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As soon as Dr. Denney hands out the test papers—old-school style, because he's a history teacher, of course—Simon knows he's done for. He might as well just curl up on the floor and die right here, for all the good that studying did him. Stupid, so stupid.
He knows he failed. He can feel it in his bones. Sure, there's that errant, fluttery wisp of hope—but Simon knows it's only an illusion. He's really not going to pull through this class; he's going to fail spectacularly, and then the President of the school will come to his door and kick him out, personally. That's how bad it will be. And they'll go, "This was a mistake, Mr. Snow. We meant to let in some other guy, but we got you instead."
He squeezes his eyes shut. Breathes.
If Penny were in this class, here with him, she'd tell him to breathe.
Come on, Simon, come on, just look at the paper. It's not that bad—
He flips it over, ninety questions compacted in a few glossy pages. He winces preemptively, but he's never been a coward, no. He can do this.
He just needs to get a seventy. Cs get degrees, yeah? Seventy is good, seventy is the bare minimum—I mean, he can't have done that badly, right…
It's a sixty-one. Sixty-one point two, to be exact. Who measures in decimals for a test, anyway? How is that even supposed to work—
Simon kneads the base of his palm over his brow, like that will somehow mitigate the panic. This is the second test. On the first one, he got a fifty—no decimals, nice and neat. Eleven points of improvement is nothing, especially because the final's going to be cumulative, and he has to pass the final. His GPA can't take another hit, or he'll lose his scholarship, and probably his endorsement from David, who got him into this stupid place, and—
"—a ninety isn't terrible by any means, but I know I can do better. This is the worst I've done on a test. A real shame."
Simon lifts his head up, momentarily distracted from his spiral by that obnoxiously clipped voice, the way it enunciates everything like he's in some kind of old movie with the detectives.
That's Baz Pitch, all right.
"Your father won't be angry. Ninety is fine, Baz." That's probably one of his worshipers. Simon feels his mood sour from helpless panic to bitter resentment.
"Ninety is average."
Simon wants to pipe up and correct him—the average is seventy. Instead, he chews on his lip until it stings.
He's a nice person most of the time—or he tries to be. He's very aware of the people around him, and it's keeping him from saying what he really wants to. Baz looks glum, but in a refined way. All of his emotions are as elegant as an iced madeleine.
Ugh. Now he wants a madeleine. Or five. He deserves a treat after such an awful score (the logic isn't logicking, Penny would say).
"You'll get a hundred on the final; then everything'll be fine," Baz's little friend says. "Final cancels the bad scores out if you score higher."
That, Simon already knows. He knows it intensely; he's crunched the numbers. He needs to do well on this final, better than he's been doing, which hasn't been enough. He hasn't been applying himself, or self-actualizing, or using his time wisely—he mustn't be, because… Look at the sixty-one, a brand of red ink scorched into the white paper.
"I'll ask for an extra credit opportunity," Baz says. "That's what I'll do. Maybe Dr. Denney would let me write another essay…"
He trails off, seeming distracted. With a little tug of horror, Simon realizes it's because Baz is looking at him. Because Simon is looking at them, at their table—he's tuned into their conversation, which isn't normal, probably—
"Pitch," Simon says through a forced smile. "Hey. I was looking at you because I—uh—had a question for you, actually."
They're talking over rows and rows of students whose heads are still bent over their exams, practically across the room from each other. Simon persists, watching Baz's perfectly straight brow creep up onto his forehead.
"I was wondering if you might like—to study together."
See, here's the thing. Penny doesn't take this class, and she does her best to help, but it's not perfect. Obviously, it's not—the test score is a testament to that. And if this Baz kid is as good as he says he is, Simon can take a bit of snobbery in exchange for free info.
Baz has stood up and is walking toward him. Class is technically over now that the tests have been handed out, so Denney doesn't get mad at him for it. Although now Simon's feeling a bit intimidated, with Baz looming over him.
"I'm sorry," he says, not sounding it at all. "You want me to tutor you?"
"No!" Simon says quickly. "I just thought we could—you know. Compare notes? Talk history? All that good stuff."
Baz is silent for a long moment, looking down his long, judgmental nose at him. Finally, he says, "I didn't catch your name."
Simon frowns. If only Baz wasn't so absorbed in himself, maybe he'd notice that Simon's a nice person who comments in class all the time (though that's just because Denney hates him and wants to see him suffer).
But also—and this is the real kicker—he likes this class. History interests him, and the readings are interesting once you get past all the wordiness. He genuinely likes being at college, and he tries hard, and that stupid sixty-one just doesn't make any sense.
"Simon Snow." He sticks out his hand, but Baz doesn't take it.
"Charmed."
Who says charmed anymore? Is this a hidden camera show? Or is Baz some kind of time traveler…?
"How did you do on the test?" Baz says seriously.
Then, he completely ignores the basic rules of privacy and looks over Simon's shoulder at his paper. "Oh. Oh, dear."
"Look, it's not that bad," Simon says weakly.
"Did you do the reading guides?"
"Wh—yes! Yes, I did the reading guides. Why would I be asking you to study with me if I hadn't exhausted all other options?"
Baz regards him serenely. "What about the quizzes?"
Simon curls his hand into a fist. Then, he slowly releases it.
"Listen," Simon says. "I'm a good student. Despite what you might think. And I could help you, too. If we studied together, you'd get something out of it."
"Oh?" Baz tilts his head condescendingly. "Well, if that's what you think."
"It is," Simon says, sticking out his chin resolutely, despite the fact that this boy is burning quickly through his meager reserve of self-confidence.
"Well…" Baz surveys him again. "All right."
"Yeah?"
"Sure. Tonight at seven?"
"Tonight? Uh—"
"I have a very busy schedule, Snow."
"Tonight at 7. Yeah. Okay."
Baz blinks slowly at him before nodding. "See you at the library."
…
"Name the Presidents in order." It's one of the first things that comes out of Baz's mouth when Simon enters the library. Baz's storm-gray eyes are filled with polite interest, like Simon is a specimen who's just a little too confusing to unpack.
Simon flops down in a chair across from him, immediately pulling out a bag of Milanos (he couldn't find any madeleines at the store). "Want one?"
"No, thank you," Baz says. He now looks gently impatient.
"I thought we were studying together."
"We are."
"Then why do you have to ask me that? Why can't we, like, join forces?"
"Perhaps I don't know them, and I need your help."
"You do, though; I know you do. Why do we have to memorize these anyway? It's stupid."
"You need to understand the historical context of today's political environment. Each of the Presidents shaped America—some, in bigger ways than others," he concedes, evidently hearing Simon's little scoff, which he'd hoped was blocked by the cookie in his mouth.
"Well, I don't know all of them," he says.
"Just try your best."
Simon feels absurdly exposed. Tested. He shakes his head free of worry—this is ridiculous. It's just Baz, some stranger who probably hates him…
He considers bolting right then and there, before remembering with an unpleasant pinch that Baz is his only hope.
"Okay!" he says, tone similar to that of a soldier rallying himself for battle. "Washington! Adams! Jefferson! M—Madison? John Quincy Adams! Jackson…?"
"You missed one," Baz says, picking at some lint on his sleeve. He couldn't sound or look more bored.
"Where?"
"After Madison."
"Crap, uh—I don't know. What is it?"
Baz continues to look at him, implacable. "You have to guess it on your own."
"No, I don't! Just tell me!"
"I can't," Baz says softly. Again, so stupidly polite. "You won't learn."
"Yes, I will!"
"You have to prepare for this situation. If you forget during the final, nobody will be there to whisper it in your ear."
"Are we seriously going to have to put them in order?"
"This is basic civic knowledge, Snow," Baz non-answers.
"Okay! After Madison. Uh… Ulysses?"
"It's not Grant. Just keep going. Narrow it down."
Why does he have to sound so patronizing about it? "uh… Van Buren!"
"And after him?"
"The guy that died, like, immediately."
"Morbid, but yes. What's his name?"
"Baz! Just tell me!"
"Don't yell in the library, Snow."
Simon bites into a cookie angrily. "James Patterson."
"Uh… no."
"Michael Matthew Mortenson."
"Who?"
"It's something like that, isn't it?"
"You have the end correct. It's three names."
"William Henry Harrison!" Simon practically screams as the answer soars into his head like a comet.
He looks up, surprised to find Baz smiling slightly. "Very good."
He's doubly surprised by the words, and how warm they make him feel. But he doesn't let himself dwell on it. This is Baz Pitch, after all, and even if he did suspect himself of having potential feelings, Baz is way out of his league.
Not that he does have feelings. That would be… crazy…
"Next? Who took over after Harrison passed?"
"I… I don't know." Simon curls his hand into a fist.
"He believed in church-state separation. He was in the Whig party."
"What in the world is a Whig party?"
Baz exhales softly. Then he reaches out and plucks a Milano from the bag.
"I literally offered you those earlier—"
"The Whig party," Baz says, "was majorly popular in the mid-19th century. They liked meritocracy and federalism, and they tried to avoid governmental tyranny."
"They sound awesome," Simon says, having mostly forgiven Baz about the cookie.
"Yes, well. They collapsed due to disagreements on slavery."
"Oh."
"You really don't know who it is?"
Frustrated, Simon mumbles, "His name was probably John."
Baz lets out a fluttery laugh, melodic and breathy, like a wind instrument. Simon certainly did not expect that sound to come from him of all people, but he supposes it's kind of cute.
Or—did he say cute? He meant annoying.
"His name is John," Baz says, remnants of the laugh still clinging to his voice.
Simon huffs. "See? There are too many Johns! John Winthrop, John Cotton, John Locke—"
"You know them? That's going the extra mile."
"Yes," says Simon. "I'm good at that. That's why I'm not going to fail."
"No, you won't," Baz says, and his tone is more convicted than it's been this entire conversation. "John Tyler."
"I knew that. Okay, now it's James… Monroe?"
"No. Another James."
"Polk."
"Excellent. Now, it seems we had a missing President somewhere in there…"
"Oh! Is Monroe after Madison?"
"Yes. Isn't that funny? They've got the same initials."
"I guess." Simon doesn't really think so, but it seems like something Penny would appreciate.
"Next," Baz says, picking at his nails now. Simon notices that he's objectively really good-looking, with his dark, wavy hair starting to come loose around his face. His olive skin is glowing with how well it's been taken care of.
"I really don't know. Lincoln?"
"Not for a while. Come on, Snow."
"No, I'm serious! I don't know this time."
"Guess."
"Nothing, like, happened during this period."
Baz frowns incredulously. "Nothing happened? How could that possibly be true?"
"Well, did anything happen?"
"Try the Mexican-American War." Baz looks extremely put out.
Simon sighs, tipping his head forward onto the desk. "I guess."
"You guess? Snow!"
"No yelling in the library," Simon says brightly, causing Baz to level him with a truly impressive glare.
Baz sighs. "Do you want my help?"
"Unfortunately."
His mouth pinches unhappily. "Then tell me who it is."
"Uhhh." Simon squeezes his eyes shut. "Baz, I really don't know."
"It's okay. Keep thinking."
"It's not going to just magically appear!" Simon whisper-yells.
"It will if you calm down. There's no pressure."
"Easy for you to say, Mr. Know-It-All."
"It's interesting that all the insults about smart people are actually positive."
"Baz, please tell me."
"I can't," Baz says softly. "You can do it."
"No, I can't. I'm stupid with this stuff. I got a sixty-one; that's pathetic."
"Snow."
"I mean seriously, who even—I'm in a good college, a prestigious college. I should know better."
"Snow…"
And now here he is, wasting Baz's time—Baz, who is so much more put-together, so much smarter—
And he knows this guy's name, he does. He spent sixteen months in office before dying of a stomach virus. They've talked about this. But it just isn't—there, his mind isn't cooperating, and at this point, he's lucky to know his own name—
"Simon."
The name sends a shock through him. He lifts his gaze, realizing with horror that his shallow breaths are filling up the library. Egregiously loud, he's being too much, he's—
"Simon. It's okay. Look at me."
"Sorry," he manages through a trembling jaw. This is embarrassing, David would be disappointed if he knew—he's an adult, and adults don't cry, and—
"Simon." A cool, grounding hand lands on top of his. Unconsciously, Simon leans into it.
"Please don't feel bad. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—I think I was projecting."
"Why?" Simon manages, his voice sounding hideous to his own ears.
"Want to know a secret?" Baz says sheepishly, leaning in a little.
"Yes."
"I don't know his name, either."
"Idiot!" he shouts, and Baz doesn't even scold him about the library rules, because suddenly both of them are laughing. "Stuck-up little—liar," he says good-naturedly.
Baz raises his hands, waving the white flag. "You did say I wasn't tutoring you."
"We both know that wasn't true!"
"And what about…" Baz's voice is suddenly uncertain. "When you said you wouldn't study with me unless there were no other options?"
"Oh, hey!" Simon flips his hand over so he can squeeze Baz's fingers, not letting himself think about it too much. "That wasn't—that wasn't you. I mean, yes, you're a little intimidating. But I meant that I'd rather stay up all night cramming by myself than impose on someone else."
"Oh." Baz squeezes his hand, a bit bashfully. "So—also untrue?"
"Very." Simon takes a deep breath. "Hey, I'm sorry about all of that. I get overwhelmed, you know?"
"I know." Baz doesn't seem to want Simon to let go—or, he hopes he's reading the signals correctly (read: Baz's grip getting progressively tighter until it's almost, almost, too much).
"Don't worry," Baz says gently, and that old-movie voice really comes in handy when he's saying such nice things. "It's okay. We're okay."
And, yeah, his lips really do look so soft and pretty when they form around all those words Baz is so fond of—and oh, Simon thinks he might want to lean across the space between them, seal his lips with a kiss, see how he'd look with rosy cheeks…
He's going to do it, he is. He just has to think it through first. He freezes in high-pressure situations, and he forgets, and he has to pause. To reset. But it doesn't matter, oh no, because it turns out that he doesn't have to think at all. Baz is doing it for him, surging forward, cupping the back of his neck in one hand, caressing his face with the other. Their lips meet, and all the anxious thoughts fade into the background. His thoughts collapse inward like a swallowed star, and he's just fractured light and floating atoms and buzzing nerves—but it's the good kind.
He feels… calm.
Gently, he pulls a centimeter back to take Baz in, high-res. He can't smother his victorious grin as he murmurs, "Zachary Taylor."
"Baz Pitch, actually," he says with a grin, pulling Simon closer with a hand on his back. Their chests press together, the cookies crunching in protest where they're still sitting on the table between them.
"You did not just make a dad joke."
"It was payback. You stopped kissing me to name the 12th president," Baz says with an indulgent little smile. Simon's a little addicted to that smile, actually.
"So? I was right?"
"Yes. I'm very proud of you," Baz says gently.
"Okay." Simon grins. "We can keep kissing now. And maybe go on a date?"
Baz is trying to hide his delighted little smile, but Simon doesn't miss it. His grin widens as Baz leans forward, takes his chin, and kisses him so sweetly that he forgets all about that stupid final.