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Simon Snow is on my couch when I get home.
This raises many questions in the moment, most prominently being how did he get in? I had been spending the past few nights at his, which is where I left him this morning before class. I hadn’t left my keys, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to get in, and Fiona is supposedly still out of town. I almost ask him, but then I realize that he still hasn’t noticed I’ve even come home. He’s tucked into the arm, his tail wound loosely around his calf and body angled just right so his wings aren’t squished against the back cushions. (Which also raises the question of did he get over here without being noticed? I suppose Penelope could’ve spelled his wings before he left.) The shocking part of the picture is the book balanced on the arm of the couch, which he is intently focused on.
I know Simon isn’t illiterate or actually dumb by any means, sometimes I do question his intelligence but he makes up for it and proves that he is quite clever. At times. But Simon’s never really been a fan of reading, even when we were in school he’d complain audibly when he’d been assigned something to read. He could never sit still when he did, always bouncing his leg or clicking his pen or doing any number of very annoying things that drove me out of the room to study in the peace of the library.
But he’s perfectly still now, eyes moving over the page, fully enthralled in whatever it is he’d picked up. He’s lovely even when he’s just sitting there. His hair is actually tame for the most part, for once. He’s started taking my recommendations on hair products and it’s helping, not that his hair wasn’t gorgeous before but now it looks silky, smooth, and I want to run my hands through it. His facial expression shifts just slightly every few minutes, frowning or smirking at something he’s just read, furrowing his brow, and there’s a couple moments were his face softens. He looks at me like that sometimes, and I always think I’m going to melt into the floor. I wonder what he’s reading?
I clear my throat as I step into the lounge, startling Simon enough that he knocks the book to the floor and sits straight up. He relaxes again as soon as he sees me.
“Crowley, Baz, you scared me.” He’s smiling as he says it, though.
“Were you just reading, Snow?” I ask, bending to retrieve the lost book. His cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink when I grab it and sit next to him, turning it over in my hands to reveal the cover.
It’s a familiar book, very old and very worn down. The cover is bent in several places, the spine shows how many times it’s been read, flipped through, propped open. The pages themselves are in similar condition, the corners bent and dog-eared to hell, and each page covered in various shades of highlighter, and loopy handwriting scrawled across the margins.
“I could tell it was your favorite book because of all the notes you wrote in the margins,” Simon says finally, re-adjusting his position to lean into my side. “You’re usually such a purist with your books, I thought it was Fiona’s at first, but I recognized your handwriting.”
“So you started reading it?”
Simon shrugs, one of his classic Simon shrugs. “I wanted to know what made you deface your book ‘like an animal’, as you would say.”
“This is appreciation,” I correct, shutting the book and unconsciously holding it to my chest. “What Bunce does to her books is absolute madness and disrespect.”
Simon laughs and reaches for the book again, opening it to a page in the middle. “I like your notes. Sometimes I forget how brilliant you are. I mean, obviously you and Penny are the smartest people I know, but some of the things you take away from a simple sentence…”
“I’ve been reading this book since I was thirteen, I’ve had time to overthink every word.”
“So it is your favorite?”
“One of them. Bradbury’s one of my favorite authors, but it doesn’t feel right to choose just one.”
“But you’ve written all in this one.”
“I was young, I hadn’t learned how to properly respect a novel.”
“I like it.” Simon holds the book up and flips through the pages quickly. “I always liked looking through Penny’s, too. I think it says a lot more about you than just the book, how your time with it was, how it affected you. And it looks loved.”
“How can anyone possibly enjoy reading it in that state, though?”
“I just did.” Simon’s cheeks flush a shade darker than before, and he looks hesitant to continue but then he does. “I enjoyed it more, ‘cause it almost felt like I was reading it with you. Which was nice, because I missed you.”
I’m not even sure what to say to that, and I end up just staring at him. Until I suddenly remember my first question. “How did you get in here?”
“Oh,” his cheeks grow even darker. “Erm, Fiona gave me a key ages ago. I thought she’d told you?”
“She absolutely did not.”
“Oh, well.” He swallows and drops his eyes. “I… I thought I’d surprise you after class - which I have, obviously. I mean, I suppose, were you surprised? Or just… confused? I hope - I hope not disappointed - uhm, I can leave, if you’d like -”
“Simon.” I take his chin between my thumb and forefinger, angling his face back up to me. His eyes are wide and his lips part as he stares up at me. (Mouth breather.) “I was surprised, and confused, but the furthest from disappointed.” I lean in to kiss him softly once before letting go.
Simon suddenly shoves the book back into my hands.
“Read me your favorite part.”
“What?”
“Of the book. Your favorite part. Read it to me.”
“You hate reading.” I frown, has someone secretly abducted and replaced Simon?
“Not with you. It’s obviously an important book to you, I want to… I want to read it.” Simon lets out a long sigh. “But you’re right, I do hate reading. My eyes hurt already. I mean, it’s a good book - but you like reading, and I like listening to you, so it’d really be a win-win.”
“You want me to read to you?” I clarify without needing to. Simon is already leaning back into my side, head resting on my shoulder, and his tail flicks against my thigh before resting there gently.
“Yes.”
I’m not in a place to argue, so I flip to a page nearer the beginning. One of my favorite scenes, and possibly one he’s already read, but not a bad place to begin. Simon watches over my shoulder as I read, and I think at some points he’s more focused on one of my notes scribbled on the side of the page than what I’m reading aloud, but I don’t mind.
There’s something strangely intimate about reading out loud to Simon, especially a book that I’ve loved and re-read for so long there are portions I have committed to memory. I’ve never really talked about this book with anyone, let alone read it with them. But it’s nice, and Simon’s warm against my side and when we adjust what feels like moments but could have easily been hours later he lays across my chest, both of us stretched over the couch. I run my fingers through his hair with one hand, holding the book above his head with the other until I can hear him softly snoring.
Then I sit the book down, shutting my eyes for just a moment but instead quickly falling asleep as well.