Archive of Our Own

Baz

The last time I saw Simon Snow, he’d held out his hand, not meeting my eyes. “Truce,” he grumbled regretfully under his breath. 

“Truce,” I agreed with a clap of our hands and a shake. And for the weeks he was gone, I couldn’t even remember what the truce was for. Just that we’d made one. That Simon said he didn’t want to fight anymore. 

And he was off to fight some unknown villain that the Mage had sicced him on like a hunting dog. 

I spent days alone in our room, spelling away the dust that piled up on his dresser and desk. Wondering how he is faring. (I’m sure he’s succeeding. The Chosen One has to rid the World of Mages of Magic’s biggest threat. Snow couldn’t do that if he died.) And wondering when he’d return. 

The teachers stopped calling his name two days in and after a week of his leave, people finally stopped talking about him (Except for Bunce). (And me, but only to myself and the empty walls of our tower-top room.) 

I remembered to take a sour cherry scone up for his ghost at breakfast. Not that he was actually dead, or not that I knew of. But it made me feel better. Like he was here, leaving his ridiculous scones on our shared nightstand. 

I wondered, for a few days after I felt he’d been gone too long, if he really was dead. His previous record of absenteeism had been a week and a half. It was now nearing three.

Would the Mage even report Simon’s death? That our saviour was gone?

And I’d wondered, for the whole time, if I’d been too harsh. Too much. Too mean and brutal and always on him for something or another. 

For what? Love? This wasn’t love. This was selfishness, defensiveness. This was the dreaded cruelty of my too-thick barriers. Simon wouldn’t fight willingly. Not if I hadn’t.

I have to change. So I promise myself that when Snow returns, I will.

On the third day of worrying, though, my thoughts were interrupted. I sat at a table in the library, trying to work on homework away from our empty room, when a book slammed in front of me. Instinctively, I shushed whoever it was before looking up.

Penelope Bunce.

“How may I help you, Bunce ?” I sneered, tabbing and closing my Greek homework. 

“Where is he?”

“Your boyfriend? America, I believe.” Still so distasteful that Penelope Bunce, who gave me a yearly run for top marks, had stooped so low as to date a thin-blooded American mage. And one who, from what I remembered, gave eyes to every girl who crossed his path. 

“Very funny. Where’s Simon.” She says it as though it’s not a question. As though I already have given her an answer just by being in her presence. 

“I’m not my roommate’s keeper.” I opened my notebook then, hoping she was done.

But she slammed it shut right after. “You have to know something !”

“Why would I?”

“You were the last one to see him. And as his friend, I’d like to know why he’s been gone so long.”

I stack my books, pushing my chair back, and standing. “Thank you for your concern. When he returns, I’ll be sure to pass on the message. But as of right now, I know nothing more than you do.”

“Basilton, if we talk it out, maybe we can figure something—”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” I growl, trying to keep my voice low. “I know nothing, you know nothing, so please, leave me alone.”

“Baz, he could be hurt, or dead, or—”

“He’s fine,” I snapped, gaining a shhh from surrounding students. I took a deep breath, trying to get quiet again. “You’re being ridiculous, Bunce.” I grabbed my books, ignoring her calls as I hurried from the library.

And that’s what I’m doing right now, tucking books under my arm and adjusting my tie as she chases me down the campus. Thankfully, no women are allowed in Mummers. (I tend to think of it as a terribly dividing rule that the Mage’s so-called reforms have yet to touch, but in the case of Penelope Bunce following me home, I’m more than grateful he hasn’t fixed it yet.)

“What if he needs help, Baz?” she shouts, just before I start on the stairs. 

No. I won’t think like that. Simon is fine.

I take the trek to the top of our room, spelling the door open. And I’m greeted by a horrific sight.

Simon Snow, kneeling shirtless in front of his bed, gripping it with one hand, the other dropped at his side, holding the Sword of Mages. His heaving back is littered with scars—new and old—and open wounds, blood still dripping on the blanket he’d tried to wrap around himself, but let fall around his knees. I feel my fangs slip slowly from my gums. 

I should run. I haven’t fed for a couple of days, and could use a drink. I don’t want to hurt him more. But seeing him there, so helpless? I couldn’t just leave him. 

“Simon?” His head lifts, streaked wet from sweat and tears. He doesn’t say anything, glancing at me, then sets his head down despondently. I take the careful few steps to his bed. All of the windows are open (they weren’t when I left) so he must have forced himself across the room to open the curtains. Certainly didn’t spell them. But it’s starting to get dark out now.

I step over to the first window. “Simon, may I close the-”

“Leave them,” he whimpers. “Please.” I move to the large window, the one he loves most, and open it completely, letting in the sights and sounds and smells of Watford. 

“Is this okay?” I ask softly.

Simon just nods, curls against his freckled arm. I move the blanket from the floor. “Out, out damned spot!” I cast, tossing it cleanly on his bed. 

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“Off.”

“I know. Off where?” 

“I’m not supposed to say everything yet. Not until the Mage has announced it. But there were hang ups with Harpies. And a Goblin, but that’s typical.” I wince, moving closer to him. Kneeling behind him. His head rests uneasily on the bed, turned off to the side. Eyes are closed, brows close with pain. 

“Can I—” He nods, not letting me finish. I slide my fingers in the little clear space between his new wounds, and he shivers at the feeling. “Simon. What the hell happened to you?”

“I don’t— didn’t—” He quickly breaks into silent tears, pressing his face against the mattress. I take his shoulders, mostly untouched, in my hands. I gently pull him back to me. 

“Hush. It’s okay. You’re home now. Safe.” He turns around, throwing his arms around me, and I can’t help but fall apart from the pain in his face, tears in his eyes.

He’s crumpling just from the exhaustion of sitting up, so much that his head’s already buried in my shirt. He mutters something against it, so slurred with exhaustion that I can’t tell what he’s said. I tip him up by the chin. 

“What is it?”

He doesn’t speak, shifting his body until he faces me. His eyes are sad. Not sad. Empty of the life that I so often envied. I want to take him away—from Watford, from Magic, from the Mage, from it all. I turn him towards me, slipping my hands under his arms. “Do you want me to help you?”

“Do you mind?”

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I did.” He decides, instead, to grab my hands, grimacing at the floor as I pull him to his feet. He shivers, looking like he’s going to be sick, before his knees crumple. I catch his wrist and lower him back to the ground as he tries to vomit nothing. His hands are clamped onto my shoulders, eyes filling with tears. I can only imagine how terrible he must feel. How alone, how hurt. 

“Hell, Snow.” I hold him still for a moment as he chokes sobs and salty tears onto my shirt. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m not meaning to—”

“I don’t care about that.” He leans into my touch, and I decide to put a hand to the back of his head. I can try.

When’s the last time (if ever) that someone has just tried to soothe Simon? Putting an arm beneath his bent thighs I lift him up. Holding him just barely off of my lap. He seems to tense, then lean his head against my chest from where he sits. I pull him closer, resting his chin on my shoulder. 

He finally relaxes. “Don’t worry about anything, Simon. There’s nothing you could do right now to annoy me. Except for continuing to apologise.” He leans into me, and I tap his chin up towards me. “May I help you clean up?” His head bobs against mine, and I carry him over to his bed. 

From there, Simon can look out the window to the football pitch, the grounds, the laughing students and kids (goats) that he loves so much. I ease him on his stomach, and he turns, exactly as I thought, to watch the outside world. And finally, taking my wand from the holster, I let go. He sighs when my touch vanishes. And I can’t tell if it’s from relief or sadness. 

Simon grabs the wrist of my wand hand as I’m about to cast on him, pulling me closer. He glances up at me, blue eyes cutting through my soul. “They’re magic,” he whimpers, clenching me with a sweaty hand. I press my free one to his forehead—it feels too hot, even for him. “Baz, it hurts. So, so bad.”

“Your wounds are magickal? Magic resistant?” I ask. 

“Both.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“The Mage already tried to spell some of them better.” He shrugs.

The Mage. “Why isn’t he helping you, now?” I snarl. It would be just like him to leave Simon like this. “Why were you stuck here, bloody on the floor, alone?”

He lets me go and squeezes his fists. “I normally take care of myself. Nobody has to.”

“He still should. ” I raise my wand. “May I at least try? Maybe something else was wrong.”

He nods, and I point it at him. “ Get well soon .” Nothing. “ Feel better. All is well. An apple a day. ”

“It’s not working, Baz.”

“Can I try something… else?”

“Go on.” 

I worry about it, though. I don’t know if it’s something I should ask about first. (My mum used to cast it on me when I’d get hurt, but that was my mum .)

My throat catches as I lean down closer. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I just hope it works. “ Kiss it better ,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his cheek. His eyes flutter closed, and I draw back. (He’s definitely feverish.) I watch the wounds on his back, hoping with every ounce of being that it will work.

Nothing happens.

“I’m sorry, Snow.”

“S’alright,” he whispers. “Guess I’ll just have to heal like a Normal.”

I nod, turning back to the dusky window. I open the window itself, and he closes his eyes, taking in a deep sigh. “There. I’ll be back in just a moment. You can relax a bit.” I run my thumb over his clenched fist, and he lets go of where he’s been holding onto the bed. His eyes close gently as his lips curve upward. “No, no. Don’t fall asleep while I’m gone. I’m sure you’re exhausted, but there will be plenty of time for sleeping when I’m cleaning you up, okay? I don’t want something to happen while I’m gone.” 

He nods, eyes still closed, and I can tell he won’t keep his promise. But I leave anyway. He’ll be okay. (He has to be.) (He’s Simon Snow.)

Each room has a first aid kit under the sink, though ours lacks half of what I need. By the shape Simon is in, I can guess why. I’ll have to spell up what I can, and the rest, get from the nurses later.

When I return, Snow is still mostly conscious, head buried in his arms. I rest a hand on his shoulder, setting the depleted kit down beside him. “Ready?” I ask.

“Please be careful. It hurts.” I’d never hurt him. Not on purpose. But he doesn’t know that.

I sit beside him on the bed, lifting both arms above his head, golden against the white pillow they rest on, so that I can see the exact line, back to elbow, that would have been hit. (I wonder, briefly, why it was only his back? And then I’m greeted with an image of Simon crouched down and curled up with harpies shredding him to ribbons until he goes off. Can’t think about that.) Then, I straighten out his back from where he had curled on his side, his bent legs, to where he’s all one easy-to-manage line. 

“Have you ever done first aid?” he asks, turning his head once more to the side.

“No. But I know how, if that’s what you’re getting at.” I know how, if old novels where soldiers get their legs amputated off count. He nods, and I unlatch the case.

It’s nearly empty. “There should be a bit of saline left in there for cleaning,” he says, then pauses for a moment, letting his exhaustion catch up. “If there isn’t enough, a little bit of soap in some water should do the trick.” I’m glad he’s still conscious. I would have never known on my own.

“Can’t I just use the peroxide to clean?” I distinctly remember every war hospital in every novel being described as smelling of peroxide.

“You could, but I’d rather you not. Doesn’t do good for the actual wounds. Besides, harpy talons are filthy.” He shivers. “Infection.”

“Alright.” I squeeze his shoulder, uncapping the saline. There should be plenty. He turns his head, watching me carefully as I pour a bit on a gauze pad. 

“Gentle.”

“I will be!”

“No need to get snippy,” he whines, closing his eyes. “Whatever. Just get it over with.” 

I bunch my eyebrows up, holding onto his tense shoulder. And then dab it as carefully as possible.

But not gentle enough, apparently, with the howl of pain that comes after. “I’m sorry!” I drop the cotton wad, throwing both hands up. “Is it normally this bad?”

As he pants to catch his breath, Simon stammers a few words. “Yeah–- yeah. Pretty bad. Some’re reopened.” It doesn’t answer my question. I notice his hands, clenched in his sweat-streaked hair, and work to pull his fingers open. 

“Don’t do that, Snow. Easy.” I pry one hand out. “Here. Just… hold on to me, yeah?” He squeezes my hand, shakily moving his other hand from his hair, then back on the bed. 

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” And with his head turned to the side, I notice his blue, blue eyes fill up with sadness, his teeth gritting over this all. I take his other hand, and he tightens around that one, too. “I really don’t want to hurt you, Baz.”

“Snow, you can’t. There’s nothing you can do to hurt me.” I give his hands a little squeeze as well. “You can’t hurt me. Nobody can. I’m…”

“Yeah,” he whispers, like it’s a big secret. Like he didn’t already know. Like he hadn’t for years. “Yeah, I know. But—”

“Take my arm.” He does, shifting both hands onto one arm.

His nails dig into my skin as I work around to his back. It’s more than a stretch. “Is it okay if I keep going?” I ask carefully.

“Baz. You’re bleeding.” He starts to draw away. I keep him fixed, noticing the red streaking my arm, bright against my grey and his paling fingertips.

“I’ll heal. You won’t without help.” 

“Y—” he takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Keep going. ’M sorry. I just don’t want to—” 

I try to still his hands, pulling them closer to me, but there’s no easy way to do this, with him lying down. They’re trembling, clamped down on my skin. “Don’t worry. Please.”

He bites down on his lip to keep in a shuddering cry as I continue on his wound. When I finally finish, clearing away crusted blood and filth and Merlin knows what else, I throw down the gauze pad in exasperation.

“This isn’t working.”

“What?” he cries, possibly thinking I mean it’s literally not healing over. Which it isn’t, not yet, but he knows Normal cures don’t happen that fast. His lip trembles, marked with deep teeth marks and bleeding where he’s already bitten down. 

“This isn’t working,” I repeat. “You’re in too much pain.”

“Just get it over with,” he sobs, fighting back actual tears. I know they’re coming.

“May I try something?” I ask, before making any moves.

“What?”

“I’m going to sit you up,” I explain, showing him with my own body. “You kneel, facing away from me. I want your hands on a pillow that I’ll have there. Grip it as tight as you need. I can’t move well with your hands on me. I’ll get you something to bite down on.” He nods carefully, running his tongue across his lower lip as he stares at me with his bright blue eyes. My fangs are still popping, but I shake my hair over my cheeks to hide it. “That sound okay?”

“Any way to numb the pain?” he asks. 

I shrug. “Spells. I don’t know any Normal ways. But spells don’t work, do they?”

“Worth a shot.”

He adjusts himself, with a good bit of help from me, and I search my wardrobe for something for him to bite down on. I come up with last year’s belt, and hold it out in front of Snow’s lips.

Simon considers this, glancing at the ceiling, before continuing our eye contact.

“Alright,” Simon grumbles and then bites down.

Simon

He sits me up, as promised, until I’m on my knees, rocking back and forth with uncertainty and weariness. He holds me still, his cold hands gripping my arms. He’s facing me for now, just making sure I can sit up for this long without tumbling over. Just for a moment. And my only view is Baz. Baz… helping me. And I still don’t know why.

He nods, asking silently is this okay? And I return it. 

He goes to grab something. He returns with a flask—unmarked, silver—that smells of rubbing alcohol (or drinking alcohol, all the same to me) when he opens it. It makes my nose wrinkle.

“Just in case the spell doesn’t take,” he offers.

“I’m not,” I whisper. “I don’t—erm—drink.” 

He shakes his head. “It’s not poisonous,” and takes a small sip for himself, his face crumpling up. 

“It’s not poisonous,” he repeats, “just very strong. Should knock you right out.”

“I can’t.”

“Well then let’s hope that you don’t have to.” He holds the discarded belt back up. “Keep biting down. I’m going to start soon.”

I do as he says, and he aims his wand at my back. “Comfortably Numb,” he casts.

And immediately, my back relaxes. I slump forward a bit in a sigh. Wonderful .

“Better?” He asks, and I nod.

Baz

I feel so guilty. I should have tried that sooner.

But there’s not enough time to think like that. The spell only lasts six and a half minutes, and I don’t want to run dry on magic from performing it over and over.

I pick up a fresh piece of gauze, dampening it with the saline and dabbing it along a new wound. He whimpers at this, but significantly less than before, with the combination of magic numbing his senses, and the belt to bite down on. 

“You’re doing so well, Snow,” I assure him as I move on to a third one. A fourth, a fifth. I work my way across his shoulders and arms, down his back. He promises me these are the only major wounds, although I wonder what “major” means on the Simon Snow scale.

“I’m going to lay you down again, okay?” I ask, wrapping my cool hands against the soft steel of his stomach. He nods, bobbing the back of his curly hair, as I pull him from his knees to rest his head on the pillow.

“All done,” I say with a sigh. It looks so much better. Terrible, but better. His back isn’t bleeding too much—only spottily. Some of these wounds looked a few days old. I’m sure he’s going to need later attention, but this should hold him for tonight.

“Dressing,” he grunts, nodding at the kit. He’s looking a bit better as far as pain goes. 

I dig through the kit, looking for antibiotic ointment (I think that’s what we need?) but I can’t find it. “Snow?”

“Uh?”

“Ointment?” I ask, motioning to the empty spot in the kit. He yawns, mouth wide open, showing every white tooth.

“Used’t all last time.” He closes his eyes, trying desperately to fall asleep. I start to reach down, to rub the back of his head and help him get there, but freeze midair. I can’t do this, yet. It feels like taking advantage of him. So dig through the discarded and empty tubes and tubs, finding the antibiotic cream. Empty. And when I turn back to Snow, he’s asleep.

I’m sure if I go down to the nurse, they’ll gladly give me a new one. (Goodness knows they expect us to be getting at least one refill per year.) I’ll grab us dinner after dropping off the ointment. I don’t want to leave Snow alone for too long.

Once I grab the ointment, and head back up, Simon’s turning on his side, muttering in his sleep. 

“Snow?” I call, sitting down beside him. “Simon?” I set my hand on his shoulder. “Simon. Wake up,” I sing, shaking him lightly. He mutters something in his sleep, searching his upper half before curling his hand around my own with a squeeze, and letting his lashes flutter and wake. “Afternoon,” I say with a nod. 

“Did I miss dinner?” He winces.

“Of course not. But don’t expect to go down to the dining hall, regardless.”

“You’re bringing it up?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugs one shoulder, wiping his forehead on his bicep, and crinkling up from tense muscles. He’s sweating. “Hot?” I ask. His thumb runs over mine.

“A bit. Perhaps you should close the windows. Spell the room cool. If that’s okay.”

“It’s not really that warm in here...”

Still, I close them, letting the fresh air die in its wake. When I come back to the bed, I press a hand to his forehead.

“A bit warm, Snow.”

“I run hot,” he shrugs again. His entire vocabulary is shrugging.

“I know. I’ve been knocked on my back by you more times than I’d like to admit.” 

I try to think back to what my mum would have done. She was overflowing with magic. Always. But she didn’t always use it for everything the way I do. Like when I’d run a temperature, I remember that she would press her lips to my forehead and I do that now.

“You’re definitely warmer than usual.” 

Simon’s fingers are between his eyebrows and he looks lost in thought. 

“What is it?” I ask. And then it hits me that I’ve just kissed Simon Snow’s forehead. Shit. Was that weird? Did I ruin everything?

“Nobody’s ever kissed me there before. Only on the lips. Well, aside from your casting earlier.” I think about this. Of course my mother kissed me on the forehead, the cheeks—what kind of mother wouldn’t? But Simon didn’t have a mother. Fiona even kissed the top of my head when I was little, and I’m sure my father did at some point, too.

Nobody had ever kissed Simon. Except on the lips. The thought makes me want to kiss him everywhere else. (I probably could. Then spell his memory gone if it goes wrong.) (I wouldn’t.)

He closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath of the breeze. Simon lays peacefully on his side, and I reach for a bottle of painkillers the nurses had given me.

I try to sit him up again, but he’s falling all over himself, trembling. I settle for holding him up as he takes a shaky sip from a cup of water and tries to swallow some pills. After, he leans his mop of curls against my shoulder, letting out a graceless burp and a laugh.

I can’t believe I’m in love with this numpty. This tragic hero. 

“I think you should get a bit of rest before dinner. I’ll bring it up, then wake you when I get here, yeah?”

“Sure,” he sighs. And then nothing at all, leaning against me with nothing but the silence and stillness of the world.

“Would you like me to help you into bed?” He nods slowly, unsurely, like he doesn’t want to admit it. It’s okay to need help, Simon. I hold Snow’s hand tight as he forces himself to lie once more, dragging me down with him. Half beneath him. “Easy there, you ridiculous oaf,” I tease, sliding out from beneath him. He gives me a half-smirk.

I grab the blanket that I’d thrown over the bed, starting to pull it over his legs, but he makes me hesitate, glancing at me over his shoulder. “Baz?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t cover you up all the way.”

“No, not that. It’s just…” He puffs, unable to form the words he’s thinking. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you doing this? Being nice, helping. All of this.” 

I sigh, sitting beside him once more, and taking time to rest my hand on his shoulder. Like a friend. “Because. We’re on a truce.”

“That’s not good enough,” he mumbles, speaking my thoughts. 

“And I would rather not have a corpse in my room.”

“I could have helped myself. I normally do.”

I close my eyes and inhale. “Because I wanted to, Snow. Because I wanted to help and I’m done with fighting and all of the other nonsense we’ve been doing.” He glances up at me, and I take my hand away, sitting up straighter. 

“Because I care about you, Simon. And I want to be your friend.”

Making sure he’s comfortable, arms tucked up under his pillow, I pull the blankets up to his waist. He’s not bleeding so much now. He can stand a quarter hour alone.

I spell the lamp off, and his eyes close in the darkness. 

“Night, Snow.” I whisper. “I’ll be back up soon.” But I turn, and he catches my hand. The whites of his eyes pierce the darkness. So awake. So here. 

“I want to be your friend, too.”

Simon

I fall asleep instantly, into nightmares of harpies and hunters and the Humdrum. And every other terrible thing I’ve faced before. But this time, Baz is beside me and we’re fighting back to back. My sword, his wand. Flinging spells and cutting down dark creatures. 

Dark creatures. Vampires are dark creatures. When I turn to glance at Baz, he’s snarling, fangs bared, glaring back at me. I have just enough time to leap away before he sinks his teeth into the air when I just was. “Baz?” I whimper, feeling cold air blow against my bare skin. 

I didn’t even realise I wasn’t wearing a shirt. But now I can feel it. The cold on my chest and back, freezing the blood against my skin. The blood, dripping down my back. “Simon,” he growls, edging closer. “Simon. You’re bleeding.” His eyes are dark, glazed over. I take a step back. 

“Please don’t do this.” My sword’s gone. It’s vanished. I try summoning it, and it doesn’t come. “Please don’t fight me.” I raise my fists just in case he does try to. As if they’ll be of any use against razor fangs and superstrength.

“You’re bleeding. You’re covered in blood.” I can feel it. Dripping and freezing. Everything is cold. I try to call my sword again. 

The other creatures are gone, only me and Baz. And he jumps.

I finally find my sword in hand, pointed at Baz’s throat as I heave breaths in and out. His chest puffs, his eyes normal, fangs gone. It’s then I start to notice the walls of our Watford room surrounding me. The tray of food in his hands. His school uniform. His dark hair like a curtain covering his face.

“What the fuck , Snow?” he snaps, his head raised to keep away from my blade.

“You tried to attack me!”

His lip raises in a sneer. “I just got back from getting food for you.” That’s when I realised that I’ve woken up. I return the sword to my side. “I was just trying to wake you so you could eat.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, adjusting the way I’m sitting. I pull the blanket up around my arms. (It hurts a bit, but I’ve gotten cold.) (That in itself is a miracle.) “Sorry, Baz. I didn’t mean to.” He nods, waiting for me to continue. “Had a bad dream.”

Baz sighs, sitting beside on the bench in front of the window and balancing the tray on his knees. “I should have assumed as much when you nearly decapitated me.”He shifts the tray over to be between us. “Is everything alright?” 

“Now, yeah.” I still feel nervous about him so close to me.

What was I thinking? I mean, obviously nothing happened, but I trusted Baz, a vampire, to clean and bandage my bloody wounds. He could have killed me, easily. 

He spelled me to not feel pain. He let me sleep. Everything. He had every chance, and the closest he got to biting me was kissing my forehead to feel for a fever.

I close my eyes and think about it now. He was cold, everything about him. Lips of ice, lingering for just a second too long for me to start thinking.

Is that what it’s like to be kissed? Really kissed?

And then I pushed it from my thoughts and continued to focus on the pain.

“Mind telling me what it was about?” he asks, interrupting my daydreams of it all once more. He shuffled the tray from his lap, nodding to the small bit of space beside me. I moved aside and he squeezed in beside me, arms pressed tight together, leg to leg.

“Um, I mean—” I don’t know if I want to tell him, but he seems to be trying to help. I lean against him, picking up a fork. Bangers and mash for dinner. I missed real food during my three weeks with the Mage. 

“You don’t have to.” He holds his right hand up to me. I draw back. 

“I don’t know, Baz.” I can't; I'm not ready. 

But I decide, for a moment, to get lost in his murky ocean eyes. To seek the truth. And there’s not an ounce of malevolence in them.

“Then don’t, Snow.” I expect it to come with a bite of his usual aggressiveness, but it’s not there. It’s relaxing.

“The dream- no. Nightmare.” The look he gives urges me to go on. To stop stalling , I remind myself. “The… nightmare began with us, fighting against a bunch of stuff and then you turned on me and tried to attack me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he promises. I don’t know why, but I believe him. 

“You tried to bite me.” I see his face drop a bit, as though acknowledging what I’m bringing up once more. He always denies it, but it’s always there. And he did acknowledge it earlier. “I know you, Baz. I’ve lived with you for years. I know you’re a vamp—” he holds up a hand, cutting off the word.

“I’m—”

“I know. I’ve always known.”

“Snow.”

“You can’t keep trying to hide it, Baz! You already said—”

“Well, if you’re going to raise your voice about it, then why not? Go ahead and expose me to the entire world.”

“You just admitted to it!” I say with a point. “You’re a-”

“Crowley, Snow! For snakes’ sake! The windows are open!” He pops a hand over my mouth. “I didn’t mean to literally tell everyone, you impossible moron! Quiet! You know, okay!” It comes out as an angry hiss. “I don’t know why you care so much.”

“Because you always deny it,” I say, once his hand is gone. “Always.”

“I deny it because of stupidity like this.” He fixes his sleeves, leaning away from me. “Do you want me to talk, or not?” 

“Go on,” I grumble. He nods.

“I’d never attack you, for one,” he points out. I don’t know if it’s because he genuinely wouldn’t or the Anathema. “And on top of that, I’d prefer if you didn’t use the word. Not here.” 

“Vam—?”

“ Stop .” I can tell it makes him uncomfortable, so I resolve to shut up. He nods miserably, brushing his hair away from his cheeks, tucking it behind his ears. He’d been talking mostly under his breath the entire time, and his cheeks were covered in his wavy, black hair, so I hadn’t noticed the fangs poking through his skin. When he parts his lips to grin at me (more of a grimace) and I can see the sharp canines coming down in the front. Much larger than usual.

I feel my eyes grow wide. “Is it always like that?” I wouldn’t know how I would have missed that. With his shorter hair when we first started Watford, and the times that he ties it up to study or play footie. The shouting fights we’ve gotten into, snarling centimetres away from each other’s face. 

“They only pop when I’m thirsty.” I back off. “Or threatened,” he continues, rolling his eyes. “Blood around. Or when I’m eating.”

I glance down at his untouched food. “The smell ,” he sneers, as though it’s obvious. 

And I get it. The smell of the food. The smell of the blood. 

He lifts a fork full of potatoes, and I get a great look at the mouthful of fangs coming down over his regular teeth. “Wicked,” I breathe.

He scoffs and takes a bite, shaking his head. “So,” he begins, covering his mouth. “Carry on with the nightmare.”

“I couldn’t summon my sword until you lunged. And when you did, I actually summoned it. And nearly beheaded you.”

“Would have worked, too.”

“I’m sorry.” I feel so guilty. I could have actually killed him.

He gives me an earnest smile, then a frown. “You know what’s odd? I don’t think I heard you say the incantation.” 

“Just appeared?” I suggest.

“Just appeared.” We continue on our meals, the only sounds around us being the noises of the pitch from the open window. 

Baz

Dinner is finished, and I clean up the plates, spelling them washed and setting them on my desk. I’ll bring them down later. 

For now, I excuse myself to the toilet to wash up and change into pyjamas, coming back with a fresh, wet cloth, a handful of cotton balls, and a roll of bandages. When I return, he’s resumed lying on his stomach, sprawled out on the bed. His blue eyes drag with sleep, and his breaths come slower and more even than earlier. 

“Mind if I finish up now?” I ask, settling down beside him. He shrugs.

“I was hoping you would so I can get a bit of sleep.” It’s getting easier now. Seems to be less painful for him with the spells I’ve been pouring on.

And I can see him now, too. The gold of his skin. Every freckle and mole dotting his shoulders and back. (One that I have to try very hard to stop myself from kissing.) (It’s been staring me in the face for hours.)

Snow bunches his fists up in the blankets, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. “Easy there,” I whisper to him. “Don’t tense up. Just relax and take deep breaths, okay?”

I dip my fingers in the salve, swirling it around until they’re just coated, then run them carefully down his first wound.

The skin around it shivers, and Simon lets pass a small whimper. “I’m sorry,” I add, wishing for the hundredth time that I could just use magic and make him well.

“No, it didn’t hurt. Just cold.” Oh. I wipe the medicine onto the rag. Then I swoop up my wand, casting “You’re getting warmer!” on the container. I feel it heating up in my hand. 

With this adjustment, I finish medicating him in a tenth of the time I thought I’d take. Then it’s just mummifying him and sending the both of us off to bed.

As I’m putting on the last bandage, Snow seems to wake up. (He fell asleep halfway through.)

“Hey.”

“Hullo.” I press the tape down on his skin.

“I want to change myself. And brush my teeth.”

“Okay. Can you manage?” I ask.

“Yeah. I mean, help getting me to the ensuite and gathering up some pyjamas would be nice.”

I nod, standing up, and helping him to sit up on his knees once more. And that leads to his legs out in front of him. Soon enough, Simon is standing once more.

He’s smiling like he’s just won the biggest fight. Like he’s beaten everything that’s bad. Like everything is perfect.

I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so terribly. 

I think I will. He looks wonderful. His life is coming back. (Quickly.) His cheeks are full of pink and he’s grinning ear to ear and everything about Simon is just so good. He’s just good.

And I’m not. That’s why I can’t kiss him. Because I’ve never been good, and I never will be good.

“Alright. I’m going to see if I can manage the walk. Can you grab my clothing?”

“Of course,” I say. And he leaves. And it’s over.

Simon

Even if he has been helping me, and taking care of me, and everything, it’s a relief to be out of Baz’s gripping gaze. I hurry my pyjama bottoms on before pacing the bathroom, glancing at my back in the mirror. I can hear Baz hurrying to clean things up, shutting the window, moving bed sheets around. He even magics up a glass of water.

I take a deep breath. Baz had finished helping me up. And I’d been so happy. So thankful. 

And… so aware. That I wanted something else.

I wanted to kiss Baz.

Baz

Just as I finish, Snow steps out of the room, carelessly tossing his pyjama shirt onto the bed. I swipe it up, folding it back into his dresser. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, sitting on the edge of his bed. 

“I’m not too fond of living in a laundry bin.” My eyes flit to his back, bandaged up. But I can already see a bit of red poking through bits. 

“Snow, you’re—”

“I saw in the mirror. I’ll be fine. It's bound to stop bleeding soon enough.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” I don’t believe him, but I listen anyway.

I spell the lights out, but can still see everything. Can still see Snow.

He scoots back, closing his eyes briefly. “Baz?”

“Yeah?”

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out in a sigh. “I’ve been having nightmares. I mean, I always kinda have been, but the last few weeks…”

“What about it, Snow? Want me to spell your dreams?” I mean it genuinely, but it comes out with more snark than I’d like.

“That would be nice,” I hear him mutter, though the way he’s said it sounds like I wasn’t supposed to hear it. So I choose not to respond.

And then Snow flops against his pillow in one exhausted puff. 

“What now?” I grumble.

“Nothing.”

“Then go to sleep.” He mumbles something else, something that I don’t even try to hear, before rolling on his back. He yelps, as quiet as possible, sitting up sharply. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” I ask, slipping my legs from beneath the blanket. 

“ Yes ,” he winces, rubbing his lower back, avoiding the patches. “Baz?” He calls, and sit beside him once more, gently settling my arm over his shoulders. “I’m not going to get any sleep tonight, am I?”

A ridiculous idea occurs to me. An idea that involves close contact. And a loss of my mind. I pass it on to Snow. “I could— that is, if you wanted the-” Simon interrupts my awkward words with his nods.

Snow lets me turn him and lie him down on his side. I stuff a pillow between his arms, and he pressed his face into it. It’s unbelievably adorable, and makes my heart tick for a moment, before I force the thought from my mind.

“You really don’t mind?” I ask, my hand clamped over his bicep. 

He nods cautiously. “Don’t bite me in my sleep.”

I would have done that years ago. I think to myself. That is, if I’d wanted to .

Which I didn’t. Well, sometimes, but not recently. And not because I hated him.

My arms wrap around his waist, holding him steady, as he tries to get comfortable. It’s terribly awkward—we’re both tall, and Snow’s almost all muscle—trying to do this in a twin-sized bed, but after a good bit of squirming on both of our parts, we settle. Snow’s nose buried deep in his pillow. My forehead just centimetres from the back of his curls. 

I listen for his breathing, slowing down, becoming even. When I first pulled around him, he sounded tense. Nervous. Now he sounds nearly asleep.

I rub circles with my thumbs against the warm skin of his stomach— I have been since he settled down. He lets out a deep sigh, settling his face further against the pillow. 

He’s asleep. And after so much contemplation over whether it’s okay, whether it’s right, whether it’s taking advantage or not, I move a bit closer, and close the gap between his head and mine, and give him a soft kiss on the back of his head before I shut my eyes. 

Simon

It’s light out, and Baz and I are just barely not touching. I’m glad, partially, that we’re not touching. My back still aches. But after the care he’s shown, the gentleness, the touch…

The kiss he gave when he thought I was asleep.

I wish I could lean back, and give in. It’s more than kindness. The things he did, leaning into me, kissing me, rubbing my waist with his fingers. That was something more.

I turn onto my stomach and I feel Baz’s grip tighten around me. His sleepy whimper as he tries to keep me in place. “Simon…”

I don’t say a word. He can’t know that I know he kissed me. Still, I linger on his touch for a moment, before settling my thoughts into the fluff of the bed and my overwhelming exhaustion. May as well try to sleep. 

But I can’t; I want to see him. So while he’s asleep, I turn to face him and study him. The way his wave of hair slips perfectly over his grey forehead. His pursed, dark lips, and tightly drawn eyebrows. The sharp lines and points of his cheekbones and chin.

The way he said my name in his sleep. The way he reaches for me now. How when he does find me, he thrusts his hands up— long fingers through my hair. How he messes it up before pressing his crooked nose into my cheek.

And how I lean into his touch. How much I want it.

I like the way Baz treats me. When he’s kind, that is. 

When he’s taking care of me. Loving me.

Baz’s dark lashes flutter against his cheeks as he begins to stir awake. His lips part slightly, and he runs a pink tongue just barely over them. His eyes open briefly, blinking at me, and he smiles, closing them again. I close my eyes before he sees me.

“Shit,” he whispers, seeing how close we are, how he’s moved to hold me differently. “I’m sorry Snow.” He hesitates, then: “Sleep well, Simon.”

He doesn’t move, and I brave a peek. He’s looking past me, staring absently at the wall, one hand still fixed in my curls.

That’s when it hits me. For real.

Is Baz in love with me?

Baz

I wake up with light in the room and Snow curled by my side.

I’m so in love with him.

And yet I’m so worried about hurting him, with how broken he is right now. A mess of scars and blood. But I want to kiss it all away.

(Perhaps as his wounds heal, magic could start working on them.)

But then, he shakes his head. Awake . I yank my hand away.

And he pulls it back, cautiously at first, before setting it in his mess of morning tangles.

“I like this,” he admits, eyes still closed. “It’s soothing.”

Finally. I’ve been waiting for some sort of confirmation that I’m not being an unnecessary creep. “So it’s fine?”

“ Baz ,” he says, as though irritated I asked. “I like it.” 

I’m still adjusting to the brightness of the room, the brightness of him, when he rolls to face away from me. “Can you check me?” he whispers. If not for my heightened hearing, I’d have to ask him to repeat himself. 

“Should I take them off?” I’ve never done this before. I’ll admit it now.

“No, it’s okay. Have any of them bled through?”

“They haven’t.”

“Then I’m fine,” he says with a shrug. “Just may need a bit of help today.”

He turns back on his stomach, then on his other side to bump his head against my cheek. I put my hand on the back of his head, the other on his hip. 

“Ready to get up now?” I ask, rubbing his curls with my thumb.

“Mmmm,” he hums. “A few more minutes?”

It’s Sunday, and he’s had a very long past few weeks, so I give in. I move further up on the pillow, setting my chin on top of his head. “Fine.”

***

“Simon!” There’s rattling at our door. I try to ignore it, thinking it’s a dream, but Snow stirs in my arms. His warmth and movement are more than real.

“Simon Snow! Open this door!”

But it sounds like Bunce. That can’t be right. Bunce in Mummers? She couldn’t get in.

“Open up!” She pounds. “ Open Sesame .” She shouts, and the door slams open.

“Hell's spells, Bunce,” I grumble, propping myself up on my elbows, and taking my hands from him. I’m so grateful for my undeadness at this moment. If I were as red as I should be, this would be hell. “I’ll get you banned from Watford for this.” Simon’s hands grip my shirt in his sleep.

Bunce’s eyebrows scrunch up. “What are you doing to Simon?” Her voice is suspicious. 

“Nothing.”

“Like hell.” Her ring hand raises, pointing straight at me. “Get away from him.”

I’m grateful that Snow takes that time to mumble my name in his sleep. A whiny Baz . He holds on tighter. And smiles.

“See? Nothing,” I say again. Bunce lowers her hand, looking between Simon and I. 

“I-”

“You?”

“Baz. I didn’t. I thought-”

I smile and let her think what she wants. I wait for her to go, and she starts. But she hesitates once her hand is on the door. “Is he okay?” And I can’t help but soften. She does love him. She does care about him. “I just— I want to know if he’s okay.”

“He is now,” I promise.

And I feel him stirring in my arms, looking down on his eyes opening. Bunce takes a step closer, and Simon blinks wearily at her.

“Okay?”

“I’m fine.” He rubs his eyes, messing his hair up more than it had been. “I’ll see you at breakfast.” And then he settles back into my arms, closing his eyes when he lies on my shoulder. Bunce gives me a nod, then leaves with an ‘I’ll ask him later.’

Simon

The second I wake, Baz berates me with a snarling question. “Since when has Bunce been able to get into our room?” 

“Huh?” I’m not anywhere near in the right state of mind to be answering questions. “What?”

“Bunce,” he says, as though that explains it all. “She just waltzed in here like it was her own room.”

I start to rub the sleep from my eyes, still not fully understanding the problem and glance at the clock. “Prolly because I nearly missed breakfast.”

He lifts a brow. “This is a normally occurring thing?”

“Nah. I never miss breakfast.”

“ Snow .”

Oh .

“No.”

“Snow—” he grumbles, and there’s an edge to his voice.

“Please don’t tell the Mage.”

He scoffs, wrinkling his nose. Please don’t ruin last night’s you , I find myself thinking.

“Snow. This is the boy’s house. She’s not supposed to get in.”

I bite my lip. “Please, Baz.” Please don’t ruin what I’m feeling. He holds onto me once more. Hands squeezing my waist.

“Fine.” My mouth drops open. He’s letting her off this easy? “Shut it, Snow. You’ll swallow an insect.” 

I snap my mouth shut, then open again. Then shut. “Would you like to get a late breakfast?” he offers. “I’ll spell your scones warm. Besides, Bunce is going to want to interrogate you.” 

“Yeah. Scones sound nice.” I shrug, forcing myself to sit up, despite the tense soreness in my back. “So… Penny?”

“Stretch,” Baz says, simply, as he sticks his legs from the bedsheets. “And don’t worry for now. She just wants to know how you are.” He lifts his arms above his head, groaning with the tenseness of sleep. “I’ll get your uniform.” I repeat his action, standing beside the bed, and stretching my arms up, but sit down when I feel a wave of nausea and lightheadedness taking me over. He gives me a pointed look, snatching up my uniform.

I wonder if it’s a good idea to tease him about our truce extending to helping each other dress, though I suppose he could throw asking him to sleep in my bed at me. 

Well, didn’t he technically ask me?

He sets the clothing in front of me, his own posh suit folded over one arm. It’s not the uniform, but we’re technically allowed to wear anything on the weekends. I just don’t.

“Don’t need a shower,” I decide. “Probably best to not disturb the wounds until later tonight.”

“I’d like one,” he says, nodding to the door.

“Fine by me.”

“You can manage?”

“I can.”

He vanishes at an unfathomable speed. “Vampire,” I mutter as he shuts the door behind himself. 

I dress quickly with the promise of warmed sour cherry scones looming over me. But it hurts a bit too much. The pull. The sting. And I find myself slowing down. Baz seems to hurry too, for he knocks just as I’m settled back on my bed. 

“I’m decent,” I shout back. He steps out, looking as handsome as ever in his dark suit, hair slicked back like he always has it in the morning, and gets only a breath away from me to fix my crooked tie. 

“Numpty,” he whispers, smoothing it down my chest, and meeting my eyes. Fakely disapproving frown as he pokes right in the middle of my tie. 

I find myself losing balance. Knees buckling beneath me as his arms snake around my waist. “Easy. I don’t want you falling.”

Basilton Pitch. Making the Chosen One weak in the knees. (Or maybe that’s blood loss.)

I don’t stop him as he pulls me closer, supporting me. As he bends down to meet me, looking like he’s going to ask another question. And as I lean in.

As I bridge the gap and press my lips to his. 

Baz

Simon Snow is kissing me. 

And I am kissing him back.

And though he tastes like morning breath and salty tears, I can’t help but think how wonderfully charmed of a life I’m living. 

He’s so warm. So beautiful.

I press against him and he presses back. I feel his short lashes against my cheek. His kiss breaks off from mine, and returns one just where his fluttering lashes had been. He smiles, nose scrunching up, and it’s a weight off of my shoulders. I slump forward against his chest and let him pull me closer, rubbing my back and kissing my neck.

I let him, pulling back to his bed as we sit on the edge. Snow’s hands wind through my hair, and he kisses slowly all over my jaw, down my neck.

“Hell, Simon,” I breathe.

“Simon,” he murmurs against my throat, and I can feel his smile. “I like that.”

“What?”

“You're calling me Simon.” He gives me another kiss as I roll my eyes. Then a frown. “Urm—”

“Hungry?” I suggest. His frown deepens, as he nods.

“Don’t want to stop.” 

I feel my words catching. He doesn’t want to stop . “It’s o—it’s alright Sn—Simon,” I correct, watching his grin reappear in my moment of fluster. “We’ll get some breakfast, then come back up and… figure this out?”

“Breakfast sounds nice,” he agrees. “But what’s there to figure out?”

I stare at his blue eyes. Then the rose of his kissed lips. 

“I’ve already figured it out,” he shrugs, grabbing the back of my head, and pulling me in.

Penny

Baz is sitting with his minions, as usual, but he seems distracted. So does Simon. He’s only had one scone so far, which by normal standards, should be enough. But not for Simon. 

They keep looking at each other when they think nobody’s paying attention, then blushing and turning to their plates when they catch the other’s gaze. 

“Simon,” I start. He looks up, dropping his butter knife that he’s been tapping to his newest scone against his plate with a clattering sound.

“Yeah?”

“Everything okay?”

His eyes flash back to Baz, who seems to be having a heated discussion with Dev and Niall. Maybe they’ve caught on to the same thing I have. “Why do you ask?”

I’m not sure he knows that I saw him this morning, curled up beneath Baz’s arms. He was half asleep, and I can’t see how Baz would have brought it up with him. But I also can’t see how he couldn’t have.

“Baz.” That's all I need to say. His face turns the same colour as his jumper, and he looks away.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something, if you’re looking like that at a mention.”

“Why were you there?” he asks. Now it’s my turn to blush. 

“Agatha saw you come back. She told me, and I wanted to see you. I didn’t expect to see that.” I can’t believe he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t tell me himself. But now I understand, with the way he’s been carrying himself today.

He does the same thing that I’ve just done. “I didn’t expect it myself.”

“So?”

“So,” he begins. I haven’t tried to get involved in all of the Baz nonsense in years, but this—well, it feels necessary. We’ve been against Baz for years.

“So I got back. Cut to ribbons. And Baz helped me clean up and bandage and all.”

I nod, urging him on. 

“And I—I don’t sleep well on my stomach. So…”

“So you let Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, your arch-nemesis, your evil roommate, the supposed vampire, hold you in your sleep.”

He’s red again, nodding. His hand rests on the back of his neck, burning scarlet. “And now…” He just sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Did anything happen?” I ask, taking a sip of my tea. (A mistake.)

He tears his fingers through his wild hair. “We made out.”

My tea comes up through my nose, and Agatha (who is only just walking into the dining hall) glares at me, turning back around.

“What about her?” I squeak, pointing at Agatha’s retreating back. 

“We don’t, um… We kinda took an extended break before I left. She said she didn’t want to be my prize for beating a supervillain.” He shrugs, and my jaw drops. Snogging Baz and breaking it off with Agatha.

Fuck a nine-toed troll.

“So…”

“So I don’t know. We’re snogging.”

He shrugs, and then is obscured by a tall shadow. Baz.

“Snow, may I have a word?” he sneers, hands on his hips. 

Simon looks nervous. Embarrassed. “Um—sure.” I meet Baz’s gaze, and he nods at me. Just as evil as hours before.

Baz

I don’t even think once I’ve gotten Snow from the dining hall. Just pull him to me, letting my back crash against the brick wall as he snogs me senseless, breaking off just long enough to tell me he wants this. 

“Whatever this means,” he mumbles into my mouth.

“Cuts and kisses,” I reply, leaning back in.

“Well, I don’t want the injuries,” he winces, fingers chasing hair from my face. “Unless it means you’re the one patching me up.”

I don’t tell him that I would. That I’d hold him through it all, nurse every wound. 

I’m stupidly in love with him. I don’t say it.

But he hears me anyway.

And we do. We get this .

It turns out, there is more than one way to kiss it better.