Chapter Text
SIMON
Baz is lying on his bed, just staring at the ceiling … again. This is the third time this week.
Well, fourth, if you count yesterday when he was actually in the middle of the pitch. Not even wearing his kit or anything. Just lying about on his back and glaring up at the sky like it had personally offended him. (Honestly, what doesn’t personally offend Baz Pitch?)
I’ve had enough of his moping. I take my shoes off right at the door (they’re covered in mud), dump my school bag much closer to his desk than mine (all my pens and several mint Aero wrappers spill out on the floor), and bang around in my wardrobe (a small avalanche of clothing almost takes me out).
Baz doesn’t react. Just curls in on himself and rolls towards the wall.
I briefly wonder if this could be the pact’s doing. We’ve been muddling through our last year together in what Baz has decided to call a “temporary détente.”
“What in Merlin’s name is a date aunt?” I’d asked, before glancing around for Fiona. I needed to make myself scarce if she was going to be showing up.
Baz just rolled his eyes. “You’re an idiot, Snow.”
“Well, I can’t agree to something if I don’t know what you’re on about…” I muttered.
“It’s a pause. To hostilities.”
“So… we should be nice to each other?”
Baz wrinkled his nose at me. “No. More like mutually beneficial neglect.”
“Like I- I pretend you don’t exist?!”
“Aggressively.”
Even if I wanted to pretend Baz away, I’m not sure I could. We’d never been able to ignore each other, no matter how hard we tried.
(Had we ever really tried?)
Baz just raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow and waited. I imagined biting it off his stupidly pretty face, which should have been my first clue it would be impossible to follow through on any version of Baz’s proposed pact.
I agreed to “détente” anyway.
As it turns out, Baz was exceptionally good at ignoring me - because of course. Me? Not so much.
I tried to respect his wishes. I really did. After all, even I could see the wisdom in surviving our last year with a minimum of hostilities. (Or most of it anyway. In the end, one of us won’t.)
For weeks, I was tidy. I was quiet. When he happened to be in the room, we were like two ships passing. Not even. Ships make waves. We were like shooting stars, rare and fleeting.
Even so, ignoring your nemesis/roommate as a strategy for a fragile kind of peace is different than becoming an unresponsive puddle of sadness. These last few days, Baz has been decidedly the latter.
Fuck a détente. I want Old Baz back.
My strategy at the moment? Leaving a catastrophic mess in my wake. I haven’t been so unapologetically Simon in weeks.
Baz just ignores me. Aggressively.
If an unholy racket won’t move Baz Pitch, it’s time to reconsider my approach.
I wander over and poke him in the back. “What’s eating you?”
“Existential despair,” he mumbles into his duvet.
“What?”
“The universe is mocking me, Snow.”
“Did something happen?”
Baz groans and waves me away with a lazy flick of the wrist.
I study him instead. Because his back is to me. Because I can.
Baz’s hair is a mess. Although he’s taken to wearing it in loose, face-framing waves this year, each strand is usually carefully placed. Intentional. Controlled. Now, it seems it hasn’t seen a brush in days. His trousers and shirt are similarly rumpled.
Old Baz would rather go up in flames than be seen even slightly dishevelled. New Baz looks like he’s given up. New Baz looks broken.
“You can talk to me. About whatever it is. If you want,” I offer, sitting on the edge of his bed.
“Unless you have a death wish of which I remain regrettably uninformed, kindly relocate to your side of the room, Snow.” I think Baz meant to snarl. It would’ve been, not so long ago. Today, his words sound tired. Like a sigh.
“D’you want me to get Dev? Or Niall?” I try one last time.
Baz snorts and rolls even further into his bed, pressing his face into his pillow. He stays like that the rest of the afternoon.
I know continuing to poke and prod won’t get me anywhere. At some point, no matter how good my intentions, I’ll end up bloody and bruised. Even broken Baz is bound to be ferocious.
The next day, I pick up my old routine instead and follow Baz everywhere. Surely, I can figure out what’s wrong on my own. I’ve always known him better than anyone. All I need to do is watch.
At breakfast, Baz sits at his usual table with Dev and Niall, who are apparently trying to feed each other but making a right mess instead. Meanwhile, Baz just stares into his tea, stirring it over and over without taking a sip.
In Magick Words, we’re reviewing for exams. I expect Baz to show off like the infuriating swot that he is, but he doesn’t answer a single question, too busy staring out the window. When Miss Possibelf tells us to pick partners, Dev immediately finds Niall, and Baz asks to go to the loo. He never comes back.
Baz doesn’t show up for lunch. At violin lessons, every song sounds like a funeral dirge. He spends an inordinate amount of his free time in the library but watching him read is a bore.
While Baz is at football practice, I search all the usual spots in our room: under his bed, in his desk drawers, the back of his wardrobe. I even cast, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” I don’t find anything of note.
I do find every lost sock I’d mistakenly blamed on the Sock Monster. I leave an apology note in my washing for next time.
Days go by. Baz mopes, and sighs, and stares at nothing. No one seems to notice or care. Even Baz’s so-called minions seem oblivious, too wrapped up in their own antics to see his increasingly concerning behaviour.
Baz without his trademark Baz-ness makes me uneasy. Something is wrong.
I’m not sure how to help him, or if Baz will even let me, but I resolve to try.
BAZ
If fifth year Snow was insufferable, eighth year Snow is trying to kill me.
It starts with salt and vinegar crisps. A single bag. Just sitting on my desk one morning.
I refuse to be baited by Snow’s juvenile mischief, so I simply toss the crisps back into my desk drawer and spell it shut. Snow’s shitty magick can barely manage “a light of day.” If he wants to rifle through my things again, he’ll need to demonstrate a modicum of control for the first time in his life.
A new bag shows up the next day. And the next. By the third bag, I realise Simon Snow is gifting me crisps.
This tiny, tender offering immediately wreaks havoc upon my depraved heart. I’m torn between throwing him up against a wall, demanding that he explain himself and offering myself up to him, wrapped in nothing but a bow, so he can have his way with me.
Instead, I settle for gently petting the bags when he isn’t in the room and letting my traitorous imagination run wild. They’re repayment for years of crisp theft. Bumbling peace offerings pilfered from the dining hall. Affordable if odd declarations of true love…
Then, the books start. The Art of Burning. Fire Oaths and Rituals. A Flame’s Promise: Compendium of Power. Surely he doesn’t think I need assistance with fire spells?
I keep the books anyway, hugging them to my chest as I shame eat lust crisps when Snow is asleep.
The books are followed by progressively considerate and deeply unnecessary acts of chivalry. Snow runs ahead of me everywhere and holds doors open, like I’m some A-list celebrity or the fucking queen. He reserves my favourite table for me at the library, deep-cleans the en suite (without magick!), and even keeps our window closed at night.
What in Crowley’s name is happening?
Snow has never once demonstrated any regard for me or my wishes. It’s like he can only feel two emotions when it comes to me: blinding fury and misplaced jealousy (thank you, Wellbelove).
(And suspicion. Is that an emotion? If so, three).
This new version of Snow has been unrelentingly kind…
I gasp.
No.
Snow would never do something so heinous!
My eyes dart to the pile of books on my desk. This morning’s addition, Wuthering Heights, sits on top. Then, my chest constricts, and I have to lean against my chair to remain standing.
Simon’s been stalking me again, stuck to me like a shadow, but it’s felt decidedly different than fifth year. No glares. No smoky, rage-fueled magick. No accusations of plotting. Just thoughtful glances and kindness after kindness after…
I feel my breath turn sharp and ragged.
Is this it? Am I already dying?
Snow must have cast “kill ‘em with kindness” - highly illegal - and meant to lull the object of the caster’s attention into such a deep state of foggy passivity, its victims literally forget to breathe. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. (I’ve wished it on The Mage.)
I collapse on my bed and force myself to take in a deep, steadying breath. In through my nose. Hold. Out through my mouth. I repeat again. And again.
Once I’ve regained my composure, I throw open my desk drawer and take out all the crisp bags. At this point, I have no idea which are mine and which are clearly deranged, lethal valentines from Snow. I pile them up with the books and incinerate everything. (A flame’s promise indeed.)
Lovestruck fool that I am, I decide to spend the night in the Catacombs, lest Snow murder me with a heartfelt goodnight or by offering me a hug.
I magick the little mound of ashes onto Snow’s pillow before I head out the door.
Thankfully, the next day, there are no books or crisps. But, it is my first football match since this nightmare began. I’m knackered, not having spent a night in the Catacombs since fifth year. Even so, I still manage to score all of our points.
I’ve just sent another ball sailing past the poor excuse for a goalie our opponents are fielding when the crowd breaks into a roar. I make the mistake of surveying the stands.
That’s when I see him. Simon Snow. Decked out in Watford green and purple, cheering his lungs out. He’s holding a poster that reads “We ♥️ Baz Pitch.”
(Be still my undead heart.)
Not so long ago, I would have traded eternity for that kind of attention. For just a minute of Simon’s glowing goodness, trained solely on me.
But now…
Well, now it’s excruciating. Wholly unbearable. Another punchline in the ongoing cosmic joke of my life.
He doesn’t exist, Baz. Ignore, ignore, ignore. Don’t let him snatch the life right out of your lungs.
I’m in such a state of distraction, I miss a penalty kick. Then, I twist my ankle when Snow starts a chant that celebrates my skills on the pitch and is also somehow riddled with double entendre. (Surely he didn’t compose that little ditty himself?)
Coach Mac spells my injury away, but I’m too worked up now. I foul several players with my vampire strength and end up benched the rest of the game. We still win, but I’m livid.
Afterwards, I drag myself back to the Catacombs. I can’t bear to return to our room and face Snow. Not now that I’ve had a glimpse of what will never be. Or, perhaps worse, of how he plans to finally end me.
As it turns out, death won’t come via the all-consuming flames of hatred or at the end of his magickal sword (ha!). Instead, Snow has opted for the excruciating slow burn of… of what? civility? consideration?
I sob and spiral and scream until sleep mercifully pulls at the edges of my mind. When I finally drift off, it’s to images of blue eyes, bronze curls, and my number in green and white face paint, splashed across my favourite freckled cheeks.