Chapter Text
Micah used to look at me like that.
He used to look at me with that look. That soft look. The one where his eyes melted slightly, becoming liquid. The one where his features relaxed slightly, becoming smooth. The one where his mouth turned up slightly, a smile ghosting on his lips.
He used to look at me with that soft look.
I never thought that the next time I saw it, I’d be staring at Baz.
Who’s staring at Simon.
Baz Pitch is looking at Simon Snow with that look.
That soft look.
The one where his eyes melt slightly, becoming liquid metal. The one where his features relax slightly, becoming smooth marble. The one where his mouth turns up slightly, a smile ghosting on his pouty lips.
Aleister Crowley, how am I only now realising this?
···
Simon is constantly telling me that Baz is plotting something.
That he’s smart and evil and perfect, and that he’s plotting.
But really, he’s a moron.
A lovesick moron; emphasis on both lovesick and moron. Maybe more on moron, though.
Because as much of a total dumbass Simon Snow might be, Baz Pitch is an even bigger idiot.
My best friend is brilliant, but also so really thick. (And so really childish when it comes to Baz.) He does what’s expected from him, not bothering to consider his real feelings, never thinking about what it is he wants.
What he deserves.
And all of his frankly uncharacteristic harshness towards Baz meant I never bothered to consider his real feelings, either.
(Basil, on the other hand, is just needlessly dramatic.)
(They both need help.)
···
The last time I visited Micah (and I mean last as in final), he took me to one of those big department store things they seem to like so much. They had a whole aisle filled with wooden panels and canvases and picture frames, all sporting some sort of cliche phrase.
Live every day like it's your last. Everything happens for a reason. Live, laugh, love.
I rolled my eyes until Micah told me to stop trying to look at my brain.
(He was the one that should have been trying to see into my head.)
But then my eyes fell upon this monstrosity of a canvas: small, but incredibly colourful, overly glittery, with possibly the most cringe-worthy inspirational statement I had ever seen.
One I’ve read about before.
Your life is your story.
I bought it.
I also brought an equally ugly notebook, so indescribably bright that I couldn’t lose it even if I wanted to.
The day I broke up with Micah, I spelled the notebook.
Micah slaps himself in the head, I wrote.
Micah slapped himself in the head.
And I framed the notebook. (It hangs in my room at home, right next to the canvas; it never fails to amuse me.)
···
Compelling spells might not be illegal across the pond, but they are very illegal at home.
(But Americans also have a catastrophic and frankly scary lack of proper gun laws, so I shouldn’t be surprised.)
I love Simon, I do, and I want him to be happy, but I am not using dark magic on him.
I want to show Simon what he actually feels towards Baz. (I know he feels something.) (I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.) I want to push him to make a move, one that would finally, hopefully, make him happy. I want him to be happy.
I want him to end up with Baz.
(But I am not using dark magic on him.)
My little purple notebook I carry tucked in my blazer pocket is quickly gathering pages and pages of messy brainstorming. I’ve crossed out spells, scribbled over ideas and highlighted so many limitations that at this point, I can’t even keep track of my words.
I spend every free moment of my day searching through books, trying to find spells that could work.
I don’t want to make him do anything he doesn’t want to. I don’t want to control him. I don’t want to put him under a love spell. (I don’t think he needs it.)
I just want to make him realise what he feels for Baz, without me spelling it out for him.
He’ll do the rest.
Simon says is the only one that doesn’t have a huge red cross over it. It’s extremely on the nose, but would probably work. I could just write “I realise I fancy Baz”, spell Simon, ask him to read the paper, and then sit back and watch the inner turmoil as he realises that he fancies Baz.
But I’m not particularly keen on him knowing of my plot. He’d whined when I ‘meddled’ with his and Agatha’s relationship. (I didn’t meddle. My breakup just happened to be the catalyst to their breakup, when Agatha realised that there is nothing bad about ending something that wasn’t making her (—them) happy.)
(She made Simon realise it a few hours later, when she sat down next to him at dinner, turned in her seat, and earnestly told him that from now on, she’s just Agatha Wellbelove, a girl who is friends with Simon Snow. Not the Chosen One’s golden destiny girlfriend. And that he’s just Simon Snow, a boy with two girls for best friends; not a Chosen One who needs a trophy girl or a sidekick.)
(He immediately said I’m not his sidekick.)
···
I’m trying to avoid Simon without avoiding him: our no secrets pact is not something I’ll break, but my search for a spell that will ultimately end with him snogging his enemy isn’t something I want to share with him, either.
Simon should have been worried about me plotting. I am everything Baz is, except maybe evil. I am smart. I am perfect.
I am plotting.
I am also currently trying to keep my balance on a ladder in the corner of the library, yanking on a book that seems to be hellbent on staying on the shelf. I give up on pulling it, climbing down to the floor and cast a quiet Come here! on it instead.
I end up with five irrelevant books in my hand, the one I was trying to get still perched on the shelf.
“If I don’t win best best friend of the year, I’m starting a riot,” I mutter to myself, but stop grumbling as my eye catches on one of the titles.
The Father of Psychology: Freud on the Power of Dreams.
Honestly, fuck Freud.
But maybe he’s got a point.
···
So far, I’ve eliminated a total of twenty-six spells, all of which have something to do with dreams.
Dream on puts people to sleep. Sweet dreams isn’t much more useful, but at least it ensures a night free of terrors.
I have a dream is only useful if you want to ensure that you’ll dream of something at night. (Such a waste of a spell. A sentence as powerful as this one really should do more than give people random, impersonal night-time hallucinations.)
Your dreams will come true and Living the dream are even worse, considering that they just make the night’s dream come true. (They don’t let the caster control the dream.) Simon has a nightmare about the Humdrum killing him at least once a month, and that coming true is not a risk I’m willing to take.
The problem, as I’ve found, is that no spell allows the caster to have control over the dream.
Which means I have to give up.
Or make my own spell.
···
My grin is threatening to swallow my face up.
I’m sure I look demented, smiling at an empty piece of paper, but I’m too excited to care.
I push the tip of my pen to the page.
In your dreams, Baz Pitch appears. He walks up to you and waves. “Good morning,” he says, without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. You smile and greet him.
I blink slowly at the words, smile melting off my lips.
I groan.
This sounds like something a very stupid 7-year-old would write; one of those stories that adults praise, because it’s easier to lie than to find the correct words to describe the atrocity.
I’m not a stupid 7-year-old.
But I did spend the last 7 years listening to Simon talking about how smart and evil and perfect Baz bloody Pitch was; I did spend 7 years seeing that Baz.
(It’s not like I really see any other type of Baz now, either. I just know he exists.)
I don’t know how to write him as anything else than the emotionless ass he presents himself to be.
I groan, resisting the urge to tear the whole page out and shred it to pieces, to destroy this evidence of my very embarrassing attempt to be compassionate with my best friend’s possibly vampiric roommate, who is possibly in love with aforementioned best friend.
In your dreams, I continue instead, you are in your Magic Words class. You get paired up with Baz Pitch. You get an assignment from Miss Possibelf to spell wilted flowers back to life. “April showers,” you cast, and when a bucketful of water spills onto Baz Pitch from thin air instead, he doesn’t start screaming at you.
I feel slightly bad for reminding Simon of this particular failure, especially since Baz made fun of him so much afterwards, that he nearly went off. But that’s exactly why I chose it. Maybe showing Simon the possible relationship he could have with Baz will clarify some things for him.
I’m hoping it will wake him up.
(Ha.)
Instead, he just peels off his jumper, revealing a soaked-through shirt, that sticks to his body, translucent.
I feel my eyes widen, and my hand moves to scribble over that specific atrocity.
I groan again. I go from a stupid 7-year-old to a stupid horny teenager attempting to write porn for the first time.
Bad porn.
Is this still Simon’s words influencing me?
Crowley.
Instead, Baz Pitch pulls out his wand, casts a drying spell on himself, and sneers at you. (That’s at least mildly in character.) “Go on, Snow, carry on,” he says.
This still sounds like absolute crap, but I’m hoping it will do the job.
It’s not like I know how much detail I have to include, how much of description I have to write and how much of it the spell will just interpret.
It’s not like anyone will ever read it.
Merlin, I hope this isn’t the narration of Simon’s dream…
Maybe I should test it out on myself. Is this a spell the caster can test on themselves?
I should know this.
I slam the notebook shut, stuff it into my bookbag, and hurry out of the library, praying to whomever that Trixie didn’t come back to our room from wherever she and Keris go to snog. (It was well awkward when I accidentally screamed at them the last time I caught them on my bed, but at least I get peace and quiet now. And a roommate who occasionally glares at me.)
I open the door slowly, breathing a sigh of relief as I walk into an empty, dark room.
I flip the light switch on, pulling the notebook out.
And then I freeze, just staring at it.
I know I’m a powerful mage. I know I’m smart. I know that it is absolutely within my abilities to create my 8th year spell a year early, and still do a better job than anyone else.
But I also know that I got slightly carried away.
Simon is the impulsive one.
I’m the logical one.
And this weird role swap on my part is making me very uncomfortable.
I have no idea how this spell works or if it even works. I have no idea when or where I’m supposed to cast it, or if it even matters.
(Some spells only work in proximity. And I really hope this one is strong enough to reach Mummers, because while I can get in, sneaking into the boys’ room in the dead of the night is slightly creepy.)
Nicks and slicks, I don’t even know if he’ll remember the dream come morning.
Oh well.
Taking a deep breath, I nod my head, determined, and raise my ring to the page.
“In your dreams, Simon Snow.”
···
“I hate him so fucking much, bloody asshole he is.” Simon throws himself down next to me, and I push his plate full of scones towards him. “Such a twat.”
This wasn’t the reaction I wanted to elicit from him, but then again, I suppose it was too much to expect it to work on the first try.
“Good morning to you, too,” I say.
Simon grunts in response, but surprisingly stays quiet.
I hate it when he rants about Baz, but I was looking forward to it so much this morning. I want to hear about his dream. I want to know if it worked, how it worked. I want to know if it worked. Because it’s one thing that the spell works in theory. It’s a big thing. I’ll have made my own spell! But whether it works is a totally different story: I need it to make Simon question his feelings.
(Maybe I should feel bad about wanting my best friend to question the security he gets from his perceived straightness.) (I don’t.)
I don’t want to just give him more opportunities to rile himself up over Baz.
I stare intently at his face, giving him a few moments to continue, but he doesn’t elaborate.
To stop myself from falling off the edge of my seat—literally—I speak up. “And?”
“And what?” he grunts.
“What did he do this time?”
Simon growls, and his reluctance to talk is driving me up the wall today. The one time I’m actually interested in what he has to say—about Baz, that is—I’m not that horrible of a friend—he doesn’t supply anything.
“And?”
“And what?” he turns to me, his mouth thankfully empty for the moment.
“Nicks and slicks, Simon, what is it that Baz did?”
“He was a twat, Penny, that’s what he did,” he exclaims, and I suppress the sudden urge to scream at him.
Instead, I just raise my eyebrows at him, and it finally sets him off.
“That! He did that! He sneered and smirked at me for laughing, Penny. I was fucking laughing. I woke myself up laughing! You know how great of a morning it was! And then he went and ruined it! Because he’s a twat!” He huffs, “that’s what he did.”
I’m still staring at him. He woke himself up laughing.
I’m not sure that’s a good thing for me.
“Like, he just had to pick a fight with me over something again, he just had to go and ruin it all over again, seriously Penny, he—”
“Why were you laughing?” I cut him off. (I don’t want to relax my beloved 10% rule too much.)
“—just had to… huh?” His mouth hangs open again. “Oh. Well, I had this dream, right?”
I nearly fall off my chair again.
“It was weird, because he wasn’t being a prick, which means he was plotting something. But also, he was, well, he was wet.” He looks away sheepishly, but continues. “We were in Magic Words, and it was that lesson when he made me nearly go off because I spelled a bucket of water over his head accidentally… but he wasn’t a prick in my dream, and it was bloody hilarious, Penny. He looked ridiculous.”
He’s giggling again, and I actually squeal along with him.
I am an actual genius who should never ever doubt herself ever again.
I bloody well did it!
I want to ask him so many more questions: how did it feel? Did it feel any different than his normal dreams? How long did it last? Was it narrated with the exact words I wrote? Was it as detailed as I dictated or did the spell fill gaps?
I bite the words back, though. I suppose I’ll save them for next year, when I’ll officially be testing the spell.
I leap onto my feet instead, throw my hands around Simon’s neck, press a kiss to his cheek, and grab my bag.
“I love you,” I shout back at him. “I’ll see you later, Si!”
···
In your dreams, Baz Pitch grabs your wrist, looks deeply into your eyes. You look right back. He runs his thumb carefully over your palm and takes a shaky breath.
In your dreams, Baz Pitch tells you he’s secretly in love with you.
I sigh.
I’ve taken to writing in the privacy of my room, because the last thing I want is for people to think that I’m struggling with my studies.
I don’t study with my studies.
I do however seem to be struggling with Simon Snow.
This is the seventh dream I’ve written.
None of them did anything.
The second one was simple. In your dreams, you and Baz Pitch have a nice conversation; he helps you with your Greek homework. (Simon told me that Baz definitely gave him all the wrong answers, so that he could make fun of him in class.)
The third one was even more simple. In your dreams, Baz Pitch compliments your eyes. (Come morning, Simon was persuaded that his was some sort of higher power telling him that Baz was planning on poking his eyes out.)
(I’m really not sure why Baz would want to do that.)
The fourth one was a kiss. In your dreams, Baz Pitch pins you against the wall, and kisses you. (According to Simon, he must have done it to get around the Anathema.)
The fifth one was another kiss. In your dreams, you pin Baz Pitch against the wall, and kiss him. (He used the same excuse; at least he seemed less sure this time.)
(At this point, I’ve learnt that the spell does interpret vague statements, and I’m endlessly grateful for that.)
So I wrote another kissing scene for the sixth dream. In your dreams, Baz Pitch grabs your arm, yanks you back. You’re pressed chest to chest; both of you are quiet. You lean up and kiss him. And he kisses you back. And you keep kissing. (Simon spent the full hour of breakfast sputtering about how this has to be one of Baz’s evil plots.)
I don’t have a single doubt left in my mind that Simon does feel something towards Baz. Something being definitely not hate.
His rants about Baz involved the words 'strong’ and ‘graceful’ and fucking 'perfect' more frequently than the word ‘plot’. His sputtering about the kiss was more focused on the kiss than it was on Baz’s alleged plotting.
(His side-tracking made me want to smile.)
(But also made me want to throttle him.)
(Simon Snow, in love with his archnemesis. His archnemesis, in love with Simon Snow.) (Merlin, sounds like a bad teen romance novel.)
But other than that, none of the dreams did anything.
That is, none of them did anything, except made me annoyed and frustrated and exasperated.
Because Baz Pitch might be a total dumbass, but Simon Snow is an even bigger idiot.
And because I’m running out of ideas.
I sigh again, casting my spell.
···
The only good thing about my best friend being this incredibly oblivious to his own feelings is that I no longer have to prompt him about his nights in the morning. He’s taken to throwing himself down next to me at breakfast, and launching directly into his tirades about his ‘Baz-dreams’. (His words.)
“I hate him.”
I don’t even bother with a greeting. “What did he do this time?”
“He fought me again because I laughed.”
I shouldn’t even be surprised anymore. (I am.) “Again?”
He snorts. “Yes. But Pen, listen.” His whole face lights up. “He said— he said—” he’s full-on laughing now. (He’ll be grabbing his stomach complaining about stitches soon.) “Penny, Penny, oh God, I can’t.”
(Simon typically only swears like a Normal when he’s incredibly angry, so this is a weird development.)
He dissolves into a fit of giggles, and I’m left perplexed as to what in Crowley he finds so funny in a dreamed love confession.
“He said, Penny, listen to this, he said he was in love with me!”
That clarified absolutely nothing.
“And?”
“And what?”
Deciphering his words is a struggle.
I widen my eyes at him, waving my hand for him to continue, hoping I don’t have to clarify. He just stares at me. I sigh. “And this is funny because?”
“Can you imagine?” Simon sobers up so quickly, I’m suddenly left staring at a serious— sad?—face. He lowers his eyes back to his plate. “Baz Pitch being in love with me?”
My heart breaks for him, even though I still don’t think he realises what’s going on.
I gently bump my shoulder against his.
···
“Penny?”
I look up from my book, tilting my head to the side in acknowledgement.
He looks jittery. Not post-adrenaline rush jittery. Worried jittery.
“I…” he pauses. “Never mind.”
I close my book, turning towards Simon fully. He’s focused on his plate, but he’s not touching his lunch. He barely touched his breakfast this morning, and his jitteriness is putting me on edge too.
Yesterday was good. Simon came downstairs to breakfast, flustered, muttering I hate him over and over again, under his breath.
In your dreams, Baz Pitch grabs your hand, intertwines your fingers. “Simon,” he says gently, “I don’t hate you.”
“Penny, I hate him.”
I hummed.
“And he hates me.”
I watched him as he chewed his lips. I’m infinitely glad I didn’t miss him mutter, under his breath, “do I hate him?”
I’m also infinitely glad I saw his smile when he added, “he called me Simon.”
Yesterday was good.
Until I had to figure out what his next dream should be.
I was out of inspiration, desperate. I could have written sex. But there is nothing in the Magickal World that would make me write porn about my best friend, so I scribbled the first alternative that came to my mind.
In your dreams, Baz Pitch smiles at you.
I was almost as embarrassed by this sentence as I had been when writing the first dream.
I wasn’t expecting it to have any effect on Simon whatsoever.
Though, he didn’t say anything at breakfast, so I’m still not sure if it is the reason behind his fidgeting. Somehow, I doubt that if watching himself snogging his nemesis in a dream didn’t act as his gay sexual awakening, seeing said nemesis smile won’t either.
For all I know, he and Baz could have gotten into another one of their childish fights.
For all I know, Baz could have gone and ruined all my hard work.
(I wouldn’t be surprised, git that he is.)
(I’ll need to punch him, if he did.)
I grab Simon’s hand across the table to stop him from tearing at his cuticles.
“Simon.”
He’s still fiddling with his fork with his other hand, but he meets my eyes.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m fine, Penny.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s fine, Penny.”
I tug on his arm slightly. “Baz?”
His eyes snap back up instantly, and he grows even more restless. “Where?”
“Nowhere.” I really want to punch Baz in the face. I want to scream at him for being a total prat, picking useless fights with Simon and for undoing all of my hard work every single time he sneers or smirks or scorns at him in class; for pushing Simon away. (He’s not doing me any favours.) (He’s not doing himself any favours.) “I mean, are you worried because of something he did again?”
“I…” I give him time to properly collect his thoughts, my mind occupied with how I’ll have to spell a bruise away from my knuckles.manage to fix the git’s mess for him. (Morgana, if this works out, I’m going to remind him of how much he owes me every single moment. He’ll be over at Simon and my place all the time anyway, “Penny, have you ever seen him smile?”
My mouth falls open comically.
I might be gaping.
Baz Pitch seems to have been spared a black eye.
“No,” I answer simply. I also might be screaming internally. I, Penelope Bunce, am nothing short of a genius and I will never doubt myself again.
He’s averted his eyes again, just attacking his cuticles on his other hand, not saying anything.
I squeeze his hand gently. I’m not good at being patient, but I can see that that’s what he needs me to be. (I’ll be patient.)
“Penny?” His voice is uncharacteristically small, and I have a feeling that he’s desperately trying to muddle his way out of the mess in his head.
I know he doesn’t think. It doesn’t surprise me; I don’t know how he does it, but it doesn’t surprise me. He’s always been better at just acting. He says he doesn’t need to think. That he has nothing to think about. (It breaks my heart.) I know that in these cases, when all his thoughts catch up with him, he just needs me to be there. He doesn’t need to tell me that he’s overwhelmed. He just needs to sort out what he’s feeling.
“Yes?”
“He— I— Penny, I’ve lived with him for 7 years and I’ve never seen him smile in real life? Is he really that sad all the time?”
Oh, Simon.
I squeeze his hand again, letting myself smile at him.
“Penny?”
“Yes?”
“You know, when he smiles, he’s really—” A blush is creeping steadily up his cheek, and I know that this once, he’s not pausing because he’s struggling for words. As if finally sensing my eyes on him, he looks at me, lips tugging into a small, sad smile. “—lovely.”
My smile only grows.
···
Room.
I meant room.
My eyes threaten to pop out of my head when I read the words I just spelled.
“Merlin, Morgana and Methuselah, shit.”
I stare down at the paper in my hands, groaning.
This is why I people should learn the purpose of libraries.
Pixies seem to be either forgetful (unlikely, Trixie still glares at me) or just incredibly inconsiderate (much more likely), because when I walked into my room, I found Trixie and Keris attached at the mouth again, both reduced to only skirts and bras. (I suppose I should be grateful that they weren’t starkers. And for the two weeks I didn’t have to bear witness to their indecency.)
“Nope.” I turned on my heel, running out of Cloisters, briefly debating if I can erase my memory of the last minute without giving myself amnesia. (Memory spells are dodgy at best and illegal at worse, so I decided washing my eyes out with soap later would suffice.)
I didn’t feel like going to Agatha’s room, and Simon’s was out of the question too; it’s not like I could work on his dream with him looking over my shoulder.
So I ended up in the library again, sitting at a table behind Dev and Niall, trying to tune out their far too loud conversation.
(I don’t know why people come to the library to socialise. It shouldn’t be too hard to understand that libraries are meant for the opposite of socialising.)
(People should learn the purpose of libraries.)
My mind kept going back to their far too loud conversation. (I didn’t know blokes discussed what they should wear to dates like girls in films always do. I suppose that’s sexist of me. Maybe I just didn’t peg Basil’s minions as blokes who discuss what they should wear to dates.)
There was only one thing I wanted more than to shout at them to zip it in that moment, and that was to finish the dream without drawing their attention to me.
I was going to make Simon dream about Baz’s smile again, but I was also going to make it slightly more—suggestive?
I was going to make Simon’s Dream Baz smile lazily up at him from his bed, where he was supposed to be sprawled out. Suggestively.
Seductively.
(I was hoping the dream would understand what I meant with seductively.)
(I meant naked.)
(I was also hoping that this dream would finally be enough.)
With my mind still caught up in the boys’ discussion—does it really matter that much, what you wear to a date?—I wrote out the dream, and muttered the spell under my breath.
I look down at it again, now.
In your dreams, you see Baz Pitch in your jeans. He smiles lazily up at you from his bed, which he is sprawled across.
I meant room.
Not jeans.
Why in Morgana would I want Baz to be wearing Simon’s jeans? (I don’t even know if Simon owns jeans.)
(He was supposed to be naked.)
Shit.
I suppose I’ll just have to throw my favourite lesbians out of my room again tomorrow, so that I can write without having to listen to people talking about jeans.
(I should have gone to Agatha’s room.)
···
My book is open in front of me, resting on the table, but I’m looking more at the dining room’s doors than I am at the page.
Simon is late.
To breakfast.
(Simon Snow does not simply miss breakfast.)
If I didn’t think there was a large chance of me walking in on an actually naked Baz, I’d go looking for him.
Actually, if I didn’t think that, somehow, thanks to a dream about blasted jeans, there was a large chance of me walking in on an actually naked Baz with an actually naked Simon, I’d go looking for him.
(Sweet Morgana, I won’t be able to march into Simon’s room anymore without being scared for my life.)
I don’t want to have to wash my eyes out again, though (it stings), so I stay put, stealing one of the scones I got for Simon and magicking it warm.
I wave at Agatha when she comes in, and she returns a small smile, sitting down gracefully across from me. “‘Morning.”
With her tea poured, she leans over and plucks my novel from under my fingers, turning it over to read the blurb.
It’s a generic romance novel, with a stupid 7-year-old writing style that makes me groan, but Agatha seems to like the concept, because she marks my place before flipping back to the beginning.
I keep staring at the door.
···
Simon Snow walks into the dining room exactly 11 minutes before the end of breakfast, with wayward curls, an untucked shirt, a loosened tie, and red lips.
Baz Pitch walks into the dining exactly 3 minutes after Simon Snow (idiot), with his hair falling around his face in a lazy wave, an otherwise crisply ironed shirt rumpled at the collar, and a frankly surprising blush blossoming across his sharp features.
Simon Snow and Baz Pitch both walk into the dining room, looking absolutely blissed out.
Even though they’re sitting at their respective tables, across the dining room, their attention is focused solely on each other.
And I smile again.
Because Baz Pitch is looking at Simon Snow with that look.
And Simon Snow is returning it.