Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Simon is sick of Watford. In all the years he’s been here, he never once thought he’d admit something like that—even if it is just to himself, and he wouldn’t actually say it out loud—but… he supposes it’s fair to think it now. 

Reliving the same bloody day a million times must do that to a person. And, okay, so it probably hasn’t been that long—he stopped trying to keep track after the twentieth repeat—but the point still stands. Coming to the conclusion that he hates the sight of Watford, hates everything about it, isn’t that bad, all things considered. 

It could be worse. He could have gone well and truly mental, but he hasn’t yet, so. Silver linings and whatnot. 

Simon rolls over, his face pressed uncomfortably into his pillow, and lets out a deep sigh. The sun is streaming through the open window. The room is empty and quiet. When he eventually musters the energy to get out of bed, he doesn’t step on salt and vinegar crisp crumbs. 

It’s like this every fucking day. And it’s getting tiring. 

The worst part of it, he thinks, is that at first he enjoyed all this: the solitude, the not-having-Baz-around, the opportunity to explore the grounds and do whatever the fuck he wants without any consequences. But it’s all just so… meaningless, now. He’s already done everything; there isn’t anything that could possibly be new or exciting. 

Simon’s tried to kill a merwolf (it didn’t go well, thank fuck his injuries don’t last) and sneak into the Cloisters (no spell worked for that) and map out the Catacombs (to no avail; everything he writes down just disappears when the day resets), but that was so long ago, he can’t even remember how many days have passed since. 

(The only thing he hasn’t done is talk to Ebb, because he knows he’d end up having a breakdown and sounding like a complete lunatic. And he isn’t quite ready to cross that line.) 

Honestly, it’s just… well, lonely. And this is another thing he’d never admit, but he kind of misses the crumbs on the floor, and being able to eat buttered toast that doesn’t get cold (he can’t do the spell himself), and passing other people when he walks on the Lawn. 

Crowley, he can’t even find it in himself to get enjoyment from having the curtains open anymore—it’s just another sad reminder that this day is never going to end, and Baz will never snap at him about it again, and there’s no bloody point to anything. 

Well—at least, Simon thinks, there are probably worse places to be stuck in during a time loop. A care home, for instance. Or—or Agatha’s house, that’d be awful. That’s the only thing that keeps him going sometimes: imagining what this would be like if he was at the Wellbelove manor, sitting through the same endless, awkward dinner, having to put up pretenses. 

Today, just like he’s been doing every day for the past however-the-fuck long, Simon takes a shower before heading down to grab breakfast. He’s been doing that ever since the realization hit him that he could, now that Baz isn’t here to snipe about it.

(Every time he does, though, he hopes to find Baz waiting outside the bathroom, sneering, because that would mean it’s a new day. And, Crowley, he wants nothing more.) 

And then, once he’s used up all the hot water—he can do that, since there’s literally no one else who needs it—and spent a ridiculously long time air-drying on the toilet (Baz hates that, too, always starts banging on the door), he breaks into the kitchen and fixes himself a meagre plate. 

(He forgot to ask Cook Pritchard for the key before the break started, but it’s no issue. He simply learned how to pick the lock.) 

Like always, it’s toast and stale, leftover scones and orange juice. There are some sausages too, but he burnt them so badly that they were inedible when he tried to cook them, and he hasn’t bothered to attempt it again. If Baz were here, he’d say it’s pathetic. 

(It is, though. Obviously.)

Over the course of these insufferable resets, Simon’s built a nice, safe routine. Eventually, when doing stupid shit and going on little adventures stopped being fun, he figured that, maybe, what he needed was to just… go through the motions. It seemed like a good idea: act out a normal day, do predictable things, and sooner or later, the resets would end. Everything would be just as it was. Simon hoped that would be all it took to break the cycle. 

This has to be over at some point, right? Maybe the universe just needs to catch up or something. 

(That’s what Simon tells himself. He repeats it like a mantra, until he falls asleep, and then repeats it again and again.) 

But it’s been like this for a while, and now the routine’s grating on his nerves. It used to be a bit comforting, not having to really think about what he’d do that day. Shower, sad breakfast, sad walk through the Wood, sad lunch, and so on. Occasionally, he’ll hit up the library, but he never finds anything he hasn’t read before. 

Anyway, Simon feels a little weird doing that without Penny and Baz. It isn’t right to work on the Watford Tragedy all alone—he did, once, but he felt so guilty the entire time, like they were about to barge in and demand to know why he hasn’t involved them, that he dropped it immediately. 

And every day, no matter what he’s doing at the time, Simon finds himself back in bed at midnight on the dot, staring at the same bloody ceiling as his alarm clock rings like a fucking herald of doom. 

Simon’s in the middle of his third toast when he gets the—probably terrible—idea to leave. Just… leave. He could hop on any bloody train and go wherever the fuck, he’s not picky. As long as it’s not here. As long as he doesn’t have to spend one more fucking day wandering through these empty halls—anywhere would be preferable. Hell, he might even stop by Agatha’s, if he feels like it. 

Actually, this might be the greatest idea he’s had since this fiasco started. Maybe the only way to break the time loop is to get out of Watford; maybe it’s tied to the school, like a cursed magical object. Maybe this magic—it is magic, it has to be magic—can’t extend beyond the grounds. 

Simon’s half-eaten toast drops onto the floor, and he doesn’t bother picking it up. 

The realization hits him like a blast of cold water: this could solve all his problems. This could be how he finally breaks free from this never-fucking-ending day. 

It’s bloody brilliant. How has he never thought of this before? 

Simon jumps off the seat so suddenly that he nearly trips over it, stumbling to catch himself on the table. He still has some food left on his plate, but he can’t find it in himself to care about that—besides for the one scone he shoves in his mouth on his way out. It feels so unimportant, now that he has a way to potentially end this. Everything seems inconsequential in comparison. 

It’s chilly out, like it always is—just enough to make Simon’s breath come out in puffs of white air, but not enough for him to need a coat. It’s a good thing he runs hot, because he only realizes he forgot it in his room anyway when he’s already at the station. 

Okay. He’s doing this. He’s going to—he’s really about to leave. Just fuck off to wherever and hope it works out. 

Luckily, Simon had some spare change shoved at the back of his wardrobe, saved up from the summer. He’d just barely remembered to grab it before leaving Watford—he’d been halfway out the door when he realized he wouldn’t be able to actually get anywhere without it.  

It’s barely enough money to get a train ticket, let alone anything to eat, but he’ll make do. Worst case scenario, he’ll magic some more up with that spell Penny told him about. 

Well. He’ll try.  

Someone bumps into Simon, startling him out of his train of thought, and he picks up his pace, hurrying over to the ticket counter with his hands shoved in his pockets. 

“One ticket, please,” he says. “Just for the next train. I don’t care where it’s going.” 

And when he gets on the train to Crowley-knows-where, nestled between a stranger (a stranger!) and a fogged-up window, Simon finds himself smiling. Finally, something new. Something he hasn’t done a million times before. Something wonderfully unpredictable. 

The train lurches to a loud start, and Simon lets out a breath of relief. 

Simon wakes up in a panic. He’s not in his room, like he always is; he’s somewhere else, somewhere darker and smaller, and his legs feel cramped. He reaches a hand out, and it’s only when he accidentally hits the person sitting next to him that he remembers—embarrassingly belated—he’s on a train. This is already a great start: he’s made it this far, and he even managed to catch some sleep without triggering a reset. Maybe his plan did work, then.

Simon stretches and rubs his bleary eyes. They’ve reached their destination; he can see people spilling out onto the platform, slowly emptying the car. He still doesn’t know where he is; he didn’t look at the ticket before he left Watford. It doesn’t even matter, really, as long as it’s far away. 

He waits until the crowds dissipate before heading out, and then he looks around, trying to catch a glimpse of something that might— 

Right there, on a massive blue sign, it says: Winchester. 

Of fucking course. This is just Simon’s luck; he doesn’t bother to check where he’s going, and now he’s in bloody Hampshire. Where Baz lives. Where the entire Pitch family probably lives. Out of all the places he could’ve gone… 

Well, just because Baz lives in the vicinity doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll run into each other. Hopefully not. This day has already been going better than it usually does—there’s no need to ruin it. 

It’s not that Simon hates Baz’s company, is the thing. He’d never admit it, not even to Penny, but it’s kind of nice, actually, to spend time with him when they’re not actively being enemies. Baz is pretty funny, occasionally, and he’s a lot kinder than he lets on. 

It’s—Simon wouldn’t say they’re friends, per se. Just friendlier . 

The only reason he doesn’t want to see Baz right now is because they fought on the last day before the break. Which isn’t really anything new—it had felt strangely familiar, to get into a stupid argument—but he’s had a lot of time to think about it, and now he feels a little bad about turning down Baz’s offer. 

(It has nothing to do with the fact that, maybe, perhaps, if he’d gone to Hampshire instead of staying at Watford, he wouldn’t have gotten stuck in this time loop.) 

Baz had been genuine, Simon thinks. The more he ponders it—and he’s spent countless hours mulling over their conversation; there’s not much else for him to do—the more he’s convinced that Baz had wanted him to come over. Like, as a not-exactly-enemy. He’d asked, and Simon had said no, and now he wishes he hadn’t done that. 

At the very least, it would’ve meant not spending every day by himself. Watford is so, so empty. Baz’s place must be nearly as big, but there are other people filling that space. He wouldn’t have had to be so fucking alone. 

Simon lets out a sigh. There’s nothing he can do about that now; there’s no point getting all sullen. It won’t help anything. 

He passes a café in the station, but he doesn’t stop to grab lunch. He’ll buy something in the city, maybe, if he still has enough money. Even if it’s just a bag of crisps—he’d literally take whatever he can get, because whatever it is won’t be stale leftovers from the Watford kitchen, and just the mere thought of something slightly fresher makes his mouth water. 

Hopefully there’s a McDonald’s nearby. Or a Pret. Or, like, a vending machine. 

Simon’s never actually been to Winchester before—or anywhere in Hampshire, for that matter. He’s never had a care home here, and he’s never travelled unless the Mage needed him to. It's probably a good thing he's never had to spend a summer here; he would've gone insane, knowing that Baz was so close, plotting away, and not being able to do anything about it. It would've driven him mental. 

And actually, how hasn't Simon considered that yet? That this whole predicament is just another one of his plots. This could all theoretically be Baz's fault. He could have caused this whole time loop to mess with Simon. Annoy him for eternity. It does seem like something that prick would— 

No. Who's he kidding? Baz wouldn't do this. He'd have no way to make fun of him. And anyway, he couldn't possibly create something like this even if he wanted to. The magic must be insanely powerful, far beyond what Baz is capable of. 

Simon kicks a pebble on the ground, hands jammed as far as they go in his pockets and shoes scuffing the pavement. It's a bit of a bummer, honestly. If it were reasonable to assume that Baz is responsible for his shitty situation, at least trying to get him back would give him something to do. 

Now he's just back exactly where he's been for the past million bloody days: so sick of the loop that he thinks he might snap and kill something. 

The only good thing about this—because as nice as it is to be out of Watford, being in Winchester is decidedly not nice—is that everything in the city is new. The streets aren't familiar; he hasn't walked down them before, hasn't worn the soles of his shoes beating the same tired path. It's like—it's like finally getting a breath of fresh air after being cooped indoors for so long. 

Having a place to explore that he doesn’t already know as well as the back of his own hand will get him out of his rut. It has to do that, if nothing else. And if it doesn’t solve the time-loop-issue, then he’ll just do it again—he’ll take every single train that leaves Watford today, over and over, until he’s gone everywhere he possibly can. And then… 

Simon shakes his head, pushing away that particular thought. It’s a little depressing to think of being stuck in these resets for so long that he’d have time for all that. He doesn’t want to waste the entire day being gloomy; he could’ve stayed back at school to do that, there was no need to come out here.  

He finds himself on a busy street lined with restaurants and shops—all old, stone buildings, like a less grand version of Watford. There's an ice cream parlour and a pub and what might be a bookstore, and a church spire in the distance. It's kind of picturesque, really. 

Maybe, if he ever gets out of this loop, and if he survives the year, he'll come back. He'll bring Penny, and Agatha, if they're still friends, and— 

Baz. 

Simon freezes, eyes wide, doesn't even budge when a harried man jostled him. He blinks once, twice, but it doesn't help—he's not imagining this. He's not mistaking anyone. It's definitely Baz, and what must be his family, leaving a café down the street. 

Simon would know him anywhere: that sharp profile, that sleek black hair, that ridiculously expensive coat. 

It's Baz. For fuck's sake. 

Well, at least he hasn’t seen Simon yet; he’s too busy helping his sister zip up her jacket. It’d be easy to just slip around the corner and blend— 

Baz is staring at him, hands curled into fists at his side, already sneering. Shit. And now he’s stalking over, looking far angrier than Simon’s ever seen him—which is saying something, because Baz always looks somewhat pissed—and it’s too late for Simon to turn around or pretend he didn’t see him without making a complete fool of himself. 

“I—” Simon starts, not entirely sure what he’s even trying to say. 

He’s cut off by Baz fisting a hand in his jumper, hauling him into the nearest alleyway, and slamming him against the wall with a dull thud. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Baz spits. 

He’s fuming. His hand is trembling, ever so slightly, and he’s looking at Simon like he’s prey: eyes hard and cold, snarling, the barest hint of sharp teeth. 

Simon tips his head back and swallows. He tries to push Baz off, but his grip is too strong. “None of your business,” he says, hoping to match the venom in Baz’s voice. 

Baz slams him into the wall again and sneers. “It bloody well is, Snow. Because I’ve lived this day a thousand fucking times, and never, not once, have I seen you.” He yanks Simon forward by his jumper—and they’re so close now that Simon can see every dark streak in the grey of his eyes. “So let me ask this again: Why. The fuck. Are. You. Here?”

Simon feels like his brain’s short-circuited. What does…? There’s no way Baz meant—he couldn’t have. He couldn’t. It’d be—it’s—shit. 

Slowly, not sure he heard right, he says, “You’ve been reliving this day too?”

For a long, torturous moment, Baz doesn’t reply. He just keeps staring at Simon. And then he sighs, low and exasperated. “What do you mean, too? ” 

This is the worst possible thing that could happen. 

“I mean—” 

“You’re fucking with me,” Baz interrupts. He hasn’t let go of Simon’s jumper yet. A lock of hair falls into his eyes, and he doesn’t bother pushing it aside. 

Simon lets out a huff. “No, I’m not. Why would I do that?” Baz opens his mouth to answer. “Shut up. What I mean is—can you just let me go, for fuck’s sake?” 

Baz glares at him, but he does drop his hand. 

"Look," Simon continues, averting his gaze to a spot just above Baz's shoulder and smoothing out the folds in his jumper, "I've been reliving today, just like you. I don't know—" 

"Oh, fuck off," Baz snaps. "Crowley, Snow. Fucking—" He pauses, pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out a huff. "This… this is cruel. What a sick fucking joke."

Simon frowns. "Well, it's not been easy for me either." 

Baz is pacing now, absent-mindedly running a hand through his hair and messing it up, but he stops as soon as Simon talks. He whips his head up to glare at him again, eyes narrowed and lips set in a harsh sneer, and jabs a finger at Simon's chest. 

"No," he says, and it comes out more like a growl. "No, you know what—as if it hasn't been difficult enough to spend all this time with my fucking father, now I find out that I'm stuck with you, too. Of all the people in the world. Fuck off." 

"Shut up," Simon grunts. "You think I like this any more than you do?" 

Baz ignores him. He just goes back to his irritating pacing and mumbles, under his breath, like he doesn't intend for Simon to hear, "What have I ever done to deserve this?" 

And that's what it takes for Simon to snap. He hadn't intended to get mad, didn't want to start yelling at Baz, not when things between them were already so tense, but fuck that. If Baz is going to snipe at him, then there's no reason for him not to do the same. 

"What did you do to deserve this?" Simon echoes, mustering as much sarcasm as he can. "Oh, I don't know, maybe just by being a shit roommate? And an even shittier person, in general?" 

Baz scoffs at him, but he doesn't reply. He keeps clenching and unclenching his hands, though, like he's trying to hold himself back. Simon kind of wishes he wouldn't. He's never been as good at this, at the arguments, as Baz has; it'd be a lot easier and quicker if they just fought. There's no Roommate's Anathema to stop them. Maybe he'd be able to break Baz's nose a second time. Or maybe Baz will bash his head into the wall. Either way, it'd be preferable to this. To the pacing and the glaring and the words. 

"You think I deserve this, then, do you?" Simon asks. 

Baz shrugs. "Probably," he replies. "You're always getting into stupid shit, Snow. This wouldn't be the first time. It's just my fucking luck that I got drawn into it." 

Simon really, really wants to punch him, but he doesn't. "Oh, fuck you, Baz. This is not my fault, I didn't do anything to—" 

"You must have," Baz snarls. For a moment, Simon thinks he's going to hit him, but he jerks his hand away and kicks the wall instead. "Because no one else is enough of a moron." 

"I—" Simon stops, his breaths rapid and shallow, and shakes his head. He can feel his magic simmering, building up, but he can't go off now. He has to control it. "I didn't—if you weren't being such a prick—" 

"I'm being a prick?" Baz scoffs. "I'm not the one who got someone else stuck in this fucking mess." 

That's unfair. It's so uncalled for. How was Simon—there was no way he could've known. He never even considered the possibility that this could affect other people. How would it have occurred to him? 

"That's not fair," Simon says, so quiet that it's barely above a whisper. His hands are shaking. He can't stop it. "I didn't know, Baz."

Something he can't quite pinpoint flashes in Baz's eyes, and for a split second, it almost seems like he might actually attack. But he just… steps back. His shoulders drop. 

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Baz replies. He looks tired, mostly, now that he isn't slamming Simon into the wall. "You never know."

"I—" Simon doesn't really know what to say. He can't think, not beyond the anger boiling in his veins and the need to just let it out and—and— "Fuck you." 

Baz laughs humorlessly. "Learned to use your words, have you?" 

Simon balls his hand into a fist, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. But before he can even think to swing a punch, Baz hauls him forward by his jumper again and says, "Just sod off, Snow. I don't need you here, making this worse."

He sneers, lip curled up so high that Simon can see the sharp point of his canine, and then pushes him back and leaves the alleyway. Simon watches him go until he reaches his family, and then it feels too weird to keep track. He's almost certain that Baz turns to look at him, but he ducks his head before he can catch his gaze. 

Whatever. Let Baz be this way if he wants. It's not like Simon needs him, or anything. It's not like he'd even want Baz's company. Honestly— 

Fuck Baz. 

Simon goes back to Watford as soon as he grabs lunch, and then he absolutely does not spend the rest of the day in bed. He’s not sulking. He definitely, positively, is not. That’d be ridiculous. He’s just—he’s just mad, is all. At Baz, and his stupid fucking face and his stupid fucking coat and that they’re stuck in this loop together. 

Baz was right. Out of all the people in the entire world. This really is a sick joke. 

Another day passes. Maybe two. Simon can’t muster the energy to do anything, besides grab some toast for breakfast. He keeps thinking of Baz and what he’d said, and he hates it, because—the thing is, the problem is, he isn’t even pissed at Baz anymore, not really. It was just—it had been so nice to talk to someone else. To find out he’s not entirely alone in this, even if the fact that it’s Baz he has for company isn’t exactly comforting. 

Simon lies under the covers, watching the light fall on Baz’s empty bed, and he hates it, because he can’t stop wishing that Baz were here. 

Fuck Baz. Fuck him for being so far away and still ruining Simon’s life. 

Simon doesn’t need him. He’s just fine on his own; he’s managed so far. Baz can fuck right off.

Chapter Text

The first thing Simon does, after pulling on the first trousers and shirt he finds on the floor, is rush out to catch the earliest train to Winchester. He even skips breakfast, and he only realizes that that probably wasn’t a good idea when his stomach starts rumbling halfway through the journey. He doesn’t have any leftover change—he dropped some coins when he was getting his ticket, and he was too preoccupied to bother picking them up. There are more important things on his mind. Namely: the knowledge that Baz is just… out there, going through the same thing. That neither of them has to be alone. 

He spends the entire ride hoping that Baz won’t push him away again, but nothing he does helps ease the gnawing feeling that they’ll just end up arguing, and he’ll storm off, and he’ll have to spend the rest of this shitty loop pissed at Baz. And by the time he gets to the station, he’s so worried that this will go exactly as it did before that he almost doesn’t get off the train. But Simon’s never really been one to back off from anything, and he certainly isn’t going to start now. So he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and wills himself off the train.

He doesn’t entirely know how he gets to the café, though. He’s pretty sure his feet carried him there against his will—he kept deciding to head back to Watford and changing his mind, stomach rolling with nerves, always on the brink of turning tail. He can’t recall the way; it’s like he was on the platform one minute, and now he’s suddenly hovering by the door, hand awkwardly outstretched towards the handle.  

This isn’t a good idea. But it’s also not a bad one, necessarily. It’s just—it’s the only reasonably sane option he has left. At the very least, even if Baz does turn him down or beat him up or whatever, he’ll have tried. He can live with that. 

Simon closes his eyes for a second, focuses on his breaths and what he wants to say, and steps inside. The door closes softly behind him with a jingle, and he instinctively freezes, expecting everyone to look up at him.

(It’s happened before. Often, really. Every time he comes back to school from wherever the Mage sends him, bloodied and bruised. Last year, after the debacle with the Humdrum.) 

But no one seems to notice—except for Baz, of fucking course, who glances up once, twice, before he finally meets Simon’s gaze. He’d been smiling—small and reserved, but still—when Simon first noticed him, seated at a round table with his family, mixing sugar into his drink. 

He’s frowning now, eyes narrowed. 

Simon kind of wishes he could just leave the café and pretend he never even came here, but it’s too late for that. Baz has already seen him, and now he’s excusing himself from the table and making his way over, hands stuffed in his pockets, languid but no less menacing. 

“I thought,” Baz drawls, “that I already told you to fuck off.” 

He sounds bored. Like he has a million other things he’d rather be doing, a million other people he’d rather be talking to. 

Simon huffs. “Yeah, and clearly I don’t give a shit.” He ignores Baz’s eyeroll and continues. “Look, can we talk? I’ve been thinking, and—”

Baz raises an eyebrow, his lips quirked up in a smug smirk. “Oh, good for you. I didn’t know you could.” 

“Can you just fucking listen, for once in your life?” Simon snaps. He has to grit his teeth to stop himself from decking Baz right here and now. “Look, it’s just—we’re already on a truce, right?”   

He pauses, expecting Baz to say something snarky again, but he doesn’t. He just keeps looking at him with that stupid cocked eyebrow and ridiculous half-grin, oddly quiet. And then he sighs and gestures for Simon to go on. 

It takes Simon another moment to gather his thoughts again. Baz’s silence caught him off-guard. “Uh, anyway,” he says, “and we’re already solving your mum’s—” 

He’s cut off by Baz grabbing his arm and dragging him, a little forcefully, out the door. He opens his mouth to argue, but Baz just gives him a look and nods at the window. The man at his table—broad, imposing, white-haired—is watching them with a distasteful frown. That must be Baz’s dad. 

“Right,” Simon says, shifting so that he can’t see him, “sorry, I know this is a secret.”

Baz glances back at the door, his expression indecipherable. When he turns to Simon again, he crosses his arms and lets out a sigh. “What’s your point, Snow?” 

This is it. This is what he came here to say, what he’s been rehearsing for hours (days). He’s gone over it so much, the words are ingrained. He just needs to… get it out. He’s come this far.

“We might as well work together now,” Simon blurts. He pauses, fidgets with the hem of his shirt, swallows; Baz follows the movement, teeth bared. “To solve… this. The, er, time loop. We could figure it out, y’know.” 

Baz blinks at him, like he’s bored. “Solve it,” he repeats.     

Simon clenches his jaw, draws himself up to his full height—which doesn’t help much, because Baz is still taller, but it’s better than his other two options: storming off or hitting Baz. “Yeah.” 

He hates the way Baz is looking at him, hates the way it makes him feel like he has to defend his idea, like he's in the wrong for wanting them to work together. He hates the way Baz lights a cigarette, like he isn't fucking flammable, like Simon has all the time in the world to wait for an answer. He just paces slowly, mouth turned down in that stupid natural pout, hair falling into his eyes. He doesn't have it slicked back the way he does at school, Simon realizes. It's nicer like this. 

"All right," Baz says eventually. 

And—that isn't what Simon had anticipated at all. He'd been running through all the things he could say once Baz turned him down, repeating all the arguments he'd thought of on the train, taking deep breaths so he wouldn't go off. 

He never actually expected Baz to agree. Not so easily, anyway. Not so quickly. 

"What?" Simon says. Maybe he didn't hear right. 

Baz glances up at him and takes a drag of his cigarette. "All right, Snow. We can work together." 

"O-oh," Simon stutters. "That's—" He averts his gaze to avoid Baz's eye, and then he notices his trousers: dark, expensive-looking, snug. "Baz, you're—you're wearing jeans." 

Baz cocks an eyebrow. "Yeah, what else would I wear?" 

He's resting all his weight on one foot, one hand on his hip, right where his jeans accentuate the curve of his waist. Simon has to forcefully tear his gaze away. It's not that it's—it's just—he didn't even know Baz owned jeans. He always imagined Baz wearing three-piece suits in his spare time, or like, some posh dressing gown. A velvet one, with a cursive monogram and matching slippers. Never jeans. Especially not ones like these, form-fitting and—and…  

"You okay, Snow?" Baz is frowning at him now. He looks concerned. It's about as weird as the bloody jeans. 

Simon clears his throat and nods. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Uh. I just, um… Where should we start?" 

Baz doesn’t reply for a moment. He just glances around again, mouth set in a firm line, and then abruptly turns and heads down the nearest alleyway. “Come on,” he calls, like an afterthought, gesturing for Simon to follow. 

He doesn’t bother waiting for Simon to catch up, so he picks up his pace to make sure he doesn’t lose Baz. They weave through several streets, equally as busy as the one they’d just been on, and take shortcuts through dingy alleyways that lead to fuck-knows-where. Simon realizes, a little belatedly, that this might not be a very good idea—following Baz to some secret secondary location. He has no idea where they’re going, or how to get back to the station. Or what Baz is thinking. Or anything, really, at this point. 

(He also realizes, probably too late, that he isn’t even that wary. It catches him off-guard, the thought that he isn’t the slightest bit afraid of something bad happening, that he hasn’t thought this might be another one of Baz’s plots, luring him somewhere sketchy. Before the whole truce thing, and certainly before the time loop mess, he wouldn’t have deigned to follow Baz like this, without demanding to know everything.) 

(Well, not when Baz was aware, anyway. But that never really counted.) 

They head to a mostly empty car park behind a Tesco, and Baz checks to make sure they’re alone—not that Simon thinks it matters much, considering the day’s just going to reset and no one will remember anything—before he flicks his wrist and drops his wand into his palm. 

“See what I mean,” he casts, and then he starts writing, in that flourishing cursive that Simon knows all too well. 

Two columns appear in the air: What We Know and What We Don’t Know. Typical. Of course that’s where Baz would want to start— as if this particular method has proven helpful in the past. Simon can’t recall a single time it’s worked out and actually gotten them anywhere. 

“All right,” Baz says, gesturing at the hovering words. “Go on, Snow. What do we already know?”

It takes Simon an embarrassingly long time to blurt out, “Uh, the day keeps resetting. Like a time loop.” 

Baz gives him a look and drawls, deadpan, “Wow, astute observation.” 

“Piss off,” Simon mumbles. There’s no real venom in his voice, though, and he can’t bring himself to at least pretend to mean it. 

Baz snorts, rolling his eyes, but he adds it to the What We Know list anyway. It hovers there, written in such a neat and steady hand that almost feels unfair, the only thing they’ve thought up so far. It occurs to Simon, then, as he traces the words over and over, that there is, quite literally, nothing else they know. Well, nothing they know for certain. 

“I thought there’d be more,” Baz says, a little forlornly, dropping his hand to his side.

Simon sighs. “Yeah,” he agrees. He stares at their sad list—mostly to avoid Baz’s gaze, if he’s being honest—until something else comes to him, and he perks up. “Well, injuries don’t last. You can add that, too.” 

Baz dutifully writes it under Time loop — day resets, an eyebrow raised and the corner of his lips twitched up in a grin. “Do I even want to know?” 

“Probably not,” Simon says. 

“Right.” Baz pinches the bridge of his nose, lets out a long and exasperated breath, and puts his hands on his hips. When he finally glances up at the columns again, his mouth is set in a firm line and his shoulders are squared. 

Without saying anything, he starts listing things under What We Don’t Know. It tracks on, seemingly endless, and Simon follows Baz’s hand as he writes and writes, until he has to crouch to reach the bottom of the column. 

Cause of time loop (magical?), it reads, and then: 

• Is anyone else stuck in the loop?

• Why are WE stuck? 

• Why does this particular day reset?

• How to break the loop (spells?)

• Curse of some sort? 

• Do our actions have consequences? (injuries notwithstanding)

• Can we die?

• Has something like this happened before? (potential way to get out)

There are a million more questions, but Simon doesn’t bother reading them. They all pretty much follow the same train of thought—and he’s already dispirited enough, thanks, he doesn’t need the reminder that they don’t know shit. 

“Well,” Baz sighs, taking a step back to admire his lengthy list, “it’s certainly not exhaustive, but it’s a start.” 

“A start? ” 

Baz looks at Simon, brow furrowed, like he’s gone mental. “Obviously. What, did you think we’d just leave it at this? This is just the first—” 

“Sure, whatever,” Simon interrupts. He ignores Baz’s glare. “Look, can we maybe grab lunch first? I’m kinda hungry. I skipped breakfast.” 

For a moment—so brief that Simon thinks he might’ve just imagined it—Baz’s expression softens, and his frown falls into a barely perceptible smile, but it’s gone as quickly and suddenly as it appears. 

“And I’m just supposed to drop everything to buy you food?” Baz asks. 

“I mean,” Simon says, shrugging, “if it helps you feel useful.”

Baz sneers at him, but it’s so half-hearted that Simon can’t find it in himself to care. “Fuck off, Snow.” 

“I can go by my—” 

Simon’s cut off by Baz snapping, “Shut up, I’ll come with you.”  He waves his hand and casts a Clear the air, and their useless lists dissipate like smoke.

And, just like before, when he’d led Simon to the alley, Baz turns and starts heading down the street, without bothering to check if Simon’s following or not. They go back to the café where Simon had found Baz—and bump right into Baz's dad, just as he's about to leave. 

Baz stops so abruptly that Simon knocks into him with an oof! He stumbles to regain his balance, but before he can move aside—this doesn't seem like a conversation that should involve him—Baz grabs his wrist with an iron grip, keeping him in place. 

"Basil," Baz's dad says coolly, "I was just going to look for you. Where'd you wander off?" 

Baz's grip tightens; Simon resists the urge to pull away. "I—I forgot that I have a school project I need to work on." 

Even though Simon can't see his face, he can tell Baz has his teeth gritted. His voice is far too measured and slow, like he's trying to control himself, to really be as casual as he's trying to come off. Simon knows Baz well enough, knows every expression and every change of tone, but it's still jarring—he's never heard Baz talk like this, without his usual snarky confidence. 

Baz's dad turns his cold, impassive gaze onto Simon—he frowns, then, deep and probably a little disgusted—and says, "I see. You should've just let us know before you left, Basil. Your mother and I were starting to get worried." 

Baz hangs his head, but his jaw is still clenched, his shoulders tense. He looks almost… defeated. And—and without really knowing why, without thinking about it, Simon twists his arm to give Baz's hand a reassuring squeeze. He feels Baz flinch, but then he relaxes. Neither of them makes a move to separate. 

(Simon purposely does not linger on it. He purposely does not think about Baz's cold skin, or the comfort of his hand, or what he could do to warm him up.) 

"I assume you'll be… working, then?" Baz's dad continues. The disdain practically drips from his voice. He doesn’t wait for a proper response; Baz nods curtly, and he sighs. “Try to make it back for dinner.” 

He only spares Simon a cursory, disapproving glance before he whips around—he carries himself the same way Baz does, Simon notes—and heads back into the café, the door closing with a resounding and final jingle behind him. 

Simon opens his mouth to say something—though he doesn’t quite know what yet, he hasn’t thought that far ahead—but before he can, Baz shakes his hand off and says, “Let’s go somewhere else.”

They end up going to another café a few streets away, with practically identical subway-tile walls and round-backed wooden chairs. Simon makes for a table, tucked away in the back by a window, where they might be afforded a bit of privacy, but Baz walks right up to the counter. 

“An Earl Grey, please,” he says. He turns to Simon then, for the first time since they ran into his dad, and gestures at the chalkboard menu. “What’d you want?” 

Simon stutters. “Uh. The, er—a breakfast toastie and an Earl Grey, too.” 

He watches Baz pay, confused—hadn’t he just made a deal out of having to buy food?—and then goes to claim the table he’d spotted while Baz waits for their order, leaning against the counter with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his head tilted down. Sometimes, Simon really doesn’t understand him.   

He’s busy staring out the window when Baz arrives a few minutes later, unceremoniously dropping his plate in front of him. If he wasn’t already starving, this would do it; there’s cheese oozing out of the side of his toastie, and a grilled tomato, and— 

A pastry. Which he doesn’t remember ordering. 

“They didn’t have any scones,” Baz says, plopping down on his own seat, “so I got you a pain au chocolat instead.”

As if that serves as an explanation. Well, Simon’s not going to question it. If Baz feels the need to be nice, for whatever reason, he won’t stop him. Unless, of course, that isn’t his intention, and he’s actually planning to—it admittedly doesn’t make much sense, and it’d be a pretty half-arsed plot, but it’s still possible. It wouldn’t be the first time Baz has done something to his food.

(It doesn’t matter that the last—and only—time Baz did do something, he spelled the butter on Simon’s toast into ice just as he was going to take a bite. And that it happened years ago.)    

“Thanks,” Simon says, a little belated. He reaches for the pastry, hesitant under Baz’s indecipherable gaze. 

Baz barely acknowledges him, beyond what might be a nod. As soon as he got to the table, he directed all his attention to the window; he’s got one hand curled around his tea, but he isn’t even drinking it. 

“Is that what you meant?” Simon asks, voice muffled through a mouthful of his toastie. 

Baz finally turns to him, brow furrowed. “What?” 

Simon can’t tell if Baz is frowning because of his question or because he’s talking while eating, so he swallows his bite before replying, sheepishly, “When you said this was hard enough, being stuck with your dad.” 

“Oh.” Baz rubs a hand over his face and sighs, long and tired. “No, it’s—it’s complicated.” 

Under any other circumstances, Simon would try to pry more, keep prodding Baz until he gives in and explains what he means. But this feels too… private to interfere in. Whatever’s going on between Baz and his dad—whatever makes having to deal with him so terrible—really isn’t his business. Baz might be evil (maybe, it’s not as definite as Simon once thought) and probably a vampire, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to have every bit of his life thrust under scrutiny. 

It’s while he’s sitting here, eating the pastry Baz had bought him completely unprompted and shifting every two seconds because his arse keeps going numb, that Simon realizes, for the first time, that maybe Baz’s life isn’t quite as picture-perfect as he’d always imagined. He’s been assuming, for the past eight years, that Baz had everything going for him: good grades, talent, wealth, a family just like Agatha’s. He never even considered the possibility that Baz doesn’t get on with them—or his dad, anyway. It never crossed his mind. 

Simon breaks the heavy, mildly uncomfortable silence that’s settled between them and clears his throat. “Right. So. What was your plan?” 

He can sense it the moment Baz starts to relax and the tension finally leaves his shoulders. And Simon lets out a quiet breath of relief too, not entirely sure why he’d been holding it in the first place, or why he feels happier now that Baz doesn’t look so glum anymore. 

“Our next step is to research,” Baz says. He’s stirring his tea, even though he hasn’t added anything to it. “There isn’t much else we can do, considering we don’t know anything. The more we can find out, the better.” 

Simon was afraid he’d say that. Research. As if they haven’t spent enough time scouring books lately. “You really think we’ll find something?” 

Baz shrugs, sips his tea. “We can try.” 

Simon hums, nods absent-mindedly. Silence falls again, and even though it’s not the worst—it is kind of comforting, frankly, just to have company, just to be around someone else who gets it—he still feels the need to fill it. He did come all the way here to work with Baz, after all; it’d be a waste of time to spend the whole day sulking and not getting anything done. 

“What’s the loop been like for you?” Simon asks, drumming his fingers on the table.   

“Repetitive,” Baz deadpans. 

“I mean,” Simon huffs, picking at the pastry flakes on his plate, “what’ve you been doing?”

Baz’s demeanor changes, then, and he crosses his arms. When he replies, his voice is a lot more defensive than it was mere moments ago. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Clearly it didn’t get me anywhere.”

Okay, so that was the wrong thing to say. Noted. Though Simon can’t help but wonder, what exactly is he trying to hide? Whatever he’s been doing to pass the time can’t have been that exciting. 

That is… unless it’s weird. Or Baz thinks it’ll scare Simon off. The joke’s on him—nothing would be able to do that, at this point. He’s seen enough strange things in his life, and nothing could be weirder than the fact that they’re stuck in a literal time loop. 

“Baz,” Simon says, sing-song, grinning despite himself, “what is it? Have you been going to sex clubs, or something?” 

Baz makes a face, half mortified and half trying-to-stay-stoic, which is probably as close to blushing as he can get (vampires can’t, right?). “Why the fuck would you think that? Never mind, don’t answer that.” He rolls his eyes. “For Crowley’s sake, Snow.” 

“Then why won’t you tell me?” 

For a long minute, Baz just glares at him. “It’s not your business. And I don’t really want to talk about it.” Before Simon can even think to say anything, he gets up, so abruptly that his chair screeches against the floor with the movement. “I’m going to get another tea. Do you want anything?” 

“Uh,” Simon stutters. “Another toastie?” 

He watches Baz walk over to the counter, and then he doesn’t look away until Baz catches his eye and frowns. Just to prove that he’s not being a creep or anything, Simon turns his attention to his now lukewarm tea, resting his chin on his palm and mindlessly tracking a few loose leaves. 

While Baz waits for his drink—and the toastie, if he felt compelled to be nice again—Simon tries to brainstorm things they could do. He knows that when Baz comes back, they’ll actually have to properly talk about the time loop and how they’re going to go about fixing it. And he wants to be helpful and contribute, instead of just leaving Baz to figure it out. 

(Especially because he’s positive Baz’s suggested course of action will be going to the library or whatever. And Simon’s going to avoid that for as long as he can.) 

“I thought of something we could do for research,” Simon says cheerfully, when Baz finally returns. He’s surprised to see the toastie he’d asked for, which Baz shoves at him without a word. “Well, research-adjacent, anyway.” 

Baz raises an eyebrow. “You, thinking? Pray tell.” 

Simon pointedly ignores that. “We should watch Groundhog Day!” 

“A film. We should watch a film.”

“There might be something useful,” Simon adds, biting off half of his toastie. At least, he’s pretty sure that’s the premise of Groundhog Day; it’s been a good few years since he last saw it. “It’s about time loops, y’know.”

“I know what it’s about,” Baz snaps. 

Simon grins. That’s not a no. “So?”

Baz lets out an exasperated sigh and shakes his head, but his lips are quirked up in what might possibly be a smile—the closest to a proper one Simon can recall ever seeing. “I think I have the DVD somewhere.”  

“Well,” Baz says, as soon as the credits start rolling, “that was profoundly unhelpful.” 

He’s curled under a thick sherpa blanket, sprawled on the sofa (leather, not an antique like everything else in the house)—they’d started the film on opposite ends, but they’d edged closer at some point, and now their shoulders keep bumping if either one of them moves. Simon likes to think it was only so they could both get to the popcorn bowl, but—well. It’s practically empty now, save for the kernels he kept accidentally grabbing and then spitting out, and they’re still so close. 

It’s kind of nice, actually; unlike all the times he’s watched films with Agatha like this, Simon hasn’t sweated through his shirt yet. It must be because Baz is cold, and it offset his own heat, or something. 

“I don’t know,” Simon says, shrugging. 

He reaches for his unopened Coke—he forgot about it the minute they sat down—just to do something with his hands. The lights in the room are still off—he can only vaguely see the sharp outline of Baz’s face—and he feels a little awkward, now that the film’s over and there’s no more popcorn. Like he shouldn’t be here. Like he’s overstaying his welcome. 

This, them sharing a sofa and food and watching the credits on the TV screen, is venturing into friend territory, and Simon doesn’t really know what to do with it. They’re not friends, not exactly. They’re just on a truce. 

Baz snorts. “Really? You learned something from this?” 

“No, but it was new, so.” Simon shrugs again. “It wasn’t a waste of time.” 

What he really wants to say is: It was fun. But that would probably count as overstepping the boundary of their truce, even if it’s true. Simon did genuinely enjoy himself, more than he has in a very long time—and Baz’s company, and his snarky commentary, and the way their hands would brush whenever they reached into the bowl at the same time, which was ridiculously often. 

Watching this silly film was, quite probably, the most fun he’s had since… well, he can’t even remember. Definitely since this whole time loop situation started. Probably before that. 

Even Mordelia, who kept trying to intrude and join them, and who was never deterred by Baz telling her to go away, didn’t annoy Simon. That was nice, too, in its own weird way; like having a little sister, temporarily. He’s never had a sibling to bother him. 

(The third time Mordelia came around, attempting to sneak undetected behind the sofa, Simon almost told Baz to let her stay. Almost. He didn’t. He kind of liked having Baz alone.) 

Baz just shakes his head and sighs. He might be smiling, but it’s too dark, and the light from the TV is too dim for Simon to tell. “We could’ve done so much research.” 

Simon throws a pillow at him. Instead of dodging it, or trying to hit it back, Baz catches it and holds it in his lap, hands clasped around it. He looks so… so soft, like this, with his hair a little mussed and his skin not quite as grey as usual, and his socks poking out from under his blanket. 

Any other time, under any other circumstances, Simon isn’t sure he’d get to see this. He’s glad he does. 

“Tomorrow,” Baz continues, “I thought I’d come down to Watford, check it out.” 

“Look for clues?” Simon says, grinning. 

“Something to that effect.” Baz finally gets up then, his blanket pooling off the sofa as he kicks it off, and puts the DVD back in its case. Now the room is washed in a cool blue light, as dismal as the grey sky peeking through the windows. “We might find something. And anyway, we could hit the library. I doubt any of the books there will be particularly helpful, but it’s worth a shot.” 

There’s a heavy sense of finality in the air, filling the silence that settles between them. Their little whatever-this-was—the film, the popcorn, the comfortable closeness—is over, no mistake, and Baz has already moved on to make plans for tomorrow. There’s no space for Simon here anymore.

“Right, yeah,” Simon says, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut at the thought of heading back, alone, to an empty school. “Well, speaking of Watford, I should probably, uh. Get going. It’s late. I don’t wanna miss the—”   

“Do you want to stay over for dinner?” Baz takes a sharp breath. He’s still facing the TV, fidgeting with the DVD. “It’ll be better than whatever leftovers you have at Watford.” He glances up then, momentarily catching Simon’s gaze, and adds, like he knows what Simon’s thinking, “You wouldn’t be intruding.”

It’d be a crime to refuse, Simon thinks. He’s already rejected Baz’s offer before, and he felt bad enough about that—not to mention, it would be nice to eat something that isn’t stale bread and whatever fruit he can find in the kitchens, which has basically constituted his makeshift dinner for the past however-the-fuck long. Proper food sounds like a bloody miracle. 

Simon tries not to sound too excited, but he’s pretty sure his smile betrays him. “Sure.” 

Simon ends up staying the night. He gets his own room, but it’s properly creepy and he can’t shake the nagging feeling that there’s someone—or something—watching him. Not to mention, there’s this strange moaning noise coming from under the bed, and he doesn’t really want to find out what’s causing it. So eventually, when he realizes there’s no way he’ll be getting any sleep like this, Simon heads over to Baz’s room and sheepishly—only a little embarrassed—asks if he can stay somewhere else.

Which is how he ends up sprawled on Baz’s sofa, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling, a thin blanket draped precariously over him and a throw pillow nestled under his head. 

Everything smells so disconcertingly like Baz, like his posh soap. It’s not bad, really. It’s… comforting, if anything. Everything in this house is new and strange, and as much as Simon likes having that change, he also likes having familiar things he can focus on: that cedar and bergamot scent, Baz’s steady breath.  

He can’t sleep. He’s pretty sure Baz can’t either, if his constant tossing and turning is anything to go by. 

“Baz,” he whispers. “Are you awake?”

He hears the rustle of bedsheets, and then Baz’s sleepy voice answers, “Yeah.” There’s a pause; at first, Simon thinks Baz isn’t going to say anything else, but then he adds, “You know, this time loop we’re stuck in is ridiculous. Like all those quests the Mage sends you on.” 

Simon pushes himself up, one hand gripping the back of the sofa as he shifts to look at Baz. He can’t actually see Baz, not in the dark, but he knows his silhouette, the way he curls up in bed, well enough to imagine him. 

“What?” Simon asks, frowning. He can’t help but get defensive. “Ridiculous? What are you talking about? The Mage sends me to do important things. They’re not ridiculous.”

Baz lets out a snort. “They really are. Just think about it, Snow—the goblins, those stupid gates he kept trying to get you to open. That circle of stones he wanted you to break, for whatever reason.” 

“All of that was important,” Simon retorts. His eyes have adjusted to the dark a bit, and now he can just barely make out the outline of Baz’s body under his covers. 

“If you say so,” Baz sighs. He sounds exasperated, like this is an argument they’ve already had a million times. 

Simon flops back down on the sofa, an arm dangling off the side. He stares at the ceiling, gritting his teeth, for what feels like hours, until he can’t stand the silence anymore—and the weight of what Baz said, the sinking feeling that there’s some truth to it, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it—and then he sits up again. He leans against the sofa, chin resting on his folded arms, eyes narrowed. 

“You really mean it?” he asks. He tries to come across more sure than he actually is, but his voice still wavers a bit, too hesitant to hide. 

Baz doesn’t reply for a moment. “I think I’ve already made my opinion clear.”   

"Right, no, yeah." Simon bites his lip, taps out the rhythm of a song he can't quite remember. "It was a bit ridiculous. The gates, I mean. I only managed to open one anyway, and I don't even know what was behind them." 

There's another rustle—it must be Baz sitting up. "He never let you know?" 

Simon shakes his head, almost certain that Baz can see him; vampire vision and all that. He's grinning now, he can't help it. It feels like a relief, if he's being honest, to talk to someone about this. Even if that someone is Baz, and even if he still feels a little guilty for ever thinking this. But it's nothing new. He's always harboured the thought—albeit distantly, shoved away to the back of his mind—that some of the things the Mage has asked him to do were a little… he'd never use the word ridiculous, but. Well. Kind of. 

"He's a right bastard, then," Baz says. "You deserved to know. "

Simon’s grin grows wider. "Why, so I'd find even more ridiculous things?" 

Baz just huffs; Simon can almost hear his eye roll, he doesn’t even need to see it. 

This is nice, though—comfortable in a way Simon has never felt around Baz until today, easy like hanging out with Penny. And it's strange, how quick he's gotten used to it. 

(How much he wishes it were always like this.)

The bedroom door swings open, so suddenly that Simon startles and nearly falls off the sofa. At first, he can’t see anything or anyone—and then he can make out a very small, and slightly creepy, silhouette, barely visible against the dim light from the hallway. Even the lamps here are blood-red, and they cast everything in an ominous glow. 

“I can hear you guys talking,” the figure says. It takes Simon a second to place the voice: Mordelia. 

Baz is looking at her too, probably frowning. And when he replies, it comes out gentler than Simon expected: “Sorry. Go back to sleep. We’ll be quiet, I promise.” 

“You better be,” Mordelia says. It must’ve been meant as a warning, but she sounds far too sleepy to be taken seriously. 

Before either of them can say anything, she closes the door and pads away, her soft footsteps the only sound. Now that she’s gone, the silence in the room feels uncomfortable, thick. They’d been really talking before—it even bordered on being friendly—and now that they’ve been interrupted, Simon isn’t sure how to pick up the threads of their conversation. How to get back to that easiness. 

“Are you planning on actually going to sleep?” Baz asks, so low that Simon has to strain to hear him. 

“No,” Simon whispers. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to—not yet, at least. 

“Neither am I.” There’s a rustle, and what sounds like Baz kicking off his covers. “Come here, will you? Just so we don’t bother Mordelia again.”  

“Okay,” Simon breathes. 

Even though his heart is pounding, and the only thing he can think of is whether or not this is another one of Baz’s plots, whether this counts as luring him, and it seems like his feet just carry him to Baz’s bed—his bed—without him really moving. 

The covers have been pulled back for him, and when he climbs on, he instantly forgets about the possibility of this being a plot—it’s so ridiculously comfortable, so plush, that he thinks he might just never leave. He can’t even find it in himself to care how close Baz is, barely more than a foot away. They’re not touching, but they might as well be; Simon can feel the cold radiating off Baz in waves, cooling down his own constant heat. If he focuses hard enough, he can make out the features of Baz’s face, as familiar as the back of his hand, softened in the dark. 

“Your bed’s really comfortable,” Simon whispers. “I’d live here if I could.”

Baz lets out what might be a laugh. “It’s all right, yeah.”

Simon stretches his hand out on the mattress, settles it in the space between them. “Can I ask you something?” 

Baz nods. 

“Is it really that bad, being stuck with your family?” 

For a moment, Baz doesn’t say anything. Simon starts to think he might’ve fallen asleep, but then he replies, “I never said it was. It’s not…” He pauses, sucks in a sharp breath. “It’s tolerable. It’s better than being alone, anyway.” 

Simon hums. Baz is right—now that he’s spent a day with other people, he can’t fathom how he managed this time loop on his own for so long. “I technically wasn’t alone. I mean, Ebb’s at Watford too. I just didn’t want to talk to her, y’know? I’d probably have a fucking breakdown if I did.” 

Baz shifts and his leg briefly bumps into Simon’s, but he quickly jerks it back. “Is that how you’ve stayed sane? Avoiding the only other person with you?” 

“I guess,” Simon says. “And not fighting the merwolves anymore.”

Baz breaks into a smile. His hair is spread on his pillow, curlier and fluffier than it ever looks at school, and Simon has to resist the sudden urge to card his fingers through it. He prefers it like this, looser, not slicked back. 

“You fought the merwolves?” 

Simon shrugs. “Only once. And then I learned not to do it again.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Baz huffs. But he doesn’t really sound like he means it. 

“How about you, then?” Simon asks. “How did you stay sane?”

He senses it, almost immediately, the change. The way Baz starts to shut down, even before he says anything. It settles in the air between them—the tension, unmistakable, awkward, so thick it might as well be solid. “Right, well. It’s getting late.” 

“Wait,” Simon says, pushing himself up on his elbow, “why won’t you tell me—”

Baz interrupts him: “We should go to sleep. It’s already half eleven, and I’d rather not be awake until the day resets.”

Now he just isn’t making sense. Simon frowns. “You said you didn’t want to—”

“We have a lot of work to do tomorrow, anyway.” 

“Why do you keep trying to change—” 

“Snow,” Baz snaps. He doesn’t sound very irritated though; mostly, he seems exhausted. “I’m going to sleep.” He rolls over, pulling up the covers, and then lets out a quiet sigh. “You can stay here if you want. Good night.” 

Simon stares at the vague outline of his back, still sitting up, and mumbles, “Night.” 

He lies back down eventually, curled on his side so that he can face Baz, and listens to Baz’s steady breaths. Baz is still obviously awake when Simon’s eyes flutter shut, and he ends up falling asleep without really meaning to.

Chapter Text

Simon jerks awake, slightly panicked, eyes wide and heart pounding, sending his blanket flying off his bed. He’s so startled that it takes him a belated second to register: one, he’s back in his room at Watford; two, Baz is hovering in the doorway, watching him with an indecipherable expression. 

“Holy shit, Baz!” Simon says, trying to catch his breath. “What the fuck. Fucking hell, mate.” 

Baz just keeps looking at him, an eyebrow raised, and replies, in a voice so languid it might as well be bored, “I did say I was coming over.”

“Yeah,” Simon grumbles. He rubs his eyes and runs a hand through his sleep-matted hair. “But you can’t just bloody barge into my room.”

“This is my room too,” Baz sneers. 

He’s still standing in the doorway—for a moment, Simon thinks it’s because he needs an invitation to come in, and then he realizes that makes absolutely no sense—and he’s frowning now, like Simon’s already done something distasteful. 

Which makes Simon far too aware, more than he ever should be, that he’s in pyjamas. Self-consciously, he reaches over to tug his blanket back on the bed and flops down, one arm covering his eyes so that he doesn’t have to look at Baz. 

“Couldn’t you just knock?” he mumbles. 

“You think I didn’t try that? You sleep like the fucking dead, Snow.” 

Simon sits up again, just to snap at Baz, “Oh, so what, it takes the presence of the undead to wake me up?”

He expects Baz to have some witty retort on the tip of his tongue, or at least to try to hit him—would the Anathema still kick him out? Would he be able to come back to Watford if the time loop ever stops?—but he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, Baz just sighs, long and exasperated, and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“I brought you tea,” he says eventually, in the weary voice of someone who’s had enough.    

Simon looks down at his outstretched hand; Baz is holding out a to-go cup, and under the cardboard sleeve, he can make out the logo of the café they went to yesterday. It smells good—richer than Earl Grey, no hint of citrus. 

“It’s the breakfast blend,” Baz continues. He thrusts the cup out even further, like he’s desperate to get it away from himself. 

This is… so fucking weird. It might be even stranger than the scone Baz bought him unprompted. 

Frowning, not entirely sure this isn’t some terrible cosmic joke, or a half-arsed plot, Simon gets up and grabs the tea. His fingers brush Baz’s, and his skin is so cold that he jumps back. 

“Thanks,” Simon says. He takes a sip—there’s milk, and just the right amount of sugar, and suddenly, it occurs to him that Baz must know how he likes his tea—and ignores Baz’s scowl. “Right. Well. I’m gonna—I’ll just go get dressed.” 

Baz doesn’t say anything, just shoves his hands in his trouser pockets and shrugs, so Simon scrambles to gather the first clothes he finds and heads to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He puts the cup on the counter—and how empty it seems, without all of Baz’s toiletries—and dresses, but he’s so distracted that he keeps putting everything on wrong. 

Baz knows his order. Baz knows. He’s seen how Simon takes his tea, and he remembers it. He made sure to get it exactly like that, even though he didn’t have to. He brought him tea in the first place, without being asked. He’s being so uncharacteristically nice. 

Simon doesn’t know what to do with it. Just thinking about it feels overwhelming. He collapses on the toilet, so hard that his head thunks against the mirror, only half-dressed. His jumper is hanging around his neck; he can’t find it in himself to care much. 

He’s startled out of his train of thought by Baz pounding on the door and shouting, “Can you hurry up?” 

“Someone’s in a rush,” Simon says, tugging on one sleeve. He doesn’t mean to mock Baz; that’s just how it comes out. 

Baz opens the door, so forcefully that the hinges creak, and sneers at Simon—who yelps, embarrassingly—with his eyes narrowed and his lip curled up. “Well, the sooner we figure this out, the less time I have to spend with you.” 

Before Simon can even think of a retort, Baz slams the door again and stomps off, his heavy footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent hall. He’s being stupidly loud on purpose—he’s always like this, when he wants to make a point. 

Simon lingers in the bathroom for longer than he really needs to after he finishes getting dressed, arms crossed and teeth gritted, just to irritate Baz. Let him be mad, let him walk away. What does Simon care? It’s not like he needs him. 

Except—he kind of does. He needs Baz’s help to figure this out. And he does like having company. And Baz did bring him tea, and buy him breakfast, and ask him to stay over for dinner. He didn’t have to do any of that, and he still did. 

Simon sighs into his hands. He has to go down eventually, doesn’t he? 

He fixes his hair in the mirror and smooths out his jumper, nervously pulling his sleeves down, and takes a deep breath. And just before he leaves—it’s an afterthought, really, and he almost doesn’t do it—he takes off his cross and tosses it in the vicinity of his bed. 

If the tea was Baz’s peace offering, then this will be his. They’re still on a truce, after all. 

Simon finds Baz in the dining hall, glaring at the table like it’s done him a personal offence. There’s a plate of food beside him, untouched but stacked high—toast, mostly, and a few sour cherry scones—and a butter dish beside it. Simon tries to suppress it, but he smiles despite himself. 

This seems like another peace offering. It’s probably as close to an apology as he’ll ever get. 

“Saving time, I see,” Simon says, taking the seat opposite Baz and reaching for a scone. 

Baz frowns at him.

Simon continues: “It’s a joke. Because you told me to—” 

Baz sighs, drops his shoulders. “No, I know,” he says. He rubs a hand over his face. “Look, there’s just a lot we need to do, if we really want to solve this. We literally don’t know anything.” 

“I get it.” Simon glances up to catch Baz’s gaze, tries to convey that he really does understand, and starts buttering his scone. 

It’s cold, though, and it doesn’t spread very well. He’s aggressively trying to flatten out the chunk he’d scooped out of the dish when Baz sighs again, points his wand at the scone, and casts, “You’re getting warmer!” 

Instantly, the butter melts. It isn’t as scalding as it is when Penny tries to heat it up; it’s comfortably warm. 

“Thanks,” Simon mumbles. He can feel his cheeks burn, and he doesn’t know why. He clears his throat. “So, where did you think of starting?” 

Baz seems to relax, now that they’re back on familiar ground. This is what he’s here for—work. Research. It’s the only reason they’re even talking, basically.

“We need to establish whether this has happened to anyone else,” Baz says. As he talks, his gaze slowly drifts to the plate of toast, and he licks his lips, his tongue a startling pink against the grey. 

Simon nudges the plate towards him with his free hand. “Do you want some?” 

It hadn’t occurred to him, if he’s being honest, to share it. He figured Baz must’ve grabbed breakfast before he got here—or at least found something to drink. Do vampires even really need food, anyway? 

Baz shakes his head. “No, thank you. It’s all yours.” 

“You sure?” Simon frowns. “‘Cause if you’re hungry, I don’t mind—”

“Snow,” Baz sighs. “I’m fine. I ate on the way.”   

He doesn’t sound very convincing, but if he’s just going to turn down food, that’s on him. 

Simon shrugs. “If you say so.” He bites off half of his scone and asks, with his mouth still full, “Do you really think this has happened before?” 

Baz is frowning at him again, slightly disgusted. “Obviously I don’t know. It’s just a theory—it’s the best place to start. If it has happened, there might be records. Someone would’ve found a way to end the loop.”

“Which means The Record, ” Simon says. He takes a slice of toast; this time, Baz casts another You’re getting warmer on the entire butter dish. It’s soft enough to spread now, and Simon thanks him with a grin. “Though I don’t think there’s a point going through it again. I’m pretty sure we collectively have every single one memorized.”

Baz’s lips quirk up in a small smile. “Well, did you pay particular attention to things that weren’t related to the Watford Tragedy?”

“We would’ve noticed something as batshit as a time loop. At least, Penny would’ve.” 

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Baz says, shrugging. “It’s worth a look, anyway.”

Simon knew they’d have to hit The Record eventually, but it’s still disheartening to hear Baz say it out loud. He hoped that, maybe, he’d be able to put it off, that they’d find the answers they’re looking for somewhere else, before they get a chance to read them. 

“Can’t we just use ‘Fine-tooth comb’?” Simon asks, frowning down at the butter dish. “It’d save time.” 

Baz lets out an unimpressed snort, rolling his eyes. “The concept of a time loop hasn’t always existed, Snow. We might miss out on something important.” 

He says this like it’s obvious, like Simon should’ve intrinsically known. And maybe it is, but still—it doesn’t change the fact that having to look through every edition of The Record sounds like a terrible way to spend the day. 

“Okay,” Simon sighs, shoving the rest of his toast in his mouth. “We better fucking find something.”

They’ve gone through what feels like a million copies of The Record, and they haven’t gotten any closer to solving this stupid mess. It’s already starting to get dark out; the last time Simon looked out the window must’ve been hours ago, because the sky was still a pale blue then, not orange, like it is now. He might’ve fallen asleep—he can’t remember. 

Baz is still staring at a book, propped open on his lap, but he doesn’t look like he’s comprehending anything. He’s changed his position, too, like Simon’s done countless times since they sat down—he’s slouched against one armrest of his chair, his legs swung over the other. He’s biting his lip as he reads, unblinking, and his hair is falling into his eyes and his shirt sleeves have been rolled up, and—and— 

The point is, he looks a lot more undone than he ever does at school. Like he’s finally allowed himself to loosen up, just a bit. 

(It’s nice, is what Simon means. That Baz doesn’t feel the need to be such an uptight prick around him.) 

“I need a break,” Simon says, stifling a yawn. He stretches—Baz glances at him, but he looks away just as quickly. “I’m gonna go for a walk.”

He waits before he gets up, expecting Baz to argue and snap at him to stay. But Baz doesn’t do that; he doesn’t even sound annoyed when he replies, “Make it short, Snow. I’m not going through the rest of this by myself.” 

“Noted.” 

Simon grabs his coat on his way out, shrugging it on as he steps out into the chilly air. He glances back through the window by the door, hoping to catch—he doesn’t know what. 

(He does know, sort of. He kind of hoped that he’d find Baz watching him too, clearly distracted from his research by the fact that he’d left. And maybe Baz would want to come with him, and they could stop reading for the day and just. Do something more fun.)

Simon doesn’t have a set destination in mind—as long as he isn’t cooped up in the library, going through books he already basically knows by heart, it doesn’t really matter—so he just starts making his way down the path, lightly dusted with snow.   

He ends up walking to the football pitch—out of habit, probably; he isn’t paying much attention to where he’s going—and it’s as he’s heading past the Wood, scuffing his boots on the ground, that he gets a brilliant idea. 

He rushes back to the library as soon as he thinks of it, grinning so much that his cheeks start to ache, and flings the door open. Baz startles, pushing the book he’d been reading off the table with his hand. 

“What?” he asks, eyes wide. “What is it?” 

Simon’s still grinning, he can’t help it. “We should go ice skating.” Baz opens his mouth to object, but before he can get anything out, Simon continues, “Come on, Baz! It’ll be fun. I’m going mental here.”

Baz frowns. “There are still a lot of editions we need to go through, Snow. I didn’t come over to—”

“Just this one time,” Simon interrupts. He’s practically bouncing on his feet. “Please? We can go right back to this, I promise. Or pick it up tomorrow. It’s not like the loop’s gonna fix itself.”

“Unfortunately,” Baz mutters. 

“Please? It’s no fun going alone.” 

Baz’s frown deepens. “There isn’t even an ice skating rink here.”

“Then we’ll just make one. There’s got to be a spell for that, right?” 

Baz sighs, which probably means there is a spell, and he’s irritated that he can’t use that as an excuse anymore. “Can you even skate?” 

“Not particularly well,” Simon says. His grin grows wider—this isn’t a no. Baz is giving in. He might actually agree. 

Baz puts his face in his hands and sighs again. “Fine. But you’re not getting out of research again, all right?” 

Simon nods, beaming. A bit of ice skating will do them good—they can’t just sit here reading all day, they need a break. And maybe if they have some proper fun, spend time together outside of this and working on the Watford Tragedy, they’ll… well, maybe they’ll get to a point where fighting won’t be their default. It’d certainly make researching more bearable, if Simon didn’t feel like Baz was always about to snap at him. 

Baz looks up at him, and his eyes narrow. “Is that my coat?” 

“What?” Simon follows Baz’s gaze and looks down, and—huh. It appears so. He’s wearing Baz’s black duffle, and he hadn’t even noticed until now. “Oh, I just grabbed the first one I saw. It’s your fault for leaving it on my chair.” 

Baz grits his teeth, but he doesn’t ask for it back, or say anything else about it. Instead, he grabs Simon’s coat, which must’ve been under it, and puts it on as he gets up. It fits a little snug, and the sleeves are a tad short, but—it looks good. 

Simon’s throat suddenly feels dry. He swallows, licks his lips. 

Baz looks good in his coat, even though it’s practically the same shade of grey as his skin. The absolute tosser. 

“Are we heading out,” Baz says, brow furrowed in another frown, gesturing at the door, “or…?”

Simon shakes his head. “No, yeah, come on.”

“So where exactly were you thinking of going ice skating?” Baz asks. His hands are shoved in his trouser pockets, and he has the collar of Simon’s coat turned up. “Seeing as there’s no lake on school grounds, or a pond. Or any body of water, except for—” He pauses. His lips quirk up in a smirk. “The moat. Snow, you’re bloody brilliant.” 

Simon stares at him, confused. “What? Why?” 

Baz whips around to face him and grabs him by the shoulders—and, huh, they’re a lot closer than he thought, okay. There’s a mad glint in his eyes. “The moat, Snow. The merwolves! Oh, they’ll hate that. Turning the moat into ice… why didn’t I ever think of that?” 

He heads off before Simon even really registers what he said, and he has to pick up his pace to catch up. They cross the courtyard and the bridge, and Baz halts abruptly the moment they cross it. The merwolves are starting to swarm near them, the way they always do when students get close, snapping and growling, eyes glinting in the murky water. 

Baz bares his teeth at them, points his wand, and casts, “Ice, ice, baby!”

And just as one of the merwolves starts swimming up, like it actually thinks it’ll be able to get to them, the moat freezes over. The ice, thick and a foggy sort of white, spreads instantaneously, reaching as far as Simon can see. 

Baz dips his wand to Simon’s boots, then, and spells them into skates with a Walking on thin ice. He does the same to his own—the blades catch the setting sun when he moves—and takes a slow, hesitant step onto the moat. His arms are out at his sides, and he looks a little… scared. 

Simon barks out a laugh. He tries to suppress it, he really does, but he can’t help it—he’s never seen Baz genuinely wary. 

Baz turns to glare at him, sneering, but he moves too quickly and he loses his balance. His skate slips—but before he falls, Simon catches him by his sleeve and hauls him back up. 

“Baz,” he says, grinning, “can you skate?” 

Baz shakes his hand off and scowls. “Sod off. I can.” He takes another step, even more careful than the last. “I just don’t go that often.” 

“So you’re not that good, huh? Is that what you mean?” 

Simon slides onto the ice and skids to a stop in front of Baz, arms crossed, smile growing wider when Baz glares at him. He’s not that good, either—he never even went ice skating until he was thirteen, and until now, he’s always had Agatha or Penny there to keep him upright—but he’s not going to let that stop him from enjoying himself. Part of the fun is knowing you’re pretty shit and doing it anyway. 

“I will leave,” Baz says. He probably means it as a threat, but does he honestly think he can be taken seriously like this? Taking baby steps, barely letting himself properly skate, with an expression like a deer caught in headlights? “I’ll change the moat back and abandon you to the merwolves.” 

Simon laughs again. The moat’s more slippery than he thought it would be—the ice is smooth and pristine, because it hasn’t been touched until now. Well. It also didn’t exist until now, but that’s beside the point. 

“I’m serious,” Baz says. 

“Sure,” Simon chuckles. He spins around, wobbles on his skate but doesn’t entirely lose his balance, and holds his arm out. “You can hold onto me, if you want.” 

Baz is staring at him like he’s just said something insane. And then, slowly, he reaches out to fist his hand in Simon’s coat sleeve. His grip is ridiculously strong—if he held on any tighter, he’d probably break a bone—but Simon doesn’t tell him to loosen it. He doesn’t really mind; he can’t find it in himself, because now Baz is standing a little straighter, and he’s smiling, small and kind. 

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” Baz says. 

Simon returns his smile. “Who’d believe me, anyway?” 

Baz huffs and rolls his eyes. Simon skates forward before he can say anything, and Baz clings onto his arm with that iron grip, eyes going wide. 

“Come on,” Simon says, gently, slowing down. “It won’t be that bad. I’ve got you, yeah?” 

Baz side-eyes him. “That’s not as comforting as you think it is.” 

Simon spins in a half-circle; Baz yelps at the sudden movement, but at least he doesn’t fall. “Oh, just lighten up, will you? Just try to have fun.” He pulls Baz closer, gives his hand a reassuring pat. “You’ll be fine.”

Baz’s frown softens, then, nearly imperceptible. “I can skate, Snow.”

Simon steps back. “You can let go, then.” 

But Baz doesn’t do that. Instead, he shifts so that he’s holding Simon’s forearm, not just hanging onto his sleeve, and his grip isn’t as tight as it was before. 

“Okay,” Simon says. His voice is gentle again. “I don’t mind. I promise I’ve got you.” 

Baz smiles at him—still reserved—and even though it’s cold out, Simon feels a flush of warmth. 

It’s dark out, past sunset, by the time they finally collapse on the moat in a tangle of limbs, pressed together as they sprawl on their backs. Simon’s been laughing so much that his cheeks hurt, and he’s clutching at his stomach with his free hand. At some point—probably around the time Baz had fallen for the third time, yanking Simon down with him—they’d switched to holding hands, and they haven’t let go since.

Baz is laughing too, eyes closed and shaking. He manages to cast a breathy Let there be light, and it illuminates his face in a soft, pale glow. 

“You’re shit at this,” he says, once he stops laughing. “Remind me never to go skating with you again.” 

Simon turns his head to properly look at him and grins. “ I’m shit? I skate better than you, you git. You’re the one who couldn’t stay upright.” 

Baz whacks him half-heartedly, but he’s still smiling, so it doesn’t really count. “And you kept falling with me.”

Once Baz had finally settled down and stopped snapping at Simon every time he picked up speed, they were able to skate without having to stop every few feet. They went down the entire length of the moat—the bit that was covered in ice, anyway. At first, Baz was reluctant to do much more than glide, not even switching his direction unless Simon forcefully swung him around, but he gave in after a while and loosened up. 

“C’mon,” Simon had urged, tugging at his hand, “try a jump with me. What’s the worst that’ll happen?” 

Baz had grimaced and muttered something about the ice, but he’d tried it anyway. It ended terribly, of course—both he and Simon missed the landing and fell, but they just laughed it off and tried it again. 

Simon’s been a bit giddy since, high off Baz’s infectious grin and the familiar, comforting weight of his hand. 

“See?” he says now, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Didn’t I tell you it’d be fun?” 

Baz snorts. “Merlin, you’re never going to let this go, are you?” 

Simon shakes his head. “It’s the one thing I get to hold over you. Obviously not.” 

Baz sighs, tucks his hand under his head. His coat—Simon’s coat—is unbuttoned, and his shirt is untucked. Every time he shifts, Simon gets a glimpse of grey skin and lean muscle. He looks away. 

“So,” Simon says, sucking in a sharp breath, “do you want—”

He’s cut off by a loud, jarring thud, and he freezes. There’s another thud, followed by a low, muffled growl. It sounds like it’s coming from underneath them. Slowly, Simon looks down—he can’t see much past the thick ice, though, so it’s no use. 

“You heard that too, right?” he asks. 

Baz nods. He’s sitting up now, squinting at the moat. Something snarls—a merwolf, it must be—and hits the ice again. And this time, it cracks. 

“Shit!” Baz says, just as a merwolf claw pokes through and scrabbles at the ice. He jumps up, kicking it with the blade of his skate, and it momentarily disappears. He whips out his wand and casts As you were on his and Simon’s shoes, and they revert back to boots. 

“We should go,” Simon says. 

The merwolf tries to push through the crack again, and Baz stomps on its paw, sending it back down with a high-pitched yelp. Then he turns to Simon with a hand outstretched. “You think?” 

Just as Simon grabs Baz’s hand and stands up, the spot he’d been sitting on breaks with a sharp snap, and another merwolf lunges up, scrambling to stay on the ice as it tries to bite his ankle. It doesn’t get a chance to—by the time Simon even registers it, Baz is already pulling him back to the bank. They’re half running, half sliding, and the momentum sends them crashing onto the ground. 

Baz is shaking as he gets up, dusting snow off his coat, and it takes Simon a second to realize he’s laughing. Just as he had been before—carefree. 

“Bloody merwolves,” Baz wheezes. 

Simon laughs too. “Hey, it was your idea.”

Instead of sneering at him, like he probably would have done under any other circumstances, Baz just glances back at the moat and sighs. “It was fun while it lasted, though.”

They make their way to the library, languidly, neither of them in any rush. And for the first time since the loop started, Simon’s actually a little grateful that there’s no one else at school—otherwise, they most likely wouldn’t have been able to get away with this. And Baz would never have agreed to go ice skating—to do something that borders on hanging out, on being friends—if he knew they might be seen. 

“So it was worth it then, yeah?” Simon asks, once they get inside. 

Baz huffs. He’s flushed from the cold—as much as a vampire can be, anyway. “Worth it to see the merwolves suffer.”

Simon grins. That’s as close as Baz will ever get to admitting he enjoyed himself; he’ll take it as a win. “Well,” he says, “I guess our break’s over. Do you want to… continue?” 

Baz frowns at the books he’d left out on the table, the teetering stacks he still hasn’t read propped beside it. And he shakes his head. 

“We don’t have to.” He checks his wristwatch. “It’s getting late. We should grab dinner, you must be starving. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you go this long without food.” 

Simon honestly can’t tell whether he means that as an insult or not. He decides it doesn’t matter—either way, it’s true. He hadn’t given it much thought while they were out, but now that Baz brought it up, he realizes he is pretty hungry. 

“We can just finish the rest tomorrow,” Baz says. “But you don’t get to weasel your way out of it again.”

Simon holds his hands up defensively. “I wasn’t planning to.” 

Baz gives him a look as he buttons up his coat—Simon’s coat, they haven’t switched yet. He’s got an eyebrow raised, like that’s the most unconvincing thing he’s ever heard. But instead of commenting about it, he just gestures at the door and says, “Where do you want to go?” 

Simon blinks at him, momentarily confused. He opens his mouth to ask why they aren’t just grabbing food from the kitchen here, but then he thinks better of it. As if it wasn’t enough that Baz agreed to go ice skating—uncharacteristically nice, that is—now he’s suggesting they get dinner at a real restaurant. And offering to pay, by extension, because he must know that Simon basically has no money of his own.    

“Uh,” Simon stutters, his throat suddenly dry. “There’s this ramen place?”

He doesn’t even know if Baz likes ramen. Has he even eaten it before? Is he a fan of Japanese cuisine, anyway? He probably should’ve asked. 

Baz doesn’t let on what he thinks, but he is smiling—just barely, so soft it’d be easy to miss if Simon wasn’t looking for it. “Lead the way, Snow.”

Chapter Text

Baz isn’t in the room when Simon wakes up. He doesn’t show up in the half hour it takes him to shower and dress either. Simon lingers for a few more minutes before he decides to head down and grab breakfast—he tries to recall if they set a time to meet, perhaps, and it’s just supposed to be later today. The only thing he can remember, though, is asking Baz not to come before nine.

Baz had stayed the night, after Simon kept pestering him that it would be a better idea than driving to Hampshire. It was late by the time they left the restaurant—probably past closing, but they’d both apologized profusely to the waitress, and Baz had left her a large tip as compensation—and they’d spent the entire evening talking about things that weren’t the loop, or the Watford Tragedy, and it was so nice, and— 

And Simon hadn’t wanted to part just yet. He didn’t like the thought of having to go back to Watford alone. 

Baz made a show of it, but he stayed in the end, and he fell asleep almost as soon as he hit his bed. Simon had watched him, like he always does, flushed with warmth, ridiculously happy just to have company. 

It’s a bit of a bummer now that he’s alone again, that Baz isn’t here. The school feels too empty, their room feels too big. 

(Which is weird. He’s spent countless days here on his own, and he was fine, he was, but now he can’t stand the idea of being alone for so long.)

Simon hesitates as he steps out, one hand hovering over the doorknob and the other clutching at his cross. He should probably leave it on, shouldn’t he? Just because they’re on a truce, and they’re temporarily on the same side, doesn’t mean that Baz won’t try to hurt him. He hasn’t yet, but he always could. As far as Simon knows, the cross will protect him—it is anti-vampire, after all. 

He clenches his jaw and tosses it on his bed, and then rushes down the stairs before he can change his mind. 

When he gets to the Weeping Tower, he’s surprised to find Baz already there, pensively stirring a mug of tea. He looks bored, his face cupped in his hand. 

“Sorry,” Simon says. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” 

Baz turns to look at him; a lock of hair falls in his eyes. “You didn’t. I just got here.” 

That sounds like a lie, but who is Simon to point it out? He’s not about to pick fights with Baz. He would’ve, once, but it’s just too exhausting now. 

“You said to come later,” Baz continues. 

Simon takes the seat across from him, and Baz pushes a paper bag and another mug towards him. It’s a cherry scone, still warm. Freshly baked, then, not like the stale stuff he gets from the kitchens. 

“Thanks,” Simon says, sipping his tea. Exactly as he likes it. Which is still strange as hell. 

Baz makes a face. “Stop thanking me, Snow. It’s getting annoying.” 

Simon grins. “Then stop buying me food.” 

Baz just rolls his eyes. He doesn't have anything to eat, Simon notices—just his tea. In fact, now that he really thinks about it, he isn't sure he's ever actually seen Baz eat. He’d ask, but that feels too personal. 

"What's the plan for today?" Simon asks, instead of mentioning the food thing. 

Baz sighs, like they've gone over this before. "Finish the research we started yesterday." He stirs his tea and then licks the spoon—Simon averts his gaze. "No breaks. There isn't even that much left to go through." 

Thank Merlin. Maybe, if Simon reads one book really slowly, he’ll be able to get away with not having to do much. Baz can finish the research, if he wants to do it that badly. 

“You know,” Simon says, taking a bite out of his scone, “I’ve been thinking. What if this is the Humdrum?” 

Baz quirks up an eyebrow. “Does it feel like the Humdrum to you?” 

“Well, no, obviously not, that’s not what I mean. I just mean—what if he sent something that caused the loop?” 

Baz watches him with a frown, silent, arms crossed. Like he’s actually considering it—which he might be, because he hasn’t said it’s a stupid idea yet. 

Simon rips off a piece of his scone and holds it out, but Baz shakes his head. And then he leans forward and says, “And what would he have sent? There aren’t any dark creatures that can mess with time like this. I don’t even think there’s a spell.”

Simon refrains from saying, And you’re such an expert on dark creatures?, and shrugs. He hadn’t expected it to actually be the Humdrum—it was just an idea, and it makes less sense the more he thinks about it—but it would’ve been nice if, even for a moment, they had a lead. Anything to point them in a direction. And maybe they could get the Mage, if they knew what they were looking for, and he’d help— 

Oh, who’s Simon kidding? Baz wouldn’t agree to let the Mage in on this. He’d rather sit here and scowl at the books. 

“Could it… be a spell?” Simon asks, tentative. 

Baz is staring at his tea now, like he’s hoping it’ll fix the situation. “Theoretically. I haven’t heard of one, though.” He sighs, for what must be the millionth time this morning. “That’s why we’re doing research, Snow.”   

“Right,” Simon says, nodding. This is just another one of those things he has to push through and get over. He lifts his mug to drink more tea—mostly so he has something to do—but it’s woefully empty. “Hey, where’d you get the tea?”

“I have a key to the kitchen.” Before Simon can even think of a proper reply to that, Baz gestures at his mug and asks, “Why, do you want more?” 

Simon flashes him a smile. “If you don’t mind.” 

Baz makes a show of it, rolling his eyes like it’s such a hassle, but he snatches the mug away and stomps to the kitchen, letting the door slam aggressively behind him, when Simon suggests taking the key and doing it himself. He comes back with an entire teapot, carefully balanced on a tray. 

“So I don’t have to come down here every ten minutes,” Baz explains. 

They head to the library, where they proceed to waste an hour going through every book and putting aside the ones they haven’t read yet, because all the covers virtually look the same and it’s impossible to tell. They claim the table they used yesterday, right by a window, and Baz gets right to work. He settles on a plush chair, one edition of The Record propped open in his lap. 

“Are you going to help?” Baz drawls. “Or are you just going to sit there and sulk?” 

Simon grabs a book off the precariously placed stack on the table, reaching out at the last second to stop it from falling over. This one isn’t even The Record—it’s a collection of fairy tales. Baz must’ve grabbed it by accident. 

“How’s this supposed to be useful?” Simon asks. 

He knows that the Mage stocked the school library with Normal books like this—poetry and children’s stories and folklore—for a good reason, something to do with the language or the fact that they’re widely known or whatever. And usually, it doesn’t bother him that much, that they don’t have many magical books here. Now, though, it’s irritating. What’s he going to find in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves? 

Baz flips a page, nonchalant as ever. “Why don’t you read it and find out?” 

He hasn’t even looked up—he doesn’t know which book Simon’s referring to. For a moment, Simon thinks of hitting Baz with it so he has no choice but to acknowledge him, but then he figures that reading it might not be a terrible idea. At least, if he wastes time going through a bunch of fairy tales that probably won’t contain anything remotely helpful, he won’t have to read The Record.

Simon holds it up to hide his grin. Baz frowns at him, eyes narrowed, but he doesn’t say anything. 

It only occurs to Simon a good few hours later, when Baz leaves to fix them sandwiches for a very late lunch, that Baz must’ve seen the cover of the fairy tale book, and he would’ve known exactly what it was about. And by extension, he would’ve known how completely useless it was. 

But— but. He knew all that, and he still let Simon waste time reading it. 

It’s definitely weird, all this unprompted kindness, but it’s—it’s better than the constant fighting. It’s preferable to heavy silence and feeling like he has to walk on eggshells just to keep things between them civil. 

(And that’s another thing—Simon hasn’t thought any of this, the scone for breakfast or the sandwiches now, is part of some plot. It hasn’t crossed his mind at all today.) 

Baz returns with two full plates and another pot of tea, and a handful of mint Aero bars—where’d he even get those? Did he raid the stash Simon keeps under his bed? He can’t even be mad about that—and Simon smiles instead of saying thanks. 

He only gets the tiniest bit flustered when Baz smiles back.

Simon’s bored out of his mind. He finished going through his stack of books a while ago—they split them up eventually, and Baz had agreed to take more just so he’d “shut up”—and he’s out of food too, and there’s nothing else to do in the library. He could’ve left, but he didn’t want to leave Baz here on his own. They’re supposed to be working on this together. 

Simon sighs, chin resting on his hand, staring forlornly out the window. It’s so dull and grey out there. It’s not even snowing. 

Baz slams his book closed so loudly that Simon jumps in his seat. “Just take this,” he snaps, shoving a notebook at him. “I’m not using it. Do whatever you want.” 

It’s clearly expensive—thick unruled paper, an engraved leather cover, Baz’s initials written in calligraphy on the front page. It hasn’t ever been used, though, and the spine cracks when Simon flips through it. 

He looks back up at Baz, hesitant. “I can do whatever I want with this?” 

“As long as you shut up,” Baz says. 

Simon can’t even find it in himself to care about that; he wastes no time in ripping out a few sheets, much to Baz’s obvious chagrin, and starts folding them. It hasn’t crossed his mind in years, to be honest, but it’s the first thing he thinks of—making paper cutout garlands. He used to make them with Agatha all the time, when he’d go over to her house for Christmas. Her parents would get them to help with the decorating, and they always spent the first few days of the break stringing up holly and putting wreaths on the doors. 

It’s probably the one thing Simon misses the most about Christmas with the Wellbeloves, besides their extraordinary TV room. It was the one time, during the whole year, where he felt like he truly belonged. Even at Watford, he used to feel like an outsider, an intruder—but none of that mattered when Agatha’s mum was teaching him how to cut paper snowflakes, or when he got to put the star on the top of the tree. 

They haven’t decorated in a long time. Now, when Simon goes over to Agatha’s—used to, he corrects, because he didn’t this year—her parents go to parties, and they eat the leftovers and watch shitty Christmas films. 

Well. Watford could use a bit of festive sprucing up, anyway. 

At some point, probably while he’s working on his third cutout, which will hopefully turn out looking like a proper Christmas tree, Simon feels Baz’s gaze drift over to him. And then he slowly puts his book down, entirely focused on what Simon’s doing. It’s not weird, or creepy, and Simon doesn’t feel the need to tell him off, like he might once have done. 

“What’re you doing?” Baz asks. He doesn’t sound mad, though, like Simon thought he would be—he did ruin his posh notebook, after all. 

Simon sets aside the butter knife, left behind from lunch, that he’d been using to cut the paper and unfolds one of his finished garlands. This one’s snowflakes; the lines are uneven and rough, and it doesn’t look nearly as nice as anything Agatha ever made, but he’s still proud of it. 

“Making Christmas decorations,” Simon says, grinning. 

Baz’s mouth is a hard line. He looks unimpressed. “Paper garlands.” 

“It’s fun.” Simon slides over one of the sheets he’d ripped out. “You should make one, too. We can put them up.” 

Baz looks down at the paper, one hand hovering above it, and a lock of hair tumbles into his eyes. “There’s no one here to see them, though. And they’ll just be gone tomorrow.” 

Simon shrugs. “The point isn’t for other people to see them. They’re for us.” He nudges the knife. “Come on, Baz. Just do one. You’re almost done with your research, right, aren’t you?” 

For a brief moment, it seems like Baz might actually put the research aside, but then he glances at his stack of remaining books—only two now—and opens the one he was in the middle of reading. “Maybe when I’m finished.” 

It’s not exactly a no, nor a yes, but Simon knows better than to keep prying—he doesn’t want this to turn into an argument. He goes back to working on the Christmas tree cutout, ignoring the fact that Baz keeps watching him over his book and pretending to read. Neither of them acknowledge it, even when they make eye contact while Baz flips a page he’s clearly not looking at. 

“I’m going to go hang these up,” Simon says, gathering his garlands. They’re all varying degrees of recognizable, but they’ll look nice, anyway. Even if it’s just for today, they’ll make the empty halls seem a lot less lonely. 

Baz doesn’t look up from his book this time, though Simon’s pretty sure he’s going over a passage he’s already read. “Have fun.” 

Simon’s first stop is their room. He strings garlands up with the tape Baz keeps in his desk drawer—he thinks it’s a secret, like his posh fountain pen and insane amount of multicoloured sticky notes—on the walls, one over each of their beds and a couple framing the window. They’re a little mismatched, and they clash with Baz’s Kishi Bashi poster (though anything would, really, it’s got too much going on), but they do brighten the place up, and that’s what Simon intended. 

A bit of festivity to keep his mind off the fact that he’s probably never going to wake up on a new day. It’s just going to be December 21 over and over again. 

But now’s not the time to think of that—that particular bummer can wait. Right now, Simon has the rest of his decorations to hang, and he’s going to do that and pointedly not think of anything besides where to put them. 

He settles on the dining hall eventually, after roaming the grounds and not being able to find another suitable place. He isn't even sure if they'll go back there today and get a chance to see the garlands, but it's the thought that counts. And they do look beautiful here—though it'd probably be better with a few more. 

Simon spends the whole walk back to the library thinking of other cutouts he could try, like reindeer, or angels— 

The window they’d been sitting beside is decorated with literal boughs of holly. They're startlingly bright, almost surreal; the air smells sweet now. 

"Baz," Simon says, barely more than a breath. "You did this?" 

Baz is still exactly where Simon left him, slouched against his seat, his wand resting on the table in front of him. He turns to acknowledge him with a shrug. “It’s what my mother used to do.”

His expression slowly softens into a gentle smile as he talks, but it doesn’t hide how tired he looks. Flowers and food, Simon remembers—they take the most energy to conjure up. 

“She used to decorate Watford for Christmas?” 

As long as Simon’s been here, they’ve never properly decorated for the holidays. The Mage never cares much for them, always seems too distracted for things like that. The closest they ever got was the time Baz put up fake cobwebs in their doorway on Samhain, just for the fun of seeing Simon get tangled in them. 

“Her rooms,” Baz says, “and the nursery. I don’t know about the rest of the school.”

Watford must’ve been even more magical than it normally is. If Simon closes his eyes, he can imagine it—the holly, and wreaths and mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, and maybe even a tree in the dining hall. 

“It’s lovely,” he says, and he genuinely means it. 

“Deck the halls!” Baz casts, and another sprig appears on the window frame. It’s smaller than the others; he must be worn-out already. 

Simon clambers onto the free seat, reaching a hand out to trace the glossy leaves. Agatha never let him use spells when he’d help her decorate—she said it was more rewarding to do it the Normal way. She was right—and Simon wouldn’t trust his own volatile magic with something like this anyway, he’d probably end up turning her entire house into a snowglobe or something—but he’s never seen holly more beautiful. 

“What else did she do?” Simon asks. 

It takes Baz a second to register what he said. “My mother?” 

Simon nods. “Yeah.” He rests his chin in his hand and leans forward. “Tell me about your mum.”  

Baz lowers his gaze, fidgeting with the hilt of his wand. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, the way he always does when he’s thinking hard about something. 

How much does he even remember, Simon wonders? About his mum, and what Watford was like when she was headmistress? 

(Is that what he dreams of, those nights when he wakes up with broken-off screams? Baz was there, he saw her die, and he’s had to carry that his whole life. He must have nightmares about it.)

Simon feels bad for asking now. It’s not his business; he probably just stirred up bad memories, even though he was only trying to be friendly. 

“You don’t have to,” he says, a little rushed. 

Baz lets out a shaky breath. “No, I want to. It’s—” He pauses, swallows. “It’s nice to talk about her. We don’t really, at home.” 

“Then,” Simon says, smiling softly, “I’ll listen to whatever you’re willing to share.” 

Baz tells Simon about what Christmas used to be like, both at his house and at Watford—how he’d beg to put the star on the top of their tree, and the chocolate bars he’d find in his stocking on Christmas morning, and the time there were reindeer ice sculptures on the Lawn—but eventually he grows melancholy, and he stops abruptly in the middle of a story about a Paddington Bear his aunt had given him and just… doesn’t continue. 

They sit in heavy silence until Simon changes the subject and asks about Mordelia, and when Baz admits that he hasn’t gotten her anything for the holidays yet—every time he thought he found something she’d like, her interests took a one-eighty—they proceed to spend hours thinking of potential gifts. 

It’s well past sunset by the time they get dinner, and now they’re just throwing around shit ideas, the most ridiculous things they can think of. Simon hadn’t felt like actually going to a restaurant, and Baz had made a face when he mentioned that Watford has a perfectly good kitchen, so they’d settled on takeaway. It’s probably the quickest they’d ever reached a compromise.

Simon feels flushed with warmth—different from his normal heat, less overbearing—when they step out into the chilly night, still laughing at the thought of giving Mordelia a complete Oxford English dictionary set. 

(“I told her to look up a word once,” Baz had said, “and she threw the dictionary at me. And then she did look it up, and tried to justify her violence by saying she was just pointing out an example.”

“What was the word?” 

“Imbecile.” 

Simon had burst into a fit of laughter so loud that several people in the restaurant turned to glare at him.) 

Baz is holding the door open for him, and carrying the takeaway bag—Simon offered to help, but Baz just slapped his hand away—and he looks so… so unlike himself, his sharp edges gentler and blurred in the dark. His coat is buttoned up, and he’s wearing a cashmere scarf that hides approximately half his face, and there are snowflakes in his hair. 

Simon can’t recall ever noticing it snow on any other reset, but it must have been snowing this whole time. It can’t be new. He’s just never paid it any attention, he guesses. 

“I think my parents are going to get her a horse,” Baz says. His tone is more serious than before, but still light. His hand brushes Simon’s back when he lets the door close. “A night mare, probably. Maybe I’ll give her a saddle, or something. I don’t know what you need for horses. What does Wellbelove have?” 

Simon doesn’t even register that Baz is asking him about Agatha, not entirely, because he’s still stuck on nightmare. “Why would it be a nightmare if she got a horse? I’m sure she’ll learn—”

Baz is shaking his head, lips quirked up in a smile. It’s so familiar, so casual, that it doesn’t feel as weird as it did a few days ago. 

Simon frowns. “What?” 

“A night mare,” Baz repeats. “It’s a breed. The Grimms have been breeding them for ages. Mordelia’s been drooling over them since she first saw one.” 

Night mares… Simon’s never heard of them. He tries to imagine what they look like—dark, probably, maybe jet-black. Nothing like Agatha’s chestnut thoroughbred; big and majestic and magical. 

“Ags tried to get me on a horse once,” Simon says. “It didn’t go that well.” 

It isn’t as bittersweet as he expected it’d be, thinking of her. He does miss her, of course he does, it’s the first time they aren’t spending the holidays together, but—but. Baz is here, and he’s hugging the takeaway bag to his chest like he’s trying to soak up all its warmth, and he isn’t rolling his eyes the way Agatha did when he refused to ride her horse. In fact, Baz isn’t doing anything remotely judgemental. 

No sneer, no raised eyebrow, no smug smirk. 

“Oh,” Baz sighs wistfully, “I wish I’d been there.” Simon whacks his arm, and he only laughs. “I never got into horseback riding. Or show jumping. I think my stepmum wanted me too, but horses never really… liked me.” 

Simon almost asks, Because you’re a vampire?, but he bites his tongue. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment—or whatever this is, anyway. This comfortable friendliness that’s settled between them. It’s easy to forget, like this, that they aren’t really friends. Not in any way that counts. Because this is a temporary thing, just the result of being stuck in the same shit situation, just them seeking company with the only other person who understands. They’re on a truce, but as soon as they figure out who killed Baz’s mum, it’ll be over. They’ll go right back to being enemies, and then… and then— 

Simon lets out a breath and shakes his head. There’s no use thinking about that now. 

“We could go shopping,” Simon blurts, halting when they reach Baz’s car. “If you want. For Mordelia. I don’t—I wouldn’t mind going with you.” 

Baz reaches one hand for the door handle, the other holding the takeaway against his hip. “Really?” 

Simon nods jerkily. He feels his cheeks start to grow hot under the indecipherable scrutiny of Baz’s gaze. “Yeah. I mean, we have the time, right?”

His heart is pounding; he pulls at a loose thread on his jumper, just to have something to do with his hands. It’s a bad idea. Baz will probably say no— 

“Nothing I buy will stay, though,” Baz says. “But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to browse.” He opens the car door and gestures for Simon to follow. “Come on, Snow. We can talk about that later—the food’s getting cold.”

Chapter Text

Baz is waiting at the train station with tea and pastries, a bored expression on his face, when Simon arrives at Winchester. 

“You didn’t have to,” he says, shrugging on his coat. 

Baz rolls his eyes and hands the food over. “I’m pretty sure I did. You skipped breakfast to take the earlier train, didn’t you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he adds, “And anyway, I know you. You don’t function before you’ve eaten.” 

Simon grins—he already took a bite of his cherry scone, and he knows his mouth is full, but he doesn’t care. “So you’re saying I function, then?” 

“Primitively,” Baz retorts. There’s no real venom in his voice, though. “You can eat on the way, for Crowley’s sake, stop slobbering all over the platform.” 

“And slobbering in your car’s better?”

Baz just shoots him a dirty glare; Simon grins around his scone. He likes this—the easy bantering, the breakfast. The excitement he felt when he spotted Baz waiting for him from the train window. 

(It’s good. It’s nice. He desperately wants things to stay this way, even when they fix the loop.) 

Today they’re going to be ransacking the Pitch family library—the next step in their tiresome quest to find a solution. Baz says he has all sorts of books there, banned ones and really old ones and common magical ones they couldn’t find at Watford, and he’s certain they’ll come across something useful. Simon isn’t quite as sure—he’s starting to think no book will have anything helpful—but he doesn’t put up a fight. There’s still a chance Baz is right. Also, the food was incredible, and Baz has a really comfortable bed.

It only hits Simon that Baz is ditching his family for this when they pull into the garage. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be with your family? At that café?” 

Baz shrugs. “I said I have a school project. It’s not like I’m actually missing anything.” 

Right. The time loop; he must’ve lived through the same lunch a million times. Simon can’t even fathom what that’d be like—he’s spent what feels like eternity on his own. He didn’t even have to think about how to deal with other people until he found out about Baz. 

“Doesn’t it get annoying?” Simon asks, as he follows Baz into the empty house. “Y’know, going through the motions every day?”  

Baz hesitates in the hallway, like he’s debating where to go first, and lets out a sigh. “Yes, obviously, but I don’t—it’s not their fault. I try not to let it out on them.” 

Simon smiles. “That’s really considerate of you.” 

He’s positive that, if Baz could, he’d be blushing now. Instead, he just ducks his head. “Well, I’m not mean to everyone, Snow. Just you.” 

Simon’s heart skips a beat. 

“Anyway,” Baz continues, clearing his throat, “the library’s this way. We should try to get as much work done as we can before my family returns, so we don’t get disrupted.”

Simon’s been here before, but the manor is just as unbelievable as it was the first time he saw it: massive, creepy, all dark red and wood, filled with furniture that must be centuries old. It feels like a museum, or a horror movie set—it’s weird to think that people really live here. That Baz lives here. That he does normal things in this giant Victorian house, which is literally haunted. 

The library is somehow even grander and posher. It has huge bay windows overlooking the garden—a proper one, with neatly trimmed hedges and rose bushes and whatnot—and velvet-cushioned chairs and gorgeous dark shelves, all filled with leatherbound books. 

“Merlin,” Simon whispers, eyes wide. 

It’s exactly what he’d expect the Watford library to look like. And now that he’s seen it, he’s almost a little bummed about that. No wonder Baz complains about the school’s resources, when he has a place like this back home. They probably have a copy of every magical book ever written. 

If only Penny were here too. She’d adore it. 

“You can gawk after we finish researching,” Baz huffs, pushing past him to step inside.    

“I wasn’t gawking.”

“Either way,” Baz drawls. “You’re here for a reason. We have things to do.” 

He’s already pulling books off the shelves—he has to stretch to reach a few, and his jumper rides up. Simon follows him, scuffing his feet on the ground—it doesn’t have quite the same effect without his boots—arms crossed, squinting at all the faded, gold-lettered titles he can’t make out instead of watching Baz. 

“Can we use ‘Fine-tooth comb’ today?” he asks. He really doesn’t want to spend another entire day reading—and he has a strong feeling that the contents of the Pitch library will require more of his focus than those at Watford, which he could usually just skim. 

Baz whips around and deposits a wobbly stack of ancient books—some of their covers are literally crumbling—in Simon’s arms, smiling devilishly. “No.”   

The books are so heavy that Simon stumbles forward a bit, barely catching himself on the nearest bookcase. “Fine,” he grumbles, “but you owe me.” 

Baz just snorts. The tosser. 

Simon lugs the books over to the nearest sofa—ridiculously posh, covered in soft velvet throw pillows—and drops them with a dull thud on an ornate table beside it. He collapses on the sofa with a sigh. They haven’t even started today’s research, and he’s already exhausted. 

“Is this all, then?” Simon asks, gesturing at the stack. He tries to read the titles on the spines, but some of them are in languages he doesn’t understand, so he gives up. 

“No,” Baz calls, from where he’s still gathering books, “absolutely not. I just can’t carry everything at once.” 

Simon throws his head back and groans.  

“Can I ask you something? And don’t get mad.” 

Baz narrows his eyes. “Why do you assume I’m going to get mad?” 

“Because you have,” Simon says, “historically.” 

Baz’s lips turn down in a deep frown. He’s practically glowering now.

Simon continues: “You said we can’t use ‘Fine-tooth comb’ because the concept of a time loop hasn’t always existed, yeah?” He waits for Baz to nod. “So if that’s the case, how would we ever know if it’s happened to someone else? Like, before they had a word for it, or whatever?” 

Baz sets his mouth in a firm line. His jaw is clenched. He’s gripping his book so tight, the spine starts to creak. When he finally replies, he talks slowly, measured. “It… would be hard to know for certain.” 

“So you’re saying we wouldn’t know? That’s basically what you’re saying.” 

Baz scowls at him. “I’m just saying it’d be difficult, not that it’s impossible. Clearly, that’s too hard for you to grasp.” 

“Same thing,” Simon says, shrugging. He decides to ignore the insult, because he’s above that. 

“It is absolutely not the same thing.” 

Simon just shrugs again.

“Hey,” Simon says, “look at this.” He flips the book over and aggressively jabs at the open page. “Baz!” 

Baz, whose head has been slowly dropping to the table for the past half hour, suddenly jerks upright, eyes wide, like he’s been startled awake. “What?”

Simon pushes the book closer to him. “This could be helpful, yeah?” 

Baz rubs his eyes and frowns. He looks knackered; unlike Simon, he hasn’t taken any breaks this whole time, not even when his stepmum came up with a plate of sandwiches. 

“Could be,” he concedes eventually. “It’s worth a try.” 

“I’ll cast it,” Simon says, grinning as he searches for his wand, buried under the discarded books he never bothered to put back on the shelves, or in an orderly stack. “At the end of the day!”

At first, he doesn’t register that anything happens. Everything looks exactly the same. Baz is still in his seat, the sleeves of his jumper rolled up. The second table they’d pushed in front of the sofa is still cluttered with all the dirty mugs they’ve amassed. 

“Huh,” Simon says, pouting. “I hoped it’d do something.” 

And then he notices that Baz isn’t looking at the book anymore—he’s staring out the window, his jaw clenched. “I think it did.” 

Simon follows his gaze. It’s only mid-afternoon, and the sky was a pale blue mere seconds ago. Now, it’s pitch black. He can even see the faint glimmer of stars, if he focuses hard enough.

“Snow,” Baz says, slowly, “what time is it?” 

This can’t be good. The sky shouldn’t just change its appearance like this. Simon doesn’t know of any spell that can— 

The spell. The one he just cast. Could it have…? 

He reaches for Baz's phone, which he'd left on top of an open book. And lets out a sigh. “Nearly midnight.” 

At the end of the day—he should’ve guessed that’s what would happen. 

“Oh,” Baz snaps, levelling him with a glare, “fuck you.” 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Simon says, in lieu of a proper greeting. He hadn’t honestly expected Baz to be here, after what happened yesterday, and he was more relieved than he’d ever admit when he saw him waiting on the platform. 

Baz just sighs. He’s holding out tea and scones. “Neither of us knew it would do that. It’s fine.” 

“You thought it might, though, didn’t you?” Simon asks, accepting the proffered breakfast. It’s nice that Baz is trying to spare his feelings—weird, albeit—but he doesn’t have to. Simon knows he probably guessed what that spell does as soon as he read it, that clever bastard. 

“I did,” Baz agrees, hesitantly. “But I thought maybe, if you were the one casting it… it’d do a bit more. That it would really end the day.” 

That had been Simon’s train of thought, too. “Well,” he says, taking a sharp breath and putting on his best smile, “at least we know not to try that one again, right?” 

They’re sharing the one sofa in the library, because they’d both wanted to lie down and neither of them was willing to bring another or give up arguably the comfiest seat in the entire room. Simon’s feet are resting on Baz’s shoulder—he tried to reach the armrest when Baz snapped at him about it, but then Baz said that just made him look even more moronic than usual, and so he’s reluctantly put up with this for the better part of an hour. It’s pretty convenient, actually; now, whenever Simon wants to get his attention, he just pokes him with his toe. 

This time, when he does it, Baz only sighs. Before, he’d swat Simon’s feet away. 

“What is it?” Baz asks, putting his own book down. 

“I was just thinking,” Simon says, stretching his arms above his head, “what about we try that Queen song?” 

Baz sighs again. “Which one, Snow?” 

“It goes like, I want to break free, or something. I dunno.” 

“That’s the name of the song,” Baz deadpans. “That’s literally what it’s called.” 

Simon kicks his shoulder. “You don’t have to be such a tosser. I just thought it might work, y’know? Like, maybe it’ll break the loop.” 

Baz pinches the bridge of his nose. He didn’t react at all to Simon kicking him, which probably means he agrees. “Fine.” 

He reaches over to grab his phone from the table and pulls up the song on YouTube. The opening notes start playing, filling up the silence in the library, and Simon bops his head in time to the beat. He’d been looking at his lap, but when he glances up to see whether Baz is doing the same thing—he is—he finds it’s not as awkward as he thought it’d be. 

Baz catches his gaze, and Simon breaks into a grin. “I want to break free…” 

By the time they’re halfway through the song, they’ve both lightened up, and now they’re practically yelling out the lyrics. Simon’s pretending to drum in the air and trying to mimic the guitar, and Baz is laughing. 

But life still goes on

I can’t get used to — 

They jump, and Simon lets out a high-pitched yelp, when the library door bangs open. Mordelia stalks in with her hands on her hips, brows furrowed, doing her best to imitate Baz’s signature scowl. It isn’t nearly as intimidating as she must think. It’s a little adorable, actually, considering she’s still wearing that tartan pinafore that just makes her look like she walked off the set of a Christmas film. 

“Mordelia!” Baz snaps, fumbling to pause the song. “Aleisteir bloody Crowley, learn to knock!”

Mordelia ignores him. “Why are you singing so loud? I can hear you all the way from my room. Aren’t you supposed to be working on a school project?” 

“We are,” Baz huffs. “And put on headphones if we’re disrupting you. Now go, you’re not even allowed in here.” 

Mordelia narrows her eyes at him. “Fine.” She stomps back out, and then, just before she leaves, she turns to them and calls, “And you’re really off-key.”  

Baz waits until she’s gone, sighs, and gets up to lock the door. When he collapses on the sofa again, not even snapping about Simon’s feet being in his way, he doesn’t bother turning on the song. 

“It didn’t do anything, did it?” he asks.

Simon shrugs. “Probably not. But it was pretty fun.” 

He steals Baz’s phone to put on a Queen playlist when they pick up their books, and catches Baz’s small smile. 

Simon wakes up, and it takes him a second to register where he is: Baz’s room. He’s curled up on Baz’s bed, a book tucked under his arm and digging into his chest. He tosses it away, not particularly caring where it lands, and pushes himself up. 

They moved their research here, just for a change of scenery, and the floor is littered with books and papers and dirty plates. The window is open, letting in a cool breeze—Baz complained about the curtains for a while, but eventually he shut up, and it’s dusk now, so it doesn’t really matter. 

Simon ruffles a hand through his matted hair and yawns. He’s exhausted; he’d go right back to sleep, but Baz will yell at him, or shake him awake. It’s a surprise he’s let him nap for this long. And where’s Baz, anyway? Did he go to grab more sandwiches, or leftovers from dinner, which they must’ve missed? Maybe he finally went to get that plant mister he keeps threatening Simon with. 

Simon rubs his eyes, stifling another yawn, and glances around—and finds Baz on the other side of the bed, his face squished against an open book, snoring lightly. Asleep. 

He looks—well, kind of adorable, really, like this. Peaceful, untroubled, unlike usual.  

Simon doesn’t wake him up. 

When Baz said he was going to take a shower, Simon wasn’t planning on doing any research until he came back. It was the first time he was going to be properly alone, no one sitting beside him or across from him and snapping at him if he put his book aside, and he was going to make the most of it. Maybe explore the house—he’s been coming over for a while, and Baz has yet to give him a tour—or pick out today’s film. 

(Almost every day now, like clockwork, they take a break around four, and they usually end up watching something. They take turns choosing; yesterday was Baz’s turn, and they had to sit through Mulan with Mordelia, who apparently knows all the lyrics and proceeded to scream them out.) 

Simon had even intended to see if he could get his hands on another plate of sandwiches—Baz’s stepmum makes the best—but then he spotted a book with a posh, gilted cover, half-buried under all the fur throw blankets piled on Baz’s bed, and he just had to see what it was. 

The Complete Guide to Love Spells. Simon’s still reading it, engrossed in every page’s gorgeous calligraphy, when Baz comes back from his shower. His hair is still fluffy and damp and dripping on the floor, and he’s wearing a faded Watford jumper that probably isn’t his.

“I think I might’ve found something,” Simon says, flipping through the book until he finds the spell he saw. “‘Amor vincit omnia’. It means love conquers—”

“I know what it means,” Baz snaps. He’s glaring at Simon now, eyes narrowed menacingly, jaw clenched, his hand curled tight around the towel he’s using to dry his hair. “And no, it won’t help.” 

Simon frowns. “But it conquers all, Baz. Isn’t it at least worth—”

“No,” Baz snarls. He drops the towel, stalks over to the bed, and yanks the book out of Simon’s hands. He’s fuming, but Simon doesn’t even know what’s got him so worked up. “And don’t read things I purposely put away.” 

“Fine,” Simon grumbles. 

He doesn’t see what the issue is—if it’s even the spell Baz is mad about, or something else entirely—but he isn’t going to press it. Things have been going so well between them; he’d hate to ruin it. 

Instead, Simon flops down on his side of the bed—he has a designated side now, when they come here to research—and asks, “Why’d you need to shower, anyway? You never do.” 

There’s a long, tense pause. Simon pushes himself up on his elbows and finds Baz watching him with wide eyes, one hand frozen in mid-air, reaching towards the stack of books on his nightstand. 

“It’s called cleanliness, Snow,” Baz snaps eventually. “I know you haven’t heard of it.”

Simon throws a pillow at him. “You’re being such an arsehole.”  

Baz doesn’t even dodge it; he just lets the pillow hit him, squarely on the chest, and then props it back up on the bed with a sigh. 

“I’ll get you more sandwiches,” he says. Which isn’t exactly an apology, but it’s pretty close, for him. Food as a peace offering—that’s something Simon’s used to by now. 

“With butter?” 

Baz’s expression softens. “Obviously with butter.”   

“We could try a revealing spell,” Baz says. 

Simon lets out a sleepy hum and rolls over on the sofa to face him. That doesn’t make any sense; Baz must’ve finally gone mental with all this research. A revealing spell? What does he think is going to happen—they’ll cast Scooby-Dooby-Doo, where are you?, and tomorrow, the real tomorrow, will just pop up? 

“To find out what caused the time loop,” Baz continues. “Like one of these: ‘Heart of the matter’ or ‘What’s the name of the game?’ There might be more, they’re the only ones I’ve found so far.” 

He uses a clean napkin to mark his place in the book and flips to the end, probably to look through the index for any more revealing spells. 

“Okay,” Simon says, his voice still a little thick with sleep. “Does it matter which one?”

Baz shakes his head. “We’ll try both.” He nudges a cup filled with lukewarm tea towards Simon—neither of them particularly cares anymore whose it was in the first place—and takes out his wand. “Well, here goes. Heart of the matter!” 

They stay stock-still for a long moment, unsure whether the spell did anything. Simon reaches for the tea and glances up at Baz, opens his mouth to ask— 

Baz looks… panicked. His eyes are wider than Simon’s ever seen them, and his cheeks are actually flushed, a proper bright red, which is new and weird. He’s straining, obviously biting his tongue, his hands trembling with the effort. He’s holding something back—Simon wonders what it could possibly be.  

“Never mind the bollocks,” Baz casts, a little too loud, and then he slumps back in his chair with a sigh of relief. 

Simon hesitates. “Are you all right?” 

Baz buries his face in his hands and mumbles out, “Bloody perfect.”

“I take it the spell didn’t—” 

Simon stops talking once he realizes that Baz isn’t paying him any attention; he’s focused solely on the book he’d found the spell in, reading the entry about it with a frown. 

“Figures,” Baz sighs, slamming the book shut. “I should’ve known it’d do that.” 

“And what…,” Simon says, slowly, uncertainly, “what was it supposed to do?” 

For a moment, he thinks Baz might snap at him again, like he did with Amor vincit omnia. But instead, he just waves his hand dismissively and changes the subject. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing helpful, anyway. Should we try the other one I found?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he grabs his wand again and casts, “What’s the name of the game?” 

Immediately, Simon blurts out, “Time loop.” 

He doesn’t know why he said it—he just felt a strange pull, a nagging at the back of his mind, almost identical to the way he’d felt when the Crucible worked its magic. It was like something was telling him to say it, a force greater than himself. 

Baz makes a face. “Yeah, thanks for the input, Snow.” 

“No, wait,” Simon says, grabbing at the spellbook, “I think—look, it’s right here.” 

What’s the name of the game?, the entry reads, is a revealing spell used to uncover the name of a person, object, or—in rare cases—a situation one has found oneself in. It is a common way to recall forgotten words or find the equivalent term in a language one does not know. The presence of a second mage, besides the caster, is required for the spell to work; the spell will use the mage as its voice. The success of this spell is based on the caster’s directed intentions. 

Baz reads the passage once, and then again, and lets out a long and exasperated breath. “Of fucking course.” 

It’s Baz who suggests going out for dinner, which catches Simon so off-guard that he nearly trips over the leg of the coffee table on his way to the kitchen. They’re in the middle of their break—which has been ongoing for the past three hours, practically since they had lunch, and which Baz has surprisingly not put an end to yet—and they just finished their second bowl of popcorn. Baz barely ate any; Simon got through most of it by himself. 

It’s his own fault, really; he’s the one who suggested they watch Ratatouille today, and he should’ve remembered how hungry it makes him. 

“What?” Simon asks. 

“I just thought we could go out today,” Baz says, shrugging. He’s fidgeting with the TV remote, avoiding Simon’s gaze, not nearly as casual as he probably thinks. “We eat dinner here every day. You must be sick of having the same thing all the time.” 

Simon opens his mouth to argue that, actually, he’s pretty sure it’s impossible to get sick of eating really good food, but then decides against it. Baz is offering to go out for dinner, which he hasn’t done since the last time they were at Watford, and there’s a nervous edge to his voice, like he thinks Simon might say no. 

(It’s unbearably adorable. As if Simon would ever refuse that.) 

But speaking of dinner… he needs to clear something up. Now seems like a good time to ask. 

“Okay,” Simon says, smiling. “But you have to be straight with me before we go, yeah?” 

Baz freezes. 

“Are you a vampire?” 

Baz visibly relaxes, the corner of his lips quirked up in a small smile—not at all the reaction Simon expected. “Oh, that again, really?” 

Simon sets the empty popcorn bowl down and crosses his arms. “Look, it’s just—we’re stuck together, right, and I feel like I have a right to know.”

“Do you feel in danger of being bitten?” Baz sneers. 

“Well, no,” Simon huffs, “but it’s unfair. You know everything about me, Baz. You’re the only one keeping secrets here! I just—I noticed you never eat in front of me. You think you’re so good at hiding that, but you’re not.” 

Baz’s expression is flat, stony, almost bored. It’s a facade, though; Simon’s spent enough time around him to know that. “You’ve noticed, have you? I didn’t realize you were so observant.” 

Simon bristles. “Every day, when your family gets back, your stepmum brings us sandwiches. And every day, you don’t take any. You always say it’s ‘cause you’re not hungry. But then I go to the loo, and when I come back, there are less on the plate. So either you give some to Mordelia, or you just don’t want to eat when I’m there. And you never really eat at dinner, too.” 

He catches Baz’s cool gaze, trying his best to make his glare as intimidating as possible. “I notice.” 

“Good for you,” Baz drawls. 

“Is it the vampire thing?” Simon asks, ignoring him. “Or do you have an eating disorder, or something? ‘Cause that’s really the only other explanation I could—”

He’s interrupted by Baz sighing. “Snow. Just go get your popcorn, will you?” 

Simon lingers there, blocking the TV, for another moment. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t quite know what. So he grinds his jaw and stomps off to the kitchen, fuming the entire time he makes the popcorn. He adds a gratuitous amount of liquid butter just because he knows Baz doesn’t like that much. 

“I guess,” Baz says, when he eventually returns, “you’ll find out anyway.” 

Simon frowns, brow furrowed, about to ask what this has to do with the popcorn—and then Baz opens his mouth. 

And he has fangs now, long and sharp. Actual, honest-to-goodness fangs. 

Simon lets out a breath. “Wicked.” 

He’s sure that if Baz could properly scowl at him, he would. “Are you happy, Snow?” He gestures at the fangs. “Here’s your proof. Congratulations on being right.” 

A year ago—a month ago, even—Simon would’ve been ecstatic about this. Finally having hard evidence that Baz is a vampire, just like he’s always suspected, is a dream come true. Penny would have no choice but to believe him. 

He isn’t pleased about it. Not as happy as he probably should be, all things considering. It’s just… well, nice, he supposes, to know this is no longer something Baz keeps from him. That Baz must trust him a little, to willingly share this. 

(Mostly, he’s thinking about dinner. And how he won’t have to feel weird anymore, being the only one eating.) 

“It has nothing to do with my happiness,” Simon says, flopping down on the sofa beside Baz. Up close, his fangs are even cooler. Obviously predatory, and so sharp they could probably tear right through him, but he doesn’t feel like he’s in danger at all. The opposite, actually. “It’s like having swords in your mouth.” 

Baz turns to sneer at him. “Don’t ever say that again.” 

“What I mean is,” Simon says, grinning, “they’re fucking cool.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if I bit you.” 

Simon shrugs. “I dunno.” 

“What the absolute fuck is wrong with you?” Baz asks, but he’s laughing. And his smile is even more beautiful now, no longer self-conscious, revealing his fangs instead of trying to hide them. 

“A lot of things, probably.” Simon knocks his shoulder against Baz’s, lingers there, pressed into his side, for a beat too long. “I’m glad you showed me, Baz.”

Baz knocks back into him, still smiling softly. They stay like this, almost curled around each other, for the rest of the film. 

Baz has been staring at the whiteboard, arms crossed, mouth set in a hard line, for what feels like ages. His silence is making Simon squirm uncomfortably. Finally, he snarls, “What’s this supposed to be?” 

“I’m glad you asked,” Simon says, grinning. He gestures at the things he’d written with the dry-erase marker. “I made those lists you and Pen like so much. And as you can clearly see, we’ve made absolutely no progress.” 

Baz turns his icy glare to Simon and says, through gritted teeth, “You took Daphne’s whiteboard for this?” 

Simon nods. Before he can even think to reply, Baz lunges at the stack of books they’d put aside for today and grabs one, holds it up like he’s going to— 

“Anathema!” Simon shouts, hands raised to block his face. 

It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to remember that they aren’t, in fact, at Watford and the Roommate’s Anathema doesn’t apply here, and Baz could theoretically do whatever he wants. 

Baz still drops the book. 

They’re playing a game of chess in the library when Simon remembers a spell he’d come across earlier, when they were still pretending they were actually reading. He doesn’t even know why he agreed to this—he knows shit about chess, and he can tell he’s losing miserably. Baz is staring down at the board, eyes narrowed, deep in thought. 

“I might’ve found something,” Simon says, shifting in his seat and shaking his leg, which has fallen asleep. 

Baz shushes him. “Don’t interrupt me. I’m thinking—” He swiftly moves one of his pawns, taking out Simon’s last knight, and then sits back with a smug grin. “Okay, you can talk now. What did you find?” 

Simon moves a rook without thinking, or caring, where he puts it. He kind of just wants the game to end, so Baz can get his gloating over with. “A spell. It might be useful, y’know, for the time loop thing.” 

Baz lifts an eyebrow—either because of the spell, or whatever move Simon made. “Really? What is it?” 

“Give me a second,” Simon says. “I’ll find it.” 

He leans over to grab the book he saw it in from the stack he left, precariously placed, on the table, and accidentally upsets the chessboard. Several pieces—mostly his own—get scattered. Baz mumbles a curse under his breath as he rights them. 

“Here it is.” Simon gently lays the book beside the board and points at the spell. 

“‘After all, tomorrow is another day’,” Baz reads. And then he just sits there, one hand hovering over a chess piece he was about to move, unblinking and so still that Simon starts to worry. 

Just as Simon opens his mouth to check if he’s all right, Baz lunges forward, up-ending the entire board and sending it flying to the floor, and pulls Simon closer by the back of his neck. He’s grinning, hair falling into his eyes. 

“Simon Snow,” Baz says, “you’re brilliant. You absolute genius. This might just do it.”

He’s so, so close. He smells like cedar and bergamot and Earl Grey tea. Simon’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Baz lowers his gaze… and then suddenly releases him, dropping his hands. 

"Er," Simon coughs. 

Baz sits back. "Right," he says, back to business, his voice cool. "You can cast it, if you want. What's the worst that can happen?" 

Simon grabs his wand off the bookshelf beside them—he had it in the pocket of his jeans at first, but Baz had sniped that that was "bad form" and he'd "break his wand like that"—and turns the book around to reread the spell. He knows it, but he wants to go over it again anyway, just to make sure he gets it right. 

According to its entry, it ought to work. It's supposed to fast-forward to the next day, and it's apparently very advanced, but Simon thinks he might be able to do it. His magic is ridiculously strong, after all, and if he just focuses it enough… it'll work. 

He catches Baz's gaze and grins. "Okay. Catch you on the flip side, yeah?" 

Baz rolls his eyes. "Get on with it." 

"After all, tomorrow is another day!" 

Simon opens his eyes. He's back in his room at Watford, on his bed, staring at a terribly familiar alarm clock. 

"Fuck."

Chapter Text

"Have you tried just going off?" 

Simon glances at Baz over his shoulder and frowns. "What?" 

They're in the kitchen, waiting for the tea kettle to boil before they head to the library for today's research session. Simon already finished the three scones Baz bought him in the car, and now he's looking through the pantry for something else to eat. A few days ago, when he first came here to grab food on his own, he tried to stay quiet and discreet; he didn't feel like he was allowed to be here, at least without Baz. 

Baz doesn't really seem to mind, though—he's the one who told Simon to get his own snacks anyway. He didn't even say anything, just raised an eyebrow, when Simon stole one of his jackets yesterday, when they went to get takeaway. 

(They'd originally planned to get dinner at a pub in Winchester that Baz admitted to liking, now that they actually eat together, but Mordelia overheard them and demanded instead that they get curry. 

Baz likes to put on a show about not giving in to every one of Mordelia's whims, but he said yes almost immediately.)

"Have you tried to go off?" Baz repeats. He's drumming the kitchen island, and now he stops, turning over and resting his forearms on it. "Like you did with the chimera. Just let your magic do its thing." 

Simon scrunches his nose up. "It doesn't work like that. I can't go off whenever I want to." 

"No, clearly," Baz huffs. "Otherwise you'd be half decent in class. But maybe if we got you worked up enough…" 

Simon slams the pantry door shut. "What is your point?" 

"You could break the loop," Baz says impatiently, like it's obvious, like Simon should've figured it out himself. 

Simon crosses his arms, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do with them. He hates admitting it, but Baz does sort of have a point. He might be right—maybe going off is the solution they’re looking for. The only problem is, Simon can’t just summon his magic the way everyone else can, and he definitely can’t go off at will. He isn’t even sure it’ll work if he thinks much about it; he never really has, before. 

“Let’s just try something,” Baz says. “Remember what I told you, when we fought the chimera?” 

Simon nods. He remembers a lot of yelling, the way he’d smelled like smoke for weeks afterwards, the relief he’d felt when he realized Baz was still alive and okay, that he hadn’t blown up with the chimera. But that’s not what Baz is talking about, he knows. 

(Baz’s voice had been softer and kinder than ever, and he’d held Simon’s hands like he was trying to keep him grounded, and he remembers thinking—just for a moment—that if fighting a chimera is what it took for Baz to be like this, he’d do it again in a heartbeat.) 

“Yeah,” Simon says. “About your mum.” 

Baz falters for a second, but before Simon can pinpoint what his expression is, he shakes his head and draws himself up to his full height, abandoning the island and crossing the few feet of space between them. 

“Try it, Snow. Call your magic up. Channel it.” 

“Light a match,” Simon whispers. 

This feels weirdly intimate—Baz standing so close, practically inches away, trying to help him use his magic even though there’s no threat—and Simon feels like he has to close his eyes, so that he doesn’t have to keep looking at Baz. He goes over what Baz had told him that day in the Wood, repeats it like a mantra: Light a match inside your heart, then blow on the tinder. 

He clenches his hands into fists at his sides and focuses. Light a match. He tries, he really does, but nothing happens. He doesn’t even feel his magic welling up, doesn’t feel electric like he normally does. 

There’s absolutely nothing. 

“I can’t,” Simon says, letting his shoulders drop. “It’s not working.” 

Baz is still being unbearably gentle. “Try again.”

Simon does, even though he knows it won’t work. “It’s not doing anything. I just don’t think I can call it up like you do.” 

For a long moment, Baz doesn’t say anything. He steps back, one hand on his hip and the other pinching the bridge of his nose—he does this a lot, actually, Simon notices—and then snaps, “Of course. I shouldn’t have expected otherwise. Typical Simon Snow.” 

Simon frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means,” Baz sneers, “that you’re a shit mage, like always.”

He’s all ice now; that kindness in his voice is gone, replaced with steely cold, sharp and bitter. 

“That’s uncalled for.” 

Baz snorts. “Really? Name one remotely useful thing you’ve done. Or one successful thing.” 

Simon’s hands, still clenched into fists, are trembling now. His breaths come out shallow and ragged. “Shut up, Baz.” 

“You’re really only good for killing things, aren’t you?” Baz continues, still sneering, in that tone that takes Simon back to the Catacombs in fifth year. “That’s why the Mage keeps you around, like a dog on a leash.” 

“Stop,” Simon says, but it’s barely more than a whisper. 

“He only talks to you when he needs you to do his dirty work, doesn’t he? Poor little Snow, unwanted even by your honorary father.”

Simon’s shaking. “Stop it. Shut up.” 

The tea kettle is boiling, but neither of them pay any attention to it. 

“You must know you’re a fraud by now. I know you’re thick-headed, but you can’t be that dense. There’s no way you’re the Greatest Mage. You’re barely a mage.” Baz takes a step closer, lip curled up in a snarl. “You know the Mage knows that, don’t you? As soon as you kill the Humdrum, he’ll drop you. You won’t be useful to him anymore.”

“Sod off,” Simon says, his voice breaking. 

“He’ll drop you,” Baz says, “just like Wellbelove.” 

Simon’s trembling so much now, he can barely stand upright. All he can see is red, red, red; his vision is clouded in a thick haze. The air smells like smoke, like something’s burning. 

Baz steps closer and spits out, “Just like your parents.” 

The tea kettle is whistling, loud and high-pitched. 

“Shut up!”  

When Simon comes to, the first thing he registers is that it’s cold. There’s a slight breeze, like he’s— 

He sits up, brushing a hand through his hair. He is outside, lying on the ground, and the air is so heavy with the smell of smoke that it’s nearly suffocating. Letting out a groan, Simon staggers to his feet, dusting off his jumper and shaking snow off his joggers. He doesn’t even have boots on, just socks, but he doesn’t feel cold. He’s still simmering with anger, and the residue from his magic must be keeping him warm. 

Which—he hadn’t meant to go off like that. Shit. Is Baz all right? Did he—did Simon—

(Baz pushed him, sure, and he said all those terrible things, but Simon can’t even find it in himself to be mad about that anymore. Not right now, not when it suddenly hit him that Baz could be hurt.)

Simon looks around until he finds Baz, and when he spots a figure sprawled on the snow, not that far away, he can’t help but let out a sigh of relief. He rushes over as fast as he can, dropping to his knees. It is Baz, unconscious but thankfully unharmed. 

“Baz,” Simon says, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. “Come on, Baz, wake up.”

Baz groans and squints up at him, one hand raised to block the sun. His words are a little slurred when he says, “Did it work?” 

“Huh?” Simon collapses beside him—going off must’ve taken all his energy, because he’s exhausted. “Did what work?” 

“Getting you to go off,” Baz grunts, pushing himself up and rubbing a hand over his face. 

Simon whips around to stare at him. “You did that. On purpose?”  

“Obviously,” Baz huffs. He manages to stand with another groan, and holds a hand out to Simon. “Let’s go back inside. It’s fucking freezing out here.” 

Simon’s so, so confused. But he’s far too tired to question anything right now, so he just accepts Baz’s hand and follows him to the house, frowning down at the tracks he leaves in the snow. 

Baz stops so abruptly that Simon runs right into him. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

“Well,” Baz says slowly, “that’s not quite what I thought would happen.” 

Simon glances up then, somehow even more confused than he already is, and finds—charred, still-smoking remains, exactly where the Pitch manor was mere moments ago. 

“Shit,” he breathes. “I’m sorry.” 

Baz is looking at what used to be his house, arms crossed, mouth pressed in a thin line. “It’s a good thing no one else was home.”

“I’m really sorry,” Simon repeats, scuffing his feet on the ground. 

Baz finally turns to face him and sighs. “Stop apologizing, it isn’t your fault. I mean—technically it is, but I’m the one who pushed you. I’m the reason you went off in the first place. I just thought…” He shakes his head. “You do know I didn’t mean any of what I said, right?”  

Simon does now. He did really think Baz was being serious, back in the kitchen, and he was angry when he woke up, and he’d thought—he genuinely believed it. He isn’t quite as angry anymore—it’s still there, but it’s quieter, and he knows he’ll get over it soon. It’s been replaced by an uncomfortable hurt, deep in his gut, like something he knows instinctively. 

Because Baz might’ve not sincerely meant what he said, but that doesn’t take away from its truth. Everything he said is true, whether they want to admit it or not.      

“Simon,” Baz says gently. It’s the first time he’s used his first name, and Simon would bring it up, but he can’t find the words—not when Baz is stepping closer, and taking his hands, and there’s a lock of hair falling into his eyes that he doesn’t bother moving aside. “Simon, look at me. I didn’t mean any of it. I shouldn’t have said it at all.”

Simon shrugs. “It’s still true, though.” 

He can’t look Baz in the eye, so he averts his gaze and stares at a distant spot just over his shoulder. But Baz doesn’t let him—he grabs Simon’s chin and forces him to look up. 

“Simon,” he says—three for three, this is so fucking weird, “you’re good for so many things besides killing, you absolute menace. And Wellbelove’s a moron for dropping you. The Mage is too, for unrelated reasons, but especially for how he treats you.” 

Simon coughs. “Er. Thanks.” 

“And what I said about your parents,” Baz continues, looking so pained and guilty it makes Simon ache, “that was low, and uncalled for, and I shouldn’t have gone that far. It doesn’t reflect on you at all.” 

Simon opens his mouth to reply, but he can’t think of anything to say, and his throat has gone dry, and all he can think of is that they’re so, ridiculously close, and Baz is being so nice, and his hands are cold, and— 

Baz steps back and clears his throat. “Right. Well. This was a disaster. What’s that spell that fast-forwards time?” 

“How’s your house?” Simon asks, the second he steps off the train. 

Today, Baz got him four scones, instead of the usual three. It’s either a makeshift peace offering—he grimaces once he sees Simon, like he still feels bad about everything he said yesterday—or it’s meant to prevent him from raiding the pantry again. Simon doesn’t particularly care. They’re warm and fresh, and they melt in his mouth, and that’s what matters. 

“Intact,” Baz says. He’s only holding one cup of tea; he takes a sip, sniffs, and hands it over. “I did have a theory, though.” 

Simon takes the proffered tea. “About… your house?” 

“About the time loop,” Baz corrects. “What if time just goes on like normal for everyone else?” 

Simon stops in his tracks, in the middle of biting off half his scone. “How would that work?” 

Baz doesn’t even roll his eyes, or make a disgusted face, at the fact that Simon’s talking with his mouth full, which says something. Maybe he’s just learned that there’s no point in bringing it up, because Simon never listens. It’s probably because he’s preoccupied with this theory of his. 

“Just because we’re stuck reliving the same day doesn’t mean the whole world is too,” Baz says. He pulls Simon aside, so they’re not blocking other people on the platform. “Think about it: theoretically, every day that resets for us could branch off to create a parallel universe, and time would just go on.”

Simon blinks once, twice, then rubs his eyes. “So, you’re saying—what, we’re just living alternate versions of the same day? From different universes?”

Baz huffs. “I mean, we are anyway, but yes.” 

Simon must either be going mental, or he’s way too exhausted to fully comprehend this, because it surprisingly makes sense. At least, it’s not the most batshit thing he’s ever heard. “Right. Yeah, of course.” 

“So,” Baz says, stealing Simon’s tea to take another sip—and why didn’t he just get his own?—and guiding Simon off the platform, through the throngs of people, “theoretically, there’s an alternate universe where my family is now homeless. Thanks to you.” 

Simon frowns. He can’t even think properly, not with Baz’s hand lightly touching his back. “I thought we were past that.” 

Baz raises an eyebrow. “Who said we weren’t? It’s just a theory. I do wonder, though, how they’re coping with that.” 

“Wait,” Simon says, “what does that mean for us, in these parallel universes? If we’re stuck today… are all the versions of us stuck too?”   

Baz narrows his eyes. He still hasn’t taken his hand away, even though they’ve moved past the crowds. “I haven’t thought that far.” 

Simon hums. They walk in silence to the car park, shoulders bumping, both caught up with thinking about this and neither of them feeling the need to talk.

When they get to Baz’s car, Simon breaks into a grin. “According to your theory—if it’s true—then there’s an alternate universe where I got killed by a merwolf.”   

“What?” 

“I told you I fought one, yeah?” Simon asks, as he gets into the passenger seat. Baz nods. “Well, it went terribly. I think I would’ve died, if the day hadn’t reset.” 

Baz is staring at him like he’s insane. Which he probably is, to some degree. “You absolute moron.”

Simon’s grin only grows wider. “You already said that.” 

Baz shakes his head and turns the ignition key, but just as he starts to reverse out of the parking spot, he hits the brakes and slaps his palm against the steering wheel. Simon lurches forward, straining against his seatbelt, hands on the dashboard. 

“I’m sorry,” Baz says, bursting into a fit of laughter. “You’re saying—you’re saying, there’s a world out there where you’re dead? Where a merwolf killed you?” 

“It’s really not that funny,” Simon huffs, but he’s still grinning despite himself, and Baz’s laughter is infectious. 

Baz starts driving again, his laughs coming out more like wheezy breaths now. “No, it’s hilarious. Oh, Crowley. Alternate-universe me must be rejoicing.” 

Simon leans over to whack his arm with the sleeve of his jumper—it’s Baz’s, actually, and he only realized that about halfway through the train ride, but it doesn’t really matter. “Oi!” 

Simon ends up staying that night, which he hasn’t done since that first time all those days ago, because Baz is too tired from ice skating to drive him back to Watford. Baz didn’t even say anything, didn’t ask if he wanted to spend the night—when Simon went to take a shower after dinner, he’d just wordlessly dumped a matching set of striped pyjamas in his arms. Like it was a given. Like it wasn’t something that necessitated a proper conversation. 

“I like your shower,” Simon says, dropping his clothes unceremoniously beside Baz’s wardrobe. 

Baz doesn’t even glance up at him; he’s busy setting up his sofa with spare blankets. “Oh, thank goodness I have your approval.”

“I’m being serious,” Simon huffs. If he had a pillow, he’d throw it at Baz, but he doesn’t. “And your soap’s nice."

This gets Baz’s attention. He looks up and sniffs, nose scrunched up adorably. “You do smell better.” He finishes fluffing a velvet throw pillow. “You can use it, if you want, when we go back to school.”

He says it so confidently, like he’s really positive that’ll happen. When, not if. When they go back to school. 

(Simon pointedly doesn’t think about his offer. He thinks he might genuinely lose his mind, if he smelled like Baz all the time.)  

“Speaking of,” Simon says, flopping down on the sofa and ignoring the frown Baz sends his way, “do you think there are parallel universes, like, normally? Like, things branch off, unrelated to the time loop?”

Baz hums thoughtfully, one hand on his hip. He looks almost unbearable like this, in his pyjamas and reindeer-patterned socks. “I don’t know. I really haven’t given it that much thought.” 

He gives the sofa another once-over and, seemingly satisfied with the amount of pillows and blankets he’s covered it in, he pads over to softly close his bedroom door, and then climbs into bed. The small lamp on his nightstand is still on, casting everything in a warm red glow.  

Simon stares up at the ceiling, chewing on his lower lip. He’s not tired yet, and he feels like he has more to say, so he sits up to face Baz. 

“‘Cause, I was thinking,” he says, “if there are parallel universes anyway, then that means there’s one where—”

He stops, and the rest of his sentence fades away. He was about to say, where we’re not enemies, but it feels wrong, now. Because he’s not so sure they are still enemies—it hasn’t felt like that for a very long time. They might even be friends now. Proper friends, not just civil because of the truce. 

Simon clears his throat and continues. “Where your mum isn’t dead.” 

Baz hums. He’s lying down, and Simon can’t see his expression, but when he speaks, he sounds a little melancholy. “I guess. Am I still a vampire in this universe, or did she kill them before they got to me?” 

“I don’t know,” Simon says, shrugging. “There’s probably two universes, then. One where you are still a vampire and one where you aren’t. But I kind of like that you’re a vampire, to be honest.” 

Baz lets out a groan. “Oh, Crowley, Snow.” 

Simon grins, burying his face in his arms to hide the blush creeping on his cheeks. He doesn’t even know why he’s flustered. “You called me Simon before,” he says. 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“You did!” Simon insists. He forgets, for a second, that they’re supposed to be keeping quiet so that Mordelia doesn’t barge in again, and quickly lowers his voice. “You did, yesterday. After I blew up your house. You called me Simon, like, three times.” 

“I did not.” 

“You did so,” Simon whispers. 

Baz just rolls over with a loud huff and turns off the lamp. “Good night.” 

Simon tries to spot him in the dark, tries to make out the familiar outline of his face, but he can’t see very well. “Say it again.” 

Baz doesn’t reply for a while. And then, just as Simon thinks he might’ve fallen asleep, he whispers, so softly it’s barely audible, “Good night, Simon.” 

Baz has been sucking on his pen for the past ten minutes, and Simon has definitely not been watching him. He’s supposed to be reading—because, for some reason, they still haven’t gotten through the entire Pitch library—and he did try to, at first, but it got increasingly hard to concentrate. It’s just—it’s the noise, that’s all. Baz keeps tapping the pen against his teeth, and then sticking it in his mouth like a cigarette, and every time he bites it, Simon swears he can hear the plastic crack. 

It’s terribly distracting. 

“Can I ask you something?” Baz asks suddenly, removing the pen from his mouth with an obscenely wet plop.  

Simon whips his head up, as if he’d actually been reading this whole time. “Sure.” 

“Why did you fight a merwolf?” 

“Uh, I—er—” Simon stammers, swallows around the lump in his throat. Baz is sucking on the pen again, almost absent-mindedly. “It’s kind of… it’s embarrassing.” 

Baz raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Oh, come on. I thought you didn’t want to keep any secrets.” 

He has a point, the bastard. 

Simon sighs. “Okay. Fine. But you can’t laugh.” He waits—Baz nods. “I, er, I wanted to have something to hold over you.” 

Baz doesn’t laugh, but he does break into a shit-eating grin. Before he can say anything, Simon grabs the nearest pillow and throws it at him. He misses badly, and it ends up smacking into a bookshelf instead, but it’s the principle that counts. He intended to hit Baz, anyway. 

“That’s really cute,” Baz says. 

Simon tries to glare at him, but he’s too flustered for it to work. It’s probably the first time, since they’ve started their research, that he willingly goes back to his book. 

“Go easy on me, will you?” Simon asks. 

Baz looks personally affronted. “Why do you think I won’t? I’m a fair player.”

Simon shrugs, carefully arranging his letter tiles so that Baz can’t see them. “I mean.” 

“Monopoly is meant to be unfair,” Baz says. “It’s not my fault you kept passing on the most valuable properties.” 

“I didn’t know they were valuable! And you didn’t say anything!”

Baz just crosses his arms. “You should’ve read the rulebook, like I suggested. Now get on with your turn.” 

Simon’s only played Scrabble once before—when he was over at Agatha’s for Christmas, and they both got bored fairly quickly, so he isn’t even sure if they finished the game—and it had taken a lot of convincing to get him to try it again. 

Well. It was really either this, or play another round of Operation with Mordelia and listen to her laugh every time he sets off the buzzer. 

(They have a lot of board games, surprisingly, for people who live in a literal haunted house. Baz said that Daphne kept trying to rope them all into family game night a few years ago.) 

Simon gently places his tiles on the board—TRY. It’s the only word he could think of; he got a terrible bunch of letters. He’ll probably have to exchange one during his next turn. 

“Not bad,” Baz says, and Simon beams. “I’m going to turn your try into quixotry.” 

“What. The fuck. You’re joking.” 

“I’m not,” Baz says. 

Simon squints at the board. The more he reads it, the less it looks legitimate. “You made that up. That’s not a real word.”

“I didn’t!” Baz holds his hands up defensively, but it’s obvious he’s trying to fight back a grin. “I swear. It’s a word.”

“Is it French?” Simon asks. It’s his turn now, technically, but he can’t get past this. “Is this in French? Because you know you’re not allowed to use foreign words, Basilton.” 

Baz glares at him. “It’s in English, you wanker! Check the dictionary if you don’t believe me. You have one right there.”

“Fine,” Simon huffs, “I will.” 

He knows, as soon as he opens the dictionary, that he’s probably wrong. And then he finds the entry: quixotry. Unfortunately it is a very real and very English word. For Crowley’s sake—Baz said he’d go easy on him. Under no circumstances does quixotry count as an easy word. Who even knows it? Apart from posh vampires, apparently.  

“Well?” Baz raises an eyebrow, and he’s grinning now, far too smug. 

Simon exchanges all his letters to get the ones he needs—he doesn’t care that that’s against the rules, and Baz doesn’t stop him—and then takes his next turn. “Fuck you.” 

Baz looks down at the board and laughs. Simon had spelled out PRICK.   

Baz is waiting at the train station with an honest-to-Merlin box. He’s holding it with one hand and scrolling through his phone with the other, resting his weight on one leg, head cocked to the side and hair brushing his shoulder. 

Simon coughs to get his attention, tugging on the sleeve of his coat. “What’s that?”

“Oh, this?” Baz follows his gaze to the box and thrusts it at him, pocketing his phone. “I thought I’d spice things up.” 

Simon frowns. 

Baz nudges him with his elbow. “Relax, Snow, it’s just a different breakfast. I’m not plotting to kill you with poisoned pastries.” 

“I didn’t even think of that until you said it.” Actually, now that he thinks about it, Simon realizes that he hasn’t considered the possibility that any of the food Baz buys him is a plot in… well, ages, really. 

“Just open it,” Baz says, rolling his eyes. 

Simon does. “Cinnamon buns?” There’s two in the pastry box, still warm. He runs a finger through the frosting on one and licks it off. “Is one of these for you?” 

Baz shakes his head. “No, they’re both yours. I had a bacon butty on the way.” He turns to start walking, and then stops. “It was supposed to be for you, but I got hungry. Your tea’s in the car.”

Speaking of spicing things up, as Baz had put it… “Can we take a break from the time loop stuff for today?” Simon asks. “Maybe we can work on the Watford Tragedy instead. Just to, y’know, do something else.” 

Baz narrows his eyes at him. 

“I mean,” Simon continues, hot under Baz’s gaze, “we have all this time, yeah? We could put it to good use.”

“We are putting it to good use,” Baz says. “What do you think we’ve been doing?”

“No, I mean—well, yeah, I know we are, but. We could work on the other thing, too.”

Baz crosses his arms, frowning. “We don’t have any new leads, though.” 

Simon’s shoulders drop. He didn’t even think of that, honestly; he was just caught up on the idea of not dealing with the time loop, which is starting to get irritating, because they’ve found absolutely nothing. And sure, working on the Watford Tragedy would probably entail research, but it’d be different. 

“Yeah,” Simon sighs, bummed. “I guess we can’t really do anything, then.” 

“Unless you know something you’re not telling me.” 

Simon leans over to whack Baz’s arm, but then realizes he can’t actually do that with the box in his hands. So he kicks Baz’s ankle instead. “You do know that if I found anything, I’d tell you immediately, right?” 

Baz shrugs, trying to be casual, but his lips are quirked up in a half-smile. “I do now.”   

Simon sighs again. He fumbles to open the pastry box and takes out one of the cinnamon buns. “Anyway,” he says, through a mouthful, “I’d feel kind of bad working on this without Penny.”

Baz lets out a gasp so loud that several people nearby turn to stare at him, alarmed. Even Simon startles, momentarily losing his grip on the box. 

“That’s it!” Baz says. “Bunce!”

Simon takes another bite of his cinnamon bun. “What about her?”

“She has a library at home, right?” Baz asks. He’s got that terrible, slightly mad glint in his eyes that always spells trouble. Simon’s learned to dread it by now. Baz doesn’t wait for Simon to answer before he keeps talking. “She might be able to help.”

Now he’s not making any sense. Simon feels like he missed half of their conversation. “With your mum…? I thought we weren’t going to—”

Baz grabs him by the shoulders, grinning, shaking him as he says, “No, you moron, with the time loop! We should go see her. Today.” 

He’s off before Simon fully processes what’s going on, and he has to hurry to catch up, weaving through the crowds of people on the platform. Baz has already turned the engine on by the time he gets to the car, and he seriously looks like he’s about to leave without waiting. 

“What’s her address?” Baz asks, as soon as Simon closes the door. “She lives in London, right?” 

Simon fumbles to put on his seatbelt, holding out one hand to keep himself from falling forward and using the other to keep the pastry box in his lap as Baz pulls out of the car park. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, the absolute maniac. 

“Hounslow,” Simon says. “Here, give me your phone, I’ll open Google Maps.” 

Baz hands it over without looking away from the road. Simon doesn’t have to ask for the passcode anymore; Baz told him after he kept using his phone. 2008—easy enough to remember. 

(Simon wonders if it has anything to do with Watford, considering that was when they were first years. He never thought it was a significant year for Baz, but maybe he’s wrong.)

“Do you mind if I turn on the radio?” Simon asks. According to Google, they have an hour drive—and while he normally doesn’t mind talking the entire time, or just sitting in comfortable, amicable silence, he doesn’t want to spend it listening to Baz ramble about how Penny could help. 

Baz nods. Google tells them to turn left.  

Simon props Baz’s phone on the dashboard, where he can easily see it while he finishes his breakfast, and reaches over to turn on the radio. A Queen song blares, filling the silence, and it takes him a second to recall it. 

I’ve fallen in love for the first time

And this time I know it’s for real

Simon grins, bobbing his head along to the familiar beat. “This is my jam.”

“Oh, is it?” Baz says, smiling too, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “What a coincidence. It’s mine, too.”

Simon turns the volume up. 

Chapter Text

It’s one of Penny’s younger siblings who answers the door. Priya, possibly. She’s at least a good foot and a half shorter than Baz, and she has to hold her head so far back to look at him, it’s a wonder she doesn’t snap her neck. 

“Hi,” Baz says, holding out a hand (does he honestly expect her to shake it?). “We’re here for Penelope.” 

Priya just stares at him, eerily unblinking. She was exactly like this last time Simon saw her—owlish eyes, wild hair brushed into pigtails, wearing those sequined purple trainers. 

Baz leans into him and whispers, “This is the Bunce household, correct?”

Before Simon can answer, Priya screeches out, “Penny! Your friends are here!” 

Penny’s voice comes from inside the house, accompanied by the patter of footsteps. “What friends? I’m not expecting any—”

She comes to an abrupt stop when she sees them, standing awkwardly in the doorway. She’s still in her pyjamas: too-long trousers that used to be Simon’s, until she stole them, and a Watford shirt. 

“Simon,” she says. And then, considerably less happy and more surprised, “Basil.” 

Baz nods at her. “Yes, hello, Bunce, can you please invite us in? We don’t have all day.” 

Penny narrows her eyes, but waves them in anyway. She mouths something to Simon as they step inside, but he can’t make it out, so he shrugs. “Why are you here? And together?” 

“Where can I hang my coat?” Baz asks, just as Simon replies, “We’re, uh, we’re here for a—a school thing.” 

Penny points at the closet behind her, so stuffed with jackets that they’re practically spilling over each other, and then frowns at Simon. “What school thing? The Watford—”

“Not that,” Baz hisses, somehow managing to find room for his coat. “Something else, which is slightly more important right now. Now where’s your library?” 

Penny’s eyebrows hitch up. “Just down the hall, second door on the right.”

Baz puts a hand on her shoulder for a brief moment and smiles. “Thanks.” 

He heads off without checking if either one of them is following, and Simon and Penny trail behind. Priya watches them from beside the front door, arms crossed. 

“What is going on, Simon?” Penny asks, lowering her voice. Baz can probably still hear her—vampire senses, and all that—but he has the decency not to make it obvious. “I thought you were staying at Watford.” 

Simon shrugs. “Something came up.” 

He doesn’t know how much he’s allowed to tell Penny—or how much she’d even believe. They hadn’t talked about their plan of action in the car; they’d spent most of it screaming along to the radio with the windows down, even though it was cold out. 

“Something with Baz?” Penny whispers. 

Simon shrugs again. “We’ll fill you in.”  

Baz is already looking through the bookshelves when Simon and Penny get to the library. He’s not being as methodical as he always is; he’s just pulling out certain books at random, flipping through the pages, and replacing them back on the shelves. 

Penny turns to Simon, her frown deepening. He doesn’t have any answers, though, so he flops down and claims the biggest sofa. Penny perches on the armrest, watching Baz with mild suspicion. 

“So what’s this about?” she asks. 

“A school thing,” Baz mutters, still not facing them. He slams another book closed and whips around. “Do you have anything on time magic?”

Penny blinks at him. “Time magic,” she echoes. “Like time travel? Basil, you know magic can’t do that.” 

Baz makes a face. “No, obviously, everyone knows that. But time loops. Do you have any books on that? Surely you do. Your parents are professors, aren’t they?” 

“They don’t teach physics,” Penny says. She crosses her arms and huffs. “Look, for Morgana’s sake, what are you on about? I know we don’t have any school thing related to time loops.” 

Simon and Baz exchange a fleeting look—not that Simon knows what it means, or what he’s supposed to understand from it. He’ll just leave all the talking to Baz and chime in occasionally, if he feels like he can add anything. 

“Okay,” Baz says, “so it’s not for school. It’s a… theoretical question that we’ve been pondering.” 

"You’ve been pondering?” Penny repeats, a little incredulous. “You, as in together?”

“Mostly Baz,” Simon mumbles. 

Baz ignores both of them. He takes the loveseat, hands clasped in his lap. “Bunce, you’re intelligent. Maybe you can help us out.”

Penny seems to relax a bit, but she’s still on edge. “What’s your theoretical question?” 

Simon can tell she still doesn’t trust Baz, and he wants to reassure her that Baz isn’t their enemy anymore, but he doesn’t know how to. It’s one thing to hang out with Baz every day and borrow his pyjamas and hold his hand when they go ice skating, and quite another to tell Penny about that. It’s been a lot easier to deal with this whole Baz-is-now-a-friend thing before he had to worry about other people knowing. 

“Let’s say, theoretically of course,” Baz says, “that you’re stuck in a time loop. And every day just resets, no matter what you do, and nothing that happens on any of those resets ever stays. Your house blows up, theoretically, and the next day—”

“Wait,” Penny interrupts, “why does your house have to blow up?” 

“Because your friend is a moron.” 

Simon feels his cheeks heat up, and he rolls over to bury his face in a pillow before either of them can notice. 

He doesn’t have to see Penny to know she’s still frowning. “Oddly specific, but all right. Go on.”

“Well,” Baz continues, “how would you end the loop?”

Penny hums thoughtfully, and then she slides Simon’s legs off the sofa to make room for herself. He just puts them back up on her lap. 

“I don’t know,” she says. “Is this theoretical time loop like the one in Groundhog Day?”  

“Aren’t all time loops the same?” Baz asks. 

Penny hums again. “Well, maybe, but doesn’t that one end because Phil becomes a good person, or something? Maybe that’s how this time loops of yours would end, too.” 

There’s a heavy pause; the air is so thick with tension, Simon’s sure he could snap it. 

“A lesson,” Baz says eventually. “A fucking lesson. We need to learn a lesson for it to end.” 

His voice is flat, but Simon’s spent enough time with him to know he’s simmering with anger and he just doesn’t want to let it show. 

Penny lets out a sigh. “Hey, you’re the one who asked for my help, Basil.” 

“No, I know,” Baz says, and now he only sounds dejected. Which is worse than anger. “And thank you for trying.” 

They leave shortly afterwards. Penny tries to talk to them about other things—mostly, she’s trying to find out why they came over together, not as subtly as she thinks—but Baz is so sullen and dispirited that every attempt at conversation falls short. Eventually, when it gets too awkward to just sit there, Simon makes up a lie that they have somewhere to go. 

He’s a shit liar, and he’s pretty sure Penny sees right through it, but she’s kind enough not to mention it. 

Baz is still pouting when they step outside, hands shoved in his pockets, scuffing the pavement with his boots. He never does that—he always gets on Simon’s case for doing it, snaps that it’ll ruin his shoes. 

“Baz,” Simon says, “are you all right?” 

This gets Baz to look up at him. He sniffs, shaking his head. “What? No, yeah, I’m fine. Just—” He sighs. “I thought maybe Bunce would be able to help. If there’s anyone who could…” 

“Yeah,” Simon says, nodding. “I know. I hoped so, too.” 

He’d offer to give Baz a hug—he seems like he needs consolation, no matter how fine he says he is—but he’s been told his hugs aren’t very comforting, and anyway, last time he tried to do that, it didn’t go so well. Of course, that was before they became sort of friends, but— 

“You called me your friend,” Simon blurts. 

They’re still lingering on the pavement, though the car is only a few feet away. 

Baz scowls. “No, I didn’t.” 

“You did,” Simon says, and he’s grinning now, and he thinks Baz might be smiling too, “when you told Penny about your house being blown up. You called me a moron, too.” 

“Now that sounds like something I’d say.” 

Simon whacks his shoulder. “Oi, come on.” 

“Well,” Baz laughs, “that was all a theoretical situation, so it doesn’t count.” 

It does count, and they both know it. 

“Do you really think so?” Simon asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. “That we’re friends?” 

He thinks they are, of course he does, how could he possibly think otherwise? But he’s been so worried that Baz still sees them as enemies—or, if not that, then at least, like, acquaintances who barely tolerate each other. 

Baz’s expression softens, just a little. “You know I’d never admit it, even if I did.” 

“Wanker,” Simon says. 

Baz only laughs again, and it’s so nice, and Simon wants to keep him like this, happy and smiling. 

(He might do anything to make Baz smile, he thinks.) 

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Baz asks. “I don’t feel like driving back yet.” 

Simon’s heart flutters. He feels flustered again—it happens with increasing frequency—and he doesn’t know why. “Sure.” 

They walk down the block in silence, closer together than they technically need to be, and it doesn’t take long for Baz to fall back into his melancholy. He’s so downcast, and Simon gets it, he does, but he just wants to stop it. He hates it, because he doesn’t know how to make anything better. They don’t have any answers—they’ve tried a million things to break the loop, and nothing’s worked. 

He’d probably be sullen too, if he let himself really think about it. 

Simon gets an idea when they pass an empty bus stop, and he throws an arm out to stop Baz from walking off. Baz runs into him with an oof!

“You know,” Simon says, “I’ve never seen Love, Actually.” 

Baz frowns at him. “What are you talking about?” 

Simon nods at the advertisement on the bus stop. “There’s a showing of Love, Actually in London, with a live orchestra and everything. I’m just saying, I’ve never seen it.”

“Oh,” Baz says, nodding absent-mindedly, like he’s not entirely here. And then he glances at the ad, and back at Simon, and lets out a breath. “Would you… want to?” 

Simon grins. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

Baz just huffs and rolls his eyes, but at least he’s not pouting anymore. Simon would take this any day. 

They end up grabbing dinner while they’re in London, at some pub that Baz says his aunt likes, and Simon proceeds to finish two entire plates of fish and chips on his own. He keeps offering some to Baz, but Baz always turns him down. 

“Is it the vampire thing?” Simon asks, shoving another handful of chips in his mouth. 

Baz glares at him. “My fangs come out when I eat.” 

“Yeah, but I already know that. Unless—is it other people you’re worried about?” 

“You do realize,” Baz sneers, narrowing his eyes into an even more intimidating glare, “that no one’s supposed to know what I am, right?” 

Simon shrugs. “True,” he concedes, “but the day’s just going to reset anyway, yeah? So they won’t remember.” He reaches across the table to poke Baz in the shoulder. “And even if they do, alternate universes and all that. You won’t have to deal with the consequences.” 

“How comforting,” Baz snorts. 

Simon pushes the nearly-empty plate at him again, grinning, and this time, Baz takes some chips, his fangs glinting in the dim light. 

They left the car parked by the Apollo—Baz said it wasn’t worth it to try to find parking in Chelsea—so they have to take a bus to get back. There aren’t many people on it, and Simon’s a little surprised when Baz sits beside him anyway, even with all the available seats. He keeps being caught off-guard by things like this—he’s starting to think he should just expect them. 

(It’s nice having Baz there, cold and familiar.) 

“Well,” Baz says, fishing his keys out of his coat pocket once they get to the car park, “I guess I should drive you back to Watford.”

The thing is—Simon doesn’t really want to go there, not tonight, not on his own. He sucks in a sharp, shaky breath. “Actually, I—I was thinking, maybe, I could… I could go with you?” 

Baz freezes, eyes wide, one hand gripping the door handle so tight it starts to creak. “Oh.”

“If that’s all right, I mean,” Simon adds hastily. He ducks his head so that Baz can’t see his blush and rocks back on his heels, more nervous than he probably should be. 

“Okay,” Baz says eventually, quietly. He unlocks the car. “Okay, yeah. You can—if you want.” 

“Okay,” Simon repeats.

When he finally looks back up, heart pounding, he finds Baz watching him with an indecipherable expression, the barest hint of a soft smile gracing his lips. 

This—going to pubs and watching films and leaning against each other on the bus, small smiles and sharing chips—is definitely better than fighting.   

Baz doesn’t have anything. No pastry box, no scones, not even a cup of tea. He’s just standing there, leaning against the wall of the train station—which must be disgusting, but it’s not like Simon’s about to point that out—tapping out an unfamiliar rhythm on the pavement with the heel of his boot.   

“No breakfast?” Simon asks, pouting. “Is this because I ate all your Aeros yesterday?”

“What? No. I let you have them.” Baz pushes himself off the wall and runs a hand through his hair. “You can have breakfast when we get to London.” 

Wait—hold up. “London?” 

Baz doesn’t even have the decency to explain this before he starts walking; he talks over his shoulder, and Simon has to strain to hear him over the noise. “Didn’t I tell you? Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I came to the realization last night that perhaps we’re looking in the wrong place. Maybe this time loop isn’t magical at all—maybe it’s completely Normal.” 

“How,” Simon asks, raising his voice to be heard, “can this be Normal?”

“Physics,” Baz says. He hasn’t slowed down at all. “That’s what Bunce said, when I asked about her parents. This could be entirely non-magical, Snow.”

Simon’s not sure he gets it, but he isn’t going to question it. He knows fuck all about physics; if Baz thinks it might provide an answer, he won’t get in his way. “So why are we going to London?” 

“For the libraries, obviously.” 

“So why couldn’t you get me breakfast?” 

Baz sighs, so loud and drawn-out that, for once, Simon hears him perfectly clear. “You know, I thought it’d be nice to actually sit down to eat and have a proper breakfast. Or lunch, I guess. Either way.”

“O-oh,” Simon stutters, his step faltering. “That’s considerate of you.” 

“I am when I want to be,” Baz says, and then he stops, whirls around to face Simon, and scrunches his nose up. “Don’t say that. It’s almost as bad as thanking me.”  

“Maybe,” Simon replies, breaking into another grin, “you should just stop being considerate, then.” 

Baz gives him the V, an eyebrow raised like a challenge, and Simon bursts into a fit of laughter.

“Hey,” Baz hisses, snapping his fingers, “don’t fall asleep. We’re in public.” 

Simon grumbles at him, rubbing his eyes and stretching in his chair. “I wasn’t asleep,” he yawns. Baz levels him with a glare. “Not yet, anyway.” 

Baz sighs. “Well, do you need something to stay awake? Caffeine? A bucket of cold water?” 

“Ha ha,” Simon says. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think anything will help. It’s these books. They’re so ridiculously boring, and I can’t understand them.” 

They’re currently in the library of some university in the city, where they’ve laid claim to an entire table—either Baz gives anyone who tries to approach a death glare, or he just has a naturally off-putting aura—which is now covered in various physics and physics-adjacent books. Simon’s pretty sure Baz took every single thing he could find in that section of the library, without checking whether they could be actually useful. 

(Not that either of them would know what a useful physics book looks like.)

(And how did Baz get them in here, anyway? They’re not students, and Simon swears you need a student ID card to open the door.) 

“What don’t you understand?” Baz grabs the book Simon has open—he can’t even remember what it’s about—and reads the page with narrowed eyes. “Maybe I can help.” 

“Oh, you’re an expert now?” Simon asks. He rests his elbows on the table and cups his face. “Because I couldn’t understand anything. I’ve never even heard of the theory of relativity.” 

“You’ve never heard—” Baz sighs into his hands, shaking his head. “Stay here. I’m going to—I’ll see if I can find someone who knows what they’re talking about.”

He gets up without waiting for a reply, grabbing his coat off the chair beside him. That had been Simon’s idea, to put it there so that people would think the seat was already taken. He’s quite proud of it, actually. 

Simon waits until Baz is properly gone, and then he drops his head on the table and closes his eyes. A little nap won’t hurt, right? And it’s not like he’s going to sleep for very long—he probably won’t be able to anyway, with all the noise, and the fear that Baz will come back before he wakes up and actually drench him in cold water. 

Just a few minutes, that’s all. Maybe ten, at the very most.

He startles awake after who-knows-how-long, and it takes him a second to register that someone’s shaking him violently. Cold, familiar hands—not just anyone. Baz. 

“Huh?” Simon slurs, fighting back a yawn. It’s already embarrassing enough to have slept for so long. 

But Baz doesn’t even look irritated at finding him like this. “Come on, Snow,” he says, still shaking him. “We should go. Soon, preferably. Right now. I really don’t want security called on me.”

Simon frowns, stumbling out of his chair. “Security? Why…?” 

“It’s a long story,” Baz says. He fists a hand in Simon’s jumper and drags him along, past the tables and shelves and out the library. Simon’s far too tired for whatever this is, so he doesn’t fight it. “I might have harassed a professor.” 

“What?” Simon asks. He’s not conscious enough to process that. 

Baz doesn’t slow down until they’ve crossed the street. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. The point is, I didn’t get anything useful.” 

Simon only fully registers what Baz is saying after a few, very belated minutes, and he halts abruptly in front of a Costa, nearly smacking into the door when Baz opens it. 

“Hold on,” Simon says, “you harassed a professor? At a university you don’t even go to?”

Baz scoffs, arms crossed defensively. “I didn’t mean to harass her. She just… kept saying I wasn’t making any sense, but I was, and anyway, she’s supposed to be an expert on theoretical time travel and—” He pauses. “So I might’ve pushed a little too far. Sue me.” 

Simon can only grin at him. “Who are you, and what have you done with Baz?” 

“Shut up,” Baz huffs, cuffing him on the head on his way in. 

“I meant it in a good way,” Simon continues. 

Baz makes a face. “There is no good way to harass someone, Snow.” 

Simon shrugs. 

“Maybe I’m starting to lose my mind,” Baz says. He’s reading the menu, hands shoved in his pockets, still frowning. “This is what happens eventually, right? In fiction, at least.” 

“It’s not the worst way to go insane. You could be murdering people.” 

Baz smiles, momentarily, knocking his shoulder into Simon’s. “Or setting myself on fire.” 

“Have you considered that?” Simon asks, alarmed. That’s so specific. Too specific, and way too niche—he can’t have just thought of it.  

“No,” Baz answers, far too quickly to be believable. He raises an eyebrow. “Why, have you?”

“Setting you on fire? All the time.”

Baz laughs then. “You’re such an idiot,” he says. But he still buys Simon lunch—three different kinds of sandwiches, which he rolls his eyes at—so he can’t really mean it. 

They grab a table by a window, and Simon drapes his coat over the back of his chair, and Baz sets down their respective drinks and the Bakewell tart he agreed to share. He didn’t order anything for himself; Simon basically had to coerce him into getting the tart. 

(It’s partially because he thinks Baz needs to eat too, and partially because he felt guilty about asking for it alongside his three sandwiches.)

“What on earth is that?” Simon asks, taking a sip of his Earl Grey. 

It’s perfectly respectable, unlike whatever monstrosity Baz got. It even smells cloying; it’s covered in so much whipped cream that Simon can’t see the drink itself, and it’s got a little gingerbread man sticking out from the top. 

Baz frowns. “A gingerbread latte?”

Simon breaks into a shit-eating grin. “I didn’t know you—”

“Sod off,” Baz interrupts. “I paid, I’m allowed to drink whatever I want.” 

“Can I try it?” 

For a very long moment, Baz just stares at Simon over the rim of his cup, eyes narrowed. “Fine. Just don’t drink the whole thing.” 

He takes the lid off and passes it over, trading Simon for the plate with the Bakewell. Simon takes a whiff and then, without breaking eye contact, he licks approximately half of the whipped cream off. Baz makes a face, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Simon takes a sip, careful not to spill any, and hums. It’s hot, and it might’ve burned his tongue, but it’s not bad. Just ridiculously sweet. 

“It really does taste like gingerbread,” he says, handing the cup back. 

Baz rolls his eyes. “How shocking. Also, you have a whipped cream moustache.” 

He pointedly looks down at the table as Simon licks it off. The Bakewell tart hasn’t been touched yet, apart from its crumbling crust, which Baz keeps picking at. 

“Can I ask you something?” Simon says, wrapping his hands back around his warm tea. Baz nods. “Do you think that maybe if we died, the loop would end?” 

Baz coughs. “That’s morbid.” 

“I’m not going to purposely get myself killed,” Simon adds, hastily. “I just mean, would it… y’know. Would the day still reset, do you think?” 

Baz hums as he takes a bite out of his little gingerbread man. He chews it slower than he usually does—probably wasting time until he thinks of an answer.

“I don’t think so,” he says eventually, scooping up whipped cream on the remaining half of his gingerbread. “My house didn’t stay blown up. The same principle probably applies to us.”

“Hmm,” Simon says. 

Baz suddenly leans forward, brow furrowed and lips pulled down in a worried frown, and asks, “You really aren’t considering dying as a solution, right?” 

“No,” Simon insists. “Of course not. I’m not that desperate.” 

Baz lets out a sigh of relief. “Good. Because I don’t know what I’d do without you, if you actually died.” 

They both realize what he said at the exact same time—Simon can tell, the moment it dawns on Baz’s face. He looks horrified, and slightly embarrassed, like he hadn’t intended to say it out loud. Simon feels flustered, and his heart is pounding, and he’s sure Baz can hear it. 

What does that—what did he— 

“Well,” Simon says, breaking the awkward silence, “then you’d have to find someone else and make their life miserable, and I couldn’t allow that.” 

Baz chokes out a nervous laugh. He isn’t looking at Simon. “That’s very selfless of you.” 

“Nah,” Simon says, ducking his head, “I think I’d just miss you too much. Even in the afterlife. My ghost would come back to haunt you and demand to know why you aren’t desecrating my grave or something.” 

He swears Baz goes a little pink.

Chapter Text

“What if we just don’t go?” 

Baz slows to a stop and turns to face him, somehow managing to look both unimpressed and incredulous at the same time. “What?” 

“What if we just don’t go to the British Museum?” Simon repeats. He tugs at his own coat sleeves, pulling them down to cover his hands. “Today, I mean. It’ll still be there tomorrow, won’t it?” 

Baz narrows his eyes. It used to be intimidating, but Simon’s gotten so used to it that it doesn’t even register as mildly threatening. “And what do you propose we do instead?” 

It comes as a surprise that he doesn’t even say anything about them needing to do research, like he usually does when Simon brings up the idea of taking a day off. 

“Um,” Simon says, trying to innocuously glance around and see if there’s anything interesting nearby, “I didn’t really have any—” And then he spots an ad. “We could go to the Winter Wonderland! At Hyde Park!” 

“Winter Wonderland,” Baz echoes. “You want to spend the day at a Christmas fair?” 

Simon rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “It looks fun. And it’s not research, so.”

“Winter Wonderland,” Baz says, again, like a broken record. 

Simon frowns. “If you don’t want to go, you can just say—”

“No, I want to,” Baz interrupts. “I just haven’t been there in… a really long time. A decade, probably.”   

He looks distant, like he’s not entirely here, staring at something past Simon’s shoulder. Simon turns to look, but he can’t see anything particularly interesting. 

(Did Baz go to Winter Wonderland with his mum once? Is that what he’s thinking of?) 

“Right,” Baz says, clearing his throat. “We can go today. But only today; tomorrow we’re going back to our research. Deal?” 

“Deal,” Simon grumbles. 

He doesn’t like the idea of doing more research, especially considering they haven’t actually found anything helpful yet, but maybe by the time tomorrow rolls around, he'll have thought of some other way to delay it. There must be loads of fun things to do in London during the holidays. 

They take the Tube to Hyde Park, and it’s so crowded that they have to stand, pressed close together. Simon keeps stumbling whenever the train jolts, and after the first stop, Baz sighs and puts a hand on his back to keep him from falling over. An old man a few seats away gives them a dirty look, and Baz just sneers at him. 

“Do you think we’ll run into someone we know?” Simon asks, once they get off at their station. 

“I sincerely hope not.”

Simon snorts. “What if it’s the Mage?” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Baz says, scrunching his nose in disgust. “Can you imagine? What would he even be doing there?” 

The idea that the Mage would ever even consider attending a Christmas fair like this is so ridiculous, so far-fetched, that Simon can’t help but break into laughter. He tries to picture it, and it just gets funnier. He’d probably walk around with his Men following him, like bodyguards. Maybe he’d go to drive away goblins, or other dark creatures—it kind of seems like somewhere they’d gather. 

“Do you think there’ll be goblins?” Simon asks. 

Baz scowls at him. “Why would there be?” 

“Dunno,” Simon says, shrugging. “They eat people. It’ll be busy, yeah?” 

“For Crowley’s sake,” Baz snaps, whirling around to face him, “I agreed to come here to have fun. That’s what we’re going to do. Don’t ruin this.” 

“I was just wond—”

“Well, wonder silently, to yourself,” Baz hisses. 

“Fine, no goblins,” Simon sighs. They’re waiting at the crosswalk, and he shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Tell me about the first time you came here, then.” 

Baz’s expression softens for a brief moment. “Fiona took me during hols when I was ten. I didn’t—” He scuffs his boot on the pavement; a lock of hair falls in his eyes, and Simon has to resist the urge to tuck it back. “I didn’t like being home for Christmas, after my mum—I think I spent most of December with Fiona until I was twelve.” 

Simon wants to hold his hand, or hug him, or do something—anything—to comfort him, but he’s terrible at things like that and he doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries. “So you’d come here every year?”   

Baz shakes his head. “We only went once. I cried on the rink, and on the giant wheel, and then again on the way home. Fiona says I felt guilty about having fun without—” 

He takes a sharp breath, and he doesn’t continue his sentence. Not that he needs to; it’s easy enough to guess what he meant to say. 

Simon doesn’t really know what to say to that—what could he say, anyway, that would sound sincere?—so instead he reaches for Baz’s hand and squeezes it, as reassuring as he possibly can, and smiles. 

“Anyway,” Baz says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the mood. Just pretend I didn’t bring up my dead mother.” 

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Simon insists, squeezing his hand again. “I like hearing your stories.” 

Baz ducks his head, but not before Simon catches a glimpse of his soft, melancholy smile. 

Winter Wonderland is breath-taking. After they get their tickets, and Simon excitedly pours over the map they were given, they head inside, and there’s so much to do—and it’s so busy—that he doesn’t even know where to start. He can see the giant wheel in the distance, and an assortment of other rides, and rows of market stalls ahead. The entire place seems to be decked out in Christmas decorations: lights and garlands and little reindeer and wreaths. 

It’s absolutely magical. 

“Where do you want to go first?” Baz asks. 

“I don’t even know,” Simon says, unfolding the map again. “I kind of want to do everything, to be honest. Why don’t you just choose?” 

Baz leans into him to look at the map—he smells like cedar and bergamot and the salted caramel latte he had at lunch, and it’s so familiar and warm in ways Simon can’t explain—and then tucks it in his back pocket. 

“All right,” he says, “I know where we’re going.”   

Baz originally intends to take them to the Ice Kingdom to look at the sculptures, but then Simon sees a sign for carnival games and immediately gets distracted. They play a few—Baz makes a show of not wanting to, but he’s the one who ends up playing five rounds of the reindeer racing game in an attempt to prove he can win it. 

(He never does. Simon still cheers him on every time.) 

They spend an entire hour browsing one of the markets, pointing out things that their friends and Mordelia would like, and then, when they start to get too dejected about the fact that they might not ever get to give those gifts if the day keeps resetting, Simon starts purposely searching for objects that look cursed, just to cheer Baz up. It works, probably a little too well; they keep having to lower their voice, or shut each other up, because the people around them look at them like they’ve gone mental. 

And when they’ve had their fill of the markets, and Simon’s stomach starts rumbling so loud it irritates Baz, they grab dinner. Simon hadn’t even noticed the time, but it’s already starting to get dark out, and the sun is dipping behind the trees in the park. 

“Admit it,” Simon says, nudging Baz with his elbow, “this is better than research.” 

They’re standing by one of the massive fire pits, and Simon’s toasting marshmallows—one was meant to be for Baz, but he doesn’t want it. Baz has his hands wrapped around a mug of steaming hot chocolate; this, just like his ridiculous Costa drinks, is topped with a thick layer of whipped cream and crushed candy canes. Simon had tried it—he didn’t even have to ask, Baz was the one who offered—and, though it smells really good, it was far too sweet for his liking. 

Baz huffs. “It’s better than not finding anything, I’ll give it that.” 

Simon grins and knocks into him again, carefully, so his hot chocolate doesn’t slosh over. “Admit it.” 

“Fine, I’m having fun,” Baz says. “Now shut up or I’ll burn your marshmallows.” 

“Would you? I like them burned.” 

“Of course you do.” Baz rolls his eyes, but he still conjures a flame. 

Later, once they’ve gone through several more toasted marshmallows—and grab drinks at a bar made entirely of ice, which is quite possibly the coolest thing Simon’s ever seen—they head to the ice skating rink. It’s gorgeous at night, strung up with soft Christmas lights. It takes a bit of coaxing to get Baz on the ice, though, because he’s hesitant with all the other people. 

“No one will remember anything,” Simon says, gently tugging him by his sleeve. 

Baz frowns. “Parallel universes. They might.” 

“Then that’s a problem for alternate-you.” 

Eventually, after a few more minutes of back-and-forth, Baz reluctantly joins Simon, holding his arm in an iron grip. He’s gotten better since the first time they went skating, so he doesn’t even need help to stay upright anymore. Not that Simon tells him that, of course; he kind of likes having Baz holding on to him. 

They only fall once, and Baz just laughs it off. He lightens up the longer they spend on the ice, smiling every time Simon catches his eye, letting himself be dragged into shitty attempts at jumps and wobbly figure-eights. They keep clinging to each other, even when they’re not doing more than drifting. 

They only leave when Baz points out it’s an hour to closing time, and Simon wants to go on the giant wheel too. The line is long, and he almost thinks they might not make it, but they do—and, Merlin, is it worth it. 

The view from the top is incredible, all of London laid out before him, glittering with lights. And it’s even better with Baz here, beside him, their hands touching in the space between them on the seat. 

(Simon doesn’t think there’s anyone else he’d rather be with.) 

“It’s gorgeous,” he says, barely more than a breath. 

“Yeah,” Baz agrees, but he’s not even looking out the window. He’s watching Simon, a gentle smile gracing his lips. 

He’s been like this all day, ever since they split a peppermint fudge back at the market. It’s not even weird, like it used to be when they first started working on the time loop thing—now, it just makes Simon all warm and gooey inside. 

“Okay, let me ask you a question,” Simon says, shifting to properly face Baz. “If you could go anywhere, any time, where would you go?”

Baz hums. “Oxford Street on Christmas. My mum took me to see the lights when we came to visit Fiona, the year before she—” He pauses, picks at the hem of his jeans. “I don’t really remember them. Just that she thought they were beautiful.”  

“Oh,” Simon says. He feels bad for asking now, for bringing up something so obviously bittersweet when he hadn’t meant to. “I thought you’d just say tomorrow.” 

Baz lets out a quiet laugh. “Well, I don’t really mind today.”

They’re so close that Simon can see the reflection of the city lights in the deep grey of his eyes, and the faint, barely-visible scar from when he broke his nose, and the embroidered bumble bees on the collar of his shirt, peeking out from underneath his coat. He smells like hot chocolate, rich and sweet, and smoke, and it’s intoxicating, and Simon tries to catch a hint of cedar— 

Baz clears his throat, and Simon jolts back, startled. He didn’t even realize he’d been leaning in closer. His cheeks are burning, and he’s so hot now, but he doesn’t dare take off his coat. 

“What about you?” Baz asks, breaking the tense silence. “Where would you go?” 

Simon tugs at his jumper, trying to stave off the heat without looking too conspicuous. “Er. Uh—Florida, I guess.” 

“Florida?” 

“Yeah,” Simon says. This, he can talk about. Hopefully without doing something else mortifying. “Penny and I, we’ve been talking about going to America for ages. Since third year, probably. Like—after school, y’know, that’s our plan.”

He doesn’t add, if we survive this year. Because he’s pretty sure Baz can put two and two together, and he doesn’t need to make this conversation more morose than it already is. 

(If they ever get out of this loop, too. But that’s an entirely different problem, which he’d prefer not to think about either.)   

“Plus,” Simon continues, “it’d be nice to be somewhere that’s not here. Somewhere warm, and tropical, where the only threat is a crocodile or whatever. Just—just to have a break from the time loop, y’know? A holiday.”  

Baz’s precious, gentle smile is back. “That sounds lovely.”

“The crocodiles?” Simon laughs. 

“The being somewhere else bit. And your summer plans with Bunce.” 

That’s right—their trip to America would be this summer, since it’s their last year at school. Merlin, it seems so far away. Simon can’t even comprehend the existence of anything beyond this one day. 

(He tried, at first, but then it got unbearable. It’s like his list of things he misses about Watford. It’s best not to give it much thought.) 

“Do you have plans?” Simon asks. 

Baz shrugs. “Nothing more than usual. I haven’t really thought about it. I always figured—” He breaks off and shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear away whatever he was about to say. “I don’t know yet.”  

And then, without really thinking about it, Simon knocks his shoulder against Baz and says, “You could always come with us. To America.”

He hadn’t considered it until right now, until after he suggested it and his mind caught up with what he said. But now—now all he can think of is Baz in America, driving a vintage convertible because he’s the only one of them with a license, reluctantly singing along to songs he pretends he doesn’t know like he does every time they turn on the radio. 

It makes Simon ache, the thought of being proper friends even when this ordeal is over, the thought of ending the time loop and surviving, the possibility of a future where one of them won’t have to kill the other. It makes him ache, and he has to shove it to the back of his mind. 

Baz snorts, but that smile he reserves for Simon—it’s always different around other people, never quite as carefree and genuine—doesn’t disappear. 

“It’s a surprise,” Simon says, for the fifth time. He glances down at Baz’s phone, tilted to obscure the screen, to make sure they really are headed in the right direction. “You’ll know when we get there.” 

Baz huffs. “I know London better than you, Snow. You can’t keep it a secret.” 

“If you know the city so well,” Simon says, flashing him a cheeky grin, “why haven’t you guessed yet?” 

“Fuck off,” Baz grumbles, which means he doesn’t have a good response to that. 

After they’d left Hyde Park, just before it closed, Baz had suggested going back to his place. But Simon was still flushed with warmth, giddy from the thrill of it all, and he didn’t want to call it a night just yet. And he’d remembered, as they headed towards the nearest bus stop, what Baz had said on the giant wheel, and he’d had a brilliant idea. 

He’s sure Baz will love it, when they get there. But for now it’s staying a surprise—he doesn’t want to ruin it. 

They’re waiting at another crosswalk, their breaths coming out in stark, white puffs. It’s chilly, but Simon’s too excited about this to really feel it. Baz must be freezing, though; he’s been trying to hide his shivering for the past ten minutes, unsuccessfully. 

“Do you want my coat?” Simon asks. He’s already starting to wriggle out of it. 

Baz shakes his head. “I can’t wear two coats, that’d be ridiculous.” 

“But you’re obviously cold,” Simon insists. “And I don’t have anything else to give you.”

“Hold my hand if you really want to warm me up, then.” 

Baz clearly means it as a joke, but Simon takes his hand anyway. It catches Baz so off-guard that he nearly trips over himself when the crossing symbol turns green and they start walking again. 

“You’re really fucking cold,” Simon says. Not that he minds; it’s nice, actually, and it takes the edge off his own heat. 

“It’s a side effect of being dead.” 

Simon frowns, tightening his grip on Baz’s hand. “You’re not dead.” 

They’re alone on the street—there are a few people out and about, and a rowdy group up ahead, but they’re probably too far off to hear them—but Baz still slows to a stop and steps to the side, like he’s worried about being overheard. 

He lowers his voice when he says, “What do you mean, I’m not dead? I’m a vampire, Snow. That’s kind of the definition.” 

“I don’t think you are.” Simon draws himself up. “Dead people don’t need to breathe. Or sleep, or eat, or piss. I think I’d know if my roommate’s dead after seven years.” 

Baz looks like he wants to argue, brow furrowed, mouth set in a firm line, but Simon doesn’t let him get anything out. He starts dragging them up the street, trying to simultaneously sneak a glance at Google Maps and avoid running into the street lights, which is definitely not as easy as he thought it’d be.

“Do you need help?” Baz asks. “I can navigate. Or you can just tell me where we’re going.” 

Simon just tilts Baz’s phone further away. “Shut up. I’m managing just fine.” 

“At least give me my phone back.” 

“When I’m done,” Simon says. 

According to Google, they still have fifteen minutes to go. That doesn’t sound right—it feels like they’ve already been walking for forever—but Simon doesn’t know London well enough to feel like he can really question it. The good thing is they’re not in a rush, so it doesn’t matter if it takes a little longer. 

“Why are we walking, anyway?” 

Simon disentangles his hand from Baz’s, momentarily, to swat him. “Because you would’ve known immediately if we took the bus, and that would’ve been no fun.” 

Baz lets out a very exasperated sigh, but he doesn’t ask any more questions. 

The rest of the journey goes by in uninterrupted, and thankfully uneventful, silence. When they get closer, Simon purposely takes a wrong turn, so that he can put off Baz finding out for as long as possible, and stops them just before they turn onto the street. He’s pretty sure it’s still a surprise, and Baz can’t see anything yet—unless Baz is just very good at keeping a neutral expression. 

Which—he is. Huh.  

"You still don't know where we're going, yeah?" Simon checks. 

"I would've told you if I did." 

"Good," Simon says, and then he steps around the corner. "Because we're here."

The thirty minute walk to get here, and all his troubles with Google Maps, are instantly worth it, just to see the expression on Baz's face when he sees the light. He gasps, eyes wide, staring up at them like he can't quite believe it. 

Baz slowly turns to look at him, mouth still half-open in surprise, and whispers, "Oh, Simon…" 

"You mentioned that your mum brought you here once," Simon says. "So I thought I would too."

Oxford Street really is gorgeous, decked out in a thousand blue and white lights, casting everything in a soft, silvery glow. It stretches on endlessly, stark and vivid against the night sky. It reminds Simon of the time they’d sat in their room and Baz had taken them to the stars. 

“Come on,” Simon says, tugging at Baz’s hand. (Hoping he doesn’t let go.) 

They stroll down the street, taking everything in, hands still clasped, like they’re both afraid of ruining the moment. The trees are covered in lights too, and so is the entire wall of one building, shimmering so brightly it appears almost magical, from a distance. Simon gapes at every shop window, pressed against the glass—at the Christmas baubles, and the candy, and the tinsel garlands. The kinds of things he used to dream about when he was younger. 

The shops are all closed by now, so they can’t buy anything, but Simon still makes a show of pointing out everything he’d want—mostly chocolates—and Baz replies, so hopeful, “Maybe we can come back another time.” 

He looks so pretty like this, framed by the lights and snowflakes in his hair, that Simon’s breath catches in his throat.   

“I’d like that,” he says. 

(He’d stay here forever, if he could. He’d spend the rest of the loop stuck in this one moment, holding Baz’s cold hand on Oxford Street.)

Eventually they reach the Marble Arch at the other end, where the lights give way to the relative darkness of Hyde Park. It hits Simon, then, that they probably could’ve crossed the park and gone the short way, instead of walking for half an hour. He half-expects Baz to make a snarky comment about that, but he doesn't even seem to notice. He's been sporting the same awestruck expression since they got here; he's probably too distracted.

"Simon," Baz says, and it's so gentle that it makes Simon's heart flutter. "Thank you."  

They’ve been holding hands for so long that Baz is warm now. It’s borderline too-hot, but Simon doesn’t want to pull away. He feels like—like maybe if he let go, if they stepped back, it would all stop being so magical. And maybe they’d remember that this is a temporary truce, and they probably shouldn’t get too friendly, and— 

(And it’s the only way Simon thinks he can really deal with the loop. It’s the only thing that feels real and solid.) 

“I had a good time today,” Baz continues quietly. 

Simon swallows. “Me too.” 

He takes a step forward, leaning in closer, until he can feel Baz’s breath, until their boots bump. (Until he can pretend he hears the faint beat of Baz’s heart.) They’re barely inches apart. Baz looks at him with parted lips, eyes fluttering closed, and slowly tilts his head— 

Simon startles, sitting up, and blinks. Once, twice, a third time for good measure. He scrabbles to push off the blankets covering him, too thick and hot, and collapses back on his bed with a groan. 

The day reset. It fucking reset, just as he and Baz were about to— 

They were going to— 

At least, it seemed like—for a moment, Simon thought Baz was going to kiss him. And he was—he would've—he's pretty sure he would've kissed him back. 

(Did he really want to—did Baz want to? Would they have actually kissed, if the day hadn’t reset?)

(Would Baz’s lips have been as soft as they look? Would he have tasted like the hot chocolate he had at Winter Wonderland? Would his hands have settled on Simon’s waist, holding him close?)   

(Does Baz even like him like that?) 

Shit. 

Chapter Text

Simon rolls over and buries his face in his hands, fully intending to just sleep the rest of the day off and pointedly not think about this, but then he catches a glimpse of his alarm clock and remembers he’s supposed to meet Baz anyway. He needs to get going, if he wants to make his regular train. 

With another groan, Simon hauls himself out of bed and rummages around for clean clothes. He almost grabs the cashmere jumper Baz had left in his wardrobe before the break—he’s worn it a few times, because it’s incredibly soft, and Baz hasn’t yet told him off for it—but then he hesitates and shoves it back. He doesn’t want to make things weird between them. 

(He doesn’t think about the fact that he might be doing just that by avoiding things that are completely normal now. Like borrowing Baz’s clothes.) 

It’s only as he’s trudging up to the train station that it occurs to Simon that maybe things don’t have to be weird now, or awkward. They could just talk about the almost-kiss, and clear things up, and maybe—and maybe actually kiss, if they both still want to. 

(Simon does. He’s avoiding thinking about that, too.) 

He spends the entire ride trying to come up with the best way to broach this, worrying his lower lip until he starts to taste copper. It would probably be a good idea to just get right on with it, bring it up the second he sees Baz on the platform, and not delay it—not give himself the opportunity to hesitate. But then again, he doesn’t want to come on too strong and scare Baz off. And suddenly, it becomes a lot more difficult than it should be. 

It’d be easier, frankly, to just not talk about it. But they need to. At the very least, Simon needs to know whether or not he’d imagined it, whether Baz was really going to kiss him. He’s not allowing himself to think about it—about the possibility of kissing Baz, about wanting to kiss Baz—until he knows for sure. 

Of course, he forgets everything he wanted to say approximately two seconds after he sees Baz. His throat goes dry, his heart is pounding, his palms are sweaty. Simon swallows thickly, trying to shake off his nerves. 

This is fine—it’s just Baz. They’re basically friends now. He can do this. 

At first glance, Baz seems as cool and collected as ever, but Simon knows him well enough to notice he’s nervous, too. He keeps shifting his weight, and his leg is jittery. 

“Hey,” Simon says, rubbing the back of his neck, “Baz, look, we should—” 

“Clearly the research we’ve done so far has been useless,” Baz interrupts, as if he hadn’t heard Simon at all. “So I thought we could do something different today.”

Simon’s anxious smile slowly drops into a frown. “We need to—” 

“We should go over what happened, to each of us respectively, on the first day of the loop.”

“What we should talk about is—” 

But it’s like Baz isn’t paying him any mind. He keeps going, not acknowledging anything Simon’s been saying. “Maybe then we can piece together what’s causing it. I was trying to think of things we could do this morning, but that’s the only idea I had.” 

And—oh. Simon feels like his whole world’s deflated, like time itself has momentarily stopped. Because Baz thought of other things. Baz didn’t spend the entire morning obsessing over a kiss that never even happened. Baz didn’t—he didn’t think about it. 

“Oh,” Simon says. It comes out sadder than he intended—sadder than he wants to let on he is—so he clears his throat and tries to shrug it off. “Yeah. Right. That’s. Yeah.”    

Baz finally, properly looks at him, eyes narrowed. “Well. We should get going.”

Simon realizes, so suddenly that he nearly trips over himself, that Baz doesn’t have anything for him. No scones, no box of cinnamon buns, no just-right Early Grey. And there’s nothing in the car either—just an empty takeaway cup that smells faintly of gingerbread. 

Which means Baz did stop on the way. He just didn’t get anything for Simon.

Oh. That’s—it’s fine. Simon’s fine. It isn’t even that big of a deal. It’s only breakfast; he’s sure there’s something waiting at Pitch Manor, or they’re going to a café now, or something. It’s fine.  

He turns out to be completely, utterly wrong. The only thing Baz offers him when they get to his house—as he so eloquently puts it—is “whatever you can find”.  

(It’s fine. It’s fine.)

Baz already has his stepmum’s whiteboard set up in the library, and he immediately starts writing on it, his back turned to Simon. He doesn’t write down their usual What We Know and What We Don’t Know columns; he does divide it into two, but each side is now labelled Snow and Me.

“All right,” Baz says, crossing his arms. “Tell me everything you remember doing on that first day.” 

“Er,” Simon says. 

The problem isn’t that he doesn’t remember what he did—it’s that he didn’t really do anything. He spent that day just wandering around the school grounds, basking in blissful solitude. He’s pretty sure he took a nap in the afternoon too, and that it was already well into the evening when he woke up. The most interesting thing he did was use the posh soap Baz left behind, just because he could get away with it. 

Baz raises an eyebrow. His gaze is so intense, it makes Simon squirm uncomfortably on the sofa.  “Well?” 

Simon tells him everything. Well—almost everything. He leaves out the bit about the soap, because he has a strong feeling that Baz might actually snipe at him about that, and he’s almost certain that using someone else’s toiletries wouldn’t cause a time loop. Baz watches him the whole time with an expression that’s borderline bored, like he’d rather be listening to literally anything else. 

“Hmm,” he says, when Simon stops talking. “So you didn’t do anything, basically. Typical.” 

"That's—" 

Baz interrupts him with a sigh. "So what caused it?" He's pacing in front of the whiteboard now, chewing his lower lip. "There's no spell, as far as we know, and if it wasn't you—" 

"Why couldn't it have been you?" 

Baz stops then. "What?" 

"I just." Simon swallows, fidgeting with the embroidery on the throw pillow he's holding in his lap. "Why couldn't you have maybe done something to cause it? Why does it have to be me?" 

Baz has got that wide-eyed expression that Simon's taken to mean blushing. "Because," he snaps. 

And then it hits Simon. He breaks into an easy smile, more carefree than he's felt since he found himself back at Watford, and it's like all the weird tension between them starts to dissipate. 

"Baz," he teases, sing-song, "did you also do nothing?" 

"At least I did more than you," Baz grumbles, which is probably as close to agreeing as he'll ever get. "I didn't waste half the day napping." 

"So what did you do?" 

Baz huffs and crosses his arms again, a little petulantly. He's being ridiculous, but it's good. It's great. It's better than the apathy at the train station. It means they're back to normal.

(He's being so dramatic about this whole thing, like it's such a big deal that neither of them did anything life-changing on that first day, and Simon's so close to suggesting they just take a break and do something fun instead.)

"The usual," Baz says eventually. It doesn't seem like he's going to continue—Simon expects to fight it out of him—but then he slumps down on the sofa, without even saying anything about the fact that Simon's technically taking up a seat and a half, and buries his face in his hands. "What I do every day. Wake up, feed, go out with my family, play Wii with Mordelia."

Simon doesn't mention that that doesn't sound like any more than he did. Baz probably realized it as soon as he spoke. 

"Until you, anyway," Baz adds. 

There's something undeniably soft in his voice, but Simon doesn't press it. He isn't even sure whether it was actually there, or he just imagined it. He doesn't really want to find out. 

They sit in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts. It's not uncomfortable, not like Simon assumed it would be. Baz is pressed against his side, like always, like he doesn't even realize how close they are. Simon dares to stretch his legs out when they get too cramped, hesitantly creeping them onto Baz's lap, and Baz just absent-mindedly drapes his hands over his ankles. He picks at a thread on Simon's sock like it's the most casual, ordinary thing in the world. 

It's wonderful. 

(Simon thinks about bringing up the whole almost-kiss thing, but he doesn’t want to ruin whatever this is. It feels fragile, the gentleness that’s settled between them, the comfortable, familiar cold of Baz’s hands.)

But just as Simon starts to get used to the quiet, Baz breaks it. "So we're back to square one, then." 

Simon shifts to poke him in the abdomen with his toe. "Maybe, like, square one-B."

"Square one-B," Baz echoes. 

"Yeah. 'Cause we've ruled out a bunch of stuff, so we know what didn't cause it, right? One-B." 

Baz ducks his head, the barest hint of a smile gracing his lips. It’s brief, though, and he schools his face back into an impassable expression before Simon can catch a proper glimpse. 

“Maybe Bunce is right,” he muses, still running his hand over Simon’s ankle, “and it’s all just a cosmic joke.”

He sounds so defeated, it makes Simon ache. He’s the one who’s been pushing on, even when they never found anything, even when the research got tedious and all the books started to repeat themselves, and now he’s staring at the peaches on Simon’s socks—a gag gift from Penny—with the world’s most sullen pout. 

“Don’t say that,” Simon says, whacking Baz in the chest with his foot. “A cosmic joke? We cannot be that important to the universe.” 

Baz only sighs, a little wistfully, and mumbles, “You are.” 

And now Simon’s heart is back to that erratic, thunderous hammering, threatening to burst right out of him. 

“Anyway,” he coughs, hoping that Baz will also elect to just not address what he said, “it doesn’t even make sense, when you think about it.” 

Baz snorts. “And a time loop does make sense?”

“Well—no. Whatever. My point still stands. Shut up.”

Baz sighs again, slumping back against the sofa. “The problem is, we can’t ever know if any of our theories are actually plausible. How will we be able to tell what caused the loop?”

That’s a very good and very depressing point. Baz is right—they don’t really have a way to know for sure, even if they think they’ve figured it out. It could be anything; it’s still possible that the loop is the product of some cosmic joke, like what Penny said about Groundhog Day. Simon just said it wasn’t that to keep Baz from falling into a sullen spiral. 

“Maybe you’re focusing on the wrong thing,” he suggests. “Maybe we need to work on getting out of the loop, yeah? Not finding out why we’re even stuck in it.” 

“That’s what we’ve been doing, and it hasn’t gotten us anywhere.” Baz rubs a hand over his face and shakes his head. “There’s no—” 

He pushes Simon’s legs off his lap and practically jumps up, so violently and suddenly that he nearly knocks over the tea kettle on the table that Simon had brought to the library. 

“Snow,” he says, grabbing the dry-erase marker he’d left on one of the bookshelves, “run through your day again.”

Simon frowns. “What? Why?” 

“Because maybe it was something we both did.” Baz is already listing things on his designated side of the whiteboard—he’s writing so fast it might as well be scribbling, but his handwriting is still, somehow, calligraphic. “It’s just an idea, but.” 

“It’s a start,” Simon says. He shifts, leans forward, resting his chin on his hand.

Baz smiles at him, so soft it makes his breath catch and his heart skip a beat. And Simon wonders—for what must be the millionth time today—what it’d be like to kiss him.

Dusk finds them holed up in Baz’s room, languidly going through the takeaway they managed to sneak in without Mordelia noticing—chips from four different places, because Simon couldn’t decide. Baz is lying upside down on his bed, which looks like a terribly uncomfortable position, and he’s currently trying to name his favourite of the chips. 

They spent the better half of the afternoon figuring out which books in the Pitch library they hadn’t already read, and then researching until even Baz got annoyed by it. Simon hadn’t actually gotten much done—he kept trying not to be distracted by Baz, and that of course only led him to realize more distracting things. 

This whole situation is kind of a mess. He isn’t even sure if he likes Baz that way, or if he’s just hung up on the kiss-that-never-actually-happened. Or if he’s just seeking comfort with the only other person who understands what he’s going through. Or if it’s something else entirely. 

And it’s irritating, because if this were under any other circumstances, Simon knows he would’ve done something about it by now. He probably would’ve grabbed Baz by the collar of his coat back at the train station and kissed him, consequences be damned. He wouldn’t have thought about it at all—he just would’ve acted.  

But now, all he can do is think. And worry. Because—because he doesn’t want to lose Baz over this. He doesn’t think he could face the time loop alone, not after all the time they’ve spent together. Baz means too much to him. 

(Baz is his whole universe. It doesn’t feel like anything matters, beyond him and the loop.) 

“The second one,” Baz says decisively. “Definitely the second one.” 

Simon shifts, trying to make it seem like he hasn’t been staring at Baz as he eats. “Really? I kind of prefer the third one.” 

He’s been sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, for the past half hour, and his arse is starting to go numb. The only reason he hasn’t moved is because this spot affords him a good view of Baz, with his hair spread out on his bed and the top buttons of his shirt undone. 

“Those ones have too much gravy,” Baz says, scrunching his nose up. 

“You’re the one who ordered them like that.” 

“I didn’t know it’d come with that much!” Baz rolls over to reach one of the chip boxes, balanced precariously beside him, and grabs a handful. These chips are positively drowning in vinegar—Simon had accidentally emptied the entire container—and the box itself is soggy too, but he doesn’t seem to care. “This is nice, though. Better than sitting through dinner with my father.” 

“I didn’t think he was that bad.”

Baz’s dad is strict, sure, and very intimidating, but he isn’t terrible to be around. Every time Simon’s had dinner with Baz’s family, they were surprisingly polite to him, if a little stiff. Things only got unbearable if he brought up the Mage, and then they’d fall into awkward, tense silence. But that only happened twice before he learned it was best to just nod and accept the food that’s offered and not talk. 

Baz levels him with a disgusted look. “Every day at dinner, before you started staying over,” he says, “I had to suffer through my father talking endlessly about defeating the Mage. Every. Day.” 

That does sound bad, Simon agrees. He has no idea how Baz has made it this far and stayed sane—and not only that, but he’s still so kind and patient with his family, as if he hasn’t had to live through everything they do today a million times. 

“Why didn’t you just talk about other things, then?” Simon asks. The chip box he’d been steadily making his way through is empty now, and he fumbles around to find the other one he’d set down a while ago. 

Baz sighs. “I tried, obviously, but it always went back to the same thing no matter what I did. There’s not much my father and I talk about, and even less we agree on, so.” He shrugs. “Limited options.”

“Well,” Simon says, voice muffled through his mouthful of cheese chips, “that’s pretty shit.” 

“Yeah, it kind of is,” Baz laughs. “But I don’t have to deal with that today, so I’d rather not talk about it. Just—tell me one of your ridiculous stories.”

Simon can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed by that. “Don’t you already know all of them?” 

“Why don’t you just tell me one, and we’ll find out?” 

Baz’s aunt’s Sex Pistols record starts blaring from down the hall, filling up the comfortable silence with lyrics that Simon can barely make out. Baz had given it to Mordelia, along with a bunch of other old punk albums, when they’d gone through Fiona’s room earlier to see if she had any useful books stowed away. They hadn’t found anything, besides yearbooks that they may have spent several hours looking through.

(“Isn’t she a little too young for that?” Simon had asked, when Mordelia started playing I Wanna Be Your Dog.

Baz had just waved him off. “That’s a problem for alternate-universe me, Snow.”)

Simon hums, trying to think of a story he can’t recall having told Baz before. The problem is, Baz was there to witness most of his adventures, so there isn’t much he doesn’t already know, to some degree. 

“Did I ever tell you,” Simon says, suddenly remembering how he’d spent Christmas four years ago, “about the werewolves in Soho?” 

Baz raises an eyebrow. He’s lying on his stomach, his face pillowed against his crossed arms, hair falling into his eyes. “That doesn’t sound familiar.” 

Halfway through whatever Sex Pistols song is currently playing—there’s a very loud and awful scratching noise, and Baz cringes—the record abruptly changes, and the hallway thrums with the familiar beat of Blitzkrieg Bop. 

“Well,” Simon begins, “there was this moonstone, right?”

Baz is grinning now. “Oh, a moonstone. This is going to be good.”

Chapter Text

There’s breakfast waiting for Simon the next day, and Baz seems significantly less tense. His good mood persists during the entire drive to London, not even faltering when Simon keeps switching the radio stations until he finds one solely playing Christmas songs. They’re heading to the British Museum today, because Baz is insistent that they might find something helpful. He had sounded so determined, so much more optimistic than he was yesterday, that Simon couldn’t say no. 

He’s starting to regret it now. The museum has a bloody massive reading room, and every single person sitting here looks important or posh, and he’s—well. He’s wearing ratty trainers and Watford joggers, and a hoodie that might once have belonged to Agatha. It’s kind of embarrassing. It’s not like he has anything nearly as nice as Baz, but he still could’ve put in a little more effort, if he knew beforehand. 

“Do we really have to?” Simon asks. Just looking at the sheer amount of books here is making him queasy. He’s had enough of them for a lifetime. 

Baz scowls at him. “We’ve been over this, Snow. There might be something here, so it’s worth a look. They have really extensive archives.” 

“Too extensive,” Simon mutters. He ignores Baz elbowing him in the ribs. “Why are we here, anyway? Neither of us knows shit about physics, and there isn’t anything magical.” 

Baz gives him a very disappointed look, like he just said something incredibly stupid, or there’s something obvious he should know. It’s probably both. 

“Every museum has magical things,” he says, “if you know where to look.” 

Simon rolls his eyes. “‘Cause that’s not cryptic or anything.” 

Baz just cuffs him on the back of his head as he pushes past him to find an unoccupied table, and then he dumps his coat on one of the chairs and heads off to find books. Simon follows him with a reluctant sigh, taking his own place on the opposite side of the table. He should help browse, but he doesn’t really feel like it—and anyway, Baz will get enough books to last them at least a good few hours. There’s no need to make the pile any bigger. 

Just as Simon expected, Baz does indeed return with a stack of books so tall, it’s a wonder he managed to carry them all at once. They make a resounding, dull thud when he drops them, and nearly everyone else in the room flinches at the noise. 

“This should be a good start,” Baz says. He looks far too pleased with himself, hands on his hips, surveying the pile with a smug half-smile. It’s ridiculous. It’s also very adorable. 

Simon makes a face. “Ugh. Fun.” 

“If we get through this,” Baz says, dropping into his seat, “I’ll buy you dinner. As a reward.” 

“You’ll buy me dinner anyway.” 

Baz kicks Simon under the table and huffs. “I mean, we could go somewhere that’s actually nice. Not just a chippy.” 

Simon feels like his brain is short-circuiting. Did he hear right? Did Baz—did he really just suggest going somewhere nice? Like a legitimate restaurant? Like a—

Like a date. 

“Somewhere nice?” Simon teases, hoping he isn’t blushing quite as fiercely as he thinks. “What, like the Ritz?”

Baz kicks him again. “I rescind my offer. You’ll be lucky if I even give you a ride. I could just leave you stranded in London.” 

Simon grins. “You wouldn’t.” 

“I would so,” Baz scoffs. He grabs two books off the stack and slams one in front of Simon, opening his own so violently that the spine literally cracks.  

Simon doesn’t argue. Mostly because he knows that, at the end of the day, Baz wouldn’t do that. And they both know that he’ll pay for dinner no matter what, like always. Simon will offer to pay for at least part of it, like always, and Baz will take that as a personal offense, because that’s the routine they’ve built. 

“Not the Ritz,” Baz says, after a while, without looking up from whatever he’s reading. “Just a proper restaurant. I’m sick of takeaway.” 

“Like Nando’s?” Simon asks, instead of getting hung up on the fact that Baz wants to take him out for dinner. Properly. 

Baz sighs. “If you want, we can go to Nando’s. We can even share a platter.” 

This cannot be real. Simon must be imagining this—there’s no way they’re actually having a conversation about Nando’s. It feels more surreal than anything else in his life, including the time loop they’re stuck in. 

Having dinner with Baz’s family, or eating takeaway on his bed, is one thing. Sitting down at a legitimate restaurant is completely different. And, sure, they’ve done it before, but—but they haven’t in a long time, and it kind of sounds like a date, and Simon’s recently come to the realization that he might possibly want to kiss Baz, and it’s just a lot. 

(It’s a little terrifying, honestly. World-altering.)

But it does sound nice, going to Nando’s, sitting in a booth, watching Baz roll his eyes every time Simon double dips. It might be what he needs to feel like they’ve really gone back to normal, to how things were before the incident.

“Okay,” he says, smiling at Baz over his book. “But we might have to get two platters.” 

Baz sighs, for the umpteenth time, as he flips a page in whatever book he’s supposedly reading. He flips it so slowly, like he’s dreading it. Which is fair, to be honest—Simon’s been staring at the same passage in his own book, some incomprehensible seventeenth-century treatise on who-knows-what that’s so old it cracks with every movement, for the past half hour. 

He doesn’t think he’s even able to process words anymore; they’re all starting to blur. Now that he thinks about it, actually, the book might not be in English. It definitely isn’t magical, either. Where—and why—did Baz get this? 

Honestly, he’s been looking more and more like a zombie with every passing hour, all sleep-deprived and haunted, and so chalky he puts the paper to shame. He must just not have been looking last time he went to get books. 

“This would be so much easier, and so much faster,” Baz says, resting his cheek in his hand, “if we could just find a spell to reveal what you did in the first place.”

Simon frowns up at him. “Why does it always have to be me who did something?”

“Because,” Baz sighs, “you’re the only person who’s moronic enough to get stuck in a time loop. We’ve been over this, Snow.” 

“Then what are you doing here?” 

Simon breaks into a shit-eating grin. Baz glares at him, but it lacks any hint of menace. He does, though, chuck his phone across the table—Simon ducks, and it slams into the shelf behind him with a dull thud. 

“Even if—and it is a very small, very unlikely if—I were to blame for this, I would never have chosen to get stuck with you, of all people.” 

Simon’s grin only grows wider. “And why d’you think I’d choose you?” 

They fall into awkward silence, and Baz immediately turns his gaze back down to his book, flipping the page even though he didn’t read anything on the previous one. Simon pretends to be interested in his own book, but he’s just stuck on a loop of, why the fuck did I say that?

“I don’t think,” Baz says, slowly, like he’s hesitant to speak, “that we would’ve actually gotten a say in all… that. If one of us was responsible.” 

If one of us was responsible. That’s as close to admitting it might not be Simon’s fault as Baz will ever get. 

“It’s probably just a cosmic joke, that we got stuck together,” Baz continues. “One hell of a joke.”

Simon shifts in his seat to kick Baz gently under the table, to grab his attention, and Baz looks up at him. He’d been running his hands through his hair earlier, and now it’s parted on the left, brushing his shoulder. It looks nice like this—all soft, lazy waves.   

“Might be,” Simon agrees. “But it’s not a bad one.” 

And when Baz smiles, so small that anyone else probably wouldn’t notice it, the thought of having to spend the rest of the afternoon here starts to seem a bit less sad. 

They’re still in the library when the sun sets, though Simon’s pretty sure they’ve both given up on trying to read at all. He thinks Baz might actually be napping—for the last hour, his head’s kept dropping forward, and he kept startling so violently he’d knock something over, but now his eyes are properly closed, and his cheek is smushed in his hand, and it sounds like he’s snoring. 

Simon quietly, carefully grabs the books they have open and places them on the pile by the side of the table, with all the other ones they’d abandoned or forgotten about. 

It’d be a crime to wake Baz up, he thinks. As much as he’d like to leave and get dinner, or go back to Hampshire and pass out on Baz’s ridiculously comfortable bed until the day resets, he’d feel so bad about, well… bothering Baz. 

He’s so… vulnerable, like this. He looks so gentle, so carefree, so adorable that just looking at him makes Simon’s heart flutter. 

But he keeps watching anyway, because he can’t look away, because it’s the only time he’d ever really allow himself to do this, because he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about what it’d be like to kiss Baz, to hold Baz, to—to just wake up with him. 

Baz lets out a breath that borders on a snore, and his hand starts slipping. And then he jerks up just as his head’s about to hit the table, eyes wide in alarm. 

“Crowley,” he says, his voice thick with sleep, “what time is it?” 

Simon pulls Baz’s wrist towards him and glances at his posh watch. “Half seven.” 

Baz rubs his other hand over his face, groaning. He doesn’t bother yanking his arm out of Simon’s grip.  “Was I asleep?” 

“Clearly.” 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” 

“‘Cause,” Simon says, shrugs. “That would’ve been mean. And apparently, you needed it.”  

Baz just hums. And then he sighs into his hands, head hanging down, and mumbles, “What I need is a drink.”

Simon glances back down at Baz’s wristwatch, and then out the window beside their table, and then he says, without really thinking about it beforehand, “We could get one.”

Baz snaps up to look at him, frowning. 

“Um,” Simon continues. “A… drink. If you want.”  Baz just keeps staring at him, like he can’t quite comprehend this, so Simon babbles on, cheeks burning. “I mean, y’know, we’re already in London, and we’ve gone to pubs before, and—it might be nice.”

“To get drunk?” Baz asks, an eyebrow raised, as if he thinks Simon’s never been properly drunk before. 

(He’s only been drunk once, and that was at Agatha’s house one Christmas, so he’s not sure it even counts. He certainly wasn’t drunk enough then to not feel ashamed when Agatha kept giving him these disappointed looks.) 

“To forget,” Simon says. “To—I don’t know. Not have to think about the loop, for a bit.”  

Baz hums. “All right. But only one drink; I still have to drive us back.” 

They end up at some dingy cocktail bar a few blocks away, with lighting so dim that Simon struggles to read the drink menu. It’s surprisingly busy, considering it’s not even eight, and they just barely manage to find two seats by the bar. The entire place smells like raspberry liquor, for some reason. 

“What do you want?” Baz asks, leaning in close so Simon can hear him over the music. 

Simon shrugs. “Dunno, mate. Something strong?” 

He doesn’t want to admit that he just doesn’t know what anything on the menu actually means—Baz will probably judge him for that. Even if he doesn’t, Simon will feel embarrassed about that, considering he’s the one who suggested they go for drinks in the first place. 

“Something strong,” Baz repeats. And then he turns to the bartender, who’s just finished mixing something very pink and very sweet-smelling for the man next to them, and asks, “What’s your strongest drink?” 

The bartender replies, though Simon can’t hear what she says. Baz says something back and nods, and before Simon really processes what’s going on, there’s a shot glass in front of him. Whatever the bartender poured is so clear, he has to swish it around a bit to make sure there’s actually something there. 

“Shots,” Baz shouts. Helpfully. 

“Yeah, I figured. What’s in it?” 

“Vodka, I think.” Baz knocks his glass against Simon’s, careful not to spill anything. “Cheers.” 

They take their shots at the same time, and Simon scrunches his nose at the taste. He’s never had straight vodka—or whatever this is, he couldn’t tell—before. It’s not… bad, per se. Just something he needs to be prepared for. 

Baz is coughing into his hand, grimacing at his empty glass. “Oh, shit, that was disgusting,” he says. “I’m getting another round.” 

Simon grins. “What happened to only one drink?” 

“We’ll take the train if we have to,” Baz says. He gestures for the bartender, who nods back at him, and then he winks at Simon. “Besides, a bit of alcohol won’t kill me.” 

Simon doesn’t know what time it is, or even where exactly they are. He lost track, like, eons ago. Hours ago. Is it still the same night? He doesn’t know—and he honestly doesn’t fucking care. 

He remembers a shit load of shots, and cocktails that tasted like fruit smoothies, and that Baz had dropped his credit card in a gutter. And—and a bottle of vodka, which Baz had been holding… Did he have it when they left? All Simon remembers is stumbling down the street, laughing, all the lights blurring together. Stopping in an alley because he thought he might need to throw up. Baz’s arm draped over his shoulders, burning through his coat. And then… and then— 

They’re in some bar, or a pub, or—no, no, they’re in a club now. That club in Soho, where Baz had flirted with the bouncer in order to get them in, because Simon lost his ID somewhere… and Baz doesn’t have his jacket either, actually. Huh. He must’ve lost that too. 

There’s music playing, so loud the bass reverberates in Simon’s bones, thumping in tune with his heartbeat. Baz is saying something, maybe, but he can’t hear him over the noise. And someone’s got their hands on Simon’s waist, holding him close, and he thinks it must be Baz, because they’re pressed together in the crowd, and Baz smells like pineapple, and in the pulsating lights, Simon can see beads of sweat on his chest— 

When did Baz unbutton his shirt? Has he been wearing it like this the whole time—sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned so low that Simon can just reach out and trace the lines of his muscles? 

Baz is talking again, indistinguishable, and Simon realizes he has actually been running his hand down Baz’s chest for the past however-the-fuck long. He jerks back, but Baz only pulls him closer. They might be dancing—swaying, grinding, whatever. Baz is moving with the music, illuminated in bright blue, then red, then blue, hair falling in his face. He’s so—and it’s so—and is it just Simon, or is hot in here? 

“What?” Simon shouts. 

“Didn’t Wellbelove teach you to dance?” 

Simon shakes his head. “Not like this.” 

“Well,” Baz says, leaning in, hands dipping lower on Simon’s waist, his fangs glinting in the light, “I can teach you lots of things Wellbelove can’t.”

They’re so close, Simon could just—but he doesn’t. He swallows down the urge and closes his eyes, trying not to think about the fact that he’s dancing with Baz, in a club, drunk and probably a bit high. Trying not to focus on Baz’s hands, on his steady breaths—the way he’d looked, like he was about to… like maybe he would’ve—like he wanted to drain Simon dry.  

He thinks Baz might be talking. He opens his eyes and squints, trying to make out what he’s saying. 

“What?” Simon shouts again.  

“Karaoke!” Baz shouts back. 

“What? Karaoke?”  

Baz’s hands press into Simon’s lower back, so cold they make him shiver. “Karaoke!” he repeats, nodding. “I think we should—” 

The rest of his sentence gets swallowed up by the pounding music, but it doesn’t matter. Simon can’t help but break into a smile. He feels so… flushed. Like he could do anything right now. Like he could just fist his hand in Baz’s shirt and haul him forward and—  

“Okay!” he yells. “Karaoke!”     

Simon doesn’t know how, but they manage to find their way to some karaoke bar. He’s pretty sure Baz was holding him up the whole time, because he doesn’t remember—he definitely didn’t walk here himself. 

There’s currently no one on the stage, so Simon scrambles over to claim it. He flips through the song list, not really registering any of the titles, until— 

Wait. He knows this song. It’s on the radio, like, all the time—whenever Baz picks him up. They always sing along to it. 

Simon cues up the song. The music starts playing, and Baz’s grin falls into a confused frown. 

“Baz!” Simon shouts into the microphone, squinting at the screen behind him to make sure he doesn’t miss the lyrics. “Baz, come up here! Come on!”  

Baz just blinks at him. “What?”

“It’s our song!” Simon yells. 

And he thinks Baz might be replying, but he just shakes his head, because the song starts: 

She came from Greece, she had a thirst for knowledge 

She studied sculpture at Saint Martin’s College 

That’s where I

Caught her eye

“It’s our song!” Simon yells again, holding out the second microphone and gesturing for Baz to join him on the stage. 

She told me that her dad was loaded

Baz makes his way up, an arm outstretched to stop himself from falling over. 

I said, in that case, I’ll have rum and Coca-Cola

She said—

“Fine," Baz finishes, taking the microphone from Simon’s hand. 

And Simon breaks into a grin so wide it hurts his cheeks. 

And then in thirty seconds’ time, she said… 

Baz is looking at Simon now, lips quirked up in a smile, as he sings the next part: 

I wanna live like common people

I wanna do whatever common people do

I wanna sleep with common people

I wanna sleep with common people like you

He winks, the fucking tosser, and Simon feels like his heart might just pound right out of his chest. 

(Because Baz is a good singer, obviously, not because of the—it’s not… and he’s not the only one enthralled, so. Literally everyone in the bar is watching Baz.)   

Oh what else could I do?

Simon yanks Baz close by the collar of his shirt and sings right into the microphone, so low he’s not sure anyone else could possibly hear him, “I said oh, I’ll see what I can do.”

They sing—scream, really—along to Common People another time, but then the other people in the bar start to complain about all the Pulp, so Baz puts on Wannabe, and Simon is so surprised by the fact that he knows a Spice Girls song that he misses his cue. He’s still recovering from this new and weird-as-shit knowledge, which he doesn’t know what to do with, when the song ends, and Baz is already fumbling through the song list before he realizes it. 

“M’gonna—” Simon gestures vaguely in the direction of the bar. “D’you want anythin’?” 

Baz looks up at him, frowning, eyes a bit glazed. “Huh? Oh—yeah. Yeah. Whatever this… ‘m not picky.” 

He takes his wallet out of Simon’s coat pocket—and when did he even put it there?—and shoves some bills in Simon’s hand, patting him on the arm. 

“M’kay,” Simon says. 

He heads to the bar slowly, catching himself on people and tables and chairs on his way, and orders the first thing he can think of. Did Baz tell him what he wants? He can’t remember. Ah, well, it doesn’t matter. Or—he probably wants something sweet. He’d like that. 

“And, uh, and—” Simon shoves his last remaining bill across the counter. “‘n something fruity.” What’s that cocktail…? “Piña colada! That one.” 

He slumps down by the bar as he waits for the drinks, and then he carefully carries them back to the stage, only spilling a bit of his beer—or is it ale?—as he climbs the steps. Baz already has another song cued up, and it takes Simon a second to register that it’s ABBA.        

Baz ends up doing it alone, while Simon tries not to choke on his drink—the way Baz looks, in these shitty lights, shirt so undone it must be indecent, singing Gimme Gimme Gimme in that stupid fucking voice of his… it has to be a crime. Somewhere, Baz is committing treason. He shouldn’t even be allowed to do this. 

Simon’s buzzing after his second beer, jumpy with energy, and he joins Baz—who downs both the drinks Simon brought in a record thirty seconds—on the stage for Bohemian Rhapsody. They scream more than sing, words slurring together, so incoherent that Simon can’t tell if they’re sticking to the lyrics or not. He decides it doesn’t matter, can’t really matter, not when he’s got Baz here beside him. Not when he feels—not when the world finally feels so limitless. 

Sometime later—Simon doesn’t know—after their voices have already gone hoarse, someone yells at them about “hogging the stage”, and Baz pulls Simon off by his sleeve, and they’re laughing so hard they both collapse into the nearest empty seats. The people who claim the stage after them cue up a Journey song. 

“I’m gonna get a drink,” Baz shouts. They’re close enough that he doesn’t really need to, but he doesn’t seem to realize that. 

He staggers over to Simon’s chair, practically leaning on top of him to get his wallet, and then leaves to the bar—in its general direction, anyway—without waiting for Simon to say if he wants anything. He’ll just drink whatever Baz gets. 

Baz comes back a few minutes (has it really been minutes?) later, holding an entire bottle of vodka and nothing else. He plops down on his seat and pushes his wallet across the table to Simon. 

“Thought you didn’ like vodka,” Simon says, frowning. 

Baz shrugs, twisting off the cap. “I don’t. Also I ran out’f cash.” 

But he still drinks it—head tipped back, a quarter of the bottle gone in, like, less than a minute. Probably. Simon doesn’t think he could read a clock if he even had one. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he’s watching Baz drink, tracing the lines of his throat, wondering what it’d be like to… if Baz would ever let him… what it’d be like to bite— 

“Isn’t that your…” Simon pauses, squinting at Baz. Everything’s starting to blur. “Second bottle?” 

Baz lowers the bottle and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Simon definitely doesn’t stare. 

“Third,” Baz says. “Fourth. Dunno.” 

That doesn’t sound right, but Simon’s not going to argue. Instead, he asks, “S’what now?” 

When all the karaoke starts to get too loud, and they can’t hear themselves over the people screaming and the blaring music, Simon finds them a quieter spot at the back—a booth. They squish onto the same seat, and Baz drapes his arm over the back, fingers brushing Simon’s shoulder with every movement. There’s something sticky on the table; neither of them care. 

Baz is still holding his vodka bottle, though Simon can’t tell if there’s anything left in there. 

“Can I ask you somethin’?” Baz says, a bit slurred. Or has he been talking like this the entire time? Simon hasn’t noticed. “D’you really want th’loop to end?”

Simon blinks at him once, twice. “What?”

“Think ‘bout it,” Baz says, gesturing with his bottle and nearly smacking Simon in the face. “In th’loop, ’s so… we don’t have t’deal with… y’know. All that.” 

“What?” Simon asks again, even though he understands. 

Baz isn’t making very much sense, but he also is, sort of. He’s right—of course he’s right. Here, they don’t have to deal with, well… anything, really. No Humdrum. No war with the Old Families. No Mage. No bloody prophecies. No inevitable final battle between them. No need to deal with whatever… whatever this is, this new thing between them. 

Baz leans against Simon, face pressed into the crook of his neck. “To b’honest,” he says, so muffled it’s barely audible, “I like th’loop. Bein’ here. With you. ‘S much better.” 

“Yeah,” Simon whispers. “Yeah. I like bein’ with you too.” 

He feels Baz smile against his skin, and he thinks—well. Maybe the loop isn’t the worst thing in the world.

Chapter Text

The train ride to Winchester the next day is absolutely mortifying. Not because Simon can’t remember what they did last night—the opposite, actually. Mostly. Some things are still a bit foggy.

The first thing he thought of when he woke up was the way Baz had held him in the club, hands cold and grounding on his waist. The second thing he thought of, once he managed to convince himself it wasn’t all a dream, was the way Baz had looked on that stage, screaming along to Common People, shirt undone, hair falling in his eyes. 

The third thing he thought was: fuck.  

He hadn’t meant for all that to happen, when he suggested they get drinks; he just thought it’d be nice for Baz to loosen up a bit.

And now, Simon’s afraid things will be awkward again. Like the day after they went to Winter Wonderland. What if Baz doesn’t remember anything? Or worse—what if he remembers everything, and he regrets it? 

Not to mention, there’s the fact that they both sort of agreed they prefer the loop over their regular lives. They were smashed out of their minds, sure, but… well. The point still stands. What does it mean for them now—for all the work they’ve been doing? If Baz remembers this conversation, if he remembers saying that he thought it was much nicer in the loop, with Simon, will he want to continue their useless research? 

It’s so much. It’s giving Simon a bit of a headache.

He tries not to worry too much, he really does. He even tries to nap on the train to pass the time, but every time he closes his eyes, he sees Baz, illuminated in those pulsing lights, fangs visible, leaning in close to be heard over the music. Baz—draping his arm over Simon’s shoulder, laughing, grinning around the straw in his drink. 

Fuck. He’s really in over his head, isn’t he? 

Simon lingers on the train for a few minutes before finally mustering the courage to face Baz. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say—if he should even say anything about yesterday, that is. Maybe Baz just wants to put it behind them? Merlin knows Simon would be okay with that. 

He takes a deep breath, and then makes his way onto the platform. He finds Baz in his normal spot, arms crossed, his weight resting on one leg. He’s wearing a leather jacket—and, huh, okay, that’s a first—and actual, honest-to-goodness Wayfarers. Even though it’s December. 

(It’s not a bad look. Far from it. Simon wouldn’t mind if Baz always wore that jacket, and the loose button-up he has on underneath, and those fucking jeans.) 

(Shit.) 

“So,” Baz says, “lesson learned: we’re never doing that again.” 

Simon grins, trying to focus on Baz’s frown instead of the way his jeans hug his thighs. “Why? Didn’t you have a good time?” 

“Yes,” Baz sighs, rolling his eyes. “But now I have to remember it for the rest of my life. Once is enough.”

Oh. So he does remember everything. How great. 

“Right. Er.” Simon glances down at Baz’s boots and rubs the back of his neck, a bit embarrassed. He doesn’t know how to approach this—so he decides, after a very belated pause, that it’d probably be best to leave it to Baz. “What’s up with the sunglasses?”     

Baz sighs again. “I have a hangover.” 

“What? How can you be hungover? Our actions don’t have consequences when the day resets. Like when we went to that chippy that gave you—” 

“Mentally,” Baz sneers, lowering his sunglasses and glaring at Simon over the frame. “I have a mental hangover.” 

Simon narrows his eyes. “I don’t think that’s a real thing.” 

“It is if I say it is,” Baz snaps. “Now come on, I don’t have all day.” 

He pushes his Wayfarers up and turns to leave, and it takes Simon a moment to realize he should start walking too. 

(It’s not because he’s distracted by Baz’s bloody jeans.) 

He hurries to catch up, shoes scuffing the ground, and grabs Baz by the sleeve of his jacket to keep him from getting too far off. “Why don’t we just not work today?” 

Baz pauses to shake his hand off. “Not work? We did that last night, Snow.” 

“Yeah, but. If you’re so mentally hungover…” 

Baz whips around, pulling his sunglasses down again and snarling. It would probably be intimidating if he didn’t look so good in the leather jacket. 

Uh. 

“Did you have something in mind?” Baz drawls. 

Simon shrugs, looking at a suddenly very interesting spot beyond Baz’s shoulder. “Not particularly. Though… there is this place we pass every day. In Winchester. A bowling alley.” 

“A bowling alley?” Baz echoes. “You want to go bowling?”  

“I’ve never been,” Simon says. 

Apparently, that’s all it takes for Baz to agree. He doesn’t say a word the entire time he’s driving, and then the next thing Simon knows, they’re pulling into the alley’s car park. Baz turns the engine off and grimaces out the window. 

“Bowling shoes are hideous,” Baz says. 

Simon grins. “That’s just a good reason to see you in them.” 

Baz shoots him a glare, and then gets out of his car, slamming the door so hard it rattles a bit. “Come on before I regret this.” 

Baz, as it turns out, is ridiculously shit at bowling. Simon is too, but not much worse—which is embarrassing, in his opinion, because it’s his first time ever playing. Baz only gets one strike, and he gets so cocky afterwards that he sends the next two balls into the gutter. But by the time they finish the game—it took them longer than it probably should have, because Baz had to teach Simon the rules, and it took fifteen minutes until he realized why the bowling balls have holes—Baz is properly having fun. He’s been smiling for the past few minutes, and he even cheered when Simon knocked down three pins at once. 

The bowling shoes look adorable on Baz. He made such a big deal about them, for no reason at all. He could probably make anything look good, though.

(Simon feels like a clown in them, but he doesn’t mention it. Mostly because he doesn’t want to ruin Baz’s good time, and because he doesn’t actually mind that much. Not when he gets to see Baz like this.)

“Who would’ve thought that Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, who’s perfect at literally everything, is terrible at bowling?” 

“The third,” Baz corrects, without looking away from the scoreboard. “I still won, though.” 

Simon can’t help but smile. “By a very slim margin.” 

“Don’t ruin this for me, Snow.” 

(Simon wouldn’t. Not anymore. Not for a long time.) 

“Well,” Simon says, “I’m going to grab a snack. You want anything?” 

Baz shakes his head, already reaching for his wallet. “No, thank you.” 

“You sure? ‘Cause I’m starving.” 

“Then you should probably eat,” Baz says. He hands Simon a stack of bills—and Simon gets a very distinct flashback to Baz doing the exact same thing last night, albeit in very different circumstances. “Uh—before you go. Would you want to play another game?” 

“Sure. Yeah. Yeah, I’d love to.” Simon bumps Baz’s shoulder. “Finally beat you, yeah?”   

(His heart’s not pounding or anything. He’s not getting stupidly flustered just because Baz wants to play another round of bowling with him. He isn’t. That’d be ridiculous.) 

Baz smirks. “You wish.” 

Simon doesn’t know how to respond to that—he suddenly can’t think of a single word—so he just turns and heads to the corny American-retro bar instead. He ends up getting nachos, which would be easier to share if Baz decides he wants to eat too, and a milkshake, and then he decides he might as well also get a burger. He hasn’t had any food all day, because Baz didn’t bring breakfast. 

Baz joins him a few minutes later at the bar, taking the seat right beside him. He’s still wearing his sunglasses. Simon told him they make him look like a wanker, and Baz just threatened to use him as a bowling ball. 

“Here’s your change, by the way,” Simon says, digging in the pocket of his trousers for the spare coins.

Baz shakes his head. “Keep it for the arcade games.” 

Simon can’t tell if he’s joking. He frowns, dubious. 

“You’ve really never been to a bowling alley, have you?” Baz huffs. “They have an arcade, Snow. I figured you’d want to play some of the games, but if you don’t want to, I’ll just take—” 

“No,” Simon interrupts. “No, I want to.” 

“You won’t win anything anyway. They’re designed to make you lose.” 

“How encouraging, thanks,” Simon laughs.     

He gets his food then, and he makes sure to put the plate of nachos between them, where Baz can reach it if he wants. But Baz doesn’t seem to notice it—he’s staring at the milkshake, lips curled down in disapproval. Slowly, a bit dramatically, he takes off his Wayfarers and tucks them on his shirt.

“What’s that?” he asks. 

“A milkshake, you git,” Simon says. He dips his finger in the mass of whipped cream on top and licks it off. “Cookies and cream.” 

Baz makes a face. “Sounds disgusting.” 

Without even asking, he grabs the glass from Simon’s hands and takes a sip. He looks infinitely more repulsed now, but instead of pushing it back, he grabs another straw and continues drinking it.  

He’s so fucking weird. 

“I thought you’d like it,” Simon says, once he registers that he’s probably not going to get his milkshake back. “You like milk and biscuits, don’t you?” 

“Separately,” Baz replies, his voice muffled around his straw. “Not together.” 

“So you don’t like Oreos?” 

“Everyone likes Oreos, you twat,” Baz sighs. 

Simon frowns. “You make zero sense, you know that, right? You like Oreos, but you don’t like cookies and cream milkshakes?” 

Baz only glares at him over the rim of the glass, which is so non-menacing it makes Simon laugh. He looks a bit silly, but in an adorable way. 

“So what flavour do you like?” Simon asks. 

“Strawberry, obviously. The only good one.” Baz says this, of course, as he keeps drinking a milkshake he didn’t even order. 

“Really? Never would’ve guessed.” 

Baz sighs, finally pulling back and letting Simon have some of his own shake. “Snow, you know this. You’re the one who said my vomit smelled like strawberry from all those daiquiris I had.” 

Simon chokes, spluttering all over the counter. “You threw up yesterday?” 

He has absolutely no memory of that happening. As far as he remembers, it was him who felt like he needed to throw up at some point, not Baz. And he certainly can’t recall either of them actually going through with it. 

“I thought you said you remember everything,” Baz hisses. 

“It’s a bit hazy,” Simon says, waving his hand dismissively. “When was this? When did you even get a daiquiri?” 

Baz ignores this. “The point is, your milkshake is vile.” 

“Strawberry’s vile,” Simon says, grinning around his straw. 

Baz leans in closer to take another sip; their noses almost bump, and he has to tilt his head. “You’re vile.” 

“Then why,” Simon asks, “are you sharing a milkshake with me? Which you don’t even like?” 

Baz just gives him the V, and Simon laughs again. He remembers the food he ordered, then, and he reaches for his burger. It’s room-temperature now, and when he bites into it, sauce drips down the side and onto his fingers. Baz makes a face at it, but he doesn’t say anything. Progress. 

“Remember your parallel universe theory?” Simon asks, as soon as he swallows his bite. Baz nods. “What d’you think alternate-us are doing after last night?” 

Baz hums. He’s chewing his straw, absent-mindedly and terribly distracting. “Honestly? We’re probably dead. From alcohol poisoning.” 

“Huh,” Simon says, grabbing a nacho. That’s definitely not what he was thinking. “Well, that’s a bit bleak.” 

Baz shrugs. “It’s true, though.” 

Simon can’t remember having that much to drink—but maybe that would explain why his memory’s a bit patchy. “You did drink a lot. More than any normal human being can.” 

“I am a vampire, Snow.” 

“Fair point.”

They fall into comfortable silence—Simon eating his burger, Baz drinking the rest of the milkshake. In the background, there’s muted Top 40s music playing, and conversations they can’t quite make out. It’s nice. Calm.  

“You know,” Simon says, quietly, as he tries to scoop some jalapenos on his nacho, “I wouldn’t really mind if we settled it like this.” 

“Settled what?” 

“You know. This.” Simon gestures between them. “Us. Baz versus Simon, once and for all. I wouldn’t mind if we settled it through bowling.” 

For a long moment, Baz doesn’t say anything. But then he wipes the cheese off his hands and smiles, so soft it makes Simon’s heart flutter. “Mario Kart, Snow. Then I’d win for sure.”

Simon grimaces at the building, frozen in place on the middle of the pavement. Baz is holding the door open for him, an eyebrow raised, gesturing at the hallway with his free hand. It’s not exactly what Simon had pictured, when Baz told him the flat’s shit—this place, from what he can see, is incredibly posh. Red brick facade, wrought-iron railings, massive bay windows. He was imagining a converted warehouse, maybe, or a grimy building that smells like piss.

Maybe it was a mistake to come. Now that he’s here, Simon can tell this was probably not a good idea. 

“You go ahead,” he says. “I don’t really want to.”

Baz huffs. “This was your idea, Snow.”

“I was joking! I didn’t think you’d take me seriously.” 

Simon had only initially suggested this to get out of research—they had gone to a public library today, and he barely made it an hour before all the words started to blur and he couldn’t focus. He just wanted to do something else; he never thought Baz would take him up on it. 

“Well,” Baz says, sighing, “you did have a point. Fiona might know something. Now come on.”

Simon doesn’t move. “You just—you go. I’ll meet you at the Costa down the street.”

Baz narrows his eyes. “What? Why?”

“I don’t—” Simon glances at his trainers, scuffing them on the ground, and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t, er, think your aunt… likes me? Very much?”  

“Yeah, and?” Baz gestures at the hallway again. “Since when has that stopped you?”

Simon frowns.

“For Crowley’s sake,” Baz snaps, “just fucking come on. Fiona won’t do anything to you.” 

“Well. I mean. Last time we met, she—”

Baz interrupts him with a groan. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t do anything, okay? Move your fucking arse.” 

Reluctantly, Simon shuffles past Baz—a little hurriedly, because he gets momentarily worried that Baz might push him inside—and crosses the lobby to the posh lifts on the other side. This place is ridiculous: plush carpets, spotless marble floor, an actual concierge. Baz chats with her until the lift arrives, friendly and familiar, like they know each other well. He’s just full of surprises. 

“I thought,” Simon says, once they get to Fiona’s floor, “you said your aunt has a shit flat.” 

Baz shrugs. “She keeps it in shit condition. And the water pressure isn't that great.”  

“Oh,” Simon teases, “the water pressure.”

Baz cuffs him, scowling, and knocks on the door. Simon can hear the muffled sounds of someone cursing, and bumping into something, and then the door flings open. Fiona’s standing there in an old Joy Division shirt and ratty trackies, her hair piled in a messy bun on the top of her head. She’s holding a mug in one hand, the other on her hip. 

“What are you doing here, boyo?” she asks, taking a sip of whatever she’s drinking. And before Baz can answer, she notices Simon. Her eyes narrow over the rim of her mug, just as intimidating as Baz. “Simon Snow. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Her voice is practically dripping with sarcasm. This was a terrible idea. 

“Hi,” Simon says, a little awkwardly. 

“We need your help,” Baz says. He sounds almost impatient, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised.

Fiona turns her glare onto him. “For what, a school project?” 

“Something like that.” 

For a tense moment, Fiona doesn’t do anything. She just keeps standing in the doorway, lips in a thin, firm line, hands curled around her mug. “Fine,” she says eventually. “Make it quick.” 

Baz takes Simon by the sleeve and drags him inside, barely waiting for Fiona to move aside. He was kind of right, honestly, about the flat being shit. It’d be perfectly nice, if it were clean and organized. Which it definitely isn’t. There are dirty dishes littering the coffee table, and clothing thrown over the back of the sofa, and boxes stacked against the walls. The TV is on, showing an old football match with the audio muted, and if Simon strains, he can just barely make out the muffled, tinny sound of music coming from behind one of the closed doors. 

Baz wrinkles his nose in disgust. "This is worse than usual, Fi." 

"Oi," Fiona grumbles, kicking his ankle with her slipper. "I'm doing stuff."

"When is this from?" Baz asks. His frown deepens as he picks up an empty takeaway container, which had been shoved amongst a cluster of mugs. 

Fiona smacks it out of his hand. "Yesterday, Christ. Now stop being an arsehole and tell me what you came for." 

With a sigh, Baz plops down on the sofa, without bothering to move the pile of blankets—and probably laundry—taking up an entire seat. Simon dutifully squeezes in beside him, a little uncomfortably, because he's not sure he's allowed to sit anywhere else. Fiona keeps watching him with those unblinking hawk eyes, everything in her expression screaming disdain, like she's just waiting for him to trip up and do the wrong thing. 

She doesn't say anything about him taking the sofa, thankfully. Though she doesn't take her gaze off of him for a single second. 

"What do you know about time magic?" Baz asks. 

Fleetingly, as he reaches to readjust the pillow behind his back, his hand brushes against Simon's leg. It's so light and brief that it could very well be an accident, and Simon almost doesn't register it, but it feels intentional. Like it's meant to be comforting. 

(Simon must be reading too much into it.) 

(He hopes not.)

Fiona raises an eyebrow. She looks exactly like Baz when she does that—so uncanny, it's terrifying. "Time magic? What do I look like to you?" 

"You've done your fair share of illegal magic," Baz says. Like that serves as an adequate explanation. If anything, it only piques Simon's curiosity. "I figured if anyone knew anything about it, it'd be you." 

Fiona snorts, shaking her head. "Unbelievable. You're a menace, kid."

Baz just sighs, so weary Simon feels it in his bones. "So? Do you know something?" 

Fiona takes another sip of her drink—it smells like Bailey's—and hums thoughtfully. "Can't say I do. Time magic? I've never heard of someone doing that." 

“Time loops,” Baz says. “Don’t think of time travel.” 

“Time loops?” Fiona muses. She sits down on the plush armchair across from the sofa, one leg crossed over the other. A lock of hair—that white streak—tumbles out of her bun and she blows it out of her eyes. “What’s this about?”

“One second,” Baz says. And then he leans into Simon, pressed so close that there’s no space between them, and whispers, “Should we just tell her the truth?” 

His breath tickles Simon’s ear when he talks, sending a shiver up Simon’s spine. He nods, a little jerkily, and swallows. “Yeah, sure. What’s the worst that can happen?”

(If he turns his head the slightest bit, they’d be—)

(He can’t think about that. He might just give in.)

Then Baz pulls away, sprawled back against the sofa with that impassive expression of his. “Simon and I are stuck in a time loop.”

Fiona had been taking a sip when Baz spoke, and now she sputters, spitting her drink into her mug and wiping her mouth on her hand. “What?”

“I know, it sounds improb—”

“I believe you,” Fiona interrupts. 

Baz opens his mouth, then promptly shuts it, like he’d been preparing to argue and this has thrown him off-course. Though, to be fair, Simon’s also surprised. “You… do?” 

Fiona nods. She still looks confused, brow furrowed, lips pulled down in a frown. “‘Course I do. Why would you lie about something like this? And it’s the only reason you’d be hanging out with the Chosen One.”

“Hey,” Simon grumbles. 

“At first, yes,” Baz agrees, “but he’s not that bad when you get used to him.” 

Fiona snorts. Simon whacks Baz’s arm, though he’s not nearly as offended as he probably should be. 

“Anyway,” Baz sighs, ignoring both of them, “we’ve tried everything we could possibly find, and nothing’s worked to end the loop.”

Fiona hums. “Like I said before, I don’t know anything about time magic. Sorry, boyo. I’d help you if I could. How long’s this been going on for?”

“We haven’t been keeping track,” Baz replies, just as Simon says, “Like, a million years.”

Baz shoots him a dirty look, and then turns to Fiona. “It definitely hasn’t been that long.” 

Fiona slurps her drink, settling back in her seat and drumming her fingers against her mug. The noise echoes in the silence—which wouldn’t be unbearable, if she weren’t currently staring at Simon like she still can’t figure out what he’s doing here. And like she’s thinking up every way to get rid of him. 

“A time loop, huh?” Fiona shakes her head, lips quirked up in a smirk. “That’s a pretty punk thing to get yourself stuck in.” 

“Oh,” Baz groans, “I should’ve known you’d be unhelpful.” 

Fiona’s smile just grows wider. “At least tell me you’ve made the most of it. What illegal shit have you gotten into?” 

“Nothing,” Baz snaps. 

“Really?” Fiona snorts. “There are no consequences to any of your actions, and you—what, fucking read all day?”

For a very brief second—so quick Simon thinks he might be imagining it—Baz shoots him a look. They’re probably both thinking of their, er, night out in London; Simon gets flashes of Baz in the club, Baz’s hands on his waist, the way his skin had glistened in the light. He’s almost positive Baz isn’t remembering the exact same thing.

Simon clears his throat, shaking away those particular thoughts. “I did fight a merwolf once, though,” he offers.

Both Baz and Fiona turn to stare at him—the former glares, the latter looks amused—and he falters, losing the tiny bit of confidence he had. He’s not sure this is even a conversation that includes him. 

“You fought a merwolf?” Fiona repeats. 

Simon swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “Er. I tried to.” 

Slowly, Fiona breaks into a grin and says, “Do tell.” 

Baz buries his face in his hands with a very loud and exasperated sigh.

“I can’t believe,” Baz says, as he pulls his car up to the curb and parks so abruptly that Simon jolts forward in his seat, “there’s a universe where you get along with my aunt.” 

Simon coughs, hands braced on the dashboard, straining uncomfortably against the seatbelt. “You’re telling me.” 

They’d spent longer than either of them had probably intended to at Fiona’s—Baz mostly just looked like he wanted to die the whole time, but Simon had a blast—until she realized the time and kicked them out. It’s evening now, already dark out. They hadn’t even gone to grab dinner yet; Baz went straight to Hounslow. He seems to be under the impression that Penny might be able to help them out, even though she couldn’t last time they saw her, and Simon doubts that anything’s changed. 

He doesn’t bring that up. Partially because he knows Baz is a little desperate, at this point, for answers—he is too—but also because Baz did promise they could get takeaway right after, so it’s not a total loss. It probably won’t take that long anyway.    

“Come on,” Baz says. He slams the door so hard that the car rattles a bit, and he doesn’t even seem to notice. 

He’s already at the front door, knocking aggressively, by the time Simon manages to get his seatbelt unstuck. “Bunce!” he yells, his voice echoing in the otherwise empty street. “Open up, Bunce!” 

“Woah, hey, calm down,” Simon says. “We’re not in a hurry. We can always come back—”

Baz whips around to face him, dropping his hand. “That’s literally the problem, Snow. That’s why we’re here—so that we can’t come back tomorrow, because there is no tomorrow.”

Simon raises an eyebrow.

(He learned to mimic Baz, and Baz hates it. Which just makes it even more enjoyable.)

“You know what I mean,” Baz snaps, scowling.

He lifts his hand to knock again, but before he can actually do anything, the door swings open. Penny’s frowning at them, one hand on her hip, hair spilling out of a messy bun and falling into her eyes. She’s wearing the same ratty pyjamas she had last time they saw her—obviously, Simon reminds himself, it’s the exact same day—and a pair of bunny slippers, which he only notices now. 

“Nicks and Slick, Basil,” Penny says, “you do realize it takes time to get to the door, right?” 

Baz waves his hand dismissively. “Hello, Bunce, lovely to see you too, can you please let us in?” 

“Us? What do you—oh, hi, Simon.” Penny’s frown deepens. “Wait. Why are you here together?” 

“It’s a long story,” Simon says. 

“Can you just let us in?” Baz asks, gesturing for Penny to move aside.   

Penny slowly, hesitantly waves them in, still frowning, eyes narrowed suspiciously. She grabs Simon by his sleeve and yanks him close as he steps inside, and he lets out a surprised oof! Baz doesn’t even seem to notice; he just stalks to the library, without taking off his boots or his coat—or waiting for either of them. 

“Simon,” Penny whispers, “can you tell me what’s—”

Simon cuts her off with a sigh. “It’s kind of complicated, Pen. I promise I’ll fill you in if you need to know.” 

Penny glares at him. “If I need to know? Don’t you think I deserve to, considering you came to me? With Baz, of all people? And speaking of which, did he just admit to being—”

“I should really ask him about this,” Simon says, shaking Penny’s hand off his arm before her grip tightens even more. 

He rushes off after Baz, his shoes scuffing the floor, and collapses on one of the sofas. Baz is sitting down, head in his hands, tapping his foot impatiently. He’s seemed so tetchy the whole afternoon, ever since they went to visit his aunt, and it’s only gotten worse. Simon can’t tell if it’s because he got along with Fiona, or because of the time loop, in general. Or maybe the Fiona thing was just the cherry on top, and Baz has finally reached his breaking point.

“Hey,” Simon says, gently knocking into Baz’s shoulder, “I was thinking, we should tell Penny the truth.”

Baz hums into his hand. “You think she’d believe us?” 

“Well—yeah. Yes. She knows I wouldn’t lie to her about that. I just… she deserves to know. And maybe she’ll actually be able to help, y’know.”  

For a while—long past the time Penny finally joins them, her frown now replaced with a very concerned expression—Baz doesn’t reply. He just keeps staring at his boots, eyes narrowed, expression inscrutable. Simon and Penny exchange a look, though he doesn’t entirely know what it’s supposed to mean. 

And then Baz lets out a sigh, looks up at Penny, and says, “We’re stuck in a time loop.” 

That’s… not how Simon thought they’d go about this, but all right. It is certainly a way, though, so he’ll make do. 

“What,” Penny asks, blinking, “the actual fuck are you talking about, Basil?”  

“Snow and I,” Baz repeats, sounding more exasperated with every word, “are stuck in a time loop. Like Groundhog Day.”

Penny slumps back against the sofa, eyes wide behind her glasses, shaking her head. She keeps looking between them, back and forth, never settling on anyone or anything for longer than a few seconds. She’s pulling a Baz now, staying silent, but it’s infinitely worse than when he did it. Simon’s spent so much time around Baz lately—for however long they’ve been working on the time loop, he doesn’t really know—that he’s pretty well-versed in Baz’s mannerisms and thoughts. Generally speaking, of course. And the problem is, he can’t, for the life of him, figure out what Penny’s thinking. Her silence is a lot harder to decipher than Baz’s. 

(Distantly, he thinks this might mean he’s spent too much time around Baz. Not that he’s really bothered by that, but still. It’s the principle of the matter: it’s almost like he’s forgotten how to act around other people.)

And then finally, in a voice so dull it makes Simon wince, Penny says: “Groundhog Day. A time loop. Like Groundhog Day.” 

“Yes,” Baz sighs, like he’s been over this a million times before.

Penny shakes her head again and buries her face in her hands. “Circe, Basil. How the fuck do you get yourself stuck in something like that?” 

“We don’t know whose fault it is,” Baz grumbles. “Could have been Snow’s doing.”

Simon whacks his arm. “The point is,” he says, turning back to Penny, “we need your help.” 

Penny just blinks at them, mouth parted, like she still can’t really wrap her head around this. Or she can, and she can’t believe they’re this dumb—which is probably the case. 

“My help?” she echoes, incredulous. “How am I supposed to help? I don’t know anything about time magic! I didn’t even know time loops were possible until right now!” 

Simon takes a deep breath, already reaching out a hand to keep Baz calm. Well, here goes nothing. Baz is going to— 

Baz has a mad glint in his eyes, and he’s grinning. Which is not at all what Simon thought would happen. It’s a bit terrifying. 

“See, that’s the thing,” he says, sounding way too excited for his own good, “Snow and I have already looked into it, and nothing magical has been able to fix this. We’ve tried every spell we could possibly fi—”

Penny crosses her arms. “What’s your point?” 

“The point is, it might not be magical at all.” Baz pauses, and when he realizes that Penny isn’t about to reply, he continues, “We’ve—me, mostly, but that’s irrelevant—been trying to find answers through physics.” 

Another unimpressed, and slightly concerned, glare from Penny. She briefly glances at Simon, her brow furrowing even more, and turns back to Baz. “Physics?” 

Baz nods. “There are a few theories that could potentially explain the cause of the time loop, but none of them mention how to end it.” 

“Maybe,” Simon chirps in, partially because he wants to be helpful and mostly because he feels a little left out, “that’s because it’s all hypothetical and no one’s ever been stuck in a time loop before.” 

Baz doesn’t even deign to sigh, which might honestly be worse than when he does. When he talks, he addresses Penny, as if Simon hadn’t spoken at all. “Anyway, according to this one theory, time loops could happen if time itself bends. I don’t know yet what could potentially cause something like—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Penny interrupts, holding a hand up. “The theory probably says how time could bend, right? And then wouldn’t you just have to look at that and… reverse it? If the problem really is that time is bent, somehow, then the solution is to unbend it.” 

The room is very awkwardly silent for a torturous moment. Baz stares at Penny, eyes wide and unblinking, mouth open like he’s about to say something, completely frozen. His hand starts to tremble, just the slightest bit, and it takes all of Simon’s willpower not to grab it.  

“Un… bend it,” Baz echoes, so quiet it’s barely audible. 

“I’m pretty sure that’s still beyond what modern science is capable of,” Penny continues, her eyes glinting the way they do whenever she comes up with a brilliant idea, “but it’s an excellent opportunity to create a spell that could do that. Oh—that’s bloody brilliant! This could totally work for my project. Now I just need to find that theory…” 

Baz blinks once, twice, his hand still shaking. He looks like a broken record, uncomprehending. “Unbend it. Un… bend it. Unbend time.”         

Penny—who’d immediately jumped up to flip through the books on the shelves behind her, muttering to herself—suddenly jerks her head up to look at Baz, and her face falls in a concerned frown. She slowly sets down the book she’d been holding. 

“Are you okay, Basil?” she asks. 

Baz doesn’t reply. He’s staring at the empty space past Penny’s shoulder, eyes disconcertingly blank, lips parted. It’s a look Simon’s never seen before: haunted. And it scares the shit out of him, because he doesn’t know what to do to fix it. 

This whole time, Baz has been—well, not exactly sane, not all the time, but definitely the more rational of the two of them. He’s the one who comes up with ideas to try, and theories, and keeps pushing to do research that might help them figure this out. 

Something must’ve finally snapped, Simon thinks. He must’ve reached his breaking point. 

Penny glances at Simon, brow furrowed, and mouths, Is he okay?

Simon shakes his head and shrugs. 

“Basil,” Penny says, so loud it’s jarring in the otherwise silent room, “do you need anything?”

“No,” Baz croaks out quietly. His voice breaks when he adds, in the most unconvincing tone ever, “I’m fine.” 

Penny lets out a breath. She relaxes a little—at least Baz is responding now, and Simon can’t help but be relieved too—but she’s still obviously concerned. “Wait. Have you guys… have you come here before, during your loop? Did I give you the same answer then?” 

“It’s fine,” Baz says, which isn’t really an answer, but it’s better than nothing. 

Simon decides to do something, anything, to get out of this terrible conversation. He puts a hopefully comforting hand on Baz’s knee and turns to Penny. “Well,” he says, “you’ve been really helpful, Pen. Thanks for, uh, y’know. Not freaking out. We should really get going, though.” 

Penny’s frown morphs into a sympathetic half-smile. “Are you sure you’re okay, Simon?” 

“Yep.” Simon nods, mostly to reassure himself. He’s not not okay, but he feels like he needs to get out of here before the whole unbending-time thing starts to get to him too. That, or Penny throwing theories at him, like Baz has been doing for the past however-the-fuck-long, will make him lose his mind. “Thanks again. We really appreciate it. See you later.” 

He pats Baz’s leg before he gets up, and Baz follows numbly, without a single word. His hand is still trembling, but he’s trying to hide it by fidgeting with his coat. It isn’t fooling either of them, but it’s not like Simon’s about to mention it. 

Penny knocks against his shoulder on his way out and flashes him a slightly more cheerful smile. “See you. Hopefully not today again.”

“Heh,” Simon says, and he can suddenly feel the panic building in his throat, “right. Yeah. Bye.” 

It’s only when they step outside, into the brisk air and the lightly falling snow, that he feels like he can properly breathe. He closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on the cold, and when he opens them, he sees Baz sitting on the step to Penny’s house, head dropped. Gingerly, unsure whether he’s welcome or not, Simon sits down beside him. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

Baz just sighs, and when he replies, he sounds weary. “No.” 

“Oh.” 

“It’s fine,” Baz continues, waving a hand. “Bunce is probably right. It makes sense. I just…” He sucks in a sharp breath. He’s not looking at Simon; he’s staring at something across the road. “I need time to wrap my head around it.” 

Simon nods. “Yeah.”  

In the distance—just down the street, though it feels a million miles away—he can make out laughter and incomprehensible conversation, and the silhouettes of a group of people having a good fucking time. And he thinks, wouldn’t it be nice, to be able to properly do that, without the heavy knowledge that you’re just going to relive the same day over again? To go out and get pissed at some shitty pub and wake up the next morning hungover? 

(Simon would give anything right now to get shit-faced again, and be able to feel the effects. To wake up with a terrible hangover and no memory of what he did the night before. To do something that has real consequences.) 

“I’m sorry,” Baz says, so suddenly that Simon startles. He doesn’t seem to notice that, though, what with his face buried in his hands. “I keep dragging you around to do more fucking research, and—it’s gotten us nowhere.” 

“It’s okay,” Simon says, shrugging, because he doesn’t know how else he could possibly reply. 

(It is okay, of course it is. He wouldn’t have let Baz drag him around all this time if he actually minded it. It gives him something to do, and the company’s not terrible either.) 

Baz sighs, half-heartedly scuffing his boots against the pavement. “I keep hoping…” 

Simon waits for him to finish the sentence, but he just trails off, and the silence that falls between them is gloomier than it was before. It feels heavier—tangible, almost. Unbearable. And fragile too, somehow, as if it might break into a million pieces at any moment. 

“For the record,” Simon says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and gently knocking into Baz’s shoulder, “I didn’t hate the research.”

Baz lets out a quiet half-laugh, the corner of his lips quirked up in a small smile. He’s still looking at the pavement, hair falling into his eyes, his profile barely illuminated by the street lights. There’s something so… melancholy in his expression. He doesn’t seem as panicked as he had been in Penny’s living room, nor as slightly mad; now he’s just sad, so deeply and overwhelmingly despondent, and it’s infinitely worse. Because there isn’t much Simon can do to help—and even if there is, he wouldn’t know where to begin. 

“So,” he says, “where were you think—” 

“We should get going,” Baz interrupts. “It’s getting late.” 

Simon’s shoulders fall. “Oh.” 

Right. It is late—far later than either of them had intended to be out—but he still figured they’d grab dinner. Just like every other day. He thought, at the very least, maybe they could go to another one of those sketchy all-night chippies again, like they did a few nights (weeks?) ago, and order unsanitary food that would definitely give them stomach aches if it, well, actually stayed in their stomachs. It was fun last time, and Baz had joked about creating a list of Winchester’s Top Ten Worst Restaurants, and— 

And maybe it was naive to think he’d really meant it. That he’d want to do something so silly. 

“I’ll drop you off at Watford,” Baz says. He looks up then, for the first time since they left Penny’s house, but he averts his gaze before Simon can really catch his eye. “It’s closer.” 

“Right,” Simon says, dejected. He wishes he had something to properly slump against—or sink into. A hole in the ground, perhaps, or a void. He’s not picky. “Yeah.”

Chapter Text

His alarm clock is blaring, like an ominous siren, and all Simon can think is: it doesn’t matter. He can’t even muster the energy to stretch out his hand and turn it off—all he can do is lie in bed, frowning into his pillow, staring at the empty space in front of him. 

The realization hit him last night, after Baz dropped him off and he had to face the terrible prospect of being here on his own, and there was suddenly nothing there to distract him from his thoughts. It’s been running on a loop in his mind ever since he woke up. Absolutely nothing he does has any consequence; the day just resets, like it always does, and he just ends up right back at Watford, and it’s all so… pointless. Everything is completely meaningless.  

Simon could stay in bed all day, and it wouldn’t change a single thing.   

He knows he’s supposed to meet Baz today, like usual, but he doesn’t really give a shit anymore. He can’t bring himself to get up, can’t bother to care about standing Baz up. What does it matter, if he doesn’t show up at Winchester? He’ll just go tomorrow, and the day after that, and on and on and on and on, because it’s not like the loop’s going to fucking end, or anything. 

It doesn’t actually make a difference, whatever they do. Nothing they’ve tried so far has worked; Simon’s rather doubtful that there’s much else they could even attempt. If it were up to him, honestly, they’d just give up. What’s the point? It’d probably be easier to wait for this mess to fix itself, and it would be far less irritating. 

(The problem is, of course, that he’d put up with it if Baz asked him to. It’s a good thing Baz isn’t here, then.) 

That’s how Simon spends the next however-the-fuck-long: lying in bed, staring blankly at his alarm clock and not comprehending the passage of time at all, only getting up twice to go to the loo. He’s vaguely aware that the hour on the clock changes, but it all goes right over his head. It doesn’t really matter whether it’s eleven or one—it’s all just going to happen again tomorrow, exactly the same as it does today, and so on. Probably until the universe itself collapses, or whatever it is scientists predict. 

He’s so caught in simultaneously thinking of nothing and mulling over the pointlessness of all his actions, that he doesn’t realize it at first. It’s only when he reluctantly rolls over, heaving out a sigh, to maybe get some water—if he has enough energy to go all the way to the kitchen, that is—that he notices Baz. 

He catches Simon so off-guard, just standing there in the doorway with a worried frown, that he stumbles and falls back on his bed. 

“Shit, Baz!” Simon says, half-wheezing. “Don’t fucking do that. Haven’t I already told you not to sneak up on me?” 

Curse those stupid fucking vampire abilities. How long has he been here? And more importantly, why the fuck did he come to Watford, anyway? Can’t a guy just wallow in his own self-pity in peace? 

Baz drops his hand, his frown deepening, and that’s when Simon sees the takeaway bag and cup he’s holding. “Are you all right, Snow?” 

Instead of dignifying that with a reply, Simon only waves dismissively and lets out a semi-coherent grunt. Now that he’s seen the bag—probably containing food that Baz bought him, like he always does, because he’s a nice person—he feels even worse than he has all morning. 

“You didn’t show up,” Baz continues, still with that dumb, concerned expression, “and I got worried, so I… I thought I’d check up on you. What’s going on?” 

Simon flops down, on top of his covers, making sure to leave enough room if Baz wants to join him. “Clearly I’m fine.” 

“Clearly,” Baz sneers. He rolls his eyes as he walks over to the bed and pushes Simon’s legs aside—more for show than anything else—and then drops his takeaway on the bedside table. “It’s probably cold. Deal with it.” 

Simon doesn’t really feel like getting up again, but he sits up anyway and grabs the cup. It’s tea—albeit lukewarm, but still, it’s better than nothing. It hits him, for the umpteenth time, that Baz is so ridiculously kind to him. He doesn’t have to do any of this, the coming over or the getting breakfast, but he always does. 

(It’s insufferable, really.)

(Well—that’s not quite true. Simon wishes it were, because that’d be a lot easier.) 

(He also wishes that Baz wouldn’t worry about him. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do with that knowledge.)

“Sorry,” Simon mumbles, as he takes a bite of the scone Baz brought. It’s lemon-cranberry, he thinks, not one he’s had before.  

Baz only looks at him with a sympathetic half-smile, which is worse than the frown. “Snow,” he says, achingly soft, “I’ve spent enough time with you to know that something’s wrong.” 

Simon stares down at his cup. He wishes he could just go back to sleep, but he’s too awake for that, and Baz is sitting on his covers, and it’d be terribly awkward to try to slip under them now. At least he has something to look at, so he can avoid eye contact for as long as possible. 

“I thought you’d be bummed about yesterday,” he says, instead of telling Baz what he obviously wants to hear. “Y’know, the whole Penny thing.” 

Baz nods, sighing quietly. “I was, yes. And then I had some time to think about it, and… I’ve gotten over it. Bunce could be right. It might be as simple as revers—”

“How could it be simple,” Simon interrupts, scowling over the rim of his cup, “if we don’t even know what we’re supposed to reverse?” 

“Hmm,” Baz says, and then he falls into silence for what feels like an eon. He averts his gaze, tapping his fingers on the edge of Simon’s bed. “Fair point.”

Simon hums into his tea. If it comes out a little passive-aggressive, then sue him. 

He feels the bed dip, and at first, he thinks that Baz has gotten up—that maybe he’s left for good, that he’s realized all his efforts will amount to nothing—but then he glances up from his tea, momentarily taking a break to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, and finds Baz lying down beside him. Pressed right against him, actually, because there’s not enough room for both of them. 

“You still haven’t told me what’s wrong,” Baz says, a little sing-song, like he knows something Simon doesn’t. 

Simon tries to scoot over a bit, to avoid feeling the cold Baz always radiates (and the way it makes him feel, somehow warmer), but he just bumps right into his side table. He curses quietly under his breath. 

“Well?” Baz asks, an eyebrow cocked expectantly. He shifts to look at Simon without sitting up, and the light from the window casts his profile in pale gold. “You can tell me whatever it is, you know.” 

Simon sighs and nods, and mumbles, “I know.” 

And he means it, really—he feels like, after all the time they’ve spent together and all the things they’ve confided in each other, Baz won’t judge him for this. Well. He probably will, but at least he’d have the decency not to mention it. It’s not even anything embarrassing, and he knows Baz won’t think any worse of him for it. He knows this, but… The point is, no matter how Baz reacts, Simon will still feel like shit. He’ll still feel a bit pathetic for having a breakdown, when they’ve already spent so long trying to fix this. When Baz has already wasted so much of his time on him—and for what? Just to end up back in their room, consoling him? 

The worst part is, Simon’s pretty sure Baz won’t be a tosser about this, like he used to be. He’s probably going to be kind, and that’s infinitely less bearable. Because he’s spent the past seven years learning what to do with Baz’s insolence, and his arrogance, and his general wanker-ness—but his kindness is still so new, still sometimes hits him square in the chest and makes his breath catch. 

And anyway, maybe if Baz stopped being as gentle as he’s been lately, and went back to being a massive prick, Simon would snap out of this. Maybe that’s just what he needs. Maybe if Baz yelled at him, or properly hit him, everything would be okay again. Maybe he wouldn’t be so fucking numb, if Baz broke his nose or something. It’s not like the Anathema would matter; everything would reset tomorrow. 

If he asks nicely enough, Baz might just do it. 

“Seriously, Snow,” Baz says, startling Simon out of his train of thought, “what’s wrong? And don’t lie to me. I can see right through it.” 

Simon glances at him, briefly, and then ducks his head to stare at his lap. “Don’t you… I dunno. Feel like it’s all kinda pointless? Everything we’re doing?” 

The silence that falls between them feels thick and heavy, and awkward, though Simon’s fairly certain he’s the only one who thinks that. When he dares to look at Baz again, he finds him facing the ceiling, one hand tucked behind his head, biting his lower lip the way he does when he’s pondering something. There’s no sound, except for Simon slurping the remains of his lukewarm tea—he can’t even hear Baz’s breaths. He tries, sometimes, but they’re always so quiet. 

“No,” Baz says eventually, and it takes Simon a second to remember what he’s talking about. “I don’t think any of it’s been pointless. I mean—yes, admittedly nothing we’ve tried has worked so far, but that’s better than not trying at all, isn’t it?” 

Simon frowns. His cup is empty now; he wishes he could fill it up with magic, just so he’d have something to do. “I guess,” he mumbles, not really convinced. 

Baz pushes himself up, head tilted to look at Simon. He’s so—in this light, with his hair falling in lazy waves on his shoulder, he’s—he’s— 

“Hey,” Baz says, still so gentle, knocking into Simon’s side. “Is there anything I can do?” 

If he’d just stop being so fucking nice, this would be a lot easier. 

Simon shakes his head. “No. Probably not.” 

“What about if I take you to dinner?” 

Simon jerks, nearly dropping his cup. Thank goodness there isn’t actually anything in there—that would’ve been embarrassing. 

“Oh,” he says. “Uh. Where were you thinking?” 

Baz hums. “Well…” He breaks into a grin. “It’s a surprise. You’ll have to trust me, okay?”   

Simon looks down at him. He thinks of all the times he's been suspicious of Baz in the past, even for something as innocuous as bringing him up bacon butties from the dining hall. And now… now Baz is offering to take him out for dinner, at a surprise restaurant, and he isn't even the slightest bit wary. 

(He trusts Baz so wholeheartedly, that Baz could probably actually lure him into a trap and he wouldn't realize it.) 

Simon gives him a small smile—the best he can manage. "Okay.”

“Okay,” Baz repeats, nodding. 

“But just checking,” Simon says, “you’re not going to poison me at dinner or something, right?” 

Baz shoves his shoulder and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too, and Simon would give anything right now to hear him laugh again. “No, Snow, I have no intention of poisoning you. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be during the time loop. It’d be pointless. You’d just come back to life and haunt me.” 

“I know,” Simon laughs, knocking back into Baz. “I’m just teasing. I trust you.” 

Baz’s smile softens. And when Simon looks at him—his skin practically gold in the sunlight, a lock of hair tumbling into his eyes—it’s the first time he feels truly, properly happy all day.  

The surprise restaurant, which Baz had been unreasonably excited about, turns out to be the Ritz. The actual, honest-to-Merlin Ritz. It’s only when he’s standing right in front of it, gaping, that Simon realizes this is why Baz had pestered him about changing into something nice when they’d gone to Hampshire in the afternoon. Well—Simon had put up a fight, and Baz had eventually conceded and let him stick to his jeans, and now he’s really wishing he had more posh clothes. Or that he’d at least taken the Scandinavian jumper Baz kept offering.

“What,” Simon breathes, still unable to close his mouth, “the fuck.” 

“The Ritz,” Baz says, straightening the cuffs of his jacket. Always helpful, that one.

Simon huffs. “No, obviously, I can see that. I mean—what the fuck.”  

“Well, it’s not like you’ll get another opportunity to have dinner here.” Baz is frowning now—a bit disappointed at the edges. It makes Simon’s heart pound. “I was trying to be nice. Cheer you up.” 

It is nice, is the thing. Terribly nice. Uncharacteristically nice—and this is considering all the other kind things Baz has been doing lately. When Baz said he’d take him out, Simon thought he meant they’d go to a chippy, or that ramen place he likes, or something. Not the fucking Ritz.  

Baz’s face falls even more. “If you don’t like it, we can go somewhere—”

“No,” Simon interrupts, shaking his head. “No, that’s not… I do. Appreciate it. I just—wasn’t expecting this.”

“Oh,” Baz says, smartly. And then he perks up, standing a bit straighter, and tugs on Simon’s sleeve. He’s smiling, his too-sharp teeth barely visible. “Honestly, Snow, you’d think no one’s ever treated you to something before.” 

He says it so casually, like it doesn’t mean anything, but it still makes Simon’s breath catch. He opens his mouth and closes it, fumbling for the right words, his stomach rolling with nerves. 

(Fuck.) 

“No one really has,” Simon says, after a long pause. “And you never… you didn’t say that. That you wanted to…” 

Baz just raises an eyebrow, cool as ever. “In that case, I’ll make it very clear: tonight’s about treating you. Getting your mind off the loop for the evening.” 

Simon can’t think of anything to say to that—and he’s too afraid of accidentally saying, I desperately want to kiss you, or actually doing that, which would be equally mortifying—so instead, he pushes past Baz to get to the door. He won’t give Baz the satisfaction of seeing him blush—and he most definitely is blushing now, he can feel it, that itchy heat spreading down his chest. 

He yanks the door open and waves Baz in; he doesn't want to go inside first, because he has no idea how to carry himself in a place like this, how to act, what to say. Knowing Baz, he's probably made reservations. Best to just leave everything to him. 

Baz stops in the doorway, putting a hand on Simon's shoulder. Gentle. Reassuring. "They won't bite," he says. 

Simon grins. "Yeah, 'cause they're not you." 

Baz groans and shoves his shoulder, but he's smiling a bit too, and he obviously isn't as irritated as he's pretending to be. "Come on, Snow. I'm not doing this again." 

"Sure," Simon drawls. 

(He has a hard time believing that.) (This isn't the first soft thing Baz has done for him. It probably won't be the last.) 

Baz only shoves him again—so half-hearted it barely counts—and heads inside. It turns out that he didn’t, in fact, get them a reservation, but he manages to grab a table anyway by charming the hostess and discreetly casting Table for two.

It’s so extravagant here—all ridiculously ornamental furniture, rich draped curtains, chandeliers. Simon feels even more out of place now. He probably sticks out like a sore thumb. Quite literally. 

Baz, on the other hand, looks like he fits right in. He out-poshes everyone else. 

“Aren’t you going to sit down?” Baz asks, an eyebrow raised. 

Simon stammers, unsure of what he’s even trying to say, and awkwardly takes the seat across from Baz. Crowley, he feels like an idiot. He glances down at the table, and he has no fucking clue what anything on there is for. 

Not to mention the damned menu. Simon can’t understand it at all; he’s never come across food this pretentious, with unintelligible names like “sea bream” or “velouté”. He was kind of hoping there’d be something normal here, like… even a Beef Wellington. Something he’s seen before and can identify. 

“I can’t understand half the things here,” Simon says, quietly, so that the people sitting nearby can’t hear him. “It’s all French or something.” 

Baz snorts, the corner of his lips tugged up in an amused smirk. “It’s in English. Mostly.” 

“Well, not any English I know.” 

Baz sets down his menu, leaning forward in his chair. “I could explain it to you,” he offers. 

“And what makes you think I’d understand you? ” Simon asks. “You talk like a pretentious git.” 

“Fine, then.” For a moment, he thinks Baz will just drop the subject. But he doesn’t. He sits back, arms crossed, and adds, softer than before, “I can… order for you. If you want.” 

Simon’s heart is hammering. He swallows around the lump in his throat, and tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the way his stomach keeps rolling, fluttering. 

“I’m not sure,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as weirdly nervous as he feels, “I trust you to have quality taste.” 

Baz looks personally affronted. “What? Why?” 

“You drink Catacomb rats.” 

“Oh, I see,” Baz laughs, his shoulders dropping. “Luckily for you, there are no rats on the menu.”   

Simon can’t help but laugh too—quietly, into his hand, head ducked to avoid Baz’s eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t know that, would I?” 

“I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.” 

Simon feels his cheeks heating up again. Baz is grinning at him, almost like he doesn’t know how it makes him look. How it makes Simon feel. “Yeah,” he says, his throat suddenly dry. “I guess I do.”  

Later, once Simon’s had his fill of posh (and very delicious) food, Baz says he has one more surprise lined up. Simon’s been expecting to just head back to Watford, or Pitch Manor, and it catches him completely off-guard. As if dinner at the Ritz wasn’t enough—Baz just keeps sweeping him off his feet, doing things that border on romantic. 

(That’s the problem with all of this. Simon’s mind keeps screaming that these are first-date things, that Baz is properly taking him out, and he keeps having to push those thoughts away.) 

(He wants it to be a date. Of course. Well—he doesn’t like thinking about that, really.)

(But he does. Oh, Merlin, he does.) 

They drive out to the countryside, where it’s so dark Simon can barely see Baz in the car, and then Baz parks in the middle of nowhere. There’s not much of a road here, and certainly nothing that remotely resembles a… well, any sort of civilization. It’s an empty field, all rolling snow-covered hills and dark skies. 

If Simon weren’t so besotted, and if this were fifth year, he’d be thinking that this is a good place to kill someone and get away with it. He’d already have the Sword of Mages out, probably already confronting Baz about his plans. 

But all he can think now is, this place is beautiful.  

“I remembered you told me once that you like the stars,” Baz says. He’s digging around for something in the backseat, and his voice is a bit muffled. “That you never really get to see them over the summers. So I figured we could see them now.” 

Simon just stares at him, at a loss for words. 

When Baz finally steps back from the car, he’s holding something in his arms. Simon squints, trying to make it out in the darkness—it’s a bundle of blankets. Those thick, cashmere throw blankets strewn all over Pitch Manor, which he always thought were for display only. There’s an entire wardrobe stacked with them, and he’s never been allowed to use one. 

Baz follows his gaze and frowns. “It’s cold,” he says. “And I’m not about to make you sit on the ground with nothing.”

“Right,” Simon stammers, nodding. Because that makes sense. Because this whole thing makes sense. 

(Because it’s completely normal for two blokes to go look at the stars together. After having dinner at the Ritz.)

(Because this is a thing he and Baz do. Because Baz is nice, and caring, and he remembers something Simon told him a long time ago.)

Baz huffs, but he leads Simon away from the car and further into the field anyway, and he doesn’t even look remotely annoyed. He spells the ground soft with Cushion the blow, and then he lays one of his plush blankets down and sits right on top of it. Dirty shoes and everything. 

“Well, come on,” Baz laughs, patting the space beside him. “Preferably before the day resets, Snow.” 

Simon gingerly sits down, careful not to get the soles of his boots on the blanket. He bunches it up in his hand—it slips through his fingers, soft and solid. And as soon as he settles, Baz pulls him down, half on-top of him, and Simon yelps in surprise. 

But he can’t complain; Baz has an arm wrapped around his waist, a comforting and familiar weight, and the view is so much better when he’s lying down. The whole sky is alight with glittering stars, so bright it almost hurts to look at them. They’re stunning. 

(Baz is stunning.) 

“Baz,” Simon breathes, turning his head to face the sky, Baz’s hair tickling his skin. “This is beautiful.”

He’s never seen the stars like this. So many of them, all so full of… all so alive.  

“I know,” Baz whispers. Like he doesn’t want to disturb the peace and quiet. 

Simon shifts to tuck his hands beneath his head and sighs. He can see Baz in his peripheral vision, but otherwise, it’s just the endless night sky. This might honestly be the greatest thing he’s ever seen.

“A soul was given to them,” Baz says, still so gentle, “out of those eternal fires which you call stars.” 

Simon bumps his shoulder. “Shakespeare?” 

“Cicero.”

Simon lets out a breathy laugh. “Pretentious tosser.”

Baz only lets out a huff, and pulls Simon in closer, until he has no choice but to nestle against the crook of Baz’s neck. He smells so warm, like cedar and bergamot and the chocolate cake they shared for dessert. Simon takes a deep breath, trying to keep it in his lungs. Trying to ingrain it in his memory—this night, the stars, the way Baz had smiled at him over dinner and the way his hand feels now. 

(He wishes this moment could last forever. That they could stay here, in this field, undisturbed, for the rest of time. He’d make it happen, if he could.) 

“Baz,” Simon whispers, right against Baz’s skin. “Thank you.”

He feels Baz speak more than he hears him, so quiet he’s not sure he’s even meant to hear it: “Any time, Snow.” 

“Can I ask you something?” Simon waits for Baz to nod, and then he pushes himself up onto his side, his head hanging down to look at Baz. “Did you really… when you said you—that you preferred being in the—did you mean it?” 

Baz doesn’t say anything for a moment. And then he nods again and whispers, “Yes. I did.”

Simon’s heart skips a beat. He takes a shaky breath. “‘Cause it… it can still be like this.” He pauses. Baz is facing him now, expression impassive, eyes so dark Simon can’t see them. “When we figure out how to end the loop. We can still… it doesn’t have to go—we don’t have to be enemies. Y’know.” 

“Snow,” Baz says, “I haven’t thought we were enemies for a long time.”   

Oh. “Right. Yeah.”

Baz’s lips quirk up in a smile. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Simon echoes. 

Later, Baz tells him stories about the constellations, pointing them out as he talks. The other blankets he brought are draped over them, getting progressively dirtier, though neither of them cares. At some point, Simon moves to curl his entire body around Baz, and he’s comfortable, and Baz doesn’t say anything about it, and his voice is so low Simon has to strain a bit to properly hear him. 

He’s got his head pillowed against Baz’s chest, and Baz is in the middle of a story about Orion, when he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Simon feels better about today. He wakes up refreshed, not as morose as he was yesterday, and he even manages to get out of bed and take a quick shower. He’s got last night on repeat—the stars, the Ritz, the blankets. Baz. Specifically, the fact that Baz said he hasn’t thought of them as enemies for a while, and admitted he does prefer the loop. That Baz said all this completely sober, while they were stargazing. That Baz’s idea of cheering him up involved a dinner date and cuddling. That Baz— 

That Baz, apparently, isn’t tired of him yet.  

(That Baz likes him—his company. Whatever.) (The point is, Baz doesn’t entirely hate him.) 

Simon gets dressed extra-nice, choosing his least-ratty pair of jeans and one of Agatha’s old lacrosse jumpers. He thinks about grabbing something of Baz’s, but that feels too intimate, and he doesn’t want to accidentally ruin whatever this is between them. Besides, Agatha’s jumpers are comfortable, and Baz doesn’t complain about them the way he does about their uniform.  

He even remembers to grab his coat on his way out, though he doesn’t really need it. It’s as cold out as it always is, but he feels a bit flushed—warm from the memory of last night—and he doesn’t want to be too hot. He’s mostly just bringing it because Baz snipes at him if he doesn’t have it, anyway. 

When he gets on the train, Simon chooses a different seat than usual. Normally he takes a spot in the center of the car, but he’s feeling a bit adventurous, so he opts for the first available seat by the door. It must be because of all the left-over giddiness from yesterday, he thinks. 

There’s an older woman sitting across from him, and she smiles at him politely. Simon recognizes her, though they’ve never interacted before; she sits here every day, wearing that ridiculous fur coat and reading the same book. He’s never been able to properly see the title, or the cover—until now. It’s a Harlequin romance, the kind he always finds at train stations. Maybe he can convince Baz to buy him one in Winchester, just to see what all the fuss is about.     

Half an hour into the ride, the woman clears her throat to grab Simon’s attention. He’s been staring out the window, resting his cheek against his palm, unable to stop thinking about Baz’s arm around his waist and the low, familiar rumble of his voice. 

“Going to see your girlfriend?” the woman asks. 

Simon frowns. “Sorry?” 

The woman just smiles at him again. “Young love,” she says, like that serves as an explanation. “I can see it on your face. That smile. I know that look, dear—you’re besotted. She must be lucky.” 

“What?” Simon asks. “I don’t—” 

And then he gets it. He’s been thinking of Baz, and probably smiling like an idiot, and now this woman thinks he’s—that Baz is—that he’s going to— 

“Yeah,” he says eventually, nodding. Going along with this is just easier than trying to explain that, no, he’s not going to see his girlfriend, he’s actually going to see his old-enemy-slash-sort-of-friend. 

(It is just playing along. That’s all he’s doing.) 

(It doesn’t mean anything, the fact that Baz makes him smile. That this woman mistook it for something else.)

It’s a bit weird to think about Baz after that, so Simon spends the rest of the ride trying to focus on literally anything else. He counts things he spots out the window, runs through everything they currently know about the Watford Tragedy and tries to think of something they might’ve missed, even attempts to nap. But it’s all to no avail—he keeps drifting back to Baz no matter what he does. 

What happened last night feels different than anything they’d done before. Baz was so open and honest, so unbearably kind, and it’s not like he’d been drunk. Baz had said—he’d said, I haven’t thought we were enemies for a long time.

There’s definitely no way things can go back to how they used to be, right? Something’s changed, Simon knows. If they ever break the loop, they won’t be able to just pretend they’re still enemies. They won’t be able to pretend they aren’t… whatever they are now. Friends? It’s not like Baz would ever admit that. 

(Though he practically did, yesterday.) 

And anyway, Simon thinks, as he watches the Hampshire countryside pass outside, he wouldn’t want to go back to that. Being stuck in this loop might be shit, but it hasn’t all been bad. He has Baz, after all. 

No, he doesn’t want to lose that—the one properly good thing in his life right now. 

Baz is waiting on the platform when Simon gets there, talking to someone on his phone. His head is hanging down, hair falling in his eyes, and he’s got one hand shoved in the pocket of his coat. 

And then he sees Simon, and he smiles, raising his free hand to wave. Simon smiles back, definitely not stumbling over his own shoes. 

“Hey,” Baz says, ending his call. He puts his phone away before Simon can see who he was talking to. 

“Hey.” That’s when Simon notices he isn’t holding anything. “No food? Are we going to London?”

Baz’s smile only grows wider. Under normal circumstances, that would be suspicious, but it’s mostly just endearing. “No, better. Daphne’s making breakfast. I convinced my family to stay home today.” He leans in a bit closer. “I may have also convinced her to bake scones.” 

Simon nods, though he’s not sure what this is even about. “Why?” 

“I…” Baz takes a breath and bites his lower lip. He’s kicking his boot against the pavement, absent-minded. Like he’s nervous or something. “Okay. I just—after yesterday, I thought… you told me you wanted a break. So I figured we might as well do that today. You deserve a holiday.” 

Simon opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “I haven’t even been doing that much work. It’s mostly you.” 

Not to mention, he said he wanted a break, like, weeks ago. Whenever it was they went to Winter Wonderland. It feels like ages ago. And Baz just… remembers some silly thing Simon said, after all this time. 

Baz shrugs. Like it doesn’t mean anything.  

Simon swallows. His throat feels dry. He doesn’t know what to say.  

“Come on,” Baz says, nodding in the direction of the car park. He’s still smiling, and it makes Simon warm. “Before the scones get cold.”  

After breakfast—full English, with the best sour cherry scones Simon’s had outside of Watford—Baz takes him out to the private forest on his estate, where he somehow managed to magic up an ice skating rink. The ice shimmers in the light, still completely untouched. Mordelia’s come with them, and she’s sitting on the snow, tongue poking out of her mouth, struggling to put on her skates. Baz had offered to help, and she refused to accept. 

“Baz,” Simon says, and it comes out more like a whisper. “You did this?” 

Baz waves his hand dismissively. He’s wearing posh leather gloves. “It’s nothing. I had some time this morning.” 

Simon bumps his shoulder, grinning. He really wants to pull Baz into a hug, but he’s afraid to cross a line, so he doesn’t do that. Instead, he tugs Baz onto the ice by his sleeve, and Baz stumbles after him, surprised. 

They swing around aimlessly, laughing, and they don’t even fall over until Mordelia rushes at them and trips Simon. Mordelia tries to get away, but Baz catches her by the waist. He teaches her those spins Simon had taught him a while ago, and she shrieks with laughter, and Baz’s cheeks are practically rosy. He’s pretty decent at skating now, not nearly as bad as he was the first time they went. 

It’s nice. It’s so—it’s cozy, is what it is. 

When Mordelia gets tired of being spun around, Simon takes her place, letting himself be pulled across the makeshift rink. They collapse onto each other a few times, not really paying attention to where they’re going or what they’re doing, and then eventually they just stay there on the ice. Lying side by side, staring up at the sky. 

Simon turns his head to watch Baz—eyes closed, hands folded behind his head, breaths coming out in puffs of stark white air.  

“What else do you have planned?” he asks. 

Baz huffs, but he’s smiling anyway. “Who said I have anything planned, Snow?” 

“You planned this,” Simon says, carefully kicking Baz’s ankle with his skate. “Obviously.” 

Baz only hums, eyes still closed. 

Simon pushes himself up, leaning over Baz, but before he can say anything, Mordelia comes out of fucking nowhere and tackles him down. He lands back on the ice with an oof! and Mordelia giggles. He can see the connection to Baz now—they’re both mean. And they look the same when they raise an eyebrow; she must’ve learned that from him. 

“It’s cold,” Mordelia says. 

She’s standing right in front of them, silhouetted against the sun, hands on her hips. She looks a bit ridiculous in her coat, but Simon’s not going to mention that.  

Baz sighs. “It’s probably about time we head inside,” he agrees. He sits up, dusting off his trousers, and holds a hand out to Simon. “What do you say to hot chocolate?” 

“With marshmallows,” Simon says. He takes Baz’s hand. 

Baz softens. “Obviously with marshmallows.” 

They’re holed up in Baz’s room, playing Monopoly. They have to be cautious every time they move—the bed is littered with mugs and plates from their late lunch, and there’s an actual teapot somewhere. Simon lost it, and he can’t seem to find it. 

Baz is leaning against one of his bedposts, nursing his third cup of hot chocolate. (Which is really just glorified soupy marshmallows at this point.) He’s got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders; it looks a bit like a babushka. 

“Your turn,” he says. 

Simon reaches across the board to grab the dice and rolls them, accidentally knocking something over. It clatters to the floor, and he glances down to see—it’s the teapot, thankfully empty. Well, at least he knows where it is now. That’s a good thing. 

As soon as Simon moves his token—the Scottish Terrier—Baz starts shuffling through the property cards, unprompted. Simon frowns at him. 

“I’ll just take that,” Baz says, plucking the King’s Cross card from the deck, “thank you.” 

Simon catches his wrist. “Wait. I remember this one—it’s valuable, yeah? You have to pay a lot of rent if you land on it.”  

“Fuck you,” Baz curses under his breath. He shakes Simon’s hand off, still gripping the card. “Fine. Look—just let me have it.” 

Simon narrows his eyes. “Why should I? You have all the other ones.”

“Ergo, it won’t make much of a difference if I get this one, too. It’s not like it’ll be very beneficial to you on its own.” 

Simon looks at the board—he does own quite a lot of property already, and he’s making a fair amount of money. He technically doesn’t need King’s Cross. And Baz unfortunately has a point; it won’t make or break him so far into the game. Still, it’s the principle of the matter—the fact that it seems like Baz had been hoping he forgot which properties were the most valuable. As if he’d just let Baz win a second time. 

“Let me have it,” Baz says. “I’ll do anything.” 

Simon cocks an eyebrow. Baz hates when he does that, which is why he continues to do it. He must be desperate, to say that. 

“Anything?” Simon echoes. 

Baz groans. “No, not that.” 

“You said you’d do anything.” 

“Snow,” Baz sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I have integrity. I can’t just let you win Mario Kart. If you want to win, you have to beat me, fair and square.”       

“Oh, please, Baz! Just one game. One game, that’s it. I’ve been in second place for so long!” 

“Good,” Baz huffs. “That’s where I like you: underneath me.”

Simon freezes and chokes—on what, he doesn’t even know. He wasn’t drinking anything. But he splutters anyway, his face burning. Baz looks at him with wide eyes; he’s blushing, as much as he can, the faintest pink. 

He didn’t—he couldn’t have meant it that way. He was just talking about their rivalry, right? He must have. Innuendo definitely not intended. 

“I’ll pay you two hundred for it,” Baz says. It comes out strangled, like it’s hard for him to speak. 

“Deal.” 

It’s already starting to get dark out by the time they reach London. This is apparently the rest of Baz’s plan—the one he denies having. Simon had tried to get him to spill what they were actually going to do in London during the drive, but Baz just turned up the radio and ignored him the entire time. 

And now they’re standing outside Hyde Park. Winter Wonderland looms before them, as festive and busy and bright as it had been all those days ago. 

Simon breaks into a grin. Baz has his hands jammed in the pockets of his coat, his expression purposefully blank.

“This is really nice of you,” Simon says, nudging Baz’s side with his elbow. 

Baz’s lips quirk up in a half-smile. “Don’t say that, Snow. I’ll take you right back to Watford, and you can spend the rest of the day alone.” 

“You wouldn’t.” 

(He really wouldn’t. Simon’s sure of this.)

Baz only rolls his eyes. He doesn’t even wait for Simon before heading into the park, though he does pretend to be preoccupied with his phone right by the entrance. He’s obviously pretending, because he puts it away as soon as Simon catches up to him. His expression is softer now. There’s snow in his hair, and on his shoulders, and Simon reaches up to brush it off. Instinctively. 

“Where do you want to start?” Baz asks. 

Simon shrugs. “Thought you’d have that planned out, too.” 

“Deciding what to do is your job,” Baz says, like it should be obvious. “I already did my part.” 

He doesn’t have a map, but luckily Simon grabbed one on his way in. It’s exactly as he remembers it: the market, the games, the ice skating rink. There’s so much to do—so many things they didn’t get around to last time. Baz leans in close to look at it, even though it’s upside-down for him; his hair falls in his face, brushing Simon’s forehead.

(He hopes Baz will continue to leave it like this, not slicked back, when the loop ends. It suits him better.) 

“I have an idea,” Simon says, folding up the map and shoving it in his pocket. 

Baz arches an eyebrow. “Am I going to like it?” 

Simon grins. “Maybe. Maybe not. I guess we’ll have to find out, huh?”

Baz sighs, long and exasperated, but he doesn’t even complain when Simon takes his hand and drags him to the fair games. 

He ends up winning the reindeer race—the one he couldn’t beat before—and he gets so excited about it that he accidentally knocks over a stand of plush animals. The woman manning the stall takes it in good stride; she gives him a particularly large unicorn, with a rainbow mane. Baz dumps it in Simon’s arms, and he fumbles to catch it. 

“Is this for me?” Simon asks. 

Baz cuffs him on the back of his head. “That’s a bit presumptuous, Snow.” 

“That’s not a no.” 

“I’m giving it to Mordelia,” Baz says. “She’ll hate it. And there’s no way I’m spending the rest of the year with something like that in our room, staring at me.” 

Simon hugs the unicorn close. “I’m wounded, Basil. It’s like you don’t like me or something.” 

“Or something,” Baz laughs. “It’s not you. It’s the plushie.” 

“So now you don’t like plushies? What’ve they ever done to you?” 

Baz laughs again, shaking his head. It looks good on him, all this laughter. He looks good all the time, but especially now—illuminated by soft Christmas lights, snowflakes dotting his hair, smiling. 

“Fine,” Baz concedes, “if I win another game, and I get something less creepy, you can have it. Just promise you won’t leave it on your bed all the time.” 

This—this is better than fighting, better than ignoring the other person, better than waiting for some inevitable final battle. 

“I promise not to leave it on my bed,” Simon says. 

Baz nods. “Good.” 

“But I’m not promising not to leave it on your bed.”     

Baz cuffs him again, but Simon can’t even find it in himself to mind, because Baz is laughing, and it’s his favourite sound in the whole world. 

(Baz does end up winning him a plushie—a particularly ugly troll. Or something like it. Which he gets to choose himself, from amongst a million other, cuter plushies. He could choose a bunny, or a snake, or that dragon with the too-big eyes. But he just has to go with the troll. 

“In case you ever start to miss the dark creatures the Humdrum sends after you,” he says. 

“I’m pretty sure he sent this one, too.” 

Simon’s already attached to it—this ridiculous plushie, the worst thing he’s ever seen—and he’s thinking of naming it Baz, out of spite. If he knew it wouldn’t just disappear once the day resets, he’d even give it a place of honour in his room.)   

They head to the Angels Market afterwards, where Simon spots a stall selling a million flavours of fudge. He and Baz get one of each and split them, huddled together on a bench, sharing the same breath. The white chocolate is the best; Baz lets him get more of it, even though he doesn’t like it much himself. 

Simon’s finishing up the fudge—Baz looks a bit disgusted at how fast he’s gotten through it all—when he comes across a shop full of little ceramic animals. They’re just like the ones he used to get Ebb. He shoves the rest of the fudge in his mouth, wipes his hands on his trousers, and picks up a goat. It’s so fragile; he’s afraid of breaking it. 

“Do you want it?” Baz asks, leaning over his shoulder to take a look. 

“Nah. Not for me, anyway. I…” It’s a bit melancholy to think about, honestly, that he will probably never get the chance to give this to Ebb. “It’s all right. I’m just looking.” 

“You know I can just drive you to Watford and you can give it to the goatherd, right? And then she’ll have it, at least in this universe.” 

Simon whips around to face Baz, cradling the ceramic goat close to his chest. He’s crowded against the shop’s table, but he doesn’t mind. “How’d you know…?”

Baz raises an eyebrow, but the effect is dampened by the plushies he’s carrying. “I do notice things, Snow. Like how you’d come back to school after the holidays with these ridiculous animals, and you’d visit Ebb, and then you wouldn’t have them anymore.” 

“O-oh. Right.” Simon jerks his head up. “You’d really take me there, just to give this to Ebb?” 

Baz shrugs. “Why not? Watford isn’t that far. And she means a lot to you, doesn’t she? Your surrogate aunt and all that.” 

If he weren’t currently holding a very breakable goat, Simon would pull Baz into a hug. Instead, he knocks against Baz’s shoulder and grins. “Well, shit, now I feel like I need to get you a gift.” 

“Please don’t,” Baz says, frowning. “I’m already starting to regret bringing you here.”

Simon’s grin grows wider. “No, you don’t.” 

Baz rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t bother correcting him. And he pays for the goat without making a big deal out of it—he physically shushes Simon when he offers to pay him back later. 

“I don’t want your leprechaun money,” Baz says. 

Simon kicks his ankle. “I have Normal money, too, you know.”

“I’ve yet to see it.” 

Simon can’t even bother to be the slightest bit offended, because now Baz is handing him the gift bag with the goat, and all he can think about is how nice it’ll be to see Ebb. He used to be so afraid of talking to her, so worried that would be his breaking point. But maybe… maybe, if Baz is with him, it’ll be all right. 

“You must be hungry,” Baz says, once they leave the shop. 

Simon shrugs. “I suppose. I haven’t really thought about it.”

Baz barks out a laugh. “Ha. Funny. You, not thinking about food? I could’ve sworn that wasn’t possible.” 

“Oi,” Simon huffs, elbowing him in the ribs. 

They make their way through the winding path in the market, slipping past clusters of people. Simon has his hand fisted in Baz’s coat, so they don’t lose each other in the crowds. He’s pretty sure that won’t actually happen, but still. It’s a precaution. Sue him.  

“Are you hungry?” Simon asks. “You know, I’ve never seen you…” He pauses, waving around the gift bag. “Do you need to feed, or something? Drink? Whatever you call it.” 

Baz slows down and turns to face him, an eyebrow raised. He lowers his gaze for a brief second, lingering on Simon’s neck, and then looks back up. Simon feels his cheeks burn. 

“No to both questions,” Baz says. “I feed every morning.” He glances down at Simon’s neck again. His tongue darts out. “You’re not in any danger of being bitten, Snow, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Simon shakes his head. “I wasn’t worried. Just wondering.”  

“You have a morbid curiosity.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Simon says, knocking his shoulder against Baz. 

“It’s going to get you killed one day.” 

Simon grins. “Yeah, probably.” 

Baz is smiling too now, soft at the edges, like he’s ashamed to be caught doing it. He scuffs his boot on the pavement and jams his hands in his coat pockets, head tilted down, hair brushing his collar. 

“So are you hungry or not?” Baz asks, clearing his throat. 

“I always am, Baz. You know that.” 

Simon isn’t really that hungry, considering all the fudge he ate, like, half an hour ago. But he would never turn down food—especially if it’s Baz who’s offering it, at Winter Wonderland. As if it wasn’t enough that Baz is the one who suggested getting Ebb a gift. When’s this ever going to happen to him again? 

“Do you want to grab dinner, then?” Baz asks. “While we’re here? Or we could go anywhere else in London, if you don’t—”

“If it were up to me,” Simon interrupts, “we’d spend the rest of our lives here.” 

Baz softens. 

They wander around the fair until they find a restaurant that isn’t completely packed, and then they manage to find an empty table at the back. It’s relatively quiet, and the whole place is strung up with fairy lights. There are glittery ornaments hanging from the window beside them, and a white plastic Christmas tree in the corner, and there are snowflakes printed on the menu. 

“Festive,” Simon says. 

Baz makes a face. “This is a Christmas fair, Snow. Obviously it’s going to be festive.” 

“You know what I mean,” Simon huffs. “You don’t actually have to be a massive prick all the time.” 

“What else would I be, then?” 

Simon rests his chin on his hand; he’s not even looking through the menu anymore, not really. At least, he isn’t processing anything on it—he’s too busy taking note of the way Baz’s skin catches the light, how he seems to glow. 

“I don’t think you’re capable of anything else, to be honest,” he teases. “I think you’re, like, genetically coded to be a wanker.” 

Baz is watching him with an indecipherable expression. “And what are you genetically coded to be? A pain in the arse?” 

“A pain in your arse,” Simon says, “specifically. Other people say I’m a pleasure to be around.” 

(No one’s really said that, technically. Agatha’s mum called him “delightful” once, but that was before he accidentally set fire to one of their sofas in fifth year, and she hasn’t said it again.) 

Baz laughs, low and quiet. “I never said I don’t think that, either.” 

Simon’s heart skips a beat; he can feel it in his throat, threatening to burst right out. He turns his attention back to the menu. And when he glances back up a moment later, he swears Baz is blushing. 

They go on the giant wheel later, and they spend the entire ride sitting in comfortable silence, both staring out the window to look at London laid out below. Simon holds the plushies to his chest; he’s leaning against Baz, partially because there isn’t that much room, and Baz turns to give him a small, barely-there smile, still without saying anything. It’s so nice. It’s been so nice all day. 

(And it’s enough, Simon thinks. This—if he just got to rest his head on Baz’s shoulder all the time, if Baz always looked at him the way he does now—would be enough.) 

They stay at the fair until it closes, and then—because neither of them particularly want to leave—they stroll around Mayfair until they find a restaurant that’s still open. Baz orders them both teas, and he brings them over to the rickety round table they claimed at the back. 

There’s soft indie music playing over the speakers, drowning out the conversations around them. It’s surprisingly busy here, considering it’s already late. Or—well, maybe that’s just London. The streets weren’t exactly empty either, when they left Hyde Park. And it’s not like this even counts as crowded, compared to that club they once went to. 

(Baz swaying under those ever-changing lights, the bass thumping in Simon’s bones, the ale warm in his throat and Baz’s hands cold on his waist…) 

(Best not to think about that.) 

“So what else is on your to-do list today?” Simon asks. He takes a sip of his tea—it’s just how he likes it, as expected. 

Baz chuckles, shaking his head. “I didn’t think this far ahead. I honestly thought you’d be too knackered by now to do much else.” 

“And here I was, hoping you’d take me to Oxford Street again. Seems like you’ve been reliving our greatest hits.” 

Baz is quiet for a moment. He stirs his tea, thoughtful. “We could go to Oxford Street,” he says, so low that Simon can barely hear him, “if you want.” 

His gaze flicks up, and then he glances back down at his cup. Like he’s abashed, or something. 

“I’d be well chuffed,” Simon says, and he means it. “It’d cheer me right up. That’s your plan, isn’t it?” 

Baz is still looking down. He runs a hand through his hair, and it falls into his eyes. “Yes, Snow, you’ve uncovered my grand evil plan.” 

Simon knocks his cup against Baz’s, careful not to slosh any tea over the side. “It’s not evil to do nice things, Baz.” He lowers his voice and adds, “And I do appreciate it, you know. This.” 

Baz looks up, then. They’re so close, noses practically touching; one tiny movement would—they’d be—Simon didn’t even notice that they’ve both been leaning across the table until now. 

“It’s just so you stop sulking and we can get on with our research,” Baz says. But he doesn’t mean it; he’s speaking too softly, too gently. 

“Well, thanks, anyway. I think I needed it.” 

Baz smiles. “Me, too.” 

They’re lingering just by the steps to the Oxford Circus Tube station, even though there are no trains running. Baz’s car is parked closer to Hyde Park, in the other direction; they’ll have to walk there. 

Neither of them really had anything in mind, after they went to Oxford Street, so they’ve just been walking around the borough for the past hour, talking about mindless, unimportant things. Like football, and the exams they’ll have to take next semester, and what kind of sandwich is best. 

(Baz spent an entire ten minutes defending lemon and prawn.) 

Simon’s warm from his tea, and the air is pleasantly cool. He’s swinging the gift bag in front of him—the plushies from the fair poke out over the edge. 

Baz isn’t saying anything, but he doesn’t really need to. They both know it—the day’s going to reset soon. And they’ll be back where they always start. Today was just a distraction, a break. A very welcome one, at any rate. 

Simon doesn’t want it to end. He’d hold onto this moment forever, if he could. “I had a good time,” he blurts. 

Baz glances at him, an eyebrow raised. 

“I’ll try not to get all melancholy again,” Simon continues. He doesn’t know why he’s still talking, why he feels the need to fill the silence. 

(He wants to stretch this out as long as it’ll last.) 

“It’s all right if you do,” Baz says, lips quirked up in a half-smirk. “I’ll just cheer you up again.” 

Simon scuffs his boots. “You really don’t have to, you know. Do all… this.” 

Baz elbows him. “Shut it, Snow. You think I’d waste an entire day not working on the loop if I didn’t enjoy all this? ” Simon meets his gaze. It’s unbearable. “I know you think you’re being a burden, but you’re not. I had a good time today, too.” 

“You’d really… You’d do this all again, just because I’m a bit depressed?” 

Baz rolls his eyes. “Crowley, yes, I think I’ve made that quite clear. Maybe not the exact same thing, though. Next time I’ll think of something more creative.” 

Simon’s heart pounds. Next time. “And what if I just want a break, and it’s not because I’m sad or anything?” 

“Don’t take advantage,” Baz huffs. “But I might be willing to concede a few hours. One game of Mario Kart.” 

“Only if I win.” 

“That’s unlikely.” 

Simon laughs. He feels—Merlin, he feels happy. Properly happy. Like it’s endless, like the whole world—his whole future—is stretching out before him, and for the first time, he has something to look forward to. Like he can finally allow himself to think of that list of good things, and not feel like they’re all going to slip away. Like he isn’t going to lose any of them. 

(Like he can admit to himself that Baz is on that list now. At the very top. Probably the best thing in his life.) 

They fall back into silence, both staring at the ground. They’re alone now; there’s no one else milling around the street. 

“Well,” Simon says, letting out a breath and rubbing the back of his neck, “I think I should probably head back to Watford. So I can give Ebb her gift before she goes to sleep. What’s the time?”  

Baz hums noncommittally and pulls out his phone. And then his eyes go so wide, it makes him look a bit like an owl. 

Simon frowns. “What?” 

Baz ignores him. He keeps staring at his phone screen. Then he looks at his wristwatch, and his mouth drops open. He glances back at his phone. He hasn’t blinked once. 

“What?” Simon repeats. “What is it?” 

“I…” Baz swallows. “It’s… it’s tomorrow.” 

Simon crosses his arms. “What? It can’t be.” 

Baz nods, slowly handing over his phone. “I’m not making this up.” He sounds desperate now—manic, like he did the second time they went to see Penny. “It’s past midnight, Snow. I wouldn’t lie about this.” 

Simon takes Baz’s phone. And rubs his eyes. 

The clock on his lockscreen reads: 00:10.  

It can’t… it can’t be. The loop can’t have just ended. It—they didn’t—they didn’t even do anything! No spell. Nothing. They’ve just been fucking around all day. It couldn’t… that couldn’t possibly have—how? 

What. The genuine. Fuck.

Simon looks up. And then he fists a hand in Baz’s coat, hauls him forward, and kisses him.    

Baz startles, losing his balance, but the kiss only lasts a second before Simon pulls back. He’s panting; he feels like he’s burning. 

“What…” Baz clears his throat. His voice sounds a bit hoarse. “What was that for?” 

Simon hasn’t taken his hand off of Baz, and he doesn’t intend to. “The loop ended,” he says. “And I’ve wanted to do that for a while, anyway.” 

Baz is gaping at him. He’s framed by the Christmas lights strung up on the buildings behind them, and they make his skin glow pale gold. He’s beautiful like this. He always is. 

Simon jerks away. “Sorry. I didn’t—I mean, I should’ve asked—if you don’t—”

And then Baz kisses him.  

It’s a proper kiss this time—Baz’s arms wrapped around Simon’s waist, holding him as close as he can get, head tilted, mouth open. Simon brings his hands up to cup Baz’s face. He’s cold—all of him, his lips, his cheeks, his tongue—but he doesn’t mind. It’s the kind of cold that makes his own heat tolerable; the kind of cold that makes him shudder. 

Baz tastes like Earl Grey and peppermint and sugar. Like the hot chocolate he had at Winter Wonderland, like the fudge they shared. His teeth (fangs?) graze Simon’s bottom lip, and he gasps, arching closer. He fists a hand in Baz’s hair, opens his mouth even more. He wants to drink Baz in until the peppermint is gone, until all he can taste on his tongue is Baz, Baz, Baz—he wants to—he wants—  

Simon puts a hand on Baz’s chest, gently nudging him back. He doesn’t want this to go too far, not tonight. Least of all while they’re still in public. 

“I should go back,” he pants, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “to Watford. For Ebb.” 

Baz leans in again, nuzzling at his jaw. His voice is low, like a purr, when he replies, “Later, Simon. You can go later.” 

Right. Because it’s not Monday anymore. Because they have all the time in the world. 

“Come to Hampshire with me,” Baz continues. He’s kissing his way down Simon’s neck now, like he can’t stop. Like he has to keep touching him. “For the night. I promise I’ll drive you to Watford in the morning.” 

“Okay,” Simon breathes. 

He catches Baz by the collar of his shirt and pulls him in for another kiss. This—he could get used to this. To kissing Baz, instead of fighting him. It’s infinitely better. 

“Okay,” Baz whispers against his lips. “Happy Tuesday, Snow.” 

“It really is,” Simon says. He breaks into a grin, and he kisses Baz again. 

The first thing Simon notes when he wakes up is that his alarm clock isn’t ringing—and it takes him a very belated minute to realize it’s because he’s not in his room. He opens his eyes, slowly, and squints. It’s still relatively dark; the curtains are closed, and there’s only a single shaft of sunlight on the floor. His clothes are in a messy heap by the bed. 

He’s in Baz’s bed, wearing a pair of matching pyjamas that Baz gave him to borrow for the night. When he breathes, all he can smell is that stupid posh soap—cedar and bergamot and, if he focuses enough, a hint of something sweet. 

Baz is curled around him, arms wrapped loosely around his waist, face buried in his hair. Carefully, Simon rolls over to look at him. Baz is still asleep, breathing deeply. He isn’t as cold as he was earlier—it must be a side effect of hugging someone who’s always on the verge of boiling. 

Simon shifts in Baz’s arms—gently, not wanting to wake him up—to rest his head on his chest. He can’t hear Baz’s heartbeat, even though the room is quiet, but he knows it’s there all the same. 

(Baz says he isn’t alive. Simon begs to differ.) 

It’s still too early to get up; he can wait until later, until well past sunrise. Later… They have the whole day ahead of them, and the day after that. He can afford to sleep in a little longer. They could stay in bed and sleep for the rest of the day, if they want. There are things he has to do—give Ebb her gift, talk to Baz about what, exactly, they are now—but it can all wait. 

Simon closes his eyes, and lets himself drift off. Everything will still be here when he wakes up.