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BAZ
Simon Snow has his hands down my trousers, and it’s utter bliss.
I’m surprised that he’s allowed us to get this far, on his bed, panting into each other’s mouths in the middle of the afternoon. I suppose it’s because Bunce is with the American at her family’s house for the week and we’ve finally been able to have some time alone together. He’s letting us have this intimate moment, and I’m overwhelmed with pride and love for him. He’s come a long way from how he was a year ago.
He doesn’t exactly know what he’s doing and just palms me over the material of my pants, which is still lovely. Although he’s beginning to lose focus the longer we continue—I wonder if it’s too much for him or if he needs a break. Snow’s therapist told him that trauma can lead to touch aversion. I researched the matter as soon as he told me, and now I know that we’re going to have to take every physical step of our relationship slow, which I’m alright with. As long as I can have Snow, as long as he allows me to call him mine.
There was a time, before the battle of Watford, and before America, where I knew that he wanted to leave me.
When we returned from America, we were too busy fighting for our lives to worry about our relationship, and then the calm that followed had all of us disjointed and lost. It was a time for healing—I nearly perished during the fight. When I found my feet again, it was with a Simon who was slowly climbing his way out of the abyss of his depression. It was difficult to watch because it felt that without some sort of mission, he would naturally go back to being inert. And what do you do when someone is both an immovable and unstoppable force?
“Alright, Snow?” I ask him while idly tracing a pattern between the freckles on his shoulders. He’s shirtless and on all fours above me, eyes glazed over. My voice causes him to startle a bit, and the hand that he had been moving in circular motions over me stops.
His blue eyes find mine, and he chews on his lower lip before shrugging, “Sorry, got lost in thought.”
You think? is in my mouth before I realize it, and I bite back the sarcastic comment before I ruin this fragile moment between us. It’s always fragile between us because Snow is just that. He’s like spun sugar, or a butterfly’s wing—delicate. He doesn’t like to believe that he is, but he is. Snow’s fierce too, but he’s not the same man that he once was. And that’s alright because neither am I.
“What about, love?” I ask him while shifting so that I’m twirling one of his errant curls around my index finger. It spirals until it becomes a ringlet, soft against my skin. I’m aware that Snow’s hot palm is still on my groin, seeping through my clothes.
“Agatha.”
Oh.
I freeze, any sort of arousal that I felt immediately gone, and I remove my hands from Snow’s body as I peer up at him. My breath comes out short, and I shouldn’t feel as if there’s a pit in my stomach, I shouldn’t feel suddenly worthless. But I do. The old insecurity of not being good enough for Snow washes over me. There's a knot of despair forming in my chest, and I want to do nothing more than escape.
“It’s just—I just—we used to—and I—,” Snow stammers. He’s blustering now.
“Please get off of me,” I whisper hoarsely. My voice is strained, a brittle sound that has me internally wincing. I hope that it's unnoticeable, but from the way he's looking at me, I know that Snow heard it.
Snow shakes his head. “Wait, no, it’s not—”
I sigh and carefully lift him off of me as if he weighs nothing. Untangling myself from him (being extra careful with his tail) and standing beside the bed, re-buttoning and zipping my clothes and then reaching for my discarded shoes.
“Baz.” Snow is also on his feet now.
“Snow,” I say as I slip my feet into my shoes and spell my laces together, “you’ve officially ruined the mood, and I think I’m going home now.”
“Why?” He asks, confusion written across his ruddy face.
I look over at him. Snow's beautiful with the afternoon sunlight washing him in gold from the window. His eyes are tired, red-rimmed and puffy, and his hair looks as if it’s never seen a comb, but he’s still undeniably handsome. The sight of Snow will always cause my heart to ache in my chest with want. Which makes the realization that he may not want me the same way hurt even worse.
“Please don’t go,” he says.
“You realize you just compared what you used to do with your ex-girlfriend to what you were doing with me, while you were doing it with me?” I ask incredulously. A year ago I would have kept this to myself; it would have festered until it was just another wound to my soul (if I have a soul), but we’ve been working on communication and—even though it’s difficult—we’ve both been trying.
I shake my head and leave his bedroom. I need to leave this flat. I need some space to myself. I can feel myself beginning to crumble. There’s a lump in my throat, my eyes sting, and I feel like a moron. I’ve never enjoyed being compared to others; I’ve always strived to be the best so that it would never happen, although apparently my boyfriend has found me lacking.
SIMON
Baz Pitch just stormed out of my flat, and I can’t help but feel devastated.
I am a royal fuck-up.
I don’t know why I thought of Agatha when I was with Baz. Only, she and I had never gotten that far before, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I was trying to recall anything we may have done to help guide me, and instead, I hurt Baz’s feelings. I’m stupid for having mentioned her. All I ever seem to do is hurt Baz. He’s honestly the perfect boyfriend—he’s been so patient with me and thoughtful and mindful and sweet, and I’ve been utterly shitty.
We had been on the precipice of sex—finally. I wanted him; I want him. He’s just—he’s so alive. His heart had been beating steadily under my hands, a constant reminder that he was there with me.
Baz nearly died at Watford while we were fighting; a goblin had gotten a lucky hit and stabbed Baz through the stomach with a silver sword. He nearly bled out in my arms, and I was scared that he was going to die. I had never been that terrified in my life, not of the Humdrum, not of goblins or dragons or basilisks. But Baz, with his hair matted to his face and his mouth full of fangs, and what little blood he had escaping his body, looking like spilled ink on the ground and me—the memory of it always triggers a panic attack for me.
It took Baz a long time to heal. He had to drop his fall term classes at university because he was unable to attend, which upset him. He stayed with his family in Oxford, and I stayed by his side throughout it all. I couldn’t leave him; I just couldn’t. (I don’t ever want to leave his side.)
I want to tell Baz, to show him that he means everything to me. He’s the center of my universe; I revolve around him. He’s the reason my heart beats. I love him so much, and it used to frighten me, how strong my love for him is, but now? Now it’s as natural as breathing. I can’t imagine not loving Baz. I can’t exactly remember a time when I didn’t love him. I think I’ve loved him for longer than I’ve realized. I want to show him how much, but I don’t know how, and I’m shit with words.
“Fuck!” I yell loudly once Baz is gone. Part of me wants to chase after him, to drag him back here and attempt to explain. I wasn’t comparing him to Agatha; there is no comparison! I just enjoy sticking my foot in my mouth. But I don’t think that’d be the wise thing to do.
I wish I still had my sword, I'd be hacking the shit out of something right now. I'm pissed off at myself. I'm so fucking stupid!
Baz and I have gotten better together. The love is there (it’s always been there) but everything else took a little while to fall into place. Going back to therapy for me has helped, and having him sit in with me, and doing it together has as well. He’s seen the worst of me and has stayed, and I’ve seen all of him, too. I owe him so much; I have a lot to make up for, even though he’d argue and tell me otherwise. He’d say something soft like he’s just happy to be with me, but that’s tosh.
I groan aloud dramatically before shuffling into the kitchen to make myself something to eat. Food is a crutch for me, but it soothes me. I feel guilty, and like an idiot. What just happened wasn’t an argument, but it felt like one all the same. I groan again, louder and more pathetically, and try to pour all of my emotions into it.
Why does Baz stay with me when all I do is stupid shit like this? I'd beat the shit out of myself if I could. I’d deserve it.
Sometimes I forget that Baz’s confident bravado is usually a mask. He’s just as much an insecure mess as I am. We match.
I stretch my wings and think of a way I can make this up to Baz. I fucked up so badly and need to apologize. I need to do something for him, something special. Something that’s just for him.
My phone is in my hand before I know it and I’m on Google, looking for things we can do. As a couple. Like a date. The idea makes my heart speed up and my palms sweat, but it’s not because I’m ashamed of my relationship; it’s because people are arseholes and I don’t want to have to deal with them saying shit to me. Or to Baz. Especially not to Baz. I’d think I’d wind up arrested if someone were to say anything derogatory to him.
What can I do for Baz? How do I do this? I should make a list — my new therapist supports my list-making, and it helps me cope and live and organize the clusterfuck that is my brain.
I can do this. I can romance the hell out of my fit vampire boyfriend and show him that he’s the only one for me. I can make sure that he feels appreciated, that he feels my love for him. And if all else fails, I can tell him. My stomach tightens at the idea of saying the words aloud to Baz’s face.
BAZ
I suppose I enjoy wallowing in my misery—I’ve done it for so long that I don’t think I can survive otherwise. It’s mid-morning and I’m still in my pyjamas, brewing tea and warming up some pig’s blood for breakfast. Fiona is in Prague indefinitely, so I’m alone. It’s peaceful, but also lonely. A small part of me wishes that I had spent the night with Simon.
The thought of my boyfriend no longer causes my heart to feel as if it’s on the brink of shattering, thank Merlin. When I came home yesterday, I cried. I hated myself for it, but everything came out in heavy sobs that left me feeling hollowed out yet clean. Afterward, I showered and went to bed, too exhausted and emotionally drained to care that the sun was still up and it was barely early evening.
This morning I've allowed myself to reflect on what occurred. My conclusion is that my boyfriend is an idiot who never thinks before he speaks. He more than likely didn't mean anything by it, and seemed genuinely concerned when I left him, and there's no doubt that he's probably spiraling with guilt. I know I'll forgive him, because I'm weak. Snow could stake me and I'd still take him back. My love for him is unwavering.
I sigh as I drain the blood in two gulps while it's still steaming, chasing it with Earl Grey and some lavender shortbread biscuits. This is the breakfast of champions. (Perhaps I’ve been living with my Aunt for too long.) I debate lighting a cigarette just to have the Authentic Fiona Pitch Experience™ when someone knocks on the front door. I briefly wonder which neighbor it is before I smell him—Snow. Along with roses and baked goods. I briefly wonder who allowed him into the building as I get up from my seat at the table, running my hands through my hair to try to bring it to some sort of order.
The bouquet of two dozen roses is a vibrant splash of red that catches my eye as soon as I open the door.
“Hey,” Snow says, his voice shy. “These are for you, Basil.”
I warm at the sound of my name; he only calls me that when he’s being soft. “Thank you.”
The smell is soft but lovely. I’ve never received flowers before, and I can’t help but love them. I move to allow Snow in, and then I take the flowers to the kitchen so that I can put them in a vase. I take Snow in from my peripheral. He’s gotten a haircut, and his curls look as if they have products in them. They’re defined and shiny. He’s wearing snug jeans and a white t-shirt that’s surprisingly clean. He smells of my soap and fatty foods. I watch as he places a bakery box on the counter beside the sink.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asks as he watches me fuss with the flowers. I’m surprised that he hasn’t already begun to dig into the box of treats. “It’s nearly ten, but I wasn’t sure. I know you enjoy sleeping in late.”
“I was awake,” I say. I arrange the flowers once more before letting them go and facing him. I know why he brought flowers. Is this his way of apologizing to me? Is this his way of trying to make things better between us?
“I brought those apple tarts that you like,” Snow says to me, motioning to the box. He’s rubbing at the back of his neck, and I wait for him to say more. “I—um—fuck, Baz. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, or, or upset. My words didn’t come out right. I wasn’t—I would never—I could never—compare you to someone else. There isn’t anyone else remotely like you. You’re just—you’re perfection personified. You must know that, right? You—you’re the other half of my soul.”
His face is bright red, nearly the same colour as the flowers. He’s worrying at his lower lip, and I can feel my face heat up at his admission. My heart feels as if it’s threatening to beat its way out of my chest. The syrupy warmth of love is spreading out into my limbs, and it makes me lightheaded. Crowley.
“Baz, I—you—I—I love you, alright? I love you. I don’t ever want you to feel as if, as if you’re unimportant to me. Or that you’re second best. Because—because I love you, and I have for a long time now.” Snow’s hands are at his sides now, and he’s standing with his back straight and his feet shoulder-width apart as if he’s preparing for a fight. “And I’m sorry, I know I’ve been the worst boyfriend—”
“Simon,” I attempt to cut him off, but he shakes his head at me.
“No, Baz, I don’t think you know how much I love you. Or—or how much you mean to me.” He stops speaking then and shuffles awkwardly on his feet. “Just, just, you know, I love you.”
I smile at him warmly, showing my teeth, and I know that I look like a fool in love. “I love you too, Simon. You’re not the worse boyfriend; you’ve just been going through a lot. It’s normal and natural. You were raised to die, and now you’re learning how to live. I’d also like to apologize, for how I reacted yesterday.”
“Nah,” Simon shakes his head again, “I was in the wrong. It’d be like if you were to bring up that arsehole Lamb, while we were snogging.”
“It’s not the same,” I point out. “He and I don’t have a history together.”
Snow gives me a knowing look, and we both drop the matter. There’s no use getting into an argument about things that are no longer relevant to either of our lives. Lamb will forever be a sore spot between us.
“Shall we eat?” I motion to the box. “I’ll start the kettle.”
“Yeah,” Snow says with a bright smile. He moves closer to me, standing on his toes to give me a sweet kiss on the mouth before stepping back. His face is still flushed prettily. I can practically taste the blood under his skin when he’s this close to me. It makes me want to lick him. “Oh, but also, I was wondering if you, do you,” Snow tugs on his curls and I want to slap his hands away from the top of his head. “That, uh. We. Um. Do you, it’s just—well. We should, we should do something. Together. Outside of the flat.”
“Like a date?” I ask, my voice coming out smaller than I intended it to. We haven’t been on a proper date in months.
Snow looks at the floor, and I make sure to turn my eyes away from him, lest he loses his nerve to continue speaking. “Ye-yeah, I mean, uh, if you’d like? I mean, I’ve been thinking about it and—and I want to. We—we haven’t, um, we haven’t gone out much lately.”
I imagine he’d want to hit up a pub, grab a pint and eat some fish and chips while watching a football game on one of the tellies. Somewhere where it’d be impossible for people to assume we were on a date, somewhere where there’d be an excuse as to why he’d sit as far away from me as possible.
“What do you have in mind?” I ask curiously as I turn the kettle off and fill our cups. Simon is rummaging through the cupboards, taking out two plates and utensils for us. Thank Crowley; for a moment, I was worried that he’d eat the tart with his hands. Then I’d have to suffer through watching him suck on his fingers.
“Um,” Snow is still blushing and shuffling his feet (it’d be annoying if it weren’t so bloody endearing). “The aquarium? Or maybe a museum?”
“Is this spoil Baz day?” I ask with an arched brow. “We don’t have to do those things just because I enjoy doing them.”
“Baz,” Snow grabs my hand in his. “Yes, today is spoil Baz day. Yes, we do, because I want to. You deserve all the good things, Basil, let me do this.”
The warmth of his palm set’s my nerve endings on fire, and my stomach twists pleasantly at his words. Our fingers are laced together, and his thumb is rubbing soothing circles against mine.
Simon Snow loves me. He wants to be with me. He said I’m the other half of his soul. My self-proclaimed horrible boyfriend, my inarticulate boyfriend, managed to say such beautiful words to me. I feel as if I may melt into a puddle at his feet, or that I may combust. Instead, I lean into him.
I swallow and nod. “Alright.” My voice is soft, almost breathless.
He leans up and meets me halfway for a kiss.