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BAZ
Ugh. Aleister Crowley. This fucking rain.
I pull the hood of my navy blue macintosh up over my head, hunching my shoulders like that’s going to do any good. I’m going to be proper drenched by the time I get to Simon and Bunce’s flat, there’s no way around it now.
The deluge dumps in sheets by the time I make a huddled dash for the front door of their building. Maybe I should have stashed our curry takeaway under my jacket. I hope it’s not wet and ruined, because Simon definitely needs to eat (he always needs to eat) and I’m definitely not going back out in this.
I ring the buzzer for their flat, and Simon (I’m assuming) buzzes me in.
“Holy shit,” Simon says when he sees me dripping onto their welcome mat. I probably look like a cat that’s just been drug out of a stream. But it’s cute when he swears like a Normal, so I grin back and hold our takeaway bags aloft in victory. Because the thing is, I’d do a whole lot more than stand out in the rain for him. I’d battle a fucking hurricane if it came right down to it.
Not that he knows that. I think I’d probably really freak him out if I said it. Affection can be a tricky thing with Simon Snow. Sometimes he’s like a starving man, desperate and devouring and all-consuming. Other times he’s like one of those scared animal shelter rescue puppies you have to coax out of the corner with a spoonful of peanut butter. (Sometimes literally. I’ve literally watched him eat peanut butter right from the jar with a spoon.) (And once without a spoon at all. I know. My boyfriend’s gross.) (Boyfriend. Simon Snow is my boyfriend.)
And it’s hard to know what you’re going to get on any given day.
I set the bags of takeaway containers on the kitchen counter while Simon fishes out forks from the drawer that tends to stick. It’s a small kitchen, and he has to curl in his massive red wings for us both to maneuver it safely. He’s in loose grey trackies and a dark green hoodie that makes his curly hair look more reddish – it’s been a minute since he’s had it cut, and the thick curls fall in his eyes sometimes. Like now. I want to push it back, see his eyes, probably kiss him until he’s not that scared rescue puppy anymore. But I know now that’s not how this works – not yet.
“Where’s Bunce?” I ask instead, and shrug off my macintosh to drape over a kitchen chair.
“She has a paper due Monday,” Simon says. “She’s went to the library to write.” He’s already eating straight out of a takeaway container, over the fucking sink. Honestly, it’s like he was raised in a barn.
“So I have you all to myself,” I smirk at him as I rake the rain-damp hair off my face. There’s an unmistakable spark of something in Simon’s eye when he shoots me a look up from his food, and it’s not rescue puppy-ish.
“I suppose you do,” he grins, and he leaves a quick peck on my lips as he shuffles out of the kitchen with his takeaway container.
Well, then.
I can’t help the stupid grin on my face he leaves in his wake. I’m such a hopeless case where Simon Snow is concerned. But at least I’m not fighting it anymore.
I plate my rice and my chicken tikka masala – like any decent human being should – and follow Simon into the little living room where he’s eating on their beat-up old sofa, stocking feet up on the coffee table. His red dragon wings are spread out wide over the rest of the cushions, his red devil tail draped over his lap. He’s watching some old episodes of Top Gear, and I think this is really all we need. Good food, fast cars, a little snogging. Nothing trying to kill us.
I really am living a charmed life.
“Push over,” I tell him, so I can sit in front of him on the floor, plate on the coffee table. This is the arrangement. He’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t mind when my fangs pop, maybe even thinks it’s cool, but I just can’t. I literally want to set myself on fire when he stares at my teeth. (Well, maybe not literally anymore.) (But I still hate it.)
So, we eat in front of the TV so there’s no awkward silence to fill. (I hate talking around my fangs. I sound like I have dentures.) I sit in front of him on the floor, and then I don’t feel compelled to cover my mouth with every bite.
It’s normal. Sort of. It’s normal enough, for now.
Today, when I sit cross-legged in front of the coffee table, he shifts behind me so that his legs are on either side of me. It’s cozy there. Like he’s a tree, and I’m sheltering under his limbs.
But it’s a different sort of feeling entirely when I feel him run his fingertip through the ends of my hair. My rain-damp, probably insanely matted hair. I’m seized with insecurity and run my own hand back through it again. Merlin. Should’ve checked a mirror. He’s probably going to laugh at it any second.
“Christ, Baz,” he swears instead. “It ought to be criminal for hair to look that good after it’s been rained on.”
Really? I raise my eyebrows. Now I definitely want to check a mirror. This must be my lucky day.
“Thanks,” I mutter around my fangs, mouth full of chicken tikka.
And fuck he does it again. His fingers lace through the ends of my hair, brushing against the back of my neck. It’s impossible to suppress the shiver that follows, and it makes Simon chuckle.
“Sorry.” He’s apologetic even in his amusement.
“Don’t be,” I say, and I cover my mouth so I can turn to look at him. So he can see my sincerity. “It’s nice,” I insist.
Which is a bit of an understatement. Because he’s Simon Snow, and he’s my boyfriend who thinks my hair looks so criminally good, he must touch it. It isn’t nice. It’s fucking incredible. It’s making my dead heart beat erratically.
That’s only the beginning. I turn back to my plate of food, and then, unexpectedly, Simon leans forward and rakes his fingers against my scalp. It catches the breath in my throat. And my eyes stutter shut. My neck feels like its going to go limp. He pushes his hand through one way, watching as the strands slip through his fingers slowly. Then he does the same thing the other direction.
I have to be going red in the face. (I did just drain a rabbit a half hour ago.) No one’s ever touched me this way before. Ever. I mean, maybe a barber now and then, strictly professionally. But no one’s ever just enjoyed my hair. (Well, I do, if I’m being honest.) (Why else does one grow out their hair?) (But I thought I’d be the only one.)
Simon’s definitely noticing the effect he’s having on me. I haven’t opened my eyes yet, but I can feel the way he’s craning his neck to get a look at me, can feel his warmth behind me, so I shield my mouth with my hand again. I mean, Merlin and Morgana, I’m right in the middle of eating. He has the worst mealtime manners of any person alive.
Although, at the moment, I really, really don’t care.
“Feels nice, does it?” Simon asks, and I can hear the impish smile on his face. He does so enjoy undoing me. (I do so enjoy being undone, so it works out.)
“Mhmm,” is all I can mumble behind my hand.
And then he shoves his hands up the base of my scalp, gathering up all of my hair in his fist. Oh, Crowley, I will not moan. I will not make this weird.
SIMON
Am I making this weird?
I just –
Baz has, objectively, perfect hair. Ask anyone. (I’m pretty sure Penny would agree.) It’s dark and thick and shiny, and it falls around his face just so. I’ve definitely thought it for ages, even when I was sure we’d end up killing each other. (I’d just resigned myself to the fact that he was going to die with much better looking hair than me.)
Now I don’t just have to look at it. I can inspect it. I can marvel at it. And it’s full of his scent – all cedar and bergamot – when I hold it off his neck.
He seems to be enjoying it immensely, how my hands feel in his hair, so I don’t think I’m making it weird. And the scent of him hits me with a kick in the gut, full of memories and longing, and I’m drawn closer to him.
He draws in a deep breath – I can see how it darkens the hollow at the base of his throat. I don’t feel particularly hungry anymore. (Which ordinarily is cause for concern.)
With his hair gathered in my fist near his scalp, I tug him gently to the right. Baring the side of his neck to me. His lips slightly part just in time for me to spot the tips of his fangs retracting sharply, and he’s quick to pull his lips closed over them.
Eh. I bet I can make him gasp again.
And I do when I press my mouth against the bared curve of his neck. He’s so cold against my lips. (I used to burn hot enough for the both of us.) He draws in a quick breath when I do it again. And raises a hand to lightly cup the side of my head, holding me close. Slowly, he cards his cold fingers into my curls, and I trail my lips up to his jaw. Up to the lobe of his ear. Every inch smells like forest and rain.
“Simon…” he breathes.
I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if he can hear how my heart is pounding.
BAZ
Aleister fucking Crowley.
I will sell whatever is left of my soul if it means Simon Snow will keep kissing me like this.
SIMON
I keep kissing him.
It’s really hard to stop once you start. (Especially when he’s sort of melting against me.) (Seriously, oh my God, could he be any more delicious?)
So, I just keep kissing him. The sharp edge of his jaw. The sandy stubble over his cheek. (He has to shave regularly now, and I’m really trying hard not to be jealous.)
But Baz catches himself as he starts to turn his face to meet my lips. He holds his damn hand over his mouth again.
This again? When will he get it? The fangs are wicked cool. I’m just going to kiss him until he gets it. I’m sliding off the cushions, turning him so I can crawl on top of him between the couch and the coffee table.
“Simon,” he says again, though, annoyingly, not in the same starved gasp I’m after. He’s saying it like he has something he wants to say. (It’s probably about his fangs.) (It’s always his about his fangs.) (Enough about the fangs already.)
“Shut up,” I insist. I’m straddling him, and Baz’s still got his hand over his mouth, the prat.
“My breath’s going to smell like curry!” he exclaims, looking a little wild-eyed as I’m hunched over him.
I can’t help it: I burst out laughing. It's just so unexpected - the absurdity of Baz Pitch worrying about what I'll think of him! The corners of his grey eyes crinkle up as the laugh becomes contagious. It means he’ll let me wrap my fingers around his wrist. Pull his hand away from his mouth.
“I love curry,” I reassure him, bending toward him. (And I really do.) And I cup his face in my hand and kiss him. I’ll kiss him until he sighs against my mouth and pulls at my shoulders. I’ll kiss him til he stops thinking about his fangs and his curry breath.
(Because curry isn’t the only thing I love.) (I’m gonna figure out how to tell him someday.) (I just don’t want to freak him out.)
BAZ
I’m going to pretend that, when he said “I love curry,” it was code for something else.
(Because it really seems – unless I’m delusional and I might be – that he meant me.)
(I hope he means me.)