Archive of Our Own ^beta

BAZ

There he goes again—far surpassing all expectations, like the sterling little mageling he is. Simon Snow and his need to consistently be the showiest, most insufferable idiot in the room... well, congratulations, Most Oblivious One. You've outdone yourself. Even by your standards, this is fucking ridiculous.

We were arguing about the Mage. (Surprise, surprise.) I know better than to engage him in such topics, but it was irresistible, needling him until he exploded. If I'd known the spell he was about to fling in my face, I would perhaps have approached things differently. (Or so I tell myself.)

"Your ignorance in all matters is, as ever, truly astounding."

"Baz, would it kill you to listen to me for a change? Or listen to anyone?"

"Yes, Snow, I believe it would kill me. Or at the very least, result in grave injury."

"Don't you ever shut up? You always have to one-up me. Why do you always need to have the last word?"

His words echo in my head. It was a worthless argument, and now...

Now we endure the consequences.

Bunce is sitting on my bed, thoroughly wrinkling the sheets with her self-righteousness. At present she is doubled over with laughter, thrilled to see us trapped in a furious silence, acting out our anger for want of a better way to express it. I try to make it clear, via a series of obscene gestures, that she can sod off back to her own room. She pretends not to understand.

"If you could see how silly you look!" she cackles, smearing chalk everywhere. (Chalk. On my sheets.) "Merlin and Morgana, silence is golden."

I snatch at the blanket and pull it from under her. She goes sliding off the end, one of her socks slipping down a dimpled knee, and wriggles into Simon's bed instead.

Go as far away from me as is humanly possible, I think, grabbing at the chalk on the floor. I scrawl across the board, maintaining eye contact so she'll get the message. If you are not going to help, bugger off!!! I underline each exclamation point for extra emphasis.

She laughs louder, burrowing further into Snow's ratty nest of blankets.

"I've told you what to do, Basil. Find the last words. One of you will be able to say them and the spell will be broken... then you can resume your extremely useful shouting match." She further ensconces herself in the bed, showing no intention of moving. I imagine myself marching over there and dragging her out by one ankle. (Then I imagine myself crawling into Snow's bed in her place, and abruptly cut off all thought.) "I'm going to have a lie down while you work out the spell. You're both exhausting." Her eyes close, a smug smile still plastered on her lips.

Snow and I face each other. He's a stereotype of Chosen One rage, standing by the window with fists curled at his sides and colour high in his cheeks. I watch his chest rise and fall rapidly—I can only assume he's heaving from the immense effort it takes not to cause a scene.

It's always been like this, us squaring off against one another. We will never stand side by side.

I was a sentimental fool to think the truce might hold. It was only a matter of time before we went at it so hard it set Snow off, and he did something monumentally stupid. And now here we are, arguing in silence, unable to speak because of his damnable magic. Will this have an effect on the gentleman's oath we took? Is my voice lost for weeks?

Find the last word, Bunce says. The first and last word on my mind is always him—Simon Snow.

I try to speak his name aloud but only air escapes my lips.

SIMON

"Why do you always need to have the last word?"

That's what I said to him. Well, shouted, really. And I was kind of in his face and wagging my finger, just to drive the point home.

I didn't mean for it to be magic, but we'd been arguing for a solid ten minutes, and I could feel myself about to go off. The magic spilled up and over, and there was no chance to take it back...

I had no idea it was a spell. Penelope knew straight away what had happened—she said her brother cast it once. To end the spell you have to find "the last word"... as in, the point or sentence or confession that would end the argument you were having. Penny says it'll probably be something one of us is keeping from the other. Something there would be no reply to. (Fat chance of that—Baz has an answer to everything.) I cast the spell, so Penny reckons the last word is mine. Until we find it, neither of us can speak. We can gasp at each other but nothing comes out. It'd be funny if it weren't so disturbing.

I've thought about it carefully, but I've got nothing else to say to Baz. It's actually quite nice that neither of us can shout for a change. (Shame I still have to look at him, though.)

It was going so well. Him and me and Penny... we were getting somewhere. Making notes, finding things in books, taking a step forward.

But then he ruined it. He always has to ruin it.

He's at the chalkboard now, writing something in jagged capitals. His handwriting's gone to shit, which is how I know he's extremely pissed off with me.

FIND THE WORDS. OR ELSE.

I stick two fingers up at him and sit cross-legged on the end of my bed. Penny mumbles something and pushes her head under a pillow.

I wish we had something to eat... I can think more clearly when I'm not starving. There were bacon rolls, but we ate all those before we started arguing, and there's no way we're going downstairs like this. (I'm not sure we could, even if we wanted to. Every time I try to take five steps toward the door, it's like the magic pulls me back.) I know Baz keeps a stash of crisps under his bed, but he'd go ballistic if I went looking for them.

Well... how ballistic can he go? We can't argue. We can't fight because of the Anathema. So, really, it's a green light on the crisps plan. (What's he going to do? Mime at me to death?)

BAZ

Snow and I are locked in an epic battle on the floor, wrestling over a packet of crisps.

Is this what my life has come to? My final year at Watford, spent with with my roommate's thumb thrust in my eye and his fingernails digging into my shoulder? It's hardly how I imagined it might be, having Simon Snow all over me for the first time. He howls at me silently: Anathema, Anathema, Anathema!

I unlock my hands from his neck and crawl away. I'm on my knees, gathering my breath—he's on his stomach with one arm under my bed, grasping the crisps in victory.

It's my last packet of salt and vinegar; I'm distraught but refuse to show it. (He's taken my words but he can't take my pride.) I shrug at him, signalling surrender—in a twist of poetic justice, he sits up and bangs his head on the bed frame. I shake in a silent mockery of laughter. He looks me dead in the eye, all tawny skin and noble purpose (how sickening), and tears open the bag. He makes more of a production of it than necessary, and thus the crisps go everywhere.

In the air, on the bed, in Bunce's hair, under the chalkboard—the room reeks of stale Walkers and disappointment. He sticks out his chin in that (awful, temping, beautiful) way he does, then maintains eye contact as he tips the remains of the bag down his throat.

I watch him swallow. I'll be seeing this in my dreams tonight, in between the usual bursts of blood, teeth and darkness.

I'd tear the last word from him, if I could. The ache, the red, the feeling. I'd drink him down until there was nothing left to antagonise.

My crisps are gone. Crumbs mar Snow's jumper and I'm left watching him, thinking of all the things I'll never say.

You're terrible. A bane. A burden.

You're beautiful. Painful. This truce means everything.

I try, but the words won't come. It's not quite the truth the spell requires. I fold my arms and glare at him, waiting.

You've always wanted to best me in an argument. Well, here's your chance.

SIMON

Baz made me lose half the crisps, and he's sneering at me like it's my fault. What an arse.

Does he really think the last word is mine? He never lets me have the last word. It's him—he needs to break the spell. No doubt the magic wants him to say something spiteful and arrogant that leaves me spluttering. He just needs to work out what that is. Maybe he needs a bit of inspiration? Between him and Penny and what I've no doubt is a double serving of deviousness, we've got half the bloody library in here. Maybe one of the books on magic words can give us a clue? At least point us in the right direction...

Penny's awake now. She's sitting up, brushing crisps out of her hair. She looks more annoyed then amused, but that's fair—there's nothing funny about this.

"Great snakes, haven't you figured it out yet?"

Baz goes over to the board and sends more wonky capitals her way.

WHAT WERE THE LAST WORDS BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR BROTHER?

She messes with her glasses. "We were having a disagreement about the Mage's Men. I don't even remember why. Mum and dad got involved, and then Premal threw the spell at me... we sat down and worked out the words together. We both had to say something like... I'm sorry I brought it up. That's what we were really thinking, behind all the bickering. Differences in opinion are all well and good, but neither of us wanted to be arguing. Not there and then, at least. I'm sure we rowed at length after we got our voices back."

It's my turn to frown. I steal Baz's chalk and write: So you both had the last word?

Penny shrugs. "Yes, but usually only one person has it, right? It's just that we were both feeling rotten for starting the argument. You cast the spell, Simon, so it's probably something you were holding back from Baz."

I growl. (Apparently I can still do that.) How am I supposed to apologise for something I haven't done? I'm not sorry about anything. Alright, so me and Baz were arguing about the Mage too, but it was his fault. (He started it. Kept going on about how much the Mage harasses the Old Families.) We're supposed to be working together to find out what happened to his mum and who this Nicodemus character might be, but it's hard to do anything with Baz. (Well, it's easy enough to argue with him, I suppose.)

I'm sorry you're such a prat.

I'm sorry the truce isn't working.

I'm sorry you think nobody's noticed you're a vampire.

I'm sorry you can't think outside of yourself for long enough to see my way of thinking.

I'm sorry you're convinced the Mage is out to get you, while failing to see how you've been trying to get me for years.

It must be hard, pushing everyone away like this.

None of these thoughts make it out of my mouth, which is probably for the best. I stare at him, willing him to figure it out. Willing him to shout at me again. It'd be better than the silence.

It'd be better than this.

Baz wipes some of Penny's notes off the board and starts a new list: THINGS WE KNOW ABOUT THE ARGUMENT. Underneath he writes: I was right. Snow was wrong. (His handwriting looks a bit steadier, now he has something to focus on besides my face.)

Under THINGS WE DON'T KNOW ABOUT THE ARGUMENT he writes: What we aren't telling each other. What we really mean to say. He taps his chalk against the board, considering. The sound of it should be annoying but it comforts me, like rain against the window. Penny calls us numpties and goes back to sleep, one arm hanging off my bed, and the sound of her breathing fills some of the quiet.

I like quiet. It's good. (It means nothing bad is happening.) But it also means I start thinking too much. (And then bad things happen.)

Baz stops tapping the chalk and glares at me. He sits down with his back against the board and rests his head on his knees. I look at him. His hair's come loose and trails down his neck... his sleeves are rolled up and I can see chalk dust on his wrists, his knees, his elbows. He doesn't normally let himself get like this in front of me—he always has to be so bloody perfect.

For some reason I'm thinking about Philippa Stainton. How what happened to her was meant for me. This is what he wanted, that day—my silence. To take away my voice and my magic.

And then I think about the other day, after the dragon. I pushed my magic into Baz, and... I didn't mind. I wanted him to have it.

You don't have to take it from me, Baz. Those words won't come out, either.

I look at him. I don't know what else to do.

He snaps the piece of chalk between his fingers.

BAZ

The afternoon is passing. We're going nowhere fast.

What we aren't telling each other.

I can hardly hold Snow solely accountable on that charge. How many unspoken truths have I amassed over the years, and refused to express? How many of those truths almost came bubbling to the surface as we tore into each other earlier, all for the sake of being right? It does us no good to talk about the Mage. It leads us down other avenues, none of them particularly welcoming.

We're broken, Snow and I. (If we were ever intact.)

I can fool myself with hopes of truces and oaths... that one day we'll be together on the same side of the void, instead of facing each other down. But I don't know if we'll ever get there.

What we really mean to say.

Where to begin? Do I tell him how I don't hate him, and that I'm not sure I ever did? Should I mention how unbearable it is to be this close to him, and yet I'd go mad if he ever went away?

I wish we had more time. It's our last year and the days wear thin.

I know you think this is what I want. What happened with the Stainton girl, my aunt...

The chimera, the stairs... all the times I'd fight you without knowing why. And then I did know why, and I stopped fighting.

This isn't what I want.

I'm not what I want to be.

I lift my head. He's on the end of his bed, picking at his socks.

When I saw only darkness, I thought of you.

Six weeks in a coffin and it was you in there with me. Torturing me. Helping me through.

Crowley, I'm pathetic. I'm weak. (For him.)

SIMON

Why weren't you here when your mum came back for you?

She kissed me on my head. Would you kill me if I did that to you?

How can you blame the Mage when you're the one who's always plotting?

If your family had their way, I wouldn't even be at Watford. We never would have met.

I want to help you.

I want to help you find out the truth about the vampires.

I want us not to fight.

How can we stop fighting, Baz?

Can you let me know?

Tell me something else, too. Where were you at the start of term?

I looked everywhere for you.

I couldn't find you. But I looked.

BAZ

I went long weeks without light. Congealed blood sucked through a plastic straw, and the embarrassment of it all... Crowley, there aren't words in my head to describe it. The constant ache in my leg, followed by the slow slide into not knowing whether I was awake or asleep... I know what would have happened, if he'd found me there. Snow would have accused me of plotting. He would never have accepted it for what it was—his roommate, abducted in broad daylight. Locked in a box and half-starved through negligence.

For the love of Merlin, if anyone finds out what happened to me, I'll never live it down. Snow would have a field day. I can picture it—the gleeful chat he'd have with the Mage, discussing the particulars of my numpty sojourn. Part of me wonders why I even came back. What's here for me, aside from more agony?

I don't want to hurt you. I never do.

You'll kill me one day and I'll let it happen.

We haven't been trying to kill each other lately. These days, we're even bad at being enemies.

How often did you think of me over the summer? I thought about you too much. It's the only thing that kept me alive. (Sort of.)

By the end, you were the only thing that made sense.

I'm trapped again. In this room, with him. In my mind, without light.

And neither of us know any sort of escape.

SIMON

How long have we been sitting here? Hours have gone by. Baz is staring at me again. You get used to it after a while—the sneers and the judgment. (He's not sneering right now, though.) He twists and stretches his arm up to write something on the board. I prepare myself for something offensive, but he only scribbles two words.

COME HERE.

Maybe he's not in the mood for offensive messages. I hesitate before I move, but Baz looks exhausted—whatever he wants, it's not another fight. He rolls his eyes and smacks the chalk against the board so hard it crumbles. (That's going to be a right pain to clean up.)

DESPERATE TIMES, SNOW.

I slide off the bed and shuffle over to him on my knees. He hasn't stood up, so I don't either. He still looks defeated, but his eyes are shiny and I can't tell if it's because he's sad or if he's found a reason to hope. Does he want me to write something in reply? Should I move closer or keep my distance? Should I -

Baz leans forward and grips both of my wrists. (His hands are cold.) (I don't hate it.) He's on his knees in front of me; his hair tickles my cheek. I hold my breath but then think better of it, blowing a puff of air against his face. He doesn't back off or smack at me or call me a prat. At first I'm convinced he's going to headbutt me, but then I see his lips moving rapidly.

Oh.

He's trying to break the spell. He's really trying.

Baz is going to find the last word.

I should be watching his mouth so I can work out what he's saying, but his lips are moving so quickly, only pausing when he licks at them. I'm watching his eyes more than anything else. He hardly blinks. He grips my wrists tighter and his mouth scrunches up at the corners, a vein sticking out on his forehead.

No, I mouth, shaking my head. It isn't working. Those aren't the right words.

I wonder what he's trying to tell me. (It'd be bloody typical for him to make his grand vampire confession now, wouldn't it? Right when I can't say I fucking knew it!)

Are you a vampire, Baz? (Yes, Snow, you got me. There's no hiding things from you.)

I don't see how that would have ended our argument about the Mage. But it definitely would have left me speechless.

Penelope shifts in the bed but doesn't wake up. She'd have a thing or two to say, if she saw us sitting here like this. It's like when we were together after the dragon, and I gave him my magic again. I try to push it into him now but there's nothing there—maybe we need to break this spell before I can cast another. (Or fail to.)

I shake my head to clear it.

His eyes are distracting. I should be watching his mouth.

BAZ

You make enough noise in the mornings to wake the dead.

I don't actually know if I'm dead. There's no expert on the subject for me to consult. I'm sure you'd say that I am. Dead, that is.

Also, I'm a monster. But you knew that already.

You have always seen through what I am.

You'll end me one day and our problems will be solved. Hero, Chosen One, Miracle Boy.

When I look at you I see fire and my lungs fill with smoke.

Simon Snow, you burn me.

When there was no light left I thought of you, and it was all that kept me alive.

If I could find the right words to end this, I would say them. To get back to how we were—working together, at last.

I know what you think of me. I know you believe that all we have between us is hatred...

But I don't believe that. I believe in you. I believe in what you are, Simon.

I never want to take your voice away. I never want to take your magic. You gave it to me freely, and we spelled back a dragon. Just think what else we could do, Simon. What we're capable of together, not apart.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Numb, empty thoughts he'll never know.

SIMON

Baz doesn't say anything. His mouth works but the words won't come. He stops trying and flops forward, head against my shoulder. He lets go of my wrists, but I take his arms to steady him. There's something about the way he's breathing, the way his shoulders are... wait, is Baz crying? (Can vampires cry?) I'm not sure. Maybe he's just cold. Either way, I'm glad Penny isn't awake to see this. I put one of my hands on the back of his neck. (Is this allowed?) He doesn't shake me off so I hold him here, under my hands. In my arms.

To Penny: Please don't wake up. Not yet. I think we're almost there.

To Baz: Please don't cry. Not because of this. Not because of me.

I don't know why, but I stroke his neck and twist a strand of his hair between my fingers. He moves against me, his face sliding up so he's looking over my shoulder. (Our ears are touching.)

I think about how I could turn my head and say anything I want into his ear. He wouldn't hear me. I could say anything right now, and Baz would never know. What would I say to him if I didn't have to worry about him putting my head through a window?

I'd say... I'd say you've been alright, really, since the truce started. We've had our moments where we've tolerated each other and it's been fairly successful.

I'd say, you're not entirely stupid. And by that I mean you're cleverer than me, and that's why you can't give up. You have to keep going.

I'd say... we're going to find out what happened to your mum, Baz, because she didn't deserve it. You didn't deserve it.

She came here looking for you. She gave me a kiss.

I promise to help you find the truth.

We don't need to fight about the Mage. It's better when we're not fighting at all. Don't you think it's better?

He's not moving. My hand's still touching his hair—I move it so my fingers are against his cheek, then under his chin. I lift his face so he's looking at me. (You see me. I see you.)

When you weren't here I went looking for you. On the football pitch, in the woods, beyond the Great Lawn, in the Catacombs... everywhere I could think of. I searched and searched but I couldn't find you. Then you came back and you wouldn't tell anyone what happened.

It's bad, when we get like this. But it was worse before. It was so much worse when you weren't here.

His eyes are dark. I touch his cheeks with my thumbs. I touch his temple, where his mum kissed me. We're clinging onto each other and I think if either of us tried to move, we'd both go toppling over. I pull my sleeve up over my hand and tuck his hair behind his ear. He lets me do all of this and doesn't sneer or push me off. He just lets me.

And then I feel it rushing up from somewhere deep, somewhere I don't know. At first I think it's my magic—it's going to be like it was with the dragon, when I poured it into him.

But then I realise it's words, and the words are magic.

The last word, I think. I lean forward until our foreheads are touching.

When you weren't here, I thought I was going to lose my mind. I looked for you—everywhere I could think of, and everywhere I knew you'd never go. I didn't stop looking until you burst through the doors. And I don't want to fight with you about this—I don't want to argue about the Mage and your mother and all the things that happened before we ever met. You refuse to tell me where you were at the start of term, and that's okay, I just... want to be here with you. I want to know that you're safe. So we can move forward from here together, not against each other. And...

I take a breath, because it's here. I've found it. (At last.)

Finally, a way to shut Baz up.

"...I missed you, Baz. I missed you."

It's strange, hearing my own voice after so many hours. My throat feels dry and creaky.

Part of me thinks I should surge forward and push him over. Pin him down and shout until I'm all that's in his head. (While we're down there I could... what?) But then I remember he can talk now, too, and I'll never hear the end of it. He'd use words like conniving snake and over Merlin's dead body and the unbelievable audacity. Arguing with Baz is like playing Scrabble with a pissed-off thesaurus.

Before I can do anything—kill him, curse him, knock him over—Penny groans and sits up in bed.

"Simon, was that you shouting at the top of your voice?"

"Um, yeah? I mean, yes. We got it. I said it. The last word. You were right, Pen—it was mine."

She rolls off the bed and picks more crisps out of her hair. "You got the last word? Baz had nothing to say back?"

Baz is trying to scrape together some kind of composure. He rocks back on his heels, pushing his hair out of his face and banging his head on the chalkboard. He grimaces and stands up, not looking at me or Penny or anything. He staggers to the bathroom, trailing chalk dust behind him.

"Basil, have you got your voice back?"

"Baz, wait!"

He doesn't.

Penny tuts and straightens her socks.

"Don't go picking another fight with him when you've finally fixed this mess, Simon. That's a whole afternoon wasted because neither of you can shut up about the Mage."

I should probably get up off the floor at some point. "I'm not picking a fight with him. And that's not what we were arguing about. Not really."

She starts gathering her things and tries to make my bed, then gives up. (There's no point. It'll only end up a mess again when the nightmares hit.)

"What did you say to break the spell?" she asks, tugging my sleeve. She lets go when she realises how sweaty I am. "Ugh, Simon. What was the last word?"

I think. I'm getting good at thinking about all the things I don't say.

"You." (It isn't a lie.) (I missed you.)

"Me?"

"No—you. I mean, him."

She crosses her arms. "Him? You said him, and the spell lifted?"

It's so hard to get anything past Penny. She's like a brick wall. "Well... no. I had to say sorry? Like you and Premal. Same thing. Exactly the same."

She lowers her glasses and fixes me with a look that tells me one day, if she so chooses, Penelope Bunce could become a fearsome librarian. I look at the crushed chalk instead, smudged into blurry footprints by Baz. Hopefully she'll give up on me.

"Simon."

I too am the wall. The most stubborn wall.

"Simon Snow, tell me the truth."

I get chalk on my sock, trying to wipe out Baz's footprint. "Can we do this tomorrow, Pen? I'm tired. You'd think it was a right anticlimax."

She could argue. She definitely wants to. Then she sighs and brushes the last bit of crisp off her sleeve. (Does this mean I've won two arguments today?) (That has to be a record.)

"I'm glad you found it. Whatever it was. You'd never have survived the night without speaking—can you imagine?" She leans in close and fixes me with another scary look. "Don't think for one moment I'm letting this go. See you at breakfast."

I look at the closed bathroom door. There's nothing I can say that won't make this worse. (That won't make it harder.)

But maybe there's something I can do. Something I can give to Baz.

Something that's his.

BAZ

Bunce leaves after a minute or two of mumbled conversation with Snow. I hear the rustle of sheets, then the sound of our door as it closes.

I take one, two, three shuddering breaths, with my head over the sink and my heart in my throat. I'm surprised Snow hasn't broken out into song—I imagine he's thrilled beyond his own feeble grasp of melody, to have his voice back at last. Tomorrow we can return to normal—tormenting each other until he goes off and another haphazard spell comes tumbling out of his mouth.

There's a soft knock on the bathroom door, followed by a name. (My name.)

"Baz?"

I don't answer, and it's not because of the magic. (That's gone now. I felt the spell let go, and it was as though a tourniquet was ripped from around my chest.) I don't think there's anything I can say, after what's happened. He was... there. (So close.) I could feel his warmth, his breath, his hands... and then, the truth.

I needed a moment alone to process Snow's words. If it's even something that can be processed, and not simply revisited and marvelled at for the remainder of my earthly existence.

I missed you, Baz.

I missed you.

He's still knocking on the door, carving out a clumsy rhythm. When I'm free of Watford, this will be one of the sounds that never leaves me completely—Simon Snow and his infernal knocking. Whether it takes the form of his fist against a door, his feet stomping about in the morning, or whatever idle piece of furniture he's slamming into... always, always with the knocking. He blunders through the door and corners me by the sink.

"What?" I snap. My throat's sore. "Haven't said enough already?"

I can't bear the silence as it stretches out between us. There's been far too much of that today, and yet here I am, the architect of more.

A highly visible, onerous process takes place as Snow attempts to form a coherent sentence.

"Baz, look, just—I, I want... there's something I need to do."

"You've already had the last word," I sneer. "Crowley, what more do you want from me? Hearty congratulations for finally winning an argument?"

"No, I—I meant what I said, alright? And... look, I'll show you."

He closes the gap between us.

I realise it's not a word he has in mind, but even so. It says so much.

SIMON

I don't know if this is a good idea. But I want to try.

Baz is slouched against the sink, which makes things a bit easier for me. I put my hands on his cheeks and stand on my toes, getting a sick sense of satisfaction when I'm finally at eye level with him. Then I keep going, stretching so I can kiss him on the temple. I have to move his hair out of the way, and his skin's sticky under my hands (maybe he can cry), but he's soft right where I kiss him. He's cool and my lips are hot, wet from where I've chewed them. I step back and await my verbal clobbering.

It doesn't come.

Baz frowns and turns to face the sink. He leans over it, his back arching then settling. I listen to him breathe; I hear the way his wrist cracks as he rolls it. I notice these little things now, after spending the afternoon in silence. It's like background noise is suddenly so much more important.

"Baz..."

He's still trying to compose himself. I give him a moment.

"What was that in aid of, Snow?" he asks. (He doesn't sneer.)

"It's from your mum, remember? I told you about when she visited, and... she kissed me. There, on my head." I swallow. "She wanted me to give it to you. It was yours."

I know Baz misses his mum. It's not the same kind of missing, what I felt when he was gone... but maybe he needs to know all of it.

I'll have the last word and you can have this.

He's staring at me. Is he going to argue? No. Not now, not tonight. We're done. Baz looks down at his hands and runs his thumbs over his fingertips, then shoulders past me.

"Well, I..." He curls his fingers around the door frame. "Snow. Thank you."

You, I think. You.

The last word for both of us.

He's closing himself off now—out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom, off down the tower stairs. (Off to the Catacombs.) And I could say more. I could follow him and start another fight. I mean, I now know exactly what I've got to say to Baz, and how much I've been holding back—all the words that are waiting, if I ever need them. But if I start now it'll ruin things, and I don't want that. We can end the night on a good note and save the rest for later.

It's better that he knows how I felt when he was gone. Even if he didn't feel the same. Even if he doesn't care.

It's better if the last word is you. And the kiss... it's better if the kiss is a full stop. The end of the argument.

I don't know, though.

I can't be sure, but...

The kiss?

Well.

I think it felt more like a question mark.