Work Text:
Later, he won't have an explanation for what happened. Not just the moments before he fell asleep, before they took Simon away to the infirmary. No, it's the earlier ones. Namely, draining a deer in broad daylight.
It's one of those things you can't really explain. A thirst that crawls into your bones and hollows you out and drives you senselessly through the world, arms outstretched for someone to catch you, aching with cold.
There's not a way to describe your soul being scooped out and the kind of desperation that comes with substituting it.
He's not proud of it, never has been. He knows when Agatha looks at him with distant revulsion that no matter how much he avoids it, what he is will always come to the surface.
His face, smeared with blood. The deer, quickly spelled away yet still lingering, because if Baz wipes his face his hands will be covered in blood and that simply won't do and he's too scared to even think about spells. Agatha, staring at him like she's just caught him changing.
Maybe she has, in a way. The sunlight through the trees is revealing him in grotesque detail and he hates what he sees.
"Agatha." He says it softly, calmly. Like they're just in the middle of studying. "I don't see the need to discuss this, do you?"
In reality, his stolen blood is running cold—faster than usual. His head is pounding; he didn't have enough, he's never had enough…
And all it will take for it all to be over is a shout from Agatha. He won't even fight back.
(He might, a little, for the Pitch name. But not enough to make a difference. The last thing he wants is to prove once and for all that Simon's been right all along. That he really is evil.)
(Besides, he knows enough about destiny now to know he hasn't the energy to stop it.)
But to his surprise, Agatha doesn't look angry or accusatory. She stares at him with sad eyes and murmurs, "I don't—"
"Get away from my girlfriend you monster!"
It's Simon; golden-skinned and fire-eyed, the asteroid of a boy barreling through the trees. He looks angrier today than he has in a while, supernova-bright.
Baz stands straighter and lets him come closer. It's an odd fascination to see him so worked up, so full of life. Not that Baz ever wants this rage turned on him.
"Simon, he wasn't doing anything." Agatha turns away from Baz, goes to stand between them.
"What did he do to you? Did he thrall you. Did he bite—"
"Circe, Simon, are you insane?"
"No!" He pivots on Baz, coming up from behind and completely bypassing Agatha's attempts to stop him. Baz winces, but then Simon is gripping his arm and his hand is warm and rough.
It feels like sparklers. Dangerous and bright and electric. Can't Snow feel it?
Is it really just him?
"Listen here, you little—"
He doesn't have time to finish. The air picks up like a twister and takes them both away.
…
Baz feels it immediately, the pain. Deeper than he's ever felt it—deeper, even, than when he Turned.
The world is finally making him pay for what he's taken without giving back. He's finally suffering for taking up space that could've been better used.
He always knew. But it's different to feel it, the dry sucking, the remains of his soul scoured away til there's nothing left…
His knees are giving out beneath him and he's on his back now and he can hear voices. Simon and Simon. A younger Simon. He doesn't question it. Just closes his eyes.
He's not sure why the Humdrum never crossed his mind. Maybe because he was rarely with Simon when the Humdrum attacked, or maybe because they've never really seen him in person. All Baz can think of is that maybe Simon finally figured it out and this is his way of bringing him to the Coven. Or maybe he'll exact his own retribution on Baz.
He wouldn't do that, would he? He's kind, he's good.
But not to Baz. Never to Baz.
He shivers as the cold steals a little closer. At the pain in his skin, the screaming of his veins, he blinks alert and looks down at his arms.
They're covered in blood, being pulled sluggishly from his skin. Streaming down over his fingers.
This must be what it feels like. To be drained.
Baz feels himself choking. His throat closing up. He doesn't know what to think, whether he should be angry at Simon or succumb to the fact that he deserves this.
He's nothing if he can't contribute to something outside of himself. If he can't live the way everyone else does.
He closes his eyes to the nausea and vicious pain in his stomach, to the sharp hunger of the air bleeding him dry, to the smell of cinnamon and butter—
Wait, no. Why is Simon bleeding? It shouldn't be happening, he should be safe.
Baz has to reach up and touch his teeth just to convince himself he's not the one hurting him like he's always been afraid of. Pinpricks fill his vision and his head is lolling against the stone and he tries to say Simon's name but he really can't find the effort and it's dark again.
Dark, dark, always dark.
…
Baz is passed out.
Simon doesn't know how it happened. He was too distracted by the Humdrum and now Baz is on the ground, covered in blood—more than before—and he looks pinched like the rats Simon found in the He stares for a moment, overwhelmed with the revelation that the Humdrum is taking his form, unsure how to proceed, before snapping back into the moment.
He turns away from Baz for a moment, scrapes together all the magic in his being—feeling it trying to wriggle out of his grip like a rebellious cat—and intones, "I wish I could fly."
Wings burst from his shoulders. Feather people bone. Simon breathes a sigh of relief and turns to Baz. He's awake now, looking up at Simon.
He looks desolate.
He opens his mouth to speak but can only croak. Giving up, he sinks back against the ground, closes his eyes, and lifts his hand in a sardonic wave.
"What? But I'm not leaving." Simon says. "I mean, I am, but—"
Baz shakes his head. "Go on," he whispers.
Simon kneels down, staring at Baz in horror. He's never seen him so hurt—Baz is invincible, lofty, untouched. Like some kind of evil saint.
Except right now he doesn't look very nefarious.
Why does it hurt so much seeing him like this?
Maybe it's the blood seeping its way through Simon's skin.
"I'm taking you with me," Simon growls, "whether you like it or not."
He leans forward, pulls Baz into his lap, and launches himself skyward.
Baz goes to scream but his voice is shot, and normally Simon would laugh but it doesn't seem right. Not with Baz so gray.
He chances a look down at Baz's face and feels his breath being sucked away by the look of pure longing in his eyes. He has his head tilted up to see Simon's face, and his eyes are slowly softening as his lips part just so.
They cast toward the Wavering Wood. It hurts to fly for this long, but Simon doesn't mind because he's still transfixed by Baz's gaze.
He shouldn't even be looking. He feels like he's intruding on some kind of private, forbidden moment. Baz's face is open and bleached of all concealment, and beneath the pain are notes of something Simon recognizes with a twinge in his heart but can't quite name.
Faster than he'd expected, Baz lunges forward to grab at Simon's cross from where it's resting beneath his shirt, and Simon's only just quick enough to crane his neck out of the way. Baz keeps reaching, frantic.
"What are you doing, lunatic?"
Baz mumbles little fragments. "—could hurt you… never felt like this… need to control it… monster…"
"I—you're not making sense…"
"Simon," he chokes out. His eyes are squeezed shut. "I'm hungry."
It's such a simple, exquisitely painful statement. Pierces Simon's heart just like any spear.
He knows how it feels. To be constantly in scarcity. To want fruitlessly, to feel yourself wasting away.
His arms are busy with holding Baz to his chest, so he ducks his head to try and see the wounds. They seem to be everywhere, but they're only bleeding a little. Normally, this would be good. But Baz is covered in blood. He looks wrecked.
Looking away from the road—they're not very well in the sky like the airplanes, now are they?—was a mistake. Simon barely saves them from catapulting into a tree, and flails his wings wildly to get them back on course. Baz cringes.
"Sorry, sorry!" Simon says quickly. "Just—Baz, are you with me? Please stay with me."
"I…" Baz has his eyes blown as wide open as they can go. He keeps squeezing Simon's torso, reflexively, every few minutes. He doesn't mind. Whatever keeps him awake.
(Why is he thinking this way? Wasn't he just angry with him? About…
He can't remember anymore. It all seems so pointless now.)
Simon sees the moment the fight leaves Baz. His limbs slacken and he groans, "I can't," before slipping under.
Simon doesn't hesitate. He swoops slowly down to the floor, alighting in a wooded area still hundreds of miles from Watford. Hopelessness begins to slip in at the edges of his consciousness, but he refuses to listen. Just holds Baz's icy hands in his.
"Baz. Baz Pitch, wake up, coward."
Nothing. He squeezes tighter, then touches the still slowly-flowing blood on be arm. He can see where the veins have gone black. Probably a vampire thing—
Simon swallows, feeling sick. The blood is cold to the touch, almost icy. That can't be good, can it? Is Baz dead? Is he—
Baz makes a small sound, a broken thing, and struggles to open his eyes.
"Oh, thank magic, oh Baz…"
He can't breathe. He can't breathe.
"I want to go home," Baz whispers.
"We will, but we have to call you an ambulance—"
"No!" Baz buries his face in Simon's chest, then pulls away just as quickly. "Simon."
Why is he the one Baz goes to for protection?
What has Simon been missing all these years? Was it a bigger plot all along? Was there even one to begin with?
Baz's eyes are fixed on Simon's arm. Simon looks down to see that he hasn't been spared; he's still bleeding freely. It's making Baz tremble in little bursts, fine fragile tremors that break Simon to witness.
"Baz…" His voice is hushed.
"Go, Simon. You need to leave right now."
He pushes at Simon weakly. It feels like nothing more than a gentle tap.
"Baz, stop. No, I'm not—I'm not leaving you in the middle of the woods! Have you truly lost your mind?"
"Tired…" Baz sounds it, too. He goes limp in Simon's arms. "Too tired… I can't concentrate—"
"You don't always have to frickin' concentrate, Baz, it's not the Elocution exam! Just. Just trust me!"
Baz laughs huskily. Blood dribbles down his face. "You don't understand anything, Simon, even after trying to convince everyone for years, you still don't get it—"
And maybe he's right. Maybe Simon's been seeing what he wants to see all these years. A boy above everyone else, a boy unconcerned with his presence. A boy Simon had only ever wanted to look at him.
"Just—shut up, alright? Stop talking. You're wasting strength."
"Oh, sorry that not all of us can be the energizer bunny—"
"Baz, just—stop, just look at me… can you do that? Look in my eyes."
Simon cups his chin in an effort to get him to comply. His eyes flutter closed and, just for a moment, remnants of his earlier openness glimmer over his face. He looks at Simon for a brief moment before his eyes unfocus.
"I have an idea," he whispers. "I would try casting spells but you don't have enough blood in you to keep your heart beating. It wouldn't do anything; I'm pretty sure magic can't just create blood. Or maybe mine can—"
Simon can feel Baz's gaze like a physical tug, fixed on his face again. He looks down to meet it.
"You're going to drink from me," he says, voice shaking a little. "And it's going to be fine because you aren't going to take too much because you need me."
It's a testament to Baz's state that he doesn't respond to any of this verbally. Just turns his face into Simon's hand and begins to cry.
Just a thin stream of tears carving their way down his face in silent dismay. Simon watches paralyzed for a moment before speaking. "Hey, you don't have to be all upset about it. I'm sure you'd prefer Agatha but she's not here, is she?"
He'd actually been trying to make Baz smile, or agree, or get angry. Something normal between them at last, something to remind him of what they are. But Baz only cries harder.
Blood runs down Simon's fingers and into Baz's slightly open mouth. Baz gasps as it hits his tongue.
His grip on Simon's hand tightens marginally.
"Pitch?" Simon says, a little tremulously. He's not proud of it, alright? But there's just something so singularly poignant, so heart-stopping, so indescribable about seeing Baz like this. He isn't scared—well, he is a little, because he knows Baz could kill him. But there's also… something else. "Are you with me?"
Baz makes a wretched little gasp-sound. "I hate you," he says vehemently.
Simon actually smiles. "Good, because I hate you. Now drink my stupid blood before you die, idiot."
Baz is shaking hard, keeping his head turned away from Simon's hand. "I—are you—"
"No, I'm not plotting—"
"You couldn't plot if your life depended on it—"
"—and yes, I'm sure, Baz. Just get on with it. You won't be able to kill me later if not."
Baz's face crumbles.
"That's right, isn't it the saddest thing you've ever heard?"
He looks at Simon and, for a fleeting moment, seems almost fond. His eyes are on their way to rolling, but there's a little quirk in his lips.
His body spasms, and the ounce of color remaining in his skin drains away. He closes his eyes, makes a fractured attempt at Simon's name, and presses his lips to Simon's wrist.
It's a more intimate feeling than Simon had expected. He's just breathing, mouth half-open, and Simon thinks that in any other circumstances, it could be pleasant…
If they could be like this all the time… close and warm and keeping each other safe…
"Baz," Simon grumbles.
"—don't want it to hurt," Baz whispers.
"It's not gonna hurt you, just—"
When Simon looks down, he sees that Baz looks concerned and nothing more. Why would drinking Simon's blood hurt Baz?
At his confusion, Baz gives a tired laugh and all the tension leaves his body. He sinks against Simon and closes his eyes.
"Don't watch," he says, surprisingly gently. "Count to ten, it'll be over soon."
"I'm not sc—"
Baz's fangs puncture his skin.
…
It's like nothing Baz imagined.
He'd hoped he could be close to Simon while kissing him, or at the least dying in his arms. He hadn't thought it would hurt so much.
But it does. Because he tastes like cider and butter and it's everything Baz will never have.
He takes greedily, forgetting himself momentarily. Thinking Simon would ever willingly give him anything if it wasn't absolutely necessary.
He tips back his head, pulling away, and hums. It's too sweet a sound, too much of the love Baz feels for Simon.
And Simon has Agatha. And Agatha is kind; she doesn't deserve to be hurt. She's everything Baz can't be, and it's not even her fault. She doesn't even know it.
He falls asleep in Simon's arms. Hands clutching at the silky fabric of his shirt. Above the forlorn ache and the inevitable end of the moment, he hears Simon whisper, "there you are, Baz. Nothing to worry about anymore."
He doesn't understand. And he never will.
But his arms are gentle when they pick him up. His blood revives Baz. And it's more than Baz would've ever thought he'd get.
So why isn't he happy?