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Simon
When Madam Bellamy assigned us a “This is Your Life” essay about our roommates, I thought I’d hit the jackpot.
I already know Baz inside out. I thought I could bash this assignment out in a day and be done with it: This is your evil life, Basilton Pitch; full of sacrificial virgins, dark rituals and rats that must taste rank.
I thought I’d slap down a pile of synonyms for the word “evil”, add in the terms “posh, snarky, condescending eyebrow”, throw in whatever the polite word for “twat” is, and call it a day.
Turns out, we actually have to interview each other. Like the, sit in the same room, look each other in the eyes, and ask and answer personal questions kind of interview. We don’t have practice at any of this. Baz never asks me personal questions and he never answers any of my questions at all.
So here we are, both of us sat facing each other on our beds, backs against the wall, empty notebooks in our laps and the Starter Questions sheet mocking our existence: Past Feelings, Present Thoughts, Future Aims. Merlin.
Neither of us have spoken in at least fifteen minutes, but Baz and I never speak to each other when we’re in our room, so it’s not awkward.
What is awkward though is that we seem to be caught up in a staring contest, waiting the other out for who’s going to crack and ask the first question.
I blink, losing the game, again. I’m not sure I’ve seen Baz blink once this whole time. Is he timing his blinks with my own? Is that a vampire thing?
And then it finally occurs to me that maybe I can use this to my advantage. I don’t expect he’ll answer my vampire-specific questions, but maybe he’ll tell me something without meaning to, in the process of not telling me.
“Let’s just get on with it.” I force a sigh, acting like I’m not actually interested in his answers. Throwing him off the scent.
He arches an eyebrow at me. “Fine. I’ll start.”
Of course he wants to start, after fifteen minutes of refusing to engage. I force myself to shrug.
He lifts the paper, scoffs once, flips over to the questions on the back, scoffs again, and then finally asks, “What really makes you angry?”
Is he taking the piss? I look down at the sheet and see that that question really is on there, and he’s not just winding me up on purpose. It still doesn’t change my answer.
“You,” I tell him.
He rolls his eyes at me and writes something in his notebook.
“Want me to elaborate further?” I ask him, just to be a git.
He levels a deadpan expression at me. “No, I think I got it. Thank you.”
I shrug and hunt down the list. “Name one thing you wish you had learned to be better at?”
“I’m exceptional at everything I try, next question.”
I groan. “I’m not trying to step on your huge ego Baz, just answer the question.”
“Ego? I’m a humble person, really. I’m actually much greater than I think I am.”
I throw my hands up in frustration. Why is he always a grade A wanker?
“Just stop being a pretentious git. The quicker we get through the questions, the better.”
“Alright,” he snaps, like I’m the ridiculous one. He sighs and then finally answers my question, teeth gritted as if it’s causing him physical pain. “I wish I were better at doing accents, so I could use them when I read to my siblings.”
I gape at him in response. Well, that was unexpected.
“Close your mouth, Snow. Even evil villains have mutinous siblings to entertain.”
I think he’s joking. I think, if I look hard enough, that I actually see a bit of amusement in his eyes. (Not sadistic amusement, either.) It’s hard to imagine Baz, wrapped up in blankets, reading his siblings a bedtime story. Trying—and failing—to do funny voices for whatever book they’ve chosen that evening. It’s… soft. And kind. And sweet. Three words I would never use to describe Baz. I jot them down in my notebook hesitantly.
“Same to you. What thing does the Miracle of Magic wish he were better at?”
I ignore his jab—he’s clearly overcompensating because he’s just admitted he’s a soppy prat with his siblings.
I go for the obvious, because it’s still the truth. “I wish I was better at controlling my magic.”
“Well you are the worst Chosen One who’s ever been chosen, so that makes sense,” Baz agrees, not even bothering to jot my answer down.
I growl at him. Why does he always go for the lowest fucking blow? I’m trying to be honest here. That’s what the assignment is about. I didn’t mock him.
I spit out a heap of questions in my rage. “What about you, huh? Wish you were better at draining people? How many have you killed? What does blood taste like?”
“How many times were you dropped on your head as an infant?” he snarls back at me.
“This isn’t going to work if you continue being an arsehole!” I’m leaning forward now, shouting as the smell of my magic fills the air.
Baz just cocks his eyebrow at me, as unaffected as usual, save for his narrowed eyes; like he’d love nothing more than to tear me limb from limb. I wish he’d try it. Break the tension that this room feels fucking full of and get himself kicked out once and for all.
“Read the questions from the paper then, Snow.”
We face off for a minute or two, and I seriously consider leaving and faking the answers, the whole assignment. But this should be simple; it should be easy A* marks. And Baz had been… well, open—a minute ago.
It surprises me how much I want to get back there. I want to learn more about him. To learn his secrets. What he’s plotting. I’ve always wanted to know what’s going on inside that brain of his.
So, I take a few deep breaths and pick another question.
“Where’s your favourite place to be?”
Baz thinks for a few moments before saying in a tight, polite tone, “the library at my house.” I begin writing it down but he continues on, addressing me as if I was a stranger. “We have loads of books, more than here. And I like to play the violin there. My siblings aren’t allowed in while they’re still young, so it’s quiet.”
That answer makes more sense to me, from what I know of Baz already. I nod to him once I’ve finished writing.
“What are you most grateful for?” he asks me.
I don’t even have to think. “Watford.”
Baz nods and a few seconds pass by; comfortable for once, in our unfamiliar agreement.
I smile at him, a little tentatively, because it feels right. (It feels incredibly weird, but still right.) Baz blinks rapidly and clears his throat, looking down to write in his notepad. My answer, I assume.
I don’t want it to go back to being awkward—or vicious—so I ask the next question on the list. What are the occupations of your parents?
And on and on we go. And, eventually, Baz drops his formal tone and I lower my hackles. Funniest family story (including his aunt Fiona, a toilet brush and a disgruntled date), favourite holiday memories (beaches and sandcastles, waterfalls and snorkelling), books that we think shaped us (he lets me talk for at least twenty minutes about how much I love The Odyssey).
And deeper questions, about how we grew up.
He tells me about Pitch Manor—which, I’ve got to be honest, sounds terrifying—and I tell him about the care homes I’ve been to, over the summers. He’s shocked by that. I think he thought I went home with the Mage. (I’m not even sure the Mage has a home.) (It wouldn’t surprise me if he just sleeps in the woods. Or his Jeep.)
It gets a bit heated when I try to explain why; that the Mage wants to keep me close to the language, wants me to ‘sharpen my blade’ on my experiences. Baz doesn’t hold his tongue about how he thinks it’s ‘a severe negligence’ for him to be my guardian but not actually guard my safety.
I don’t tell him that the Mage never actually asked to be my legal guardian. I just steer the conversation away.
“Describe an instance where time has made hard things easier,” Baz says. We’ve been at this hours now, I think. My blazer’s gone, and my tie. Baz excused himself to put his snooty pyjamas on at least an hour ago, I reckon.
I try to consider the question, but I don’t really like to think about hard times, so I pick the first thing that comes to mind.
“Agatha and I broke up,” I tell him. “I was upset at first, I guess. Well, confused more than anything. But now it’s fine.”
“Because you’re back together.” It’s a statement, I think, not a question. So I correct him.
“Na, it’s over. For good. I’m just. Well. Not as bothered as I thought I’d be,” I say, surprised that it’s the truth. “There’s too many other things fighting for space in my head.” I shrug. “I’ve got too much on my plate.”
Baz actually laughs at that. A full-bodied, shoulder-shaking, snorting laugh. It’s more shocking than anything else and I grin at him involuntarily.
“Maybe that should be the title of my essay,” he laughs, “Simon Snow: Too Much On His Plate.”
I join in laughing too, then. It’s nice, Baz laughing with me, not at me. I didn’t think it possible, let alone easy. But it has been. Easy, I mean. That surprises me, too.
This Baz—the Baz I’ve seen this afternoon—it doesn’t match up with the Baz I’m used to; the Baz in my head. The Baz I was originally going to write this assignment about.
Maybe now that he’s relaxed, he’ll be more likely to answer my other questions. There’s one on the sheet that I’ve been saving. It’s perfect for this…
I ask, “What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”
“Pass.”
“You can’t pass—”
“I just did.”
“—these are the assignment questions!”
“I’m not answering that, Snow.”
He looks firm on it, and actually a little shaken. And then I think of how his mum was murdered and how it could be something to do with that. And then I think of how he looked a few minutes ago, laughing and happy. Laughing with me.
So, for once, I don’t push.
“Fine,” I agree, “we get one pass. That’s it.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Okay, enough about the past,” Baz says, but he doesn’t look happy as he reads over the Future Aims sections. “The only ones left sound like a vapid interview questionnaire.” He sighs. “Alright. Where do you see yourself in five years?”
That one’s easy.
“I don’t,” I answer.
“What?” His brow is cocked but it’s not condescending—this time—he just looks confused. As if he’s all-of-a-sudden forgotten every threat he’s made for finishing me off when the great battle rolls around. We’ve one more year left at school—I doubt the battle’ll take another five.
“I don’t see myself anywhere. It hurts to think about things I can’t change. So I don’t.”
“You’re in control of your future, Snow.”
“Not really.” I shrug. “The final battle will happen before then, and I’ll have to fight in it. It’ll probably kill me, if some dark creature doesn’t first. What’s the point in thinking about that? I’d drive myself mad.”
“So you… don’t think.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but I continue on anyway.
It’s weird how easy it is to talk to Baz about this, too. I suppose it’s because he sort’ve gets it, he must do. His family want him to fight, too.
“I make lists of things not to think about, and the future is definitely on all of them.”
He nods, a little solemnly, and goes to write in his book—but stops before his pen hits the page, looking back up at me. The silence stretches on for a long moment before he asks, “Am I on your list?”
It shocks a laugh out of me, and Baz cracks a smile, too. It makes his face look softer, younger, and I immediately know the answer to his question.
“Fat chance,” I tell him, still laughing, “trying not to think about you.”
His brow furrows a little and I worry I’ve said something wrong, that I’ll break this weird question-limbo we’ve been sitting in, so I fumble on.
“You’re just. You– you take up a lot of space.”
That’s not really what I mean either. I can’t explain it, how Baz crawls underneath my skin, settles himself in my brain, sneering and snarling to make sure my every waking thought is about him. He feels like an elephant standing on my bloody chest somedays, but I can’t exactly tell him that. He’d think I’m a madman. (He already does think that, and I don’t want to give him more fuel for the fire.)
I can tell Baz is watching me intently, but I pull at my hair and wait for my red hot face to cool down before I feel like I can look at him properly. It does nothing to soothe the weird jittering I’m feeling when I do though; if anything, it makes it worse.
Merlin.
Baz finally looks down and begins writing—how he’s going to make sense of that I don’t know—so I ask another question to fill the silence.
“Who was your childhood hero?”
Baz freezes with his pen still on the page, fingers tightening on it dangerously. I panic a little; I don’t understand what’s happening, and I don’t want to dry up whatever has managed to douse our hostility.
“Er,” I start, trying to think of something useful to say, but Baz interrupts.
“My mother,” he says, eyes still downcast on his notebook. He clears his throat and continues. “I don’t remember her much, but.”
I wait a little but he doesn’t continue, so I just write that down. It’s his turn to ask the next question, but I don’t want to rush him. He looks… well. He looks sad. I never had a mum, but that doesn’t mean I can’t understand how much it would hurt to lose one.
“She loved you,” I say, because it seems right and because I’m certain that it’s true. Baz is practically perfect—how could a parent not love him?
“She loved what I was,” he mumbles. I don’t think he meant me to hear, but I’m always listening hard to Baz, so I did.
“How did she die?” It’s not on the list but I think it’s an important question, given the assignment.
“The vampires.” He’s quiet, but I can still hear him. “They attacked Watford, and she died protecting us.”
I already knew that, it’s common knowledge. I don’t know what else I was hoping for.
Maybe I’m still waiting for him to admit that he was Turned that day. That he’s a vampire, too. I won’t write that into my assignment, if he does admit it. I’m surprised at that thought, but I know it’s true. I don’t think I could imagine Baz—this Baz, that I’m learning about today—ever hurting a person. Maybe it really is just the rats.
“Were there any other casualties?” I prompt.
“No, my mother saved everyone.”
“But the vampires died, right?”
He looks up at me then with an expression that says, figuring out what’s wrong with you is something I’ll never have enough time for. “Vampires are already dead, Snow.”
“You’re not dead,” I counter, before I can think to stop myself.
He curls his lip at me. “We’re done here.”
“Baz,” I groan, throwing my head back and smacking it a little on the wall. I rub at the back of my skull and say, “We both know I know. Stop pretending.”
He shakes his head. I’ve never seen him look so unsure.
“Just tell me,” I urge. “Baz, you’re a vampire, I already know—”
“We’re done with the questions,” he interrupts peevishly, shuffling off his bed, beginning to stand.
I lean forward and grab his wrist. It’s a question without words: stay with me?
He stares at it. (We never touch each other anymore, not if we can help it.) (Not since we stopped fistfighting in fourth year.)
Once I’m sure he’s not going to leave—that his answer is yes, I’ll stay—I let go and hold my hands up in a gesture of surrender.
It takes a few minutes, but Baz settles back onto his bed, against the wall like before. He doesn’t look at me; it seems he’s gone back to being closed off. Maybe I pushed too far, this time. (I’ve said worse, before—but not like this. Not when we weren’t fighting…) (Not while he was vulnerable.) (Merlin, Baz Pitch, vulnerable. I’m getting all sorts of answers I didn’t expect today.)
Or maybe he’s just ashamed. He doesn’t need to be; it’s not like I didn’t already know he’s a vampire. But I guess me knowing is different from him actually admitting it. That makes it real, doesn’t it?
It wouldn’t actually change anything. I’ve had years to get used to the idea.
He looks upset, though, and I don’t like it. Maybe that’s the reason I stand up and cross the—admittedly tiny—distance between our beds and sit down on the edge of his.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice thicker with emotion than I’ve ever heard it.
He’s not asking me to move, though, so I crawl across the bed until I’m propped up next to him.
“I don’t care that you’re a vampire. And I’m not afraid of you, Baz. I’m not.”
He looks at me incredulously. And even through his watery expression he still manages to look pompous.
“That’s because you’re a moron. I’m a dark creature, Snow.”
Figures that when he finally—almost—admits it, it would be wrapped up in an insult at me.
“Can hardly call yourself dark when you drink animal blood. I eat animals all the time, don’t think I’m half dark-creature, do you?”
“What you are is a nightmare, Snow.”
I shrug.
It’s quiet for a bit and then Baz finally says, “I’ll answer the question.”
“What question?”
“The one I passed on.”
I don’t say anything. Because I don’t know what to say. Because all I know is that I want him to keep opening up to me.
He whispers, “I drained our family dog.” He’s staring at his duvet, and I watch as tears slide down his cheeks. “When I was fifteen.” He’s shaking and I sit up a little, my hand hovering uselessly near his shoulder.
His voice breaks when he says, “My parents didn’t even say anything,” and I finally thread my arm over his shoulders, pulling him into my side. He’s cold. I knew he would be, and I thought I’d hate it, but I don’t. It’s soothing.
There’s a lot of things I thought I hated about Baz, but today has been properly educational, hasn’t it?
Some things are the same. He’s still arrogant, poncy. He’s still bloody perfect. He’s still a vampire, but he's not a monster. He’s just a boy, in all honesty. I mean, sure, he’s been dealt a shit hand, but he’s a boy all the same.
He sniffles a little and presses the palm furthest away from me into his face, chin falling to his chest as he cries harder. I don’t really know what to do, so I squeeze him a little tighter, hoping that helps. (How much help can your sworn nemesis be though, really?)
Are we still sworn nemeses?
I don’t think people with that title comfort each other or sit on each other’s beds.
I still hate him, though.
I hate his posh soap that lingers in the room day and night, and his posh clothes that are always perfect; that he looks perfect while he’s prancing around the school in them.
I hate how he’s always watching me, poking and making me nervous and winding me up and filling my stomach with rage.
The way he’s a bloody smart arse and loves to rub in how good he is at everything. But it’s important to him. And I think he wants to make his mum proud.
His mouth, usually sneering and sharp. But I think I like it, when it’s smiling at me, and telling me stories of seaside ice cream instead of slicing me up like barbed wire.
His hair, usually slicked back, perfectly composed like the rest of him. But now it’s coming loose, falling across his cheekbones. It looks silky; it makes me wonder if it feels the same.
I lift my arm and run my fingers through it. Baz stiffens a little, but by the third stroke he relaxes back into me. He seems to be enjoying it—and it really is silky—so I don’t stop.
And, as I’m sat there, basically petting his head like he’s a dog while he cries semi-silently into his hand, I realise that I don’t hate him. Not at all. And suddenly I know the answer to an entirely different question, one that I haven’t let myself consider before.
“Baz,” I start, not entirely sure where I’m going with it, just that I want him to stop crying. He doesn’t look at me, though, so I grab his wrist and try to pull his hand away from his face. “Baz.”
He huffs a little but eventually gives in, dropping his arm and turning to look at me. I don’t let go of his wrist. “What, Snow? Just get off my bed and let me wallow in peace.” His voice is all wrong. It’s wet and sad, just like his face, and I just want him to stop crying and stop saying these things.
“Simon—“
I lean forward and kiss him. It’s quick, a soft press of my lips to his, salty from the tears, and cold like the rest of him. But he gasps my name again, as I pull back—my real name—and it floods my chest, urging me to press my lips to his again. I have to do that. And this time, he kisses me back.
This, I think. My hands in his hair, his hands on my waist, my face, my back. This feels like the answer. An answer, at least.
This whole thing has definitely raised more questions than it’s solved. But I can’t help feeling like I asked the most important ones when I leaned in, and he answered them, when he kissed me back.
I might not know where I want to be in five years—what a ridiculous question—but I think I want Baz there, with me. I know I want us both to be alive, to be near each other.
We pull back after a while, once his tears have dried and our lips are sore. I wrap my arm back around him, dragging us down until we’re sharing his pillow; hair, arms, legs and feet all tangled together.
I brush a strand of hair behind his ear. His eyes are still a little red-rimmed, although he’s smiling; softly, hesitantly, as if I might actually be making the great Baz Pitch nervous. (It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.)
“I really like you, Baz. You’re incredible,” I can’t stop myself from saying. It’s embarrassing, to be honest, but I’ve done thousands of embarrassing things around Baz over the years and he still kissed me back, so I try to push it down.
“What I am is a corpse clinging to life, Snow.”
I furrow my eyebrows at him, working up to tell him just how wrong he is when he smiles and interrupts me with a kiss.
“I’m joking, I don’t really think that,” he says against my lips. But after what he told me earlier, and then how he cried, I’m not sure I believe him.
“It’s not funny, Baz.”
He rolls onto his back, face turned to the ceiling. He slides his hand down my arm and takes hold of my own, giving it a squeeze. I let my eyes wander over the side of his face, wondering how I just didn’t see it sooner; how beautiful he is.
Well, I suppose I did see it, I just didn’t understand what that meant for me. I didn’t understand that this was even an option for me.
“You could have told me, you know?” I say. “That you were into me.”
He rolls his head towards me on the pillow, fixing me with a stare that tells me just how ridiculous he finds me. “No. I couldn’t have.”
No. He couldn’t have. I’d have thought it a plot somehow, no doubt about that.
“So you didn’t mean any of it, then?” I smile a little, letting him know that I’m (only sort of) joking. “The insults.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Snow. You are pretty moronic,” he tells me, reaching up to brush some of my curls back from my face, eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them.
He could spit fifteen purposefully distracting insults at me and I’d take them all gladly, if it meant that he’d feel comfortable enough to keep looking at me like that.