Work Text:
Simon
“We should break up.”
That one sentence tumbles out of me like a colony of bats fluttering out of a dank cave. I practically wince as I hear my own voice speak those words. My head is resting on Baz’s chest as I hear him inhale sharply. I know he is mulling over my words, trying to pick the best reply.
Typical Baz.
He always chooses his words wisely. Never said a wrong thing in his entire life being the poetic git that he is. (Probably why Agatha was so taken by him). He always knows what to say at the right time. I admire him for that...yet, I envy him as well.
See, Baz not only had a plethora of fancy words at his disposal, but he knew how to use his voice. If someone was worried, then he knew how to be reassuring. His voice would turn warm and sweet as honey. If someone was being annoying, then he knew how to rough them up a bit. His voice would transform into a steely mask as hard as boulders. If he wanted to annoy me, then he knew how to taunt me and get under my skin. His voice would waver between calm to loving to playful.
Sometimes it frightens me when I realize how many voices he has; how powerful he actually is.
I distract myself by fiddling with the hem of his black sweatshirt as I wait for him to answer. My fingertips graze against a small expanse of his stomach that is exposed. He shivers slightly at the feeling of my fingers tracing circles into his bare skin. This was definitely the wrong time to blurt out what I had said, but my mind had thought otherwise. Of course, why not spark an argument with my boyfriend after finally reaching a point of comfortable silence?
“Baz?”
And of course, I add more wood to the fire that is already crackling.
“Snow, I thought we already talked about this.” His voice is indiscernible. It is cloaked in a tone I am all too familiar with. He doesn’t want me to know how he is truly feeling. He always speaks in the same level voice whenever he tries to disguise his emotions.
I let out a small breath before looking up at his face. His grey eyes are trained to the wall, but I can see the small details that prove my theory that he is annoyed. His dark eyebrows are furrowed and his jaw is clenched tightly. A storm is brewing behind his pale pupils. His lips are displayed in a frown and I hold back the urge to kiss him until it is no longer ruining his handsome face.
I look away guiltily, trying not to blurt out anything else that may irritate him further.
I know Baz doesn’t care that I don’t have magic anymore. As soon as the Mage had been defeated, he had assured me that he didn’t care. There are times when I’ve woken up from nightmares where Baz had thrown me away just because I didn’t have magic anymore. I would wake up, shaking and crying, and Baz would hold my trembling frame against his body and whisper that he didn’t care. He didn’t care because I was all he needed, magic or not.
Damn him and his amazing ability to form sentences.
But, even after all his reassurance, I’m still not sure if he means it. There are times when I’ve felt so helpless. My magic was always overwhelming for people. It was even burdensome for me to handle. I never really understood how to utilize the magic inside of me. But, now I understand why. I was never meant to keep it forever. It was never my duty to conquer my magic and learn how to use it. It was meant to burn out of me the way water vaporizes on a hot surface. Now, I had been reduced to a Normal in a magic world. Thinking about it brings me back to that day. The day where I had changed, where I had realized the truth about my magic.
The Mage. The one behind it all.
I had put so much hope into him. I had trusted him even when he toyed with me, beckoning me whenever he felt I was needed. He was the one adult who I thought understood what I was going through. I had practically felt as if those orphanages had messed me up for good, but he was always one of the key people I thought of when I was at my lowest. Whenever I thought of Watford, I thought of him too. I thought of Baz, of Penny, of Agatha. I had put so much trust into him, and everything had fallen apart as soon as it had been built.
Now, my issues trail behind me, burrowing themselves deep into my mind. I hear them whispering to each other constantly.
You are not good enough.
You are not worthy.
You should have died along with your magic.
My therapist always tells me not to listen to these voices, but they’re still there. They creep up when I’m unsuspecting. I hear them just as I’m finally drifting off to sleep after countless restless nights. I hear them as I sway my hips to the rhythm of pop music playing on the radio as I make breakfast. And now, I hear them murmuring as I rest my head against Baz’s chest.
“Hey,” Baz’s voice comes from above me. I feel his cold fingers slide against my cheek, turning my head to look up at him. I force myself not to look away, but his gaze is too intense. He makes me feel as if he’s looking through me as he stares at me with those damn grey eyes of his. He runs a finger under my eyes and scowls as he notices that they come away wet.
“There’s no reason to cry, Snow.” I bring my own hand up to my face and feel a trail of tears trickle down my cheek. I hadn’t even realized until he had pointed it out. For some reason, seeing him grimace at my tear-stained face causes my throat to constrict and a few more salty droplets to fall.
“Sorry.” My voice is hoarse as I frantically try to wipe them away, but they keep coming. I can feel Baz’s eyes on me as he watches me struggle. I can even hear him saying my name, asking me if I’m okay. I don’t answer. My throat is too clogged up by my building sobs that I can barely form words. The tears keep coming and I continue to try and wipe them away. My vision is obscured, everything in front of me—including Baz’s face—going blurry. Suddenly, I’m bawling my eyes out.
Baz
Simon Snow’s tears are currently seeping into my sweatshirt and I have no idea what to do.
“Snow, hey,” I say, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him gently, “Hey, it’s okay.”
My voice didn’t seem to get through to him. His sobs only wrack harder through his body. I try to sit up, but it’s hard when someone’s literally crying into your stomach. Snow shields his face from my view and cries harder. His fingers clasp around the thin material of my shirt, almost ripping it with his tight grip.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Baz,” he chokes out through his tears. I’m completely frozen as I hear him apologize to me over and over again. His voice becomes a soft whisper as I bring my hand to his head and run my fingers through his bronze curls; the same bronze curls that I have thought of running my hands through since I was fifteen.
“Sorry? Snow, what are you sorry for?” I have always said that him no longer having magic didn’t bother me. His wings and his tail didn’t bother me. Magic or Normal, he was Simon Snow and he was all I wanted. I don’t tell him that all the time though. I whisper those things to him after he has woken up from a nightmare or whenever we were being soft with each other. Whenever I tell him those things, he smiles against my lips before pressing a gentle kiss against them that always leaves me quite scatterbrained.
I still remember the day he had defeated the Mage. I stood, watching Simon’s powerful magic course through him. My mind can barely remember it now as it was so bright, but I can still remember the overpowering feeling. His magic filled the entire room, consuming it like a rogue bonfire and enclosing all of us in it. However, as quick as the feeling had come, it left just as swiftly.
The next few days, Simon had been the opposite of his usual boisterous self. His tawny skin had significantly paled and his shining blue eyes had lost some of their sparkle. Whenever he had smiled, it was a soft, somber smile that fleetingly spread against his lips. The same thing he uttered now is the same thing he had told me then. But, I had stopped him then. I had told him I didn’t care. I didn’t care that he no longer had magic, and he gave me that sweet kiss like he always does after hearing my words.
So, I will stop him now, just like I did then. If I have to do it 100 times more, then I will gladly indulge myself in continuously convincing him that I still want him because I will always want him.
I continue running my hands through his hair. His shivering shoulders gradually calm as I dig my fingers deeper into his bronze tresses. He’s always had a thing about his hair. He pulls at it whenever he is upset. He wraps a curl around his finger and plays with it whenever he’s deep in thought. I can’t count how many times I’ve watched him bite his lip and run a hand through his hair as he studied for an upcoming exam. (Sharing dorms were seriously the second death of me).
I glance down at his half-hidden face pressed against my torso. The cotton of my sweatshirt is damp with his tears, but I swallow the complaint that is on the tip of my tongue. His eyes are shut, long eyelashes splayed against blotchy, freckled cheeks. His hands are balled into fists, grasping at the black cloth of my shirt. His grip tightens as he takes a shaky breath.
“Simon?” I trail my hand down his face, tucking a stray curl behind his ear, before tilting his chin up and forcing him to look at me.
A pit in my stomach grows as he opens his eyes and peers up at me. His blue eyes are dull and red from his crying. A melancholic smile spreads on his lips as he looks at me, trying not to look as sad as he actually feels. I sweep my fingers under his eyes, wiping away the copious tears gathered on his cheeks. He brings his hand up to my wrist, slowly pulling my hand away before intertwining our fingers together.
“I’m pathetic,” he mutters, rolling his eyes before rubbing away the rest of his tears that cling to his eyelashes.
“You’re not pathetic.” But he isn’t listening to me now. Instead, he’s focused on ignoring me. He feels me staring at him. I know this because I watch as a blush rises from his neck and blooms on his face. I break our handholding and capture his face between my hands. His face is so warm, almost feverish. He’s always been on the hotter side (literally and figuratively), but this felt different. Bloody hell, has he been sick all this time and I haven’t noticed?
“Crowley, Snow. You. Are. Not. Pathetic. Don’t you get that?” I say fervently. His gaze is averted from me, lips thinned to a flat line. He is ready to argue with me. “I don’t care how many times you say that because I will always be here to disagree with you. You are not pathetic.”
“B-But, Baz, I don’t even have magic. You know that,” he whimpers, lips quivering. I can see his eyes filling with tears again, but he blinks quickly and forces them away.
“So? Is there a problem?”
“I’ve told you before, Baz. I’m not worth all this. You don’t have to put up with it. A boyfriend who doesn’t have magic? There has to be plenty of wizards who are ten times better than me, especially if they can actually perform spells.”
“Snow, have you ever seen me show interest in anyone but you?”
“Well, you did flirt with Agatha to upset me so–“
“Yeah, but that was because of you, Snow.” I study his face, trying to understand what his furrowed brows meant. “I’ve only ever seen you. Why don’t you get that? I’ve only ever wanted you. You think magic is the reason why I’m with you? If it was, then I would be long gone.”
“I—Baz,” His eyes shift wildly as he tries to say something. He lets out a defeated sigh before looking away, mumbling under his breath.
“I’m still not worth it. Shouldn’t you... shouldn’t you just break up with me?”
After his trembling voice speaks those words, he looks up at me. My glower softens at the expression on his face. He’s scared. He’s absolutely terrified of my answer even after how many times I’ve told him I would never do what he feared.
“Simon.” I brush my thumbs against the soft skin of his cheekbones. I stare into those blue eyes of his. They are deep pools of ocean and I am falling into them. My face is so close to his now. Our lips almost touch as I whisper to him.
“I’m never leaving you.”
I can feel the ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes are watery again, and a few tears manage to slip out before he wipes them away, laughing at himself. I almost feel a grin curl against my lips as his giggle fills the room. He wraps his arms around my neck, pulling me closer to his lean body. Our bodies clash together, warm and cold mixing into one spectacular feeling that no word could describe.
“I like you a lot, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” he murmurs, lips brushing against mine.
“Call me Baz.” He snorts at that and I am almost engulfed by how hopelessly in love with him I am. “And, I like you a lot too.”
He places a soft kiss against my lips, tender and languid. It tastes like tears and Simon, and I swear I could get drunk off of it.