that I’m not even sure about. “You’re so fucking thick, Snow,” he grumbles.
“You could’ve stopped me, Baz. I--we--”
He just stares silently as his arms drop, exposing his chest and his heart; exposing more of himself to me than I could’ve ever imagined. He’s so vulnerable, so weak. It's like he wants me to do something. Kiss him or kill him, he looks like he’d stop neither.
“That felt right,” I say, heart hammering in my chest. What the fuck did I drink? “That felt really really right, Baz.” Cross that, I don't think it's anything I drank.
“Don’t say anything you don’t mean, Snow.”
I swallow, eyes locked on his as I exhale slowly, trying to keep myself steady. “A lot of things don’t make sense to me,” I start, deserving me a cocked brow. I close my eyes, trying to continue. “There’s a lot that I’m clueless on, and there’s a lot that I just ignore, but Baz, that’s something that felt right. And I don’t really know every word I’m saying right now, and I don’t drink a lot so I’m feeling a little fucked up, but I’m still absolutely sure that that was right.”
As I speak, the ground in front of me crunches in a slow, hesitant manner. It stops just short of where I'm standing, the sound of Baz’s breath and the smell of home clinging to him as he stands. I dare myself to open my eyes, taking a moment to look up to him and swallowing any type of pride I’ve got left.
His cheeks are still streaked, jaw clenched shut, but lip quivering in the slightest. “Say that again,” he whispers after a minute, his hands stuck to his sides. I reach out, looping my fingers around his as I stare up.
“This was right.”
He lets out a shaky breath, looking down to me and taking what feels like an eternity to hold my hand back. “You need to get to bed and sleep this off.”
“I’m not going to sleep off feelings,” I huff.
“I know,” he utters back, causing my breath to catch as his hand lifts and pushes a stand of my straightened hair behind my ear. He leans in halfway, waiting for me to react as he whispers “Can’t sleep off mine either.”
Without hesitation, I close the distance.