Chapter Text
SIMON
I don’t know why I showed up on his doorstep.
I don’t know why I’m standing outside his bedroom door right now, with my mind stuck in a similar civil war to the one when I was covered in snow and muck, standing outside Grimm-Pitch Manor earlier today.
I run through my mental list of things I’m currently trying not to think about.
Number one:
How he’s going to react to me as I am right now: awake at two in the morning, saying I can’t sleep, wearing only plaid boxers, wool socks, and an old Watford shirt that’s about three sizes too small for me at this point. I feel like a child running to their mother, begging to sleep in her bed with her.
I won’t ask to sleep in his bed.
(Asking to sleep in the same bed as a vampire seems like a death wish, anyway.)
Number two:
What do I really expect him to do about my current insomnia? I sure as Merlin don’t trust him to cast a spell on me, even if it’s just a simple lullaby to make me drowsy. Christ, I don’t even know if I’d trust him to get me a glass of warm milk, magic or no.
So what do I want from him?
It doesn’t matter; I’m not thinking about it.
Number three:
The way his eyes crawled over me and lingered on my thighs when I was taking off my muddy boots in his doorway.
That’s enough not-thinking.
I raise my hand to knock, but before I can do anything, his door rips open and he’s glaring at me.
Typical.
What’s that arsehole plotting now?
BAZ
I can’t sleep knowing that Snow is in my house. Just across the hall.
Sure, at Watford we sleep in the same room, but this feels so much more . . . intimate.
(I use that word begrudgingly when it comes to Simon.)
I can hear his heartbeat from here. I don’t have to focus very hard to know that mine is going at the same pace.
I hear it increase as he moves, and I hear floorboards creak. Mine speeds up to match.
What is that git up to now? Please tell me he didn’t come to my house just to spy on me.
I hear him and the creaking getting closer, now with the addition of his breathing. (Mouth-breather.)
He stands outside my door for what seems like hours, but the clock on my nightstand says is only about three minutes. He’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, and he’ll be lucky if he hasn’t woken up the rest of my family yet with the noise the floor is making, no matter how big this place is.
I stand up, wordlessly light a small flame in my palm and quickly pad towards the door, ignoring the way I immediately go cold as soon as I leave my bed and its many blankets. (Maybe I should’ve worn a shirt to bed tonight; it’s freezing in here.)
I yank the door open, and as my gaze falls on the beauty that is Simon Snow, I feel whatever is left of my soul leave my wretched, undead body.
I look him in his eyes first, which unnerves him and makes him stare at the floor, and I almost regret that I can’t stare at the plain, boring blue that is his eyes before I realize that this gives me the chance to freely look him up and down.
He’s wearing an old Watford crewneck, one that is far too small for him. I wonder what year he got the shirt; must’ve been third or fourth year judging by the way the material hugs his broad shoulders and ends about ten centimeters above where it’s supposed to on his arms.
It also ends about the same distance above where it’s supposed to on his torso; instead, it’s giving me a full view of his navel (and a mole right next to it that I’ve never seen) and the faint trail of golden curls and freckles leading down into his plaid boxers.
This boy is going to be the death of me.
Before I can eye him up any further, he looks up and clears his throat. I raise an eyebrow, knowing that that always pisses him off.
I’m right, of course, and his eyebrows crease as his face flushes bright red, his freckles near disappearing in the rosy color. It’s not hard to disappear in Simon.
He huffs, his cheeks puffing out in just the slightest. It’s dreadfully adorable. “I can’t sleep,” he says, and his voice is raspy from lack of use. I can’t help but wonder if that’s what his morning voice sounds like.
I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the domestic though that just crossed my mind. “What do you want me to do about that, Snow? Make you a glass of warm milk and sing you a lullaby?” A vision of that flashes through my head: Simon’s head in my lap, my hands in his hair, my voice soothing him enough that he falls asleep, and we live happily ever after.
Yeah, right.
But then, for a second, his eyes widen and his cheeks flush a deeper red for just a second, and I realize that he must’ve thought about that. He stutters out a retort, but my heart’s already racing. “I-I-I d-don’t know, you t-t-twat! Can we just- I don’t know. Can we walk around for a while? I would do it on my own but don’t want to get lost. Please?” He looks guilty as he finishes his word-vomit.
“Alright, let me put a shirt on first.”
He’s a fool if he thinks I could ever deny him.
SIMON
I already regret knocking on his bedroom door. (Even though I didn’t technically knock yet.)
He stares at me until I look at my feet, and I feel his eyes trail over me, and I think about his gaze on my legs as I was taking off my wet boots again.
No more thinking, Simon.
I look up and give a fake cough to try to ease the tension as I look at him.
The tension only thickens as I realize that Baz is shirtless.
He’s holding a small fire in his hand and wearing his stupid posh silk pajama bottoms that he wears at Watford, so that’s no difference, but when we’re in our room, he always wears a shirt.
Not this time. This time, I absorb the truth that ‘holy fuck, my roommate is fit’.
As my eyes lock onto his incredibly visible six (eight?) pack, I think of that Cristiano Ronaldo Calvin Klein photoshoot that Agatha and Penny wouldn’t shut up about a couple of years ago. I remind myself that he does play football, but Merlin and Methuselah . . .
I tell myself to stop thinking. Again.
He looks like he’s expecting an answer, and I feel stupid as I say that I can’t sleep. He rolls his eyes like I’m the biggest inconvenience to ever inconvenience someone. “What do you want me to do about that, Snow? Make you a glass of warm milk and sing you a lullaby?” I feel my face go hot and his mouth does something weird, kind of like he ate a lemon. His flame flickers, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
I like the weird thing his mouth just did, and I feel my mouth start to dissociate from my brain, and suddenly I’m trying to talk my way out of this. “I-I-I d-don’t know, you t-t-twat!” Shut up. “Can we just- I don’t know. Can we walk around for a while?” Shut up, Simon. “I would do it on my own but don’t want to get lost. Please?” SHUT UP. This time my brain overpowers my mouth, and it’s like someone’s turned off a tap. Whatever I had to say is suddenly dried up on my tongue.
My face burns again, but I ignore it as I meet his eyes. As soon as I do, something changes and his shoulders relax as his posture softens. “Alright, let me put a shirt on first.”