Archive of Our Own

BAZ

If they’d just fucking install elevators like a normal establishment I wouldn’t have to make this trek over twice a day. Normally the solitary climb up the stone spiral staircase is mindless, almost a comforting routine, running my fingers along the cracks in between the brickish rock of the wall. It gives me time to compartmentalize, really, to prepare myself for whatever bullshit my gorgeous, intolerable roommate has thought up now. On days when Snow and I are good—well, good puts it too kindly, we’re civil–I might even start mentally muddling through my papers and assignments. I never see Snow worry about his courses, for as much as he’s embraced everything Watford, he doesn’t seem to care for the actual school part of it all. He’ll have his praise either way. 

This afternoon I’m not afforded the luxury of plotting against Snow or contemplating schoolwork. My sinuses are on fire. It’s not an unfamiliar smell, certainly; it’s Simon in all respects. The aroma is warm and buttery, enticing, and syrupy, as well as remarkably rosemary-like, with little other fragrance. I noticed it at the bottom of the steps, and it was faint then. It’s simply become more potent as I’ve made my way up.

I must be very thirsty for my fangs to be popping like this and my pupils widening, everything coming into focus like some evolutionary favor. That must be it, the odd tugging in my stomach, I’m thirsty. I drank less than usual yesterday. My preferred catacomb entrance was blocked by a troll I didn’t have the mind to challenge, and something spooked the Wood so bad there were slim pickings. I managed to enchant a few birds to land with Come home to roost! but it must not have been enough, and now Simon’s scent is sending me over the edge. 

I think about just heading back down the steps, finding something to drain so I’m not entirely a conspicuous vampire (I’m sure he suspects, he may even be sure, that doesn’t mean I’d like to give him more evidence), but my feet are dragging in my trainers and my bags are weighing me down. I need a cool shower and some sleep after today. I’ve never bitten Snow before, I will simply continue not biting him. Simple enough!

Here’s the door now, made with old-fashioned iron reinforcements and antique wood that’ll give you a splinter if you rub up against it. As I grasp the doorknob, I prepare to breathe through my mouth and rush to the shower, but it won’t turn. Instead, it shifts under my palm, the bronze magically forming something more facelike. I pull back, one of my less favorable instincts tempting me to hiss at it.

“Password?” asks the doorknob, its bronze face somehow smirking.
I roll my eyes. That’s a cheap spell, from a children’s game--wards against most magic keys. Not sure why Snow’s trying to keep me out though, that’s against the rules. He could be trying to block Bunce, instead, and I’m slightly relieved at the idea that he might bedispleased with her in our tower. (Seriously, she thinks she’s so slick sneaking into my room when I’m not here like I can’t smell her on the sheets.) 

Snow’s scent is so strong I’m sure he’s in there and maybe I’ll be interrupting his private time but I can’t be bothered. Training today was canceled, a cursed gnat swarm swooped in and harassed the whole team, so I’m done early. (Coach took forever to dismiss us, too, I got stung to hell.) Rather than knocking or attempting to play the doorknob’s stupid game, I jam my finger deep into the knob’s “mouth”. 

It gags and says, muffled, “Alright, alright, go in,” forcing my finger out of the mouth-turned-keyhole as it resumes being inanimate.

I crack the door open and it creaks loudly, which needs to be enough warning for my roommate to get decent. I don’t hear anything, no rustling of clothes or call to wait a second. I let the door fully swing open and almost instantly, something drops in my stomach. Like dread, hunger, and fear all rolled into one. I know why, it’s the smell, it’s like Snow’s gone off (and something else in me aches, something I’m forgetting) . I’m prepared to see the entire room in shambles, my poor bed singed beyond repair, but miraculously, everything seems exactly as I left it this morning. (Something I’m forgetting…)

There’s no sign of Snow himself in the room, which doesn’t explain the smell, but I’m so bizarrely relieved to not have to face him in the flesh that I laugh, dropping my bags to the floor. The thud reverberates through the wood in a pleasingly disrespectful way. (Something I’m forgetting.) It’s a rare moment for me to have Mummers House to myself. 

I move forward, approaching my side of the room to grab fresh clothes, when I see it. Him.

Fuck. 

I stop in my tracks.

I forgot. His magic, Snow’s, it’s special — it’s distinct. It's got his smell and more. It fills my nostrils with smoke. Potent as hell; hot, choking, sulfury smoke. Fumes that have been absent from the air since I started up the tower.

It’s not magic in my nostrils, it’s-

Snow’s mess of curly dirty-blond hair is damp from cold sweat, his head resting against the wall, the boy himself slumped over on the floor, blood drip-drip-dripping into the cracks of the wood from seemingly nowhere and everywhere. 

My fangs pop into place, and the first step toward him is entirely involuntary. I find my tongue running across my teeth like an animal ready to pounce, and I have to take a step back, closing my eyes and forcing back the sort of tears one gets from cutting onions.

I should be helping him. I don’t know who hurt him but I’ll save him, I’ll master necromancy and pull him back to my side of the veil if that’s what it takes, and I’ll devour who (or what) ever thought it was okay to harm him. But there’s something inside me, a beast of instinct and thirst, and I worry I won’t be able to control myself.

But is there really a choice here? No, I’ll have to take the chance of losing control. He’s too important. To the world of mages. To his friends. (To me.)

I rush to Snow, trying to understand what the hell happened. He’s in a thin white Watford button-up, covered in red, and it’s torn open, buttons discarded or broken off, revealing his chest. I wince in sympathy, a finger nearly tracing his map of scars from battles over the years, some faded so white it’s evident they’re from even before he arrived at this bear trap of a school. Their presence triggers a deeper worry in my stomach but those scars are healed, they can’t be the source of all this bleeding. No, no , it’s his wrists.

I don’t know how I didn’t clock it immediately, but Snow’s arms, limp and pale at his sides, are slashed open in all directions. Blood has long since filled the gaping ravines within the flesh, it beads through more superficial slits before flowing down and my nostrils flare, but this isn’t the time, I really can’t- I know what finding him like this means but there isn’t time to process yet, I need to save him. 

I stumble on my knees to my jacket on the floor, retrieve my wand, and hurry back to Snow. My first six spells don’t stick, probably because they’re stammered so quickly it’s a jumbled mess of magic and pleas. Finally, an Out, out, damned spot! whisks away the blood not actively gushing, and I can see what I’m working with. 

Oh Merlin, Snow. You could have made this easier on me. 

Most of the blood being gone does truly help, my mind snaps a little more into focus and I feel less inclined to drink the wounded boy dry. 

He stirs against the wall, eyes flickering open drowsily, and I try Hold fast, as gently as I can, willing my magic into him by clenching his hand in mine. It doesn’t seem to help much. The moment my cool fingers touch him, he jerks forward to little effect, his shoulders shuddering. I’d really been trying to avoid touching him directly but I’ve crossed that threshold now. As gently as I can, I take hold of Simon’s shoulders and move him so his head is cradled in my lap. “Rock-a-bye baby…” I begin to whisper-sing, and almost from the first word Snow’s intermittent twitching stops and his breathing evens out. His blackout from shock has shifted to the unconsciousness of sleep. 

Thank Agnes Nutter, my combination of “under pressure,” and “get well soon,” has sufficiently stopped the bleeding and closed the wounds. They’ll still scar pretty badly by the looks of things, but there’s only so much I can do.

I feel quite out of breath now. I don’t know if it’s from rapid-fire spell casting or the panic of finding Simon like this in the first place. Perhaps both. He’s okay now, at least. If okay is possible like that, if… if he wasn’t trying to do anything permanent. He’s alive. I can work with that. It’s all I need.

There’s more to do, but for now, I murmur “Kiss it better” under my breath before planting a soft kiss on Simon’s forehead. I didn’t pull for my magic then, but I still think it helped.

SIMON

I don’t remember going to sleep... 

I don’t remember changing into fancy floral print silk pajamas.

I don’t remember tucking myself into Baz’s bed.

I don’t remember tying my wrist to the headboard. (I tug on it, and it’s firmly secure. No use struggling, I can sense a magic bind when it’s right in front of me, and it seems like way too  much effort just now.) It’s hard to wrap my head around things when everything feels so hazy and confusing. Certain details tug on me with urgency, but as I reach for the thought it slips from me. Even as the room becomes more solid and grounded around me, exhaustion pulls me away again.

I definitely don’t remember wrapping plain white bandages around my wrists. They’re tight enough, running from the base of my hands to my elbows, that I’m almost scared they’re cutting off the circulation, but my fingers aren’t purple.

So what do I remember last?

…

Oh.

I’m not ready to reimagine Baz finding me like that, so I’m glad when sleep takes me.

BAZ

 I’m off the grounds the moment dusk hits, and I wander the Wavering Wood for much longer than anyone should. I know someone should be with Simon now but it can’t be me. Not with these fangs, the smell of fresh blood all over him, or the way he looked like something I’d hunt. 

I need to process and I need to feed. When I return, the clock in the banquet hall shows it’s past midnight. I sneak upstairs and breathe a sigh of relief when Simon Snow is still resting, restrained in my bed. 

The enchanted rope was maybe a little much but I wasn’t going to take any chances, and with how hard my sleep spell hit him I don’t expect he’ll know it was there before it’s off. 

I grab some spare pillows and blankets from my closet to make a bed on the floor beside Snow. It’s far from the luxury of sleeping accommodations I’m used to but I would feel weird using his bed, and it feels safer for him if I’m as close as I can be. Just before I close my eyes, I spot the blade discarded under Simon’s bed, and my stomach drops for the millionth time in this ordeal.

SIMON

The moment I wake up I tug at the rope again, but it’s no longer there. I clumsily slip out of bed, then regret it. My steps are shaky, my head feels unbalanced, and my vision fizzles to black when I stand up. I grasp the bedpost for support and blink rapidly, my heart beating fast. The exhaustion in my bones runs deep enough that I could sleep for another six hours, but I don’t want to risk Baz finding me still in his bed when he comes back. He’s not anywhere in our tower–another moment of relief. I’d like to avoid seeing Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch for the rest of the year if I can. That was mortifying. Hopefully, if I just don’t say anything, he won’t either. We’ve done this before, not acknowledging each other, things we notice about the other… 

At least he’s given me the great courtesy of not being here, not staring at me the way he does. I couldn’t take pity from Baz, assuming that’s what my actions have gained. Pity would be better than further disgust by a slim margin. I can’t believe he found me like that. I don’t know what to say. It’s not the first time I’ve wanted to go to the Mage’s office and demand a roommate change but it’s the first time it’s been entirely my fault. 

Still, if I can pretend not to notice when he got stabbed by a goblin and barely flinched, he can pretend to forget any of this happened. 

To further the illusion of nothing having transpired, I make his bed as meticulously as I can; smoothing down every wrinkle and tuck in the sheets. I doubt it’s as good as when his maid does it in Stuck-Up Pitch Manor, but at least I tried. 

I move slowly at first, drowsy and weak, so hungry I’m reminded of the children’s home I’ll return to in the summer. Then I hear the bells: two strong tolls magically echoed across the castle, indicating I slept much longer than I thought, and I scramble to find a clean uniform. Oddly enough, the one I was wearing yesterday is hung up inside the closet, clean as a whistle. Today I’m grateful for Watford’s long sleeves, even in this heat.

I don’t have time to consider what Baz could possibly get out of making sure I have something to wear as I lace up my trainers and stumble down the spiral staircase, wand precariously stuck in my hair. When I arrive at the bottom and exit the building, the traffic of students is so intense I feel faint again. There’s chattering from all sides as the various species of Watford pupils make their way to class, the field, the lunch hall, or their rooms. I back myself up against a stone wall and wait for the crowd to pass, breathing slowly as the guidance counselor always recommends. I’ve already missed most of the days’ classes, what harm is it to be late to Elocution VI? (A lot of potential harm, actually. I’m quite close to failing.)

Eventually, the mass of kids dwindles and I make a beeline for Professor Juniper’s classroom across the square. It’s a large room–a repurposed chapel–with a tall ceiling and stained glass windows and plants creeping down the walls. It’s empty, too, save for Professor Juniper deep into a book at her desk and a few straggler students finishing tests or gathering their books. I feel weirdly exposed walking down the aisle between columns of student desks to talk to my old teacher. 

Despite her name and the general shrubbery and flowers in her classroom, Professor Juniper is not an herbology teacher, but my remedial literature teacher from my first year. She’s a large woman with dark curly hair she wears naturally, and she’s married to a Normal woman named Eliza who believes her wife teaches at a hyper-religious college. She’s tied with Miss Possibelf as my favorite teacher and she’s one of the few adults I can actually rely on.

She looks up from her book just as I sit in the chair across from her and pull it towards the desk with a screech that echoes through the room.

“Aw hey, darlin’, you feelin’ alright?”

Oh yes, and she’s incredibly American. Southern, specifically. 

“Simon?” she asks again. “What is it, roommate troubles? Or something with Penny?” She’s perfectly genuine, leaning forward in her chair and frowning sympathetically.

“Uh-” I ruffle my hair in the front, nervously. “The former, mostly. And I was…” I feel bad about lying here, but saying I slept past noon on a Thursday will prompt more questions than I can handle right now. “I was in the library revising for a test so I missed lunch and I was wondering if-” 

“Oh, don’t you say another word!” she interrupts me, beaming, before rising from her station and running to a mini-fridge. “The missus baked some scones just the other day –not the kind you love, but they’re good enough, I should think. And I have some soup, too. One sec and I’ll have it piping hot for you,” she murmurs, pulling Tupperware containers out, the sunflowers on her enchanted dress swaying.

I breathe a sigh of satisfaction, still shaky from hunger but glad to know Professor Juniper has my back. She used to always slip me snacks when I was in her class. I’d find them in my desk drawer, or they’d be subtly attached to returned assignments. Back then I was practically malnourished, just skin and bones, and I guess she noticed despite me double layering my shirts and pants. As the smallest kid in my grade who seemingly had a learning disability when it came to magic, I expected to slip through the cracks as I had in the children’s homes. She’s a very big reason why I didn’t.

“Some like it hot!” she casts, brandishing her stubby cherry-wood wand at the bowl of chicken soup with dumplings now in front of me. Instantly, the soup boils, and she makes a disappointed face. “Didn’t mean to make it that hot but er- enjoy, dearie.” She plops a spoon into the bowl and pushes a plate of homemade scones toward me. “And then you can tell me what’s botherin’ ya.”

I nod eagerly (feeling a little foolish for skipping class to have a late lunch with a teacher) and dig in.

I don’t tell Professor Juniper everything, of course. I leave out most of it, which turns the story into a much weaker one, about me passing out and my despised roommate taking care of me. Still, it’s enough for her to understand, and I think she knows there are chunks I’m omitting. 

In the end, there’s not much she can do, but that’s not her job. She just listens while we eat. I know I’ve properly skipped all my classes when the bells ring again at 3, and students start filing into the room.

“Sorry, hun, I really hope you and Basil work that out,” she says again when I’ve finished ranting, before scraping her leftover salad into a omnivorous plant. “I’ve got a class to teach now, sixth years, but y’know I’m always here if you need me, yeah?”

I nod sheepishly.

“Alright, stay safe sweet one,” she adds, pulling me into a big hug.

Walking out of the classroom, I feel… lighter. Threads of anxiety still tether me to the ground, but I don’t have half a mind to sink into the earth anymore. Our conversation was deeply cathartic, as it always is when I visit her, and I ride this high back into the courtyard, even daring to smile. Then, like a balloon popping, my heart sinks when my eyes meet Baz’s, and the bustling crowd of fellow students seems to freeze.

If looks could kill, the world of mages would be out of a chosen one. I watch his gaze harden, something unrecognizable in his eyes. He does a strange motion with his hand, like a beckon but awkwardly non-commital, so I’m not sure if it’s directed at me or not. As suddenly as it happened, the swarm unfreezes, our eyes unlock, and Baz whips his hair out of his face and slinks sideways into our tower.

BAZ

I hope he’s following me. I hope he understands why I need him to. And I hope he’s not too close behind.

I’m sprinting up the steps, my mind racing. This is all I’ve been able to think about today. To be fair, I’m normally pretty mentally occupied by Simon, but not so desperately that I can’t concentrate on schoolwork or talk to Dev and Niall when class is a bore. My spellwork was atrocious today and every time Simon’s name was called for attendance, I flinched. We have so many classes together this year… I could feel Bunce glaring at me from across the room, convinced his absence was my fault. Maybe it was, I don’t know. I spelled him pretty hard. 

He was still snoozing when I checked on him during lunch. Not much of a sleeping beauty, Simon is. It was nice to see his eyebrows unfurrowed and his mouth not in a frown, like for once he felt safe around me, but watching him drool onto my pillow ruined the effect. 

I checked his wounds then, gingerly. We don’t touch each other much, not since we stopped directly hurting each other. We had a string of duels in the third year and a particularly bruising altercation in the fourth, plus all the conflicts before then, but now I just try to stay out of his way. It felt like I was doing something wrong, touching him. Something forbidden. My stomach did somersaults and I don’t know if it was the gay panic or the fear that he might wake up that very moment and stake me with my bedpost. A valid reaction, probably. When have I ever been over him like that and not been trying to hurt him?

I didn’t touch him any more than I needed to (I was tempted to brush his cheek, to put a hand through his hair, to make sure he wasn’t hurt any other places). I just rolled up his sleeves tentatively and made sure he hadn’t bled through those bandages. 

He murmured something then, and something foolish in me wished he was calling my name. But what sense does that make? Why, in any world, would Simon want me? Not that there are many other names for him to call, in pain and spelled asleep. He’s practically as alone as I am in this world. One of the few things we share in common.

Seeing him across the square today, it felt like I’d found a ghost. He’s so pale lately, and he moves lightly, almost gliding on the tiles like a doe trying not to call attention to itself. I wonder if he’s eating enough, if that’s why he looks so small. Is there anything I can do if he isn’t? Maybe tell Bunce? I don’t know how to help this boy when he glares at me like I’m nothing–or worse, like I’m something despicable. Baz Pitch: untrustworthy and irredeemable. Of course, I haven’t given him much reason to feel otherwise about me.

Is it better to be a pebble in someone’s shoe or a thorn in their side? All I want to be is his, in whatever way I can be, in whatever way he needs me. If that’s dead in his path, I shan’t complain. 

SIMON

It takes too long for me to muster up the willpower to follow Baz to our room, and I hope against hope that he’s gotten tired of waiting and left, somehow. There’s only one entrance to the tower but he’s so much more skilled with his spells I’m sure he knows a way to slip out undetected.

When I do head up the steps, I hesitate before I go into our room. It’s funny how much I miss it in the summer–the space, the bed, the window. I don’t even really mind the concept of having a roommate (it’s better than being shoved in one room with a dozen other kids) I cherish finally having enough room to breathe. And now? I’m simply dreading entering like it’s going to eat me whole.

I let the door swing open and immediately set my eyes on Baz. I can tell from his stance he’s been pacing–he does that a lot–but he stops and backs himself up against his armoire. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the way he brushes off his shirt and runs a hand through his hair is a nervous mannerism. But I do know better, and I’ve prepared for this conversation.

I purse my lips, nodding slightly at him, and go and sit in my bed. I’m facing his side of the room but with a less confrontational posture than him.

“Snow,” he begins quietly, with a careful, reserved tone.

I look at him again, intently for one second, then eyes back to my hands, wringing them together.

The room is so tense I can hear Baz’s slow inhale, before a blunt but tasteful, “So. You do that often?”

“What?” I ask. And I’d thought I was prepared for this, I really did. I was going to be defensive, but like I have nothing to hide, yet still not encouraging the conversation. I was going to sound strong and denying, skeptical, even, because I just want to move on. The word that passes from my lips is nothing like that. It’s quiet, quavering in the middle, and it makes me sound small. Weak. I say it again, “What?” and this time is even worse, like a mouse’s squeak (or a rat’s squeal.) 

Baz is silent, and I feel my face go red, because what if he couldn’t even hear me? And how pathetic would that be?

I wait for him to sneer, to laugh, to ask if I’d had “Cat got your tongue?” cast on me, to use his patronizing tone that says I am completely irrelevant. A worthless excuse for a chosen one. A waste of space.

And it doesn’t come.

Instead, he matches my quietness. “I asked…” he begins again, inexplicably softer this time. He’s moving closer to me, I’m worried he’ll try to touch me (I’m not sure if I would flinch, hit him, or cry), but instead, he sits down in his own bed across from me. “Do you do that often?”

I want to try again with the denial. The strength I’m trying to pretend I have. I attempt a scoff. It sort of chokes out of me, and sounds more like the beginning of a medical emergency. Fine. We’re doing this.

“No…” I begin, a little louder. “I don’t normally pass out,” I add, and I’m pleased to hear it louder with the matter-of-fact tone it was intended to have.

Baz frowns, and I try to work out what’s going on in his head. He’s already surprised me three times.

 1) When he found me, he saved me. 

2) He took care of me beyond making sure I didn’t die. 

3) He wants to talk about it.

What might he say next? I’m flying blind here, there’s no predicting it.

“I mean the… the actual action of it.” he clarifies. 

I do my best to look clueless.

“The self-harm, Snow. Is that frequent?” Hints of impatience slip through.

I shrug. “No, I wouldn’t say so.” I don’t actually know why I’m being honest here.

Oddly, Baz seems to breathe a sigh of relief, and he looks less tense in his shoulders. “So it’s a rare thing?” he asks, talking faster now. “And you won’t be doing it again?”

I raise my eyebrow, aware it’s a mannerism I picked up from him. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then… then what do you mean?”

“It doesn’t really matter, Basil.”

“It does!” he insists, exasperated.

“No, no, because I’m sorry you found me like that, and I guess thank you for not letting me die, but it’s not your problem,” I stop to breathe, flushing at the volume of my voice. “It won’t be affecting you again.”

The look on his face… You’d think I’d cursed his mum’s soul. 

Baz rubs his temples, slowly, and I recognize the motion as him trying to keep his cool. I wish he wouldn’t. If he would get mad, lash out, get close to hurting me somehow, I could intervene, stop us both, and it would be like any number of our fights. Neither of us would bring it up again save for blackmail when we need something. 

“I don’t want to bury this, Simon.”

He said my name.

“I’m going to understand this, somehow, and I want you to cooperate with that.” 

He pauses, looking to me for… something. Validation? Connection? Understanding? Those have never been our strengths. I try not to send vitriol his way, only because I think he’s actually trying to be genuine here. I may not know why but… it’s not bad, I guess.

“Okay?” he asks, gently again, and I’m shocked to realize he’s gotten so close to me now. Still technically seated in his bed, but pushing forward, so our knees nearly knock together. God, so on-task he is. No wonder he beats me at everything, he really will not let this go. Something shifts in my gut, looking at him now, and I dart my eyes back to my shoes.

“Okay.”

BAZ

And that’s progress, baby. 

I did have things I wanted to ask him. Specific things, questions I’m sure would make him uncomfortable but I was so desperate for the answers. I decide to hold off on some of them now, observing Simon Snow as subtly as I can. 

He looks more open now, thank god. He was doing this thing when he first came in, like a whole different person, all mysterious and angsty. Please, this is a boy I’ve seen with butter on his nose weekly. He’s not secretive. Well, he doesn’t have many secrets, I mean. (I hope.)

Now he’s more like himself, if a little deflated. Sad. But he’s not pretending to be someone he’s not. I watch Simon tug at his sleeves roughly, pulling them farther onto his hands, before rubbing his left wrist through the fabric. I grimace. Back to it.

“Did I wrap them too tightly?” I ask delicately. I want to apologize, really, but it’s enough for him to see me being concerned. I’m sure being kind would overdo it and slip my mask off completely.

His eyes snap to me, and he forgets his arms. “No--well, yeah. A little. But mine always come undone…” It looks like he’s biting his tongue. I watch him lock onto the floor again. “And thank you--by the way. For not letting me er--”

“Die?” I supply the word. Simon Snow dying is not an unfamiliar thought to me.

He nods, lips pursed. “I thought you would--well, I always imagined you would--I mean,” he stammers. 

It feels like he’s waiting for me to shut him down, but I don’t.

Then the rest of his sentence comes all at once, like a flood. “I always thought if you’d found me like that, hurt bad, you’d sorta finish the job? Or at least not uh, help me.”

I tilt my chin to the side, struggling to bite back a retort. Finally, I manage an, “I’m not that malicious, Snow.”

He doesn’t look like he believes me.

“I’m serious.”

He nods now but is clearly still doubtful.

“I wouldn’t!” I insist. “That’s not my… style.”

Snow scoffs. Literally, scoffs. The nerve of him these days. “My apologies, your highness,” he taunts. “I forget you are truly of a more chivalrous nature.”

I roll my eyes. “Knock it off, Snow. I’m not that much of an asshole to let you bleed out on my floor. Did you expect me to just leave you? Hurry off to the catacombs and hope I get the tower to myself when you’re gone?”

He moves his head from side to side noncommittally, then nods a little shamefully. “You’ve been saying you want me gone since the Crucible cast us together,” he points out quietly.

I inhale sharply. I want to tell him, “Not really, though,”.  and “Surely, not for that long”. Does he really think I mean it? (Of course he does.)

“I’m just glad you weren’t already dead when I found you.” 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. 

SIMON

Baz really did overdo it with the bandages, but he seems to be watching me so intently that I feel self-conscious trying to adjust the wraps from under my sleeves. Some of this discomfort has to come from the actual cuts (I’ll admit I went too far this time), but all I can think about is the slightly scratchy layers of gauze and the compressive bandage. I elect to cross my arms, which hopefully restores some of my dignity.

Baz does something with his face at this. Like a… smirk? I never know what his face is trying to convey.

I used to think the smiles were always spiteful, but they happen even when we’re alone and I’m not doing anything; I’ll turn around to put on a jumper and see him watching me, lips upturned, or my book will fall on my face late at night and I’ll spot him grinning across the room. Never a smile for me, not at me, but it’s like it’s because of me. Which is illogical. Baz hates me, if he’s not laughing at me what reason is there for him to smile around me?

Then there are the frowns. The scowls. And pouts, too. Basil is an excellent pouter. These faces make a little more sense, though I’m not sure what he has to be so miserable about. Usually me, probably. (I wish it weren’t that way. I don’t know how to change it.)

Baz has also got these lovely expressions he does with his eyebrows,like dances, only entirely unreadable to me. Once, a professor called on Penelope instead of him, and his left eyebrow practically floated off his head. It was marvelous. He was bloody pissed, too. I heard him complaining about the teacher being discriminatory towards the Old Families later, and how his answer was better than Penny’s… (Not that I make an effort to listen to him. I just hear him sometimes and hang back to catch it all.)

Oh, dear. He’s making a different face now. No longer smirking, this is frustration. 

“What?”

“--even listening to me?” 

Oops. “Right. Sorry. Maybe I wasn’t.” So what was I doing? Thinking about his facial expressions? Is that any better?

He sighs. “That’s alright, Sim– Snow.”

He almost said my name again there. 

“I’m trying to have a serious conversation, and to be honest that’s a little hard when you’re too busy undressing me with your eyes.”

“ What. ” Words cannot express my confusion.

By the looks of it, Baz is confused too, partially covering his face with splayed fingers like he’s embarrassed.

He tries to brush it off. “Sorry, just meant you’re studying me so intently but it’s like you don’t see my mouth moving.”

“Oh, yeah, I was a little zoned out.”

He laughs, seamlessly regaining his confidence and sweeping his hair back. “Am I that boring?”

“No, no of course not,” I respond, perhaps a little too quickly. God, that hair.

He quirks his head slightly to the side, and again there’s that incomprehensible smile. “Right, then. Can we er-- talk about what happened? Why I had to save you in the first place?”

That is what we’re here for, I guess. “It’s really not that big a deal,” I begin, putting a hand up before he can interrupt. “Honestly. I lost control and that’s on me, but it doesn’t normally--I mean ever--go that far. Okay?”

He forces a weak smile, like a tired teacher. “Alright then… How does it go normally?”

My stomach drops a little and I feel squirmy. “Uh… I don’t know.” I don’t want to say.

“Try,” Baz says, in the gentlest voice I’ve ever heard. He’s resting his head in his hand and looking at me like you’d look at an incredible piece of art; he’s not overly examining, but almost basking.

The stomach squirms inexplicably shift to flutters. “It’s just stress relief, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“I used to do it when I felt out of control. And then I realized I’m more likely to go off if I don’t do it when I feel like I need to.” I’ve never told this to anyone before. “And when I noticed other benefits, it wasn’t very discouraging.” 

“Did you feel like you might go off yesterday?” Baz asks.

“No.”

Baz raises his eyebrows ever so slightly, and this time I can read the question in them.

“But I was going a little out of control,” I answer. That’s not all of it, and for some reason, I think he can tell. “And I felt alone.” Depressed.

His eyes sort of grab mine, like a spell. “I’m sorry,” he says. I know it’s not a lie.

I shake my head slightly. “Don’t be.”

“Bossing me around has never worked for you, Snow.”

BAZ

What the actual fuck is happening.

I’m really not sure. I don’t have much experience, but I think I might have been flirting a second ago. And I’m not sure why I would ever risk that, or how I could find the words, but the strangest thing is that Simon was almost flirting back. I don’t think he noticed. It’s not the sort of thing he would notice, and anyway, he’s straight as hell.

I think.

It’s probably pretty selfish of me to be thinking about this when Simon’s in pain. When he put himself in pain, and I’m here to find out why. And to stop it from happening again. But when have I ever been good at controlling my infatuation? I’ll be thinking about flirting with Simon Snow the day he stakes me. (For better, for worse, till death do us part.)

I’m not sure how I feel about this at the moment, though. I’d like to stop thinking about it, about him being nice to me, us being nice to each other. It’s confusing, and… distracting. Simon is distracting enough for us both on his own; I don’t need extra feelings on top of that. 

The only real way to restore our usual dynamic is if I start being mean to him. I’m not sure I can. Not when he’s looking at me so softly.

“Do you always do it in our room?” I try, my voice steelier.

He nods hesitantly, acknowledging the change in tone with knitted eyebrows. 

“Bleeding on my floor?” There, some accusation might help settle this. Reestablish what we are to each other. (Which is what, exactly?)

Snow frowns. “I was on my side of the room. Besides--if I were frequently leaving blood around, we both know you’d have found me out much earlier.”

I’m tempted to respond with, “Touché,” but something about the conversation tells me that would be out of place.

“You do it when you’re sad?”
“Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “I guess.”

“Why don’t you just talk to Penelope?” Why doesn’t he talk to me? A stupid question, I know, but I’m right here.

“I don’t think it’s worth her time.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He’s quiet. His eyes show a disconnect. Like he’s not all there. I think maybe he didn’t hear me or didn’t understand my question. And then he says, “Because it’s me, of course.”

I feel a pang in my gut. “Snow, you’re--” My voice is too soft. You’re so important. I stop myself and clear my throat. “No one deserves what you’re doing to yourself.”

He shrugs. “Does it matter?” His face is blank, numb, and empty, but his hands are clenched into a ball over his lap and his knee is bouncing rapidly.

“Yes,” I answer immediately, moving forward before I know what I’m doing. I wrap my hands around his. “Yes, it does.” To me, Snow. Always.

We sit in silence for a moment, and I know there have been a lot of silences between us today but this is the first one where I can feel the air tightening. It only takes a second to recognize it as Snow’s magic swelling, getting ready to pop. I can feel him straining to control it--an admirable effort that rarely works.

“Can I go now?” he asks urgently, rushing out the words. 

I can tell he’s about ready to fly out the window. I think it’s from the circumstances of where he grew up, when he’s threatened he gets this tenseness. A spring in his shoulders and joints, like a bird about to burst from your arms or a cat scrambling out of a bathtub. If he doesn’t get out, he goes off. 

“Where would you go?”

SIMON

He’s still touching me. Like I’m not a ticking time bomb. A reckless, dangerous, ultimately-not-worth-the-trouble piece of magic. 

His hands are cold. (They’re always cold.) And my heat feels radioactive. (We balance each other out.)

I think I’m going to go off. I can hear a faint high-pitched whining drone getting louder, like a missile whistling overhead. And I want to get out of this tower, to somewhere nearby but alone, and I want to go out, like a candle, but with a bang. I always shield myself from the blasts instinctively but… I don’t have to.

Wouldn’t that be something?

Farewell to the greatest mage of our time. He went off and took himself out. They should have foretold that.

I can’t, though, not with Baz still touching me. Holding on. Looking into my eyes and pleading for an understanding we’ve never had. I could try. To protect him from my power, and not myself. But I don’t know how much I’d destroy the tower, and he’s so flammable. (Like I’m not a match. A fuse. Ready to blow.)

I’m not trying to hurt anyone else, but he won’t let me go.

“Simon,” he breathes. 

We’re close enough that everything is a whisper.

“I know that look, Simon,” he says.

I don’t know what he’s saying.

“Don’t pretend you’re alone here, Simon.”

How many times has he said my name?

“Simon, I’m here. Simon .”

He brushes a tear off my cheek, and I hold still like the porcelain goat I gave to Ebb.

I close my eyes, prepared for the boom that I can feel building up. One hand cups my face while another goes to my shoulder, the soft touch prompting some aching I’m not ready to think about. For some reason, I think Baz is going to kiss me. And I’m not half bothered, only that kissing isn’t one of the big things on my mind right now. But he doesn’t. After a few agonizing seconds like this, I feel him pull away. He stands up and leaves, and as if he had been the source of it, my magic disperses. The air feels starkly empty, a little stale. Like going into a cave after spending an hour on the beach. I can still feel my power just under the surface, but it left the air as soon as Baz broke contact.

“Yeah,” he says blankly. He’s turned away from me now. One hand on the bathroom door frame, the other hanging at his side.

I look up to him. “Yeah?” I repeat. When did I start sounding so desperate?

His voice is flat and bitter. “You can go.”

My heart falls as I watch Baz go into the bathroom and I hear him cast “Inside voices, please,” which functionally makes the room soundproof. No use eavesdropping. I know this means he wants me out of his sight.

I feel cold now. Like Baz was the only source of heat. I hug my arms around my chest and stifle a sob. What’s stopping me now? I slide off the bed, hitting the floor. 

This is such a familiar feeling, really. The rejection, the worthlessness, the will to toss myself to the mer-wolves. The only thing I don’t understand is how it’s so much more intense after talking to Baz, like I thought he would help. 

My hand slides under the bed, past hanging sheets, seeking to grasp the blade I always seem to come back to. I feel sick to my stomach when I can’t feel it, and I blindly fumble for it in the dark, eventually searching under the bed fully. It’s definitely gone. 

There are alternatives, of course. I could summon my sword, or even use magic, but in light of that last conversation, I feel guilty expending any more effort on this fucking hobby.

Fine. I’ll take a walk.

I make a point to slam the door when I leave, and I won’t come back till Baz is fast asleep.

BAZ

Holy shit and fuck balls. Okay. I’m an asshole for sure, yeah, we knew that. But Jesus Christ… I’m surprised the building’s still standing when I leave Snow. That wretched look in his eye. Fuck.

The sink is still running, and I splash more water on my face. It’s getting my hair wet and dripping down my shirt but I don’t care. Fuck! I look nothing like a model for a makeup company. But at least this way I can’t tell if I’m crying or not. (My eyes sting, puffy and red. There’s less doubt than I’m pretending to have.)

I feel bad. For not having the right things to say. For not knowing how to say them. For leaving him. For everything. It’s moments like these that help me remember why my love for Simon is so desperately hopeless . Even if we were in another world and we didn’t hate each other and he could love me and I could be happy with him… I would never be good enough.

I always end up so mean.

He was so close to me. I could count every pore, and feel his breath on my face, warm and a little sour. I could hear his heart beating in my ear like a drum and I could smell his magic leaking out of him. I’m too weak, Simon Snow. Too weak for you.

I had to get out of there before something in me snapped and I kissed him or bit him. I never know which would be worse.

I can still hear him out there. Breathing erratically and hopelessly. Scrambling around on the floor like an animal. As always, I want to go to him. As always, I resist.

I sit down with my back to the bathtub and I pretend I’m not crying. 

(I do a damn good job.)

When I come back out the sun is beginning to creep down, orange rays through the ornate window. Snow isn’t back yet, and I pretend I’m not worried for him. 

He’s still not back when I wake up, and I almost scream before I notice his bed’s a proper mess, meaning he at least slept in it. Simon is probably down to breakfast already, and what a relief that should be. That he’s okay. He’s alive, I mean. And if things are going back to normal, it shouldn’t matter that I’ve never been satisfied with normal.

I see him in classes. He looks fine… I guess. I’m trying to be more observant. Not just drooling over him but making sure he’s eating and participating. I think he knows I’m watching, but there’s nothing he can do. Sometimes he glares at me. That’s all. Truly back to normal, and I hate every second of it.

On the rare occasions I spend the evening in our room, Simon stays out late. Like he has a sixth sense for where I am. He comes back when I’m asleep, presumably, and he’s gone before I wake up in the morning. The next time football practice is cancelled, I hear him come up the stairs and press an ear to the door, then go back down because I’m inside. Most nights I hunt, and when I come back he’s snoring, dead asleep.

It goes like this for a few weeks. I find the bandages I’d treated him with discarded in our bathroom trash can, and I know he meant for me to see them. I have them good as new with, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” and don’t mention it. I probably should have just disposed of them, but the thought of him doing this again and me not being prepared keeps tugging at me.

I’m so tired of this, of us dancing around each other. I half entertain the idea of lugging my mattress to the catacombs, the rats are better company. 

Instead, I wait. Desperately. Still watching Simon every time our paths cross, waiting for him to break the ice. Hell, I’d be satisfied if he just stuck around for two minutes in the same room as me. I’m not as petty as him, I won’t stalk him around the school, eager to strike. It’s not a Pitch’s place to woo someone back, it’s shameful for someone of my background to do the pursuing.

My faith in this method dwindles as days turn to weeks. He seems positively disinterested in me. I haven’t heard my name once from the lunch table he sits at religiously with Penelope. No suspicious glances, lingering glares, or stuck-out tongues. You’d think Snow has finally grown up!

I know him better than that.

And then it happens. It’s a normal day from the start. It’s our new normal, at least, for the past six weeks. Only when I get back from the catacombs and climb up the stairs, Snow’s not bundled up in his bed or evading me on the grounds.

He’s waiting at the top of the steps. 

For me, it must be.

And just from him having the higher ground I’m granted the privilege of being able to examine him, top to bottom, without looking like a dick or a creep. (I’m probably both.)

“Basil,” he says quietly. Not his weak quiet, more like he’s surprised to see me and a little bit sleepy. Could he have forgotten he was waiting for me? Or had I merely assumed, when he was really here because he somehow locked himself out?

“Hey,” I say, trying to match his tone.

“Is it okay if we talk?”

I nod. This is the most he’s said to me since the incident. I offer him a hand, and he looks suspicious, eyes darting from my manicured nails to my eyes. I haven’t consumed enough to blush, thank Merlin, but I would if I could. Instead, to try and maintain an air of apathy, I brush some hair that’s come loose out of my face. My hair’s in a bun today, I haven’t had it cut all year. I hope he notices, and likes it. As unlikely as that may be.

He takes my hand, and I help him up.

Snow’s got a sturdy build. He’s not as heavy as you would expect a boy his age to be, but the weight is concentrated. Like a rock in his rib cage, you sort of have to jerk him up. This roughness is met with a scowl, and I consider that perhaps I could have been more gentle. In an effort to smooth this mistake over, I open the door for him. This only proves more awkward, as we can’t both walk through the door at once, and the staircase is something of a narrow passageway. The door only opens inwards, so I have to squeeze past him and walk in first, then hold it open for him. The whole process is humiliating, and I resent my father’s attempts at chivalry lessons. Simon is far too clumsy to be classified as a “lady” anyway, so he doesn’t deserve the treatment of one. 

When we finally are in the room, all in one piece, I’m reminded of how late it must be. The drawbridge was already up when I exited the catacombs, but I hadn’t paid much attention to the sky… Through the window between our beds, I can see the half-waned moon and twinkling stars shining in on us. The crimson curtains are wide open, and the window itself is missing a pane now. A steady draft flows into the room, rustling parchment on my desk and sending ripples through the curtains. I frown. 

There are little shards, bare fragments, of the windowpane left in the frame. But no glass on the floor. Like it was hit by something inside.

“Did you have anything to do with that?” I ask blankly. I’m trying to assume less this time around, it didn’t seem to help me before.

Simon looks abashed and reluctantly shows me his right hand, the one I hadn’t been holding. The candle and moonlight illuminate the smashed-window culprit, and I jump to grab his hand without thinking so I can examine it. It’s not that bad, really. Scratched and a bit irritated, with a couple of lines of dried blood. I grimace nonetheless, always displeased to see him in pain. 

“Why?” I ask after a moment, realizing awkwardly I’m still clutching him by the wrist. I let it fall.

Snow shrugs, wringing his hands together, then nervously ruffles his curls in the front. I try not to smile.

“Dunno, I was… overwhelmed,” he mumbles. “Long day and--I felt like I was going to go off, really. But I didn’t want to, and I didn’t want to do the…” he meets my eyes, I’m sort of bending my head to look at him when he had been staring intently at the cracks in the wood. “The other thing.”

Now I do smile, I can’t help it. He didn’t want to hurt himself. I mean, he still did, with the window, but not so badly… There’s some hope.

I think he can tell what I’m thinking, or at least some of it. Am I that easy to read? 

“Uh--” he sounds nervous now. We’re still standing opposite each other in the center of the room, only I’m on his side and he’s on my side. He’s leaned himself slightly on my bed. Normally I’d snap at him for this, but his absentminded tracing of the gargoyles slows my heart. “Anyway I wanted to… talk to you, I guess.”

There’s something else to that sentence, three syllables barely enunciated, nearly impossible to read in the twilight. I miss you. I don’t think most would be able to catch it, but I can see in the dark. My heart twists. I miss you too, Simon. 

I move to sit on the bed beside me, then realize I would be on Simon’s bed. Which isn’t a big deal, technically, for all the times he’s had Bunce lounging on mine, but it’s the principle of it. I’ve never been on Simon’s bed. I try not to touch any of his things. That’s what we do, avoid. Besides, he always returns to Watford a few days early, I never stay for the holidays, and then he leaves after me too. When would I have the chance?

Again, like he can read my mind, Simon smiles. “Sorry, you’re right. This is weird for us, we don’t even know where to sit. Did you know Dev and Niall have a sofa? They watch telenovelas together.”

“Of course I know that,” I laugh. “How do you know that?”

He grins. “Penny swore me to secrecy. ‘Snitches get stitches,’” He explains, recounting the spell. 

I wince reflexively. That’s dangerous for students, intention is crucial… Still, I trust Bunce wouldn’t actually maim Simon for telling people she snuck in there to investigate the Old Families. (See? I can know things too. And I know she didn’t find anything because there was nothing to find.)

“Anyway,” Snow murmurs, questioning how he got distracted in the first place. “You wanna just sit on the floor?”

I try not to smile, and I think it comes out subtly enough. I nod and toss two of his pillows onto the hardwood, straightening them opposite each other with a little space between, and I sit down, gracefully. I try to be graceful around him, I’m not fond of stumbling into everything like a blinded wyvern like he does.

Snow grins. He’s not trying to be subtle. He’s being nice. And I still don’t know why I’m here. Or why he’s here, I mean. 

He takes a seat opposite me, fluffing the pillow with care like it’s a throne. That’s another thing I like about Simon. He gets hung up on the details. He might not always put it into practice, but he observes things carefully. There’s always something going on behind his crinkled brow and suspicious eyes. “So!” he says it like I’ve done something awkward and he’s trying to move past it. (Maybe I have… I’m staring at him a good bit.) “You said, well,” he rubs the back of his neck. “You asked me why I didn’t talk to Penelope.”

I nod slightly. “Yeah, you er--got some fine self-esteem issues for someone so highly praised.” He grimaces. That must have been the wrong thing to say. 

“I guess so.” He sounds sad. “But… I don’t know how to talk to Penelope about this, or how to broach the subject with anyone, but then it keeps getting worse, and--”

“And?” I don’t know why I interrupt him so.

“I don’t want it to get worse, Baz.”

“Do you want to get better?”

He purses his lips like I’ve asked the same question twice. “I don’t know. I don’t think I deserve better, but,” he shudders. “I’m really tired of hurting. And if it could stop, or at least stop hurting more and more every day, I would… like that.” He looks at me intently. Softly; soft eyes, soft hair, soft skin. His gaze is gentle, and accepting. I’d like to bask in it, the moments when our eyes meet without resentment. The only times I feel at all seen.

I realize he’s waiting for something from me, and I scoot a little closer to him, leaning forward. “I would like that too,” I almost whisper. It’s quiet enough, save for the breeze whistling in through the broken window, I’m sure he can hear me.

Simon blushes then, I’m sure of that too. I just can’t fathom why, even as my stomach twists. I curl my toes inside my trainers and try to keep from biting my tongue. “I don’t know who to talk to,” Simon blurts. But maybe blurt is the wrong word - it’s just sudden, but his words are still smooth and assured like honey.

“We can talk about it. Whenever you want.” It feels wrong to say because I know he would have never assumed I was available or welcoming for that. He’s thought for so long I’m out to get him. Can’t it be both, Snow? Make sure you’re comfortable before we duel for a final time.

 After a second, like the words were buffering in his brain, Simon sighs. He sounds relieved. “Okay. I’m sorry about the window.”

“I don’t care about the window,” I laugh.

“It’s on your side of the room!”

“It doesn’t matter,” I assure him. “We don’t even need to spell it, I have duct tape to use until we can have it repaired.”

Simon pouts. It’s adorable. And I don’t feel too terrible about thinking that.

“I’m more concerned with why you felt so bad in the first place, or…” I mean, I understand. We’ve all been there. “Really just proud you didn’t--” I don’t know the word to use. I think “self-harm” or “cut” would startle him. “relapse,” I settle on.

He looks sheepish, nibbling on his lip. “I figured you’d be back soon, I could try to wait. Er-- lost a little control,” he gestures to the window again.

“It’s okay. It’s better than last time.” I’m trying to sound reassuring, but Snow looks sad at this. “Was that the wrong thing to say?” I thought I was doing so well.

He shakes his head halfheartedly. “Just--I’m not… I don’t. Agh.” He sighs. “Why did you leave? Last time? And you avoided me--”

“You avoided me,” I correct instantly.

“We avoided each other, fine, just… Why, Basil? I wouldn’t have been surprised at the start of the conversation, but by the end, I thought I- god, this is so stupid... I thought I could trust you to stay.” 

He says it bitterly. I guess I can’t blame him. I never should. “I don’t know,” I admit after a moment. It is the truth, despite his skeptical eyebrow. (He learned it from me, I won’t hear anything to the contrary.) 

“You don’t know?” he repeats blankly.

I shrug. (Shit. I think I learned that from him.) “Maybe I wasn’t thinking right. Maybe I was scared, or confused. I don’t know. No offense, Snow, but you can’t point out a reason for half the shit you do. Why do I have to?”

“Because you hurt me.” He states pathetically. Earnestly. Honestly.

“That’s what I’m good at,” I murmur. “But I am sorry,” I add a little louder. “You’re right, it was… dumb. I was freaked out. I couldn’t get the picture of your blood all over you out of my head, and--” And other thoughts about him. Things I should never be thinking. But I do, oh how deeply I feel it. “I didn’t know how to react to you needing me. I freaked, okay? I didn’t punch any windows, but I was panicked.” The words feel bitter in my throat. I’m really tilting the bean can here.

Snow nods, then responds, “Okay.” It’s not a satisfied word, but it’s acceptance, at the very least. “I wanted you with me,” he adds.

SIMON

I don’t know quite why I said that last part. It wasn’t a lie, but it’s only half the truth. I’m still working out the second half. Why I wanted Baz there. Why I refuse to broach this subject with Penny, the Mage, Professor Possibelf, Professor Juniper, Agatha, or my counselor. Maybe it’s just because Baz found out what I was doing without me having to say it. There was no room for me to deny or divert. 

But I don’t think that’s all. There’s something rotten about Baz. A sort of rot I want to spread to me. And I’ve never let myself examine that feeling.

I think I’ve upset him by bringing this up. The part where he left, I mean. It’s weird because I normally expect some flavor of pride when I remark on how Baz has hurt me, and the regretful emotion on his face right now is quite the opposite.

I’ll have to get over it because he’s here now. And I’m grateful. And my hand stings. And my heart hurts. And a cool breeze brushes Baz’s hair to his left, black strands fluttering over his face, and I can see his widow’s peak, I can see his pained smile, and I can see him tilt his head ever so slightly. Because he’s looking at me , too. And isn’t it lovely to be mutually observant?

I think he’s realized how obvious he’s being, watching me. And I think he’s realized I’ve noticed. And for me to notice, I must be watching him too, and… and it just keeps going on in circles, us staring at each other. I don’t know why. I feel it. I want this. To be close, to look at him, and isn’t it nice he isn’t glaring or insulting me? Isn’t it… strange?

I don’t mind.

This weird silence goes on too long, and I’m not sure how to break it. But Baz is, he’s always sure.

“Do you want my help?” he asks all of a sudden.

“What?”

“When you’re feeling bad,” he clarifies simply. “I mean, you waited for me to come back, you didn’t want to be alone. You didn’t want to hurt yourself. Does that mean there’s a--” he pauses. “Like, a service I can provide so you don’t… do it anymore.”

I look down. 

“Snow, I don’t mind. I want to help. Do you… need someone to talk to? Do you need someone to keep you safe? Do you just need someone to be there?”

“Yes,” I say decidedly.

Basil laughs and tucks a stray bit of hair behind his ear again. “Which one?”

Oh. I’m expected to choose. “I don’t know.”

Baz nods, like he understands, even though I’m sure he can’t because I’m not making any sense. “I want you to be safe,” he says simply. “So I’m here. In whatever way you need me. Preferably without having to join the Mage’s Men and fail my classes and have lunch with you and your gal pals like one big happy family, but… If I have to. I’m there.”

I’m shocked by this. Such a sudden betrayal of every value Baz has assured me of since we were first cast together. 

“What are you plotting?” Baz asks teasingly.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been staring into space since I said that. I meant it, Snow. No girly brunches.”

I laugh. “Got it. No girly brunches. But… a truce?”

Baz sighs. “It’s a bit more than a truce, Simon. I’m tired of pretending to fight you. I could handle it when it wasn’t real, but… for fuck’s sake, I’m not trying to bully you until you kill yourself.”

“What? Baz, this is not because of you. Don’t think it is. That’s not… no. We were fine. Mutually hostile and occasionally cruel but fine. Don’t blame yourself for my shitty personal problems. You don’t have to get involved. Really.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m involved, Simon. I’m just asking that it be voluntary. So you don’t have to spill more unnecessary blood, and I don’t have to clean it up.”

“I mean, it’s not that simple, I’m not doing it out of spite--I don’t do it because of you, and I can’t promise having a better friendship with you would stop it.”

“But it might help?”

I don’t know. I look down.

“Wouldn’t it, Simon? To have someone who understands? Who knows about it already, and who can help?”

“I don’t know. I don’t--”

“Shh. Let’s just try.” 

He’s moved much closer to me now. I’ve got my legs crossed, firm in the center of my pillow on the floor, and there is Baz, maybe a foot from my face, on his knees, peering at me. I want to touch him.  What does that mean?

“It’s okay,” Baz whispers. His hand drifts to mine, he clasps it in his. Then, as if I’d spoken aloud he murmurs, “You don’t have to know.” His fingers intertwine with mine, and my breath hitches. His other hand delicately pushes up my sleeve, revealing the healing cuts. I cringe, shame flooding my chest, face flashing hot. I don’t like him seeing them again, but his eyes betray nothing as he slowly traces the raised slashes. When his touch reaches a particularly bad one I turn away, but not before I catch his frown.

“ Simon ,” he breathes. He wraps his hand around my wrist and tugs it up, pressing it to his face. 

I let him. I don’t think, I don’t pull away, I just close my eyes and wait. If he wants to, I know the blood is right under the surface for him to take. Or he could just leave again, let our brief moments of intimacy be forever cut short by his fear.

I feel his cool breath on my skin, his mouth parted a little. I’m sure the fangs are out, and yet--

Baz plants a kiss on my wrist, right where the vein bulges out a little before going into my hand. I gasp, and I see his eyes flutter open like I’ve interrupted something. Despite seeming bashfully aware of any implications I could glean from the gesture, he doesn’t pull away, instead turning his face and dragging it slowly along my palm, curving into my fingers like he’s savoring the touch. 

My heart pounds in my chest like it’s ready to burst, and my hand falls limp from the air once he’s left it. I roughly pull up the sleeve again, not daring to meet his eye, afraid any moment of recognition or speech might jinx whatever that was. Take away the peace before I’ve learned to like it.

Baz tilts his head a little and gives a small smile, in the way that usually means he knows better than I. It’s that stupid familiar expression that breaks down my last wall, and his eyes flicker like he knows this, too.

I let out a stupid sound, half laugh half sob. It breaks coming out of my throat and I hang my head. “Why are you wasting your time with me?”

He rolls his eyes and reaches out, wiping a tear from my eye. His hand stops and cups my face. “Stop asking stupid questions and kiss me, Snow.”

I do.