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"Is this… mine? I mean… all for me?"
It doesn't seem possible. Not after years of scraps and cast-offs. Not after being told constantly that this is all he'll get. Not after the hunger pangs and the ache of emptiness, staring at bakery windows where shopkeepers might show him mercy. Living off change he snatches from pockets. His magic repelling everyone around him.
Little Simon couldn't have understood that there could be another explanation for why nobody would play with him, besides the fact that he just wasn't likable. He tried to give as much as he could because he never felt that anything was his to take in the first place. Like the world itself didn't want him.
And now to be the one who's destined to save it… it doesn't make sense. He just wants to curl up and hope the other kids won't be too vicious (they always are.)
But this? This sumptuous spread of scones and potatoes and dumplings and ham? He just… he can't…
The Mage is staring at his shaking hands. "Yes, Simon. It's yours," he says, none too patiently.
Simon pleads with his eyes. He wants The Mage to tell him this is a dream or give him final confirmation that this is allowed or scold him for his impudence—anything. He wants to devour every last scone. He wants to be held.
The Mage turns away and doesn't look back.
…
Over the years, Simon learns that he doesn't have to pack his pockets full of food for later. That it's not polite to stare at people—well, Baz—suspiciously as if they're going to take it from him.
Nobody's going to take it.
Except The Mage. Because every summer, Simon's body exists on a third of what it should. And every Fall, he has to relearn what it means to be full. And a part of that little boy comes back to school with him. Year after year.
It's not enough. It's never going to be enough.
…
Baz doesn't eat like he should.
Every September, he 'accidentally' leaves his food out for Simon. Keeps his drawers stocked with mint aeros and salty crisps and doesn't even yell at Simon for taking them. Leaves plates out absentmindedly—though he's never done anything absentmindedly before—with little pieces cut out that leave precise knife-straight corners. It's scones and it's butter and roast beef and cinnamon buns and things that Baz doesn't even like. He's always carefully nibbling on a celery stick or sipping lemonade. He doesn't hunger like Simon does.
He's never had to.
Still, Simon knows that humans need to eat, and he watches Baz enough to know that he doesn't eat right. Simon starts bringing things back with him. Peanut-butter on toast, cucumbers and vinaigrette salads. Things he's seen Baz eat and enjoy.
Baz leaves them untouched. His cheeks get hollow and his skin goes gray and Simon knows the effects of hunger when he sees them but for some reason it's worse for Baz, so much worse.
Once, Simon saw him with a steak in the dining hall. He kept glancing up and around to check that someone was looking (Simon suspected it was because he was nervous someone would steal it. That was the only reason he could fathom.) In the end, Baz stared at his plate for a minute before standing abruptly and throwing it away.
It wasn't like Simon could sneak a plate of steak up to their room without admitting he'd been watching. They weren't like that; they didn't do nice things on purpose for each other, and if they did it was only to pretend they hadn't.
Simon watches him with Dev and Niall. Watches him gaze fleetingly across the room at the dining table before shaking his head. Watches him cast his eyes to the floor.
Watches him deny himself joy time and again.
He hates Baz, but food is something different. It's something sacred. He wouldn't wish hunger on his worst enemy, not even The Humdrum.
And it's just getting worse.
…
Fifth Year. They're locked in the room because of an invasive fungus that somehow got loose on campus, and two plates have just been magicked onto their desks. Baz's gaze is unfocused as he stares across the room. Simon flicks up his gaze and catches it just in time, and it's fathomless. The ache, the anguish, the need of it. His eyes are so dark right then—like his hunger is a beast and it's going to eat Baz alive.
"Why won't you eat?"
Baz's gaze snaps back to life—bright, startled eyes skimming the room as he takes shallow breaths like he's trying to avoid a bad smell. "I do eat," he snarls.
"Then eat right now." Simon doesn't know how to distinguish his concern from frustration. He's never been cared for without conditions attached, and often he's the one doing the caring. But not like this.
Baz huffs and stands to turn away from Simon. "So sweet that you think you're obligated to even an ounce of my time."
It stings more than it should. Simon shakes it off, dogged. "Aren't you hungry?"
It comes out more vulnerable than he'd thought. Soft and caught on the pain of his own memories.
Baz flicks a look back at him. His eyes are huge and pained. Lips pinched tight.
It's quiet for a long time.
Then he nods. One sloppy, uncoordinated movement. His chin is trembling.
It shocks him to see Baz like this. Stripped of any decorum, clumsy and miserable.
"Then eat. It's yours to have." Simon says it gently, because he knows how easy it is to forget.
This only makes him look more wretched. "I can't," he says in a low, dangerous voice.
Dangerous because he's going to hurt Simon soon if he doesn't stop? Or dangerous because this topic hurts Baz?
Simon does something he's never done before. In plain sight, he picks up his plate and slides it across Baz's desk. "I ate enough," he says. "And I can spell more."
"That's complicated magic, Snow. You couldn't do it if you—"
"Alright. I'm going to leave. Nobody's going to look at you, yeah?"
Maybe Baz is insecure. Maybe he just doesn't think he deserves it.
Simon's not sure. But he doesn't want anyone to hurt like this. No one should feel guilty for taking what they need.
…
When Simon leaves the room, Baz feels himself buckle forward, a small sob wrenching its way from his throat. His stomach hurts and his head hurts and it all smells so good and he doesn't want it to, he doesn't want to want blood and Simon but he can't—
He can't…
The blood that he drinks runs through his veins and keeps his heart beating but he's stopped eating because it doesn't seem right. Maybe he deserves some punishment, the hollowness in his gut—and that's only small penance. Far smaller than he deserves.
He's never wanted something so much. It hurts.
He thinks of Simon desperately shoveling food in his mouth, staring at Baz's plate and whispering, "are you gonna eat that?" when they were twelve. Now he feels the ghost of the feeling, the thing that separates him from everyone else, because what he wants (love, nourishment, gentleness) isn't going to be his.
Except there it is, a plate of food. Something Simon's touched. Something Simon wanted to give.
He's so hungry.
He takes the plate reverently and he eats every crumb and he does not allow himself to feel guilty, just for this moment. Because it tastes so good. It tastes like empathy and forgiveness and humanity.
…
"Oh Merlin, oh no, Baz…"
He looks leagues worse than he did in Fifth Year. Protruding ribs and haunted eyes. Shaky gait.
Simon runs to him as soon as he enters the room, his arms flung wide. Seven weeks is such a long time.
Baz stops at the entryway, casts his eyes about for a moment. "What are you doing? You look silly," he gripes.
And all Simon can do is laugh.
He comes to stand next to Baz. Baz inhales deep and looks him up and down. His eyes crease and he scowls. "You've not been eating? Why on earth would you stop doing that, we can't have the Chosen One out of peak condition, it's the only thing—"
"Last summer was bad," Simon interjects. There's a little trail of lightning spreading through his heart. He's starting to understand how Baz grows barbs to hide the more delicate, petaled things beneath.
"Crowley," Baz mutters. "Crowley, Snow."
"Yeah."
Baz pushes past him and sinks—actually sinks—onto his bed with a not-quite-smothered sigh.
Simon turns halfway, peeking at Baz in his peripheral. "Umm—"
Baz doesn't rattle off an insult. It's invitation enough.
"I missed you," he whispers. "You look so sick."
It's been different since the food in Fifth Year. They share pens and secret eye-rolls at Dev's antics. They cheer for the same plays on the football pitch. They watch each other with equal concern when the other is looking worse for wear. And Simon stopped prodding about Baz being a vampire. It's not a friendship by a landslide, but it's an odd collection of moments that, strung together, could look almost sweet.
Simon thinks he's finally ready to admit that he does not hate Baz Pitch.
Baz stares back at Simon, his gaze unreadable. "You missed the extra helpings of scones," he says finally, flatly. "You missed the Greek notes."
Simon splutters. "I—yes, maybe. I don't see the problem with that. Isn't all of that part of who you are?"
"Not if it could be easily replaced by any common admirer," Baz says.
"But it wasn't replaced! All of that together and more couldn't be. That's what I'm—wait." He marches across the room and comes to a stop facing Baz. "Did you just say you're an admirer?"
"No, I said that any other admirer could replace me—"
"Other! Any other! Implying that you are one!"
"I don't admire you for anything other than being absurdly charitable to a point that it completely destroys you."
His voice is too soft. Too giving for what Baz normally is.
Simon kneels in front of him. "It's okay. I admire you too."
"Simon—"
That name. The way he says it. It shouldn't be allowed.
"I admire how careful you are. And how unafraid. And how considerate."
"I'm sorry, you seem to have mixed me up—"
Baz looks like he's searching for any way to run from the situation. Simon doesn't want that to happen. He plants his hands on the bed and looks up entreatingly at Baz.
"Will you go up to dinner with me?"
…
Not much has changed years later, in the grand scheme of things. They still share food in their very own kitchen, Baz with his meticulously organized spice cabinet, the neatly-cut vegetables, the fully-stocked cookie jar. Classical music seeps in from the living room. Candles are lit for their date—Simon frets over their nearness to the very flammable fabric, but still watches spellbound as Baz slowly and conscientiously lights them.
"I love you," Simon whispers as he kisses Baz on the cheek. Then again; "I love you."
Baz swoons forward into the touch. Wraps his arms around Simon's waist. They sway back and forth to the music. There's bottles of blood from the butchers' in the fridge and lasagna in the oven. It's sweet, so sweet.
Nourishing. Gentle. Loving.
They both have their days. Simon sometimes wakes up starving, frantically searching the house to make sure they have enough. Baz forgets that he deserves to be full.
But now they lean on each other. Take what they need and give back in abundance.
It's not the first dinner they've had together, and it won't be their last. Baz isn't ashamed to show his fangs anymore, and Simon's body no longer has to ride the vicious rollercoaster of an unstable diet. They're here, they're safe and stable and each other's, at long last.
And it's all more than enough to fill them both up.