Chapter Text
Baz was not himself. Even Simon, who had never been especially observant could see that.
Every day, waiting for Baz to come back from Watford, Simon had imagined confronting him, yelling at him, shoving him and demanding to know where he had been, what he had been plotting. In every one of the fantasies, Baz had responded with the same anger, or at least his signature brand of cool cruelty.
And he did. Kind of.
But Simon, what Simon had not been counting on was for Baz to seem so exhausted by it.
“What do you want, Snow?” Baz had asked that afternoon, after Simon followed him to the lake, in the sunshine, Simon could see the deep circle beneath Baz’s eyes, the way his cheekbones had hollowed out. The green of the lake made his eyes seem especially murky.
“To know where you’ve been.” Simon snarled, advancing on Baz.
Baz’s mouth thinned, “Off, plotting with my family all the way I could kill you.”
Simon blinked, “Really?”
“No,” Baz sneered, “Not really, because popular to contrary belief the world doesn’t revolve around you, has it ever occurred to you that I actually have better fucking things to do?”
“Like what?” Simon took another step closed to Baz, “Plotting with your family ways to kill the Mage?”
Baz rolled his eyes, “Sometimes your stupidity leaves me speechless.”
“Then just tell me where you were!” Simon shouted, leaning into Baz’s personal space, and to his surprise, Baz actually took a step back.
“It’s none of your business.” Baz spat,
Simon moved forward, “If you were plotting the downfall of me or the Mage than of coarse it’s my fucking business.”
Baz’s back hit a tree, but he did not break eye contact. “Maybe I was,” He said, a nasty smile on his face, “Maybe I was planning the downfall of the entire magickal community. Maybe I’ve got plans to kill to drain you and Bunce dry, and then slit the Mage’s throat, and after I’m finished, I’ll sleep with Wellbelove-”
Simon wrapped a hand around Baz’s throat, and slammed him against the tree “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that.”
“You mean you’re ex?” Baz said, “She dumped you didn’t she? I wonder why? Was he just sick of dating a boring, pathetic-” He broke off.
Simon’s hand tightened, and that’s when he saw it. Really saw it. Just how skinny Baz had become, how weak he felt under Simon's grasp, how all this weight was in his right foot.
“Just tell me where you were,” Simon whispered,
“Never.” Baz hissed, then kicked Simon in the shin. Hard. Hard enough to make Simon howl in pain.
Hot anger rose in Simon, and he retaliated, slamming his foot into Baz’s left leg. The leg, he belatedly realized, that was making him limp.
Baz didn’t howl, but his eyes went wide with pain, and he left out a strangled yelp. Simon hated himself instantly, then hated himself for hating himself. Baz would have done the same in his situation.
Simon withdrew, and Baz slid to the ground as if Simon had been the one thing holding him up. He looked so tired.
“I’m s-" Simon began.
“Just leave me alone.” Baz hissed, drawing his knees up to his chin, as if embarrassed. And Simon did.
And now Simon was sitting alone in his room, wondering where Baz was (probably in the catacombs, no doubt, sucking the life out of adorable and innocent rabbits), and when he would come back (probably never, unless it was to drain Simon dry) and wondering why he felt so shitty about everything (Because Baz always made him feel shitty about everything). Millions of things to say to Baz kept popping into his head, witty lines that would for once leave Baz stumbling over his words. He stayed up, thinking of them, waiting for Baz to come back, so he could use them.
It was almost midnight when Baz came stumbling back into the room. Simon had never seen Baz stumble. Not even once. Baz never stumbled. He even managed to make his limp look graceful. His face was white, more white than normal, and eyes wide, he looked, Simon realized, as if he wanted to cry.
Simon lept to his feet, sword appearing at his side.
“What happened? What did you do?”
Baz blinked, regaining his composure, “Nothing fucking happened. Get your panties out of a knot and go to bed.”
“But-”
“I don’t care.” Baz moved to his bed, limp ever so pronounced, “I want to sleep.”
* * *
Baz just wanted to sleep. He wanted Simon Snow to leave him the fuck alone so that he could sleep.
He had gone to the catacombs to feed but hadn’t been able to keep down the rats. He hadn’t been able to keep down anything since getting kidnapped. He had tried to sleep in the catacombs as well, safely away from the smokey smell of Snow’s magic and blood. But the catacombs were dark and cramped, and he had woken up screaming; it had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to realize that he was no longer in the coffin, and to calm himself down enough to leave. He threw up even more after that, which was weird because he hadn’t thought that he had anything left in him to throw up.
And then, it was so hard climbing up the stairs to his room. His leg hurt, and he kept imagining himself collapsing from hunger and exhaustion and the stairs were dark, just like the coffin (because everything reminded him of the stupid coffin) and he felt hopeless and humiliated. And then there was Simon when he had finally made it to the top of the stairs, legs burning, with his sword out, smelling like magic and blood. And Baz wanted to cry. He wanted to eat and to sleep and to cry.
And now in his bed, he could feel Snow’s magic building up pressure, making him feel as if a cheese grater was being lightly dragged across his skin.
“What do you want, Snow?” He finally snapped,
“To know what you’ve been plotting.” Simon answered, like the broken record he was.
“Why are you so convinced I was plotting?” Baz asked, unable to help himself, but he injected venom into his voice, to hide the genuineness of the question.
“Because,” Simon said, matter of factly, “You’re a monster, and that’s what you do.”
And Baz thought about how every night he spent killing things to survive drinking the blood of rats at his mother's grave, knowing what she would say if she knew. How he had spent the last six weeks in a coffin, drinking only blood. How he had fantasized in that coffin, because there was nothing better to do, about drinking human blood. Usually, he tried not to think about those things, but he was too exhausted to fight the onslaught of thoughts that Snow's words brought. He buried his nose into his pillow and inhaled the scent of Watford, of his mother's school, (a school he would never be allowed to attend if it were still his mother’s). And he cried. Quietly. So Snow didn’t hear.
* * *
Simon could hear Baz crying. Or at least it sounded like crying. It was quiet enough that Simon couldn’t be sure. He wanted to say sorry. He wanted to throw a handkerchief on Baz’s bed and sneer, the same way Baz had done to Simon in second year. He wanted to use a handkerchief to wipe the tears of Baz’s face. He wanted to laugh about how Baz, ever so composed Baz, had cried so easily.
Or maybe he wasn’t crying so easily. Simon had no idea what had happened to Baz the six weeks he was gone, that could be the reason he was crying and not Simon. Whatever it was, it must have been bad, because he had never heard Baz cry like that. Ever.
He did nothing to comfort Baz, or to further the humiliation. He just listened as Baz’s quiet sobs until they leveled out into soft snores.
Baz Pitch, crying himself to sleep, Simon marveled, he should probably feel good about that, probably shouldn’t want to reach out a touch Baz’s prone form and tell him that everything was alright, that he was safe here.