Chapter Text
I turn the page of my Elocution textbook and the door bangs open behind me. I tense waiting for Snow to start some stupid fight over the closed window or something like that. But he hovers near the door and says nothing. Somehow this is worse.
“What do you want, Snow?” I ask, making my tone unaffected. It’s a complete lie, he could never not affect me.
“I’m sorry? I-” he stammers. He’s always stammering. I wish I could hate it. I wish I could hate every one of his stupid endearing traits.
“Spit it out,” I snarl. I’m not angry at him, but at the unfairness of the universe for making me love someone who hates me.
“I don’t understand. Have we met?” he asks. What is that supposed to mean?
“Why are you being such a numpty?” I growl. I whip around to face him. His cobalt eyes wide, almost frightened. I startle, Snow’s never been scared. I’ve seen him kill countless monsters, he’s slayed a dragon for Crowley’s sake! My traitor heart longs to comfort him, to kiss away the worry line between his brows. I cross my arms in front of me.
“I-I’m Simon,” he stutters and he sticks out his hand. I stare at him.
“I know that.” If this is some kind of weird strategy, it’s certainly a new tactic for him. I glance back up to his eyes, but they don’t hold any shadow of ill intent, just honesty and confusion. “What’s going on Snow?”
“I-I don’t know,” he says, “I had a feeling I was supposed to come here.”
“What does that mean?” I urge. He looks so lost. “Did you hit your head or something?"
“I-I don’t remember,” he stutters. Now I’m beginning to become actually concerned.
“Do you know your name?” I ask, trying to determine if his pupils look any different than they usually do.
“Yes,” he replies.
I wait. “You have to say it.” I roll my eyes.
“Oh-erm-Simon, Simon Snow,” he answers, his golden skin flushes beautifully. I curse whatever gods decided to make me gay. And keep my eyes trained on the wall above his head.
“Do you know where we are?” I ask.
“We’re at Watford, I know that much,” he responds, but then his brow furrows, “I don’t recognize this place though.”
“You don’t recognize our room, Snow?” I meet his gaze, unsure what to make of this information. I look around our suite, Snow’s blankets are heaped on his bed and his school books are strewn across the floor.
“Our room,” he repeats. My heart pounds, the way he said “our” with no spite in his voice, no anger. Aleister Crowley, I’m pathetic. Then he says, “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember who you are.”
If hope is a bird, like Emily Dickinson said, then mine is a pigeon, who just got run over by a car. I struggle to catch my breath. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know if I can fix this.
“You don’t remember me?” I try to say it normally, but it comes out hoarse. Snow’s eyebrows furrow again and he reaches his arm out and places it around my shoulders. The gesture is unbearably tender and I have to stand up. If I let him touch me so gently, so lovingly, I’ll shatter. I pace across the room.
“I’m sorry,” he replies. Like that matters right now. “I’m sure you must have meant a lot to me.”
My stomach twists. I feel like I’m going to be sick. I sit down across the room on Snow’s bed. It smells like him, like smoke and blood.
“How-How did this happen, Snow?” I stammer, I never stammer, especially not in front of Snow.
“I can’t remember anything before walking up to this room,” he answers. I bury my face in my hands. I need space to organize my thoughts.
“See what I mean,” I cast and begin to write in the air with my index finger. What you know:
“Let’s see,” I mumble, talking more to myself than Snow. “You know your name.” I add that to the list. “You know about Watford. Agatha?” He nods, and my heart twists painfully. “Penelope? Oh! Penny! We need to see her. She can help fix you.”
His eyes light up and he smiles, “Yes! You’re a genius!”
I flush. “Let’s go find Penelope.”