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Baz
I like to pretend that Simon Snow is nothing to me. It’s a matter of reputation, first and foremost; it’s taken years to foster a rivalry so fierce that it’s common household knowledge throughout the World of Mages (here in the UK, at least). Not everyone can say they have a mortal enemy, whose destiny it is to face you in a fight to the death at a yet undetermined time and date. Simon and I are like soulmates in that way – our fate was determined long ago by powers much bigger than us.
And while I believe that there’s no way my feud with Snow will ever be resolved –that we will never stand in the same room without wanting to deck each other – I know that isn’t what I really want. I’ve done a lot of reading on the subject, and from what I can tell, it’s not normal for a person to look into the eyes of their sworn enemy and want to kiss them until he sees stars. It’s not normal to think about running my hands through his hair, or pushing him up against a wall (well, that one could go both ways), or falling asleep with my body curled around his.
There’s no way Snow will ever reciprocate my feelings, of course, which makes it easier for me to pretend I loathe the very fact of his existence. But it takes more and more effort every day to keep myself from grabbing him by the collar of his jumper, dragging him into an empty broom cupboard and snogging him until he suffocates. I’m beginning to worry that someone (everyone) might notice the lack of passion in my voice when I toss insults in Snow’s direction, because on occasion, I find my mind wandering into the habit of listing all the things I like about him instead of focusing on my anger.
If it were purely physical attraction, I could push it down and ignore its existence. But my stupid, stupid heart has decided that it ardently loves that curly-haired twit for his bravery and his loyalty and his goodness (and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs), I’ve been unable to rid myself of these feelings.
As I pass by the White Chapel on my way to Mummers House on a warm Saturday evening, a thread of conversation carries on the wind and catches my attention. On principle, I tend to leave people alone to argue about whatever silly conflict they’ve gotten themselves into. This time, though, my interest is piqued. From where I’m standing, I see that the Mage – who I’d openly admit to hating more than I supposedly hate Simon Snow – has cornered someone against the wall of the chapel. I can’t tell who it is from here, but it doesn’t sound as though they’re getting a word in edgewise; they’re just standing silently as the Mage berates them in hushed tones.
I creep slowly along the chapel, curious to see who it is that has incurred the wrath of our Peter Pan-looking arsehole of a headmaster. For the first time in ages, I’m appreciative of the few perks there are to being a vampire: super-stealth (for hunting purposes, of course), and heightened hearing abilities. When I find myself close enough to hear the discussion clearly, I take a peek at the poor soul pressing their back against the chapel wall. My amusement is short-lived, because I see a mop of golden-red curls that I’d recognize anywhere; Simon, who is legally the Mage’s ward, is the on the receiving end of the Mage’s temper tantrum. I should have guessed.
Oh, fuck no. I’ve grown more and more tired over the years of hearing that the Mage has sent Snow on some dangerous errand on his behalf. The man is supposed to be like a father to Snow, but as I’ve just recently learned, he doesn’t even let Snow stay with him over the summer. He sends the poor boy to whatever shithole of a care home has a bed available so that he won’t have to be bothered with the challenges of raising a teenage boy any longer than he has to. When I heard Bunce and Wellbelove quietly discussing Snow’s predicament in class earlier this year, I thought for a while that I was going to be sick right there in front of everyone.
Here I was, thinking for years that Snow was the brat who lived at Watford all year long with the man who had stolen my mother’s office and position as the school’s headmaster. In reality, he was left to fend for himself in unfamiliar situations for months at a time, with nothing but his shit excuse of a wand to keep him connected to the World of Mages. With his magic as volatile and uncontrollable as it is, I still struggle to understand why the Mage would allow him out of his sight for even a moment, let alone shipping him off to Merlin knows where for two months.
And now, I’m standing here, watching on as the Mage belittles Snow for what I’m sure is some ridiculous, made-up reason. I feel my feet carry me forward before I’ve even decided whether or not I’m going to address the situation at all.
“So this is where you’ve run off to, Simon,” I call out loudly. Startled by my sudden appearance, the Mage whips around and regards me with a menacing scowl. My own mouth curves into a smirk, which I swear angers the Mage to the point that his blood pressure rises, and a vein on his forehead begins to bulge and visibly pulsate; I wonder if I can rile him up enough to make it pop.
“Mister Pitch, I’d appreciate if you would continue on your way,” the Mage says, struggling to keep his tone even. “Simon and I are just having a private discussion.” Behind him, Snow stands ramrod-straight against the wall. His fists are clenched so hard that his knuckles are flushed white, and the muscles in his jaw appear moments from snapping, they’re so tense.
“Doesn’t look like Snow is enjoying your ‘discussion’ very much,” I say, steeling myself internally for the verbal abuse I’m anticipating from the Mage.
“Baz, don’t—” Simon warns, but I cut him off with a sharp glance. Turning my attention back to the Mage, whose face has gone beet-red, I set my jaw firmly and cross my arms over my chest.
“Anyways, I’m only interrupting because Snow and I have an assignment due on Monday, and I’ve got a football practice tomorrow morning, plus a game in the evening,” I say, only partially lying; I do have football tomorrow. “This is the only chance we’ve got to work on it together. He was supposed to meet me in the library to work on it, but I see now that he’s been detained.”
I stare straight into the Mage’s eyes, hoping that my expression appears as threatening as I’m trying to make it. With a quirk of an eyebrow, I challenge him to call me on my lie. Fiona would have a fucking field day if she and my father were called to the school to meet with the headmaster about such a petty issue. From the heavy sigh he lets out, I gauge that the Mage has weighed his choices carefully; when he steps back to let Snow pass, my lips curl into a cruel sneer. I have my father to thank for the plethora of “fuck you” facial expressions I possess.
Simon hurries to my side but avoids making eye contact. Does he think I’m going to mock him for this, or is he embarrassed to have had me save his skin? I’ll have to wait until later to ask him.
“We’ll continue this another time, Simon,” the Mage calls after us as we walk off together towards Mummers House.
“Not if I can help it,” I answer so quietly that only Simon hears me. To my private delight, he lets out a snort of laughter, and a tiny smile crosses his lips. Fucking hell, he’s beautiful when he smiles. Maybe I should scratch my plans to attend uni so I can just follow him around all day, trying to make him smile. The Grimms and Pitches are well-off enough time support me in that endeavour, I’m sure.
When we’re in the safety of our tower bedroom and I’ve shut and locked the door, I turn to find that Simon is leaning against the footboard of his bed, arms crossed, waiting to confront me. I expected he would at some point, and for the sake of my aching heart, I appreciate that he’s waited until we’re alone.
“Why did you do that, Baz?” he asks, furrowing his brow. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“He was being a prick,” I say with a shrug. I’m not wrong.
“Yeah, well, I deserved it.” His eyes are trained on the floor now, and I realize after a long pause that he truly believes this. Crowley, this kid’s life is fucked up.
“Don’t say that about yourself,” I firmly reprimand. “He’s got you running all over the country to do his errands while he sits around and pretends to run the school. You don’t…” I pause to consider whether I should continue my train of thought. Seeing the defeat in Snow’s eyes convinces me that I should. “You don’t deserve to be treated poorly, especially by the person who’s supposed to take care of you. You’re just a kid, Simon.”
Something flickers in Snow’s eyes, and if I believed in such a thing, I’d swear it was his soul. A shudder runs through his body, and suddenly, Snow appears vulnerable for the first time; the fortress walls that he works so hard to maintain have come crashing down before me.
It’s been years since Snow really cried in front of me, and never has he done so willingly. As a 12-year-old, most of his tears were a result of the cruel comments I aimed at him. But as he processes my words, fat teardrops roll slowly down his cheeks. He holds his breath, not wanting to let himself get worked up to the point of sobbing, but when I step forward, grab hold of his shoulders and pull him against my chest, he lets out an anguished wail unlike anything I’ve heard before.
Despite his longstanding hatred for me, and my longstanding history of trying to seriously maim him, Snow lets me hold him against my chest for what feels like an eternity. He doesn’t put his arms around me, but I don’t mind; he’s the one who needs comforting, not me. One of my hands strokes his hair gently, and the other rests against his back; I can feel his heart thrumming beneath my fingers. I’m reminded with every beat that Simon Snow is so very alive.
I don’t know how it happens, but one moment we’re standing in the centre of our room, and the next, we’re both stretched out on his narrow bed, and Snow is asleep with his head resting against my sternum. I’ve been humming a song that Daphne sings to the girls before bed every night, and once it ends, I go back to the beginning, because none of the other songs I know seem like suitable lullabies for the boy in my arms. My voice isn’t the most beautiful sound in the world, but it does what I need it to.
* * * * *
At some point, the arm Snow’s got thrown over my body shifts, and his hand slips under the fabric of my jumper and rests against the skin of my lower back. His breath, which has finally evened out, is warm against my neck – warmer than I imagined his breath could be. Oh, Snow…it’s been so long since I was warm.
I know that in the morning, things will be back to the way they were before today. I won’t kid myself by wishing for something that can’t be. But at least now I can hold these moments in my heart, and hope that they’ll sustain me.
And maybe, just maybe, Snow will wake up in the morning, knowing that he is loved.