Chapter Text
Simon Snow wakes up in his bedroom at the top of a tower.
He wakes up in a bed that is an ocean, so large that one could get delightfully lost in it. The bedsheets are the colour of mounds of whipping cream, and the comforter is thick and warm, with broad silk stripes of violet and green.
“Simon, darling!” his mother calls from downstairs. “Breakfast is ready!”
~
The platters are heaped with food. Sausages and perfectly crispy bacon. Cinnamon buns fresh from the oven, with a little bowl of cream cheese icing on the side. Eggs, scrambled and poached. Fried tomatoes, fried bread. There’s cloth napkins and silver cutlery and a china crock of sweet, cold butter, just for Simon. And heaps and heaps of sour cherry scones.
“Good morning, darling,” his mother says, from where she’s sitting at the kitchen island. She’s already poured him a cup of tea, and added enough milk so it looks like caramel. She’s wrapped in a warm, white shawl, her blonde hair is already styled for the day, and her make up is perfect. “Did you sleep well?”
He stares at her. “Mum?”
She pauses from where she’s writing an answer in her crossword. “Yes, darling?”
“I-” He looks like he can’t find the words. “Yeah, I slept like a log.”
“Where could your father be?” his mother asks, sounding a bit distracted. “I’ll bet he comes back sweating like a pig.”
His father comes in just as she asks the question. He’s dressed all in black, in his running gear, and his bronze curls are indeed sweaty.
“Missed you during the morning run, boyo,” he says, tousling Simon’s hair. “Was going to wake you, but you looked like you needed a lie-in.”
“It won’t kill him to sleep in once a while,” his mother says. “He’s a growing boy. He needs all the sleep and the food that he can get.”
“That he does,” his father says. “He’ll need the energy to cheer me on at my match tonight.”
“Match?” Simon says.
“Against Arsenal.” His father clutches his chest, looking mock-offended. “Don’t tell me that our cheering section is going to lose its staunchest supporter?”
“No,” Simon says, and then, “yeah, no, of course - I’ll be there. How could I not?”
“Remember to bring Agatha,” his mother says, approvingly. “Lovely girl. Are you needing the car to take her out to lunch?”
Simon looks from his mother, to his father, to his plate. He looks around the kitchen, around the massive house, as if he doesn’t know what he wants to look at first.
“Yes?” he says, like a question.
“Good,” his mother says, going back to her crossword. “I’ll leave the keys in the usual place for you. Lovely girl, that Agatha.”
~
Simon Snows rolls up to Agatha Wellbelove’s house in his parents' slate-grey Aston Martin.
Agatha comes out the door, looking pretty as a picture. She’s wearing a white pleated skirt and a soft white jumper, her fair hair shining in the sun. When she sees Simon, her whole face lights up.
“Simon!” she calls out. She runs towards the car as if she’s been waiting to see him all day.
~
By the time Simon comes home, his voice is hoarse from cheering. His father’s match against Arsenal was brilliant, and Agatha was right there beside him, cheering. One time, they turned and kissed right after a goal, and she didn’t pull away after a while, the way she usually does.
He’s sweaty from the stadium, from so many bodies, so much excitement, so he hops in the shower to wash the night off. His soap smells of cedar and bergamot -
No, that’s not right. His soap smells like tart green apples, like the crisp edge of autumn.
He sinks into the massive bed, and pulls the green-and-violet comforter over himself.
“Today has been amazing,” he whispers to the ceiling, before he falls asleep.