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BAZ
It's amazing how some places will always feel like home.
It’s a little dusty, a little cramped, but it still smells the same. Our room still feels the same, but the walls and wardrobes are empty as I've only ever seen them twice- the day I moved in, and the day I left. Professor Bunce had retired the room after I graduated, and it’s been sitting empty and forgotten since.
I'm at the window, for once having been the one to open it. The sun is starting to go down and I feel- relief. I'd told myself that I wasn't allowed to leave until the dinner had been over and the dancing had started. Then I could slip away and drive back to my empty house like I'd been planning to do since the moment I walked through the gates.
It was a mistake to come.
The evening could have been worse, but I don't need to hang around Watford to see Dev and Niall. It had been nothing but nostalgia that had prompted me to come up here to watch the sunset. I can't believe I gave in to it. It's not even like I want to see him.
Like he's determined to catch my lie, the door opens- but I don't bother turning around.
There's no one else in this school who could get in anyway.
SIMON
I hate these types of things. I shouldn't have come.
I want to say I don't know why it was so easy to convince me to come- but that would be like saying I didn't know why I'd gone out and gotten a new haircut, or picked up a new suit.
I'm a fucking liar.
I should have stayed home in front of the telly, eating crisps and feeling sorry for myself. The only difference is that by being here, the pity comes from everyone else instead. Even after all this time.
I'm standing by the refreshments table, listening to Rhys tell Gareth and me about his business. I can feel the itch of my shirt collar, and my belt is too tight. Rhys is still talking, but I excuse myself, grabbing a bottle of wine and heading to the only place I can guarantee some privacy.
It's almost enough to make me panic, but I chew at a hangnail and the door accepts the blood offering like it had been a day since I'd last been here, rather than almost two decades.
As soon as I'm inside, I shut the door behind me and breathe out a sigh of relief, letting myself sink against the wood and closing my eyes.
It smells mostly the same in here, like cedar and bergamot- although it's dustier than I can ever remember it being.
It shouldn't smell like anything after so long- maybe coming up here was a mistake.
No, the real mistake was coming back to Watford at all.
I open my eyes and freeze.
I figured he'd be here of course. Not in the room necessarily, but here, at Watford.
He'd had to have heard me come in, of course, but he's leaning on the windowsill, pointedly not turning around.
I should go.
BAZ
"Uhm, ah-"
Figures Snow still mumbles and stutters like the moron he is. I wish he'd just leave so I can appreciate the last of the sunset. In peace.
If I close my eyes, this entire scenario is almost like being eighteen again.
I hear a rattling sound, and the sounds of Snow getting increasingly worked up. It is exactly like being back in school again.
I give in and turn around.
He's throwing his entire weight against the door. He's always been an idiot.
"It won't- it won't let me out!" he sounds panicked.
I sigh and force myself to head towards him. I ignore the way he flinches away from me when I get too close.
As it happens, he's right. The bloody door won't open. I back up, and take my shoulder to it, and all I get for my trouble is a quick shot of sensation down my arm and to my left hand.
Aleister fucking Crowley.
I try again, just confirm, and discover it's not my imagination- my hand has actually frozen over this time.
"What's wrong?" Snow edges towards me, both of us staring at my hand.
I open my mouth to tell him to get away from me- and nothing comes out.
It can't be- this shouldn’t be possible.
The anathema took my fucking voice.
I grip my throat with my good hand, and lean over- but nothing comes out.
It looks like it takes Snow a minute to catch up, and he stares, frowning, before he steps back. "Oh, oh fuck."
I used to love it when he swore like a Normal. Now it just makes me sad.
I let him try to open the door in earnest for several more minutes while I go to the ensuite to try and thaw out my hand. The hot water doesn’t work, and eventually I'm forced to concede defeat. I head back into the room and sit on my old bed as Snow continues to struggle.
SIMON
This can't be happening.
I'm stuck at the top of the tower, in my old room, with a vampire.
With my ex.
Fuck.
I head over to the window
"Help!" I yell, "we're stuck at the top of Mummer's tower!"
I don't need to look over my shoulder to know that Baz is rolling his eyes behind my back.
"Help!" I try again anyway, and there’s a faint sound behind me that might be his attempt at sighing.
He’s right of course. We can hear the music from the patio coming in through the window. We’re already so high up. No one will be able to hear me over the wind, let alone the music.
Once I'm forced to accept that no one is going to be climbing the stairs to help, I turn around to face him properly.
I haven't seen Baz Pitch in almost twenty years.
He looks- different. Older. He's still got the same general build, and it still looks like he spends way too much time in front of the mirror, but his hair is streaked through with grey at the temples.
It's not a bad look on him, actually.
(Of course Baz would make getting older look good. He’s probably spent the evening preening, looking gleefully at the rest of the class with our soft stomachs and laugh lines. It’s probably why he even bothered coming tonight, to remind us all that he’s still better than us, even now, like life isn’t done handing him aces even as the rest of us are too far behind to ever catch up to him now.)
It should make me angry, knowing that. But instead- instead I don’t fell that at all.
Not even close.
BAZ
Seeing Snow properly for the first time in almost two decades- well it fucks me up, to be honest.
He's softer around the edges than he used to be, heavier in a way that he doesn't seem ready to accept if the size-too-small suit is any indication. His hairline is just starting to recede, but his curls are as thick and shiny as ever.
It's irritating to realize he's still inflammably handsome.
"Where's your wand?" he asks, and I slip it out of my sleeve and use my right hand to wave it a little clumsily. Not that it'll do us any help without my voice. I wait until he seems to realize this. "Where's your mobile then?" He frowns, like I've been keeping it from him on purpose.
I give him a look and shake my head slowly. I left it in the car. I hadn't expected to stay very long.
"Fuck. Mine's dead," he says, fishing it out of his jacket pocket and waving it in my face like he's trying to prove he's not lying. I know he's not lying, Snow is a terrible liar. He always shows his feelings right across his face.
He scowls at me, which I suppose means he's at least as displeased with our current situation as I am.
SIMON
I throw myself down on my bed because I can't think of anything else I could be doing. What exactly do you do when you and your ex end up locked in your old dorm room together? What do you say?
Baz is still staring down at his hand. You'd think nothing else on Earth was half as interesting as his hand by the way he's looking at it.
I kind of wish he'd look at me instead.
But that thought hurts, so I push it away and stare at the ceiling instead.
BAZ
He's wearing a wedding ring.
I had assumed he might. It's an ugly thing, a wide titanium band with a brushed finish. He's got stubby fingers, a thinner band would make them look longer. And yellow gold, obviously, I indulge in the thought, idly letting my eyes reacquaint themselves with his tawny skin. Surely he deserves something that would actually suit him.
Whoever they are, they’ve got poor taste.
With one notable exception , I let myself think as Snow pushes the palms of his hands into his eyes and sighs.
(She. I’d be willing to bet my entire fortune on it. Snow hadn’t ever fully come around to the idea of dating a man while we were together. I doubt he’d have bothered to put himself through that particular identity crisis again, afterwards.)
I still can't believe we're here. And that I can't say anything to him.
Not that I know what I’d say to him if I had the chance.
The last time I saw Simon Snow was at Heathrow, right after coming back from America. After he'd broken up with me on the beach and then sat at the end of the row on the flight home, our friends stuck between us.
I remember looking over my shoulder as I left the arrivals gate. I remember thinking that no matter how long I lived, I'd remember the last time I saw him for the rest of my miserable life. I'd have given anything in that moment not to know that it was the last time.
I'd still give anything to forget.
(It was a moment of weakness that brought me here. The thought that maybe, after all this time, he’d see me standing near the refreshments table and- want me? Regret sending me away? I don’t even know what I was hoping for. I had no expectations, nineteen years worth of questions without answers. I don’t know why I thought tonight could change that.)
The light in the room changes as we lie there in silence, darkness creeping in. I'm waiting for his breaths to even out, so I can indulge myself one last time. One last night to listen to him breathe and watch him fidget in his sleep.
It's an opportunity I never thought I'd have again.
I want it so much it makes me ache. The fervour of my desire surprises me, but it oughtn’t. I’ve never been able to control myself when it comes to Simon Snow, regardless of how he feels about me.
I doubt that will ever change.
-----
When I wake up, the room is completely dark. I curse silently at having been so weak as to let myself fall asleep.
I still don't handle the dark well. Not after the numpties. I'm tempted to get up and turn on the light, but I don’t think I could handle that either. I glance over at Snow, expecting him to be asleep but he's just lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, open bottle of wine on the floor beside the bed.
He must have been like that for hours now.
At least that decides it. I can't get up and turn the light on now, that would be as good as admitting that I'm still afraid of the dark. I'm a legitimate adult now, I have life insurance and pay property taxes. It's not a good look to have the same fears as the average five-year-old.
I sigh.
"D'you want the lights on?"
Fuck him, I didn't think he'd remember.
I shake my head. The dark makes me uncomfortable, but it would probably be worse if I had to stay up here and watch the lamplight reflecting off Snow's hair instead.
This whole night feels achingly familiar, like just another one of the endless moments we’ve shared in this room, suspended in time. As though we're back in school, lying in our beds before we fall asleep, while I try and suppress the desire to smooth his hair back from his forehead and kiss the mole above his eyebrow.
It's still there, my favourite one.
I wish I knew how many times I kissed it while we were together. All I know is that it wasn't enough, but realistically nothing would ever be enough, no matter how many times I had done it before.
I wish I knew how many times she's kissed it, whether she's done it more than I ever did.
If I was a better man, I'd hope so.
SIMON
I don't know why he won't admit to wanting the light on.
Or I actually might, but it's still stupid. Even when we were dating, he'd never really admitted to being afraid of the dark. The way he'd cling to me as soon as it was time to get ready for bed was a giveaway though, even for me. I hadn't minded sleeping with a light on when he stayed over. It wasn't like he stayed over often, anyway.
At least I didn't have to get used to sleeping alone again, since that was normal for me.
I don't let myself think about it, because it makes me angry sometimes. (And it always makes me sad.) All that time we were in the same room together, in this room together, not letting ourselves have what we wanted. What we needed. All those times we didn't say what we meant because we were afraid.
(I was afraid. Baz has never been afraid of the things that matter. He's always been the one to reach out to me, even when I couldn't meet him in the middle. Thinking that always makes me feel worse, because it means that if what he felt was important, Baz would have said it. I would have known. Which means it was only ever me.)
It doesn’t matter. I never deserved him. I still don't. The only difference is that now he knows it too.
Nineteen fucking years.
I have no idea why I still feel this way.
I shouldn't still feel this way.
BAZ
It's dark enough that I know he can't see my face well, so I lie on my side to look at him properly. He's got that look on his face that lets me know he's thinking of something unpleasant.
I let myself believe that he's thinking of me.
I hope he is. Even though I know that expression means it's not anything good, it's like I'm fifteen again- I don't care what he's thinking, just that it's about me.
(I wonder what that says about me.)
I let time pass us slowly as I memorize the lines of his face, and watch his throat as he swallows the wine. I want to reach over and knock it out of his hand, I'm fast enough, he couldn't stop me, but I can't bring myself to bridge the gap between us.
He might have gotten rid of me, but it seems like he hasn't been successful in getting rid of all his youthful bad habits.
SIMON
I know Baz is looking at me. I don't need to see it to know. Some things never change.
(I wish they didn't, anyway. I wish I could let myself believe they haven't, but I know they have. That Baz is watching me, lying here in the dark, drinking the most piss-awful bottle of wine that's ever been corked, because he's curious. Because he's judging, mentally weighing what's in front of his eyes and comparing it to his life now. And that when we get out of here, he'll go home and breathe a sigh of relief as he locks the door behind him, knowing that he dodged a bullet.)
I shouldn’t care what he thinks. It shouldn't make me feel anything to know that Baz looks back on our breakup with relief.
I shouldn’t feel anything.
I wish I felt nothing at all.
I squint and can see him frowning at the bottle of wine, so I finish it and tuck it under the bed. His scowl deepens.
A drunk and a slob. He's going to be so fucking happy in comparison to see whichever bloke he's got waiting at home. Probably some neat, smooth talking fucker. With deep pockets and a nice smile.
Maybe it's even that Lamb guy.
No, not him. Fuck Lamb. Anyone but him.
(I might not have ever deserved Baz, but that doesn’t mean Lamb can have him.)
"I hope he won't worry," I say shakily, staring at the ceiling. "Whoever you've got at home." It takes every ounce of bravery in me to look at him, but I do. I can't read his expression, but it doesn't scream Lamb never worries so I let myself relax a little.
I should have asked about Baz while I was socializing with our former classmates, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. What kind of loser asks after their ex two decades after they break up?
"Jess- my, uh, wife- she works nights, see. She probably won't realize I'm missing until tomorrow afternoon, when she gets up for work. But- uh. I'm sure someone will have let us out by then. So it won't matter." I flinch the moment the words are out of my mouth. I wish I could snatch them from the air and just- shove them back in.
He raises an eyebrow.
It makes him look like he used to. Like he's twenty again. Young, sharp, and all mine.
I swallow the lump in my throat at the thought. He was never really mine though, because I wouldn't let him be.
I wish I wasn't always such a fucking coward.
I scrub my hands across my face. I don't know why I'm always such a disaster. Why for one fucking moment I can't have it together. Why I couldn't pull myself together for one night, just long enough to walk up to him, shake his hand, and tell him that I hope he's doing well.
That I wish him the best.
That I always have.
"I should never have come tonight," I say honestly from between my fingers. "I should never have bought this fucking suit or tie. I knew you'd hate the tie," I admit. "I don't know what I wanted. For you to say something rude about it probably. So we could laugh about it and act like it doesn't fucking hurt."
I can't look at him, so I turn to face the wall instead.
"Fuck, it hurts."
BAZ
My eyes are so wide they physically ache.
I'm staring at Snow's back. He's curled himself into a ball on his bed, and if I didn't know better, I'd say he was having a nightmare of some sort. His shoulders are shaking, and I can tell he's trying to control it and failing.
(He's never been good at controlling anything, his magic, his feelings. Everything about Simon Snow is just too much for him- he can't help but express it. It hurts him not to.)
I wish I could say something to him. Anything.
Tell him that he's right- that his tie is a disgrace to the very name. That the designer ought to be drawn and quartered as a warning to others who might dare.
(But I wouldn't say that. I love the tie because it's exactly the sort of bland, tasteless thing he'd choose for himself. Something he'd look at, decide was boring, and pick up anyway because it's a safe choice. Whoever his wife is, she isn't dressing him. I wonder what else she isn't doing for him. Snow's an adult now, we both are, but he needs someone to look after him. To care for him. To show him in all those little ways that he's loved.)
I don't make the decision to get up, not consciously. One moment I'm watching him from the safety of my bed, then the next I'm balancing on the edge of his and reaching out to him.
His back is so warm under my hand. I forgot how warm he used to get. How touching him always felt like he was giving it to me, like he was pushing what made him alive into me- like maybe if I just touched him enough, he could bring me to life too.
He tenses and I go to pull my hand away, but he grasps my wrist and pulls it back.
I have no idea what's happening.
Then he's tugging me to him by my wrist, and I tentatively lie down and wrap myself around him. Then for the first time in almost two decades, we're together in bed, breathing in tandem as we hold each other.
SIMON
"We met at grief counselling." I start. "I know you probably think it's rubbish, but it helped, I think." I don't know why I'm telling him this. Probably because against all odds he's here, his breath on my neck, and I want him to understand.
I'm finally ready for him to really see me.
"It's what you're supposed to do, isn't it? After you've beat the monsters, I mean- find a nice girl, settle down." I let out a breath. "I thought it would be easier with someone who knew what it was like to lose something, someone. I don't- it just made sense at the time."
He doesn't say anything (he probably still can’t), but when I take one of his hands in mine and squeeze, he squeezes back. His grip is strong, stronger than mine. That used to scare me, but now it gives me the strength I need to continue. "It wasn't the right fit for either of us, though. I don't think- we didn't accept it until it was too late, we're both too stubborn- but we haven't- it hasn't been alright in a long time."
"She thinks having kids will help." I finally admit, holding Baz's cold hand in mine. "But- I don't think I can. That's not what I want. What if they're magic?" and then so quietly, I doubt even he can hear it, the thing that scares me the most. "What if they're not."
BAZ
It always comes down to magic with Snow. Even now that he hasn't got it, magic is still the thing that plagues him most. The absence of it.
Having it not come back was the cruelest ending of all. To take away the thing that gave him a purpose, a place to belong. I love magic more than anyone else I know, and I'd give him all I have if I could. I wouldn't even hesitate.
But that's not the problem. Simon Snow has never needed magic to be magic. It doesn't matter if his wife and kids are Normals, whether he lives a Normal life- Simon Snow will never be Normal.
Even here, voice thick as he holds back tears, he's the only magic I've ever needed in my life.
I wish he knew.
I wish knowing could be enough.
I want to run my fingers through his hair, but I can't abuse his trust, no matter how the thought of it makes my chest ache. So instead I keep our hands clasped together, and run my fingers over his ring. I'm not virtuous enough to be without judgement, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is Snow. That he gets the things he wants. That he knows he's loved.
I wasn't able to tell him in a way that he understood back then, but he's always deserved to know. So I hold him as he holds back tears, and hope against all hope that he understands now.
What I still can't say, but feel all the same.
SIMON
I don’t know how I manage to fall asleep, but I wake suddenly, the faint glow of dawn creeping into the room.
I can feel Baz breathing behind me, but it’s been too long for me to be able to recognize whether he’s been sleeping too.
“I almost called once,” I say quietly, only because he might be well and truly asleep. I wait for a moment, and when nothing happens, I let out a breath and continue. "I- the night before I got married. I was alone and just- well, really alone. I knew then that- but I couldn't make myself do it."
His hand spasms in mine, and I know he’s heard. I wait but he doesn’t do anything else, lying behind me quietly, breathing slowly and evenly.
I was afraid back then, and I’m afraid now too. I used to think that it was because of what he’d say- that he’d be cruel and it would hurt because he was upset.
But even that would have been better than knowing that he wasn’t.
Than knowing that he hadn’t thought of me at all.
BAZ
I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve this, but I’ve chosen to simply accept it rather than let myself ruin the moment with questions. Dawn creeps through the sky, lighting up the room, and still Snow doesn’t make to move just yet.
That’s fine by me. I’d stay here all day with him if he’d let me.
I don’t know what changes, but I feel him go rigid against me, his grip on my hands clammy. I close my eyes and breathe him in one last time- but I don’t need to be told twice.
I extract myself from his grip and get up, going into the ensuite and splashing water on my face. When I get back out Snow is wrestling the doorknob, which is clearly still putting up a fight.
It doesn’t matter though, because I’ve felt my voice come back.
I let my wand drop from my sleeve and I watch as he grunts and shoulders the door. The wood is three inches thick. We lived in this room for eight years- he knows that.
It’s so unbearably him that it hurts.
I can’t hold back the small smile that tugs at my mouth as I watch him.
“It’s no use- this fucking thing still won’t-,” he turns around, and stops.
I have no idea what he’s thinking.
If this really is the last time…
He looks up at me as I get closer, those boring blue eyes exactly the same as they’ve been since the moment they caught mine under the magic of the crucible. I should spell this cursed door open and be done with it- I could be out across the lawn and to my car before he managed to get to the bottom of the tower…
But instead I let myself brush one of his curls off his forehead like I’ve wanted to do all night. I follow the lines of his face until I get to it- my favourite mole, just above his eyebrow. I let myself press my thumb to it one last time.
“I love you,” I tell it quietly. “I’ve never been able to say it, but I always have.”
“Baz-,” he breathes.
Then we both jump as the door behind him swings open, my hand retreating as the wood thuds against the stone wall. A sign from the universe, perhaps, signalling that whatever this night was about- it’s over now. We’ve no more purpose being here.
“Baz-,”
I ignore him, and start walking down the stairs.
“Baz!”
I can’t turn back now. There’s too much time between us, too much history. It won’t do anything but hurt.
“Baz! I need you- the gate!” he huffs, the sounds of his footsteps heavy on the stairs.
I stop. I had forgotten about that.
The grounds are quiet as we make our way to the main gate. We’re not quite walking together, but we keep the same pace. Neither of us says anything as I put my hand to the gate, watching silently as it swings open to let us out.
I unlock my car and move to get in, but Snow clears his throat before I can shut the door on him.
I consider doing it anyway.
“Baz,” he says quietly. “Thank you.” I scowl at him. What a stupid thing to say. He shouldn’t have said anything at all. “I mean it.” he continues. “Thank you. I uh- I obviously still have a lot of stuff to work out-,”
This is the underexageration of the century.
He shuffles from foot to foot before going on, “but I was thinking. Maybe- not right now, but maybe sometime in the future- could I call you? Would that be okay?”
I squint, the light from the rising sun peeking out from behind him, haloing him in gold. I fell in love with him here, once, a long long time ago.
“Yes,” I say honestly. “You should do that.”
He nods, stepping back, and I finally close the door to my car. I take a moment to look down at my hands, clenched tight into fists, and when I look up again, he’s gone.
But that’s okay.
Nineteen years ago, I’d have given anything not to know that it was the end, and I’ve never forgotten how that felt.
But this, driving away from him this morning, this doesn’t feel anything like that did.
It doesn’t feel like the end.
It feels like a beginning.