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I'll never forget the first day of Seventh Year—what I can confidently name as the most embarrassing day of my life.
Simon claims he doesn't recall the whole fiasco, perhaps an amalgamation of his tendency to dissociate and his constant, never-dwindling thoughts of me. There're just too many to keep track of.
But I remember. Oh, so well.
I wonder what compelled me to do it. Could it have been the 'seize the day' I'd cast on myself earlier?
But no… the spell didn't take. It must have been that, over the summer, all my sharp-edged desperation had ebbed into something sweet and devoted and entire. The love had burned away what remained of my animosity towards him.
And I was starting to worry that, because Simon Snow was so good with a sword and so mercifully swift with his kills, there wouldn't be a big enough window post-battle to let me tell him how I felt. Our tenuous connection was drawing to an end, and I wanted so deeply to savor every last moment we had left.
He looked so sweet after so much time away. All sunlit beams and sprawled-out limbs; he was prancing like the Sugarplum Fairy—rare indeed; do let me know if you spot her—across campus.
We got into a fight almost immediately upon going to our room. Simon was red-cheeked and breathless, and it occurred to me, with some vagueness, that he and Agatha just happened to be on one of their breaks.
Just a thought. Entirely unimportant, I'm sure.
I walked with my head held high, being sure to display as much magic as possible while unpacking, just so Snow would look at me all slack-jawed.
He misses magic over the summers. It didn't take a detective to know that.
"Jealous, Snow?" I said, unable to resist.
He snapped out of his daze and huffed like an irritated bull. "Why would I be jealous of you?"
"Oh, you tell me, Snow. You've been following me for years."
I don't like to bring this up because I know that it isn't, and will never be, what I think it is. That Snow didn't stare at me all of Fifth Year out of infatuation but out of mistrust.
Still, it's easy to pretend on this very first day, when we're still halfway not ourselves. It's easy to track the absolute shock in his eyes and imagine it's because he never thought I'd know that he's actually be in love with me all along…
What's this? I thought I had shaken my delusions over the summer. But now it's easier than ever to drape myself in the illusion that he could—
That he…
"What?" He's stood up now, marching toward me. "You think it's because I'm jealous of you?"
"Well, it's quite difficult not to notice, don't you think? I imagine the whole school knows that your 'disgust' for me is merely a disguise for how utterly you want to be me."
He's fuming. I have no idea why I did this. As if I needed another reminder of how much he detests me. I'm a disgrace to myself.
I keep talking, because I don't know how to stop. "You admire me. Come now, Snow, there must be something. Is it my hair? My eyes? The dashing arch of my eyebrow?" I demonstrate. Obviously.
But I'm only fooling myself. Using this as proof that Snow doesn't have any hope of loving me, because maybe once I know for sure, I can let go.
His face creases; he's all upset and confused. "Y—you're just saying that because you're the one who's jealous."
Oh…
Oh.
"You think my eyes are pretty!" he shouts, accusatory.
"You like the way my hair falls!" I shoot back. "And you wish your hair would hall that way, too, instead of being a mess."
"You—that's not… you look ridiculous like that."
Here we are, the confirmation I've been looking for.
"My clothes, then."
"Too posh."
"My face."
"It's too pretty."
I stop in my tracks. His eyes are brimming with rage and his fists are tight and he just—
Fine.
"Well, I think your eyes are the most appalling color of blue. Nobody should have eyes that lovely."
He gets in my face, raising his voice. "And I think your hair looks better loose!"
"Your moles are overcrowded! It's like too much of a good thing!"
"Your laugh sounds like music!"
I stop, panting. Just looking at him.
"Really?" I whisper.
"Y—yeah…" His voice peters out. He's looking at me, really looking. "You're pretty and all. But your smile is the best."
My head is swimming. No amount of scorn would wash the sincerity from the moment.
"Do you really like my eyes?" He's fidgeting with his sleeves. "I just keep thinking of why Agatha broke up with me this time. It's—I thought it could have been my eyes."
"It wasn't," I say curtly.
His expression softens all the more. "Can I…"
I hold still while he draws close, then shiver as he presses me against the wall. "Don't move, Pitch," he snarls.
"A thousand horses couldn't pull me from this spot, Snow," I whisper.
He digs his fingers into my scalp—all gentle-like, his fingers warm and soft. It doesn't take long enough for him to work the gel out, card his fingers over my scalp and shake out the waves. I melt a little with him holding me.
Once he's done—soon, too soon—he pulls away with a satisfied smile. "Got you," he whispers.
"You're an animal," I snarl. "It looks unruly."
But I don't tame it, not for the rest of the night. And we don't speak of it again after that.