Chapter Text
SIMON
Agatha looks stunning tonight, in her dark blue gown- she’s got her pretty blonde hair put up in all of these braids and beads and it looks amazing on her. I think that I’ve said this to her about five times now, but she’s still wearing a disinterested expression on her face and her gaze is only getting more and more distracted as I attempt to have a conversation with her about equestrian sports (as if I actually care much about that) (my father made me learn a few things about them to impress her) (it isn’t going so well).
Agatha confuses me the majority of the time. My father and her parents both expect me to court her and become romantically involved.They want me to marry her. She’s said to me in the past that this is what she wants, that she would love nothing more than to be with me. But she never seems to act like it. Or, rather, I don’t think that she does. I suppose I’m not actually all that sure what a person is supposed to act like when they love someone.
But I’m pretty sure looking at other blokes as if they’re sent from God above is not the way to do it. I follow her gaze across the ballroom to none other than Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, who is leaning against a wall with a glass in hand, a smirk playing out on his lips. It’s infuriating. I want to slap it off his face.
Baz isn’t actually royal (well. That’s kind of debatable). His family ruled over Watford for centuries until around the time I was born, when Queen Natasha (Baz’s mum) died and Baz was ruled too young to become King at the time (his father wasn’t allowed to become the sole monarch of Watford as he was deemed emotionally unstable and unprepared for such a title). My father took the role of temporary ruler, then decided to take it upon himself to make reforms to the kingdom and appoint himself as King.
So, Baz and his family hate me. Well. They don’t say that they do (that would most likely end in a long war and a lot of death), but they sure act like it. Baz is always making witty remarks and insults at me and uses every chance he has to point out all of my imperfections. He’s even resorted to physical violence (I swear he’s tried to kill me before), but my father’s so desperate to maintain peace that they’ve been ruled as “accidents” or “child’s play”. Even when we were first introduced to each other at 11 years old, he took to teasing me from the second he laid his eyes on me . Initially, I tried to befriend him and change his mind about the whole ‘I hate your father and therefore you’ thing, but he’s never once budged.
I gave up trying to be nice when he pushed me down the stairs (he insists to others that it was an accident, I’m convinced that was his first attempt at my assassination).
He’s here because his family has a lot of influence (and a hell of a lot of money as well), and father is always saying that you have to keep your enemies close or some bollocks. I wish Baz weren’t here, though, because I’m supposed to be courting the future Queen of Watford and he’s messing it all up by looking all cool and beautiful and shit (everything that I am not). I look like a numpty next to him.
He raises a brow at me from where he’s been watching Agatha and I and it takes all of my energy not to stomp over to him and yell at him.
BAZ
I don’t know why I even bothered coming to this idiotic trainwreck of a ball. Davy planned it- saying that it was for young people in positions of power to find partners- but it’s clear that by that he meant that it’s for Snow to find a female suitor. To find a wife. So it makes no sense why I would ever subject myself to such an event- I hate just about everything about this godforsaken party. Well, everything except for the way Snow is looking at me right now.
It’s pathetic, honestly. How much I do just to get a reaction from him. But I could never bring myself to stop, knowing that this is all I’m ever going to get to do with him. He looks fucking beautiful when he’s angry. His nostrils are flared and his face is red and blotchy and it’s quite the sight. I hate myself.
I practically glide over to where he’s been uselessly trying and failing to make conversation with Agatha Wellbelove for the past hour, making sure to appear as calm and collected as physically possible (I do that much better than Snow does, he’s always stuttering and fumbling around). Agatha has her eyes locked on me, and much to my enjoyment, so does Simon.
“Wellbelove,” I say, taking Agatha’s hand and kissing it (I don’t have to. But the way Simon’s cheeks turn crimson at the action is a perfectly good reason to do so anyway) (What the fuck is wrong with me?). “Snow,” I acknowledge, sneering at him. He looks just about ready to explode.
I take Agatha’s hand and give her a polite smile. “Would you like to dance with me, Wellbelove?” She smiles back and nods, and I motion her towards the middle of the ballroom, where there are pairs of men and women (boys and girls? We’re all either 17 or 18, so I suppose it could go both ways) (half of them act like children anyhow) waltzing and talking over the music from the piano. I watch Simon the entire time (not to say that Agatha isn’t a great dancing partner. But I think I’d prefer Simon’s stumbling feet and clumsy steps).
I hope Agatha changes her mind about him. Though I guess that’s awfully selfish of me to say. I know that Simon’s courting her, and that she wants him to (her family wants him to). I know they’ll probably get married (they will most certainly get married). But it’s fun to indulge myself anyway- as if any amount of flirting would get Wellbelove to stop wanting the title of Queen of Watford .
And the worst part is that they actually like each other . Most of the time. Davy has invited all of these lonely monarchs to spend a month at the castle for Simon to be able to choose a fiancee, and all he’s been doing is trip over his words in front of Agatha and the occasional ‘discreet’ kiss. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever witnessed. But from time to time, Agatha will talk to me instead and fail miserably at flirting with me. I could never understand her. I think that if I were in her position, I would never choose someone over Simon . I don’t stop her, though, because I’ve convinced myself that that’s a step closer to keeping her from marrying him. (In her defense she is flirting with a homosexual, which must be very difficult compared to flirting with someone as annoyingly heterosexual as Simon Snow )
I don’t really pay much attention to her as we dance- instead, I’m looking at Snow, who is wandering around the room, no doubt looking for Penelope Bunce. It’s sort of endearing to watch him stomp around like a child just because of me. I wonder if he’d react the same if he knew the things happening in my brain.
-
SIMON
Why does he have to be so bloody perfect?
It’s the morning after the ball, and we’re all eating in groups in the castle gardens. I’m sitting on a floral quilt with Agatha and Penny, and Baz is with his mates, Dev and Niall. He’s wearing a deep green waistcoat and his hair is loose and wavy (he had it slicked back last night, but I much prefer it this way. It looks softer), pieces of it falling perfectly around his face. I hate that he looks so incredibly attractive without seeming like he even tried. Davy always insists that I get my outfits picked by a tailor whenever we have any sort of social gathering, and even then I could never pull off any clothes the way Baz does. Like they were only ever meant to look good if he wore them.
He’s whispering things to Dev and Niall, making them laugh with their hands covering their mouths as if they aren’t supposed to be finding what he said funny. I’m sure that he’s talking about me. Probably telling them how shameful it is that Baz could whisk Agatha away as easily as he did last night. It was completely embarrassing, and I’m sure that once my father hears about it he’ll have a few words with me about how I need to do better, and how important it is that I marry Agatha. Just the thought of it fills me with dread.
I’m expected to marry before I turn 18 in a few months, and it’s the most unbearable thing I’ve ever had to do. I don’t say as much to my father, of course. I always obey his orders, without question. I always trust that his decision is the best one in the long run. But I still wish I had more time to just get to know Agatha without having so much pressure on us. My father wanted to use this whole thing as an excuse for us to spend some time together and discuss our future, even though he’s also repeated to me that I’m allowed to court any other eligible woman.
But we both know that he’d be exceedingly disappointed in me if I didn’t marry Agatha. So when Baz looks over at us, first at me, before shifting his gaze to Agatha, and fucking winks , I stand up.
BAZ
Simon Snow is advancing towards me with his fists clenched at his sides, and I’m narrowing my eyes at him. So fucking dramatic.
Penelope, bless her heart, has stood up and tries to grab his arm before he can walk over to where I am. Agatha looks properly humiliated and is holding a hand to the side of her face as if to cover herself from onlookers. Snow is stalking across the garden to me and I almost think he’ll punch me right then. He probably wants to.
“Baz,” he snarls. I raise a brow from where I’m sitting on the ground and look him over as if to say ‘what is it now?’. “A word?”
I roll my eyes, clenching my jaw and standing up (I was having a perfectly good time looking at him from a safe distance before he ruined the moment). He takes my arm (fucking hell) and practically drags me behind a hedge, out of sight from any spectators.
“What is your problem, Baz?!” he whispers angrily. (What a stupid question. Does he want a list? His name would be at the top)
I sneer at him. “I thought that I made it remarkably clear that you are my problem, Snow,” I retort, crossing my arms. He’s right infuriated by my response. His brows are knitted together at the bridge of his nose, his eyes searching for something in mine.
Simon Snow. You can have all of it if you’d just ask.
“Are you in love with her?” he asks eventually, and I can tell he hates it. His eyes soften in the slightest- I wouldn’t have noticed, I think, if I wasn’t so observant of him. It’s ridiculous to think that he’s so astoundingly thick. That he’s asking me if I’m in love with Agatha . Sometimes I wish I could just tell him how wrong he is. How it’s him I’m in love with. In moments like these, it takes every ounce of restraint I have left to not either kiss him or set myself on fire.
I laugh mockingly. “What an absurd thing to ask,” I say, because I don’t want to tell him that I am most certainly not attracted to Agatha and that there’s absolutely no chance she’d leave him. At least he’s doubting his marriage to her for now (though in the end all of this petty fighting and arguing won’t amount to anything). And I don’t want to lie and say yes. That’s the last thing I’d lie to him about. It would hurt him too much to think Agatha would actually love someone like me.
He glares at me. “Then why are you always trying to ruin our courtship? If not for you to marry her yourself?” Clearly he thinks he’s figured something out. He thinks he’s uncovered all of my evil plans and now he’s ready for competition. Simon Snow is a fool.
I smirk. “Agatha would like that, wouldn’t she?”
He almost raises one of his fists but then seems to remember that there’s people behind the hedge and no one likes a prince with no temper. “You’re such a fucking arsehole, Baz. Why can’t you just accept that this isn’t your family’s kingdom anymore and get over yourself?” I want to shove him into the grass.
I can’t take being enemies with him sometimes. He’s insufferable, but I can’t hate him. It’s a curse. He could scream and yell at me and tell me how much he wishes I would just leave and still, I would be hopelessly and cruelly in love with him. I could never stop. He’ll be married and he’ll have children and he’ll be happy . And he’ll be glad that I won’t be anywhere close to him.
When I think that maybe I could just stop coming back. Stop tormenting him when it doesn’t benefit me, I remember why that’s impossible. Because he’s the sun, and I simply orbit around him. But I am capable of being angry at him.
“Get fucked, Snow,” I sneer, walking off and bumping our shoulders on my way out.