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Baz hears his roommate before he sees him.
Clumsy feet stumbling across wood, toes of boots biting against corners, fingertips trailing amongst the wallpaper: these were the telltale signs of the arrival of Simon Snow, a gawky boy who would have very nearly tumbled into the lake when they were eleven if it hadn’t been for Miss Possibelf. Baz rolls his eyes and leans back against his headboard, his fingers playing idly with the edge of the leather-bound book in his lap.
There’s a thud then – a sudden, heavy-handed knock against the door, and Baz narrows his eyes, but makes no other movement. The doorknob turns: once, twice, the metal slipping back each time, before the door finally flings open and the sounds of the uncoordinated Chosen One grow considerably louder.
Baz takes in the all-too-familiar sight of his roommate: with blue eyes and golden curls, Simon Snow is the very opposite of what he is named for. He radiates warmth, bursting with magic and heat and life; he is the opposite of Baz, who is, quite literally, cold and dead.
Simon stumbles and Baz arches his eyebrows, eyeing the other boy’s path almost curiously. He watches as Simon struggles to toe his shoes off, and eventually, gives up at all; Simon totters across the floor, almost in the image of a toddler just learning to walk, before he collapses onto his bed with a slight thump. His shirt rides up, revealing the golden skin covering the small of his back; Baz feels his cheeks color, and he forces himself to look away.
He’s content to ignore his roommate (if only with his eyes, though his ears are wide open) no matter his clearly inebriated sate, but then Simon is making quiet sounds into his pillow: a soft humming, almost, if Simon had any sense of rhythm. The sound gets louder, and Baz expels an annoyed huff from his lips.
“Aleister Crowley, Snow,” he drawls, flicking his gaze back over to his roommate. “Can’t you be fucking quiet for once in your life?”
Simon rolls over onto his back, his head tilting. “Baz,” he says, his tongue darting out from between his lips. “You’re here.”
“Of course I’m here,” Baz scoffs, keeping his eyes carefully trained away from his roommate’s lips. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
Simon rolls his eyes. “I thought you were gone. You know. In the Catacombs, or wherever. Maybe with Agatha.” He points his finger at Baz in almost a comical manner. “She’s avoiding me. ‘Cause of you.”
Baz’s fingernails are digging into the page of his book now. “She’s your girlfriend, Snow, not mine. You keep track of her.”
Simon is staring at him, his eyes too blue and too wide and too fucking gorgeous. Fucking Snow. “You don’t have to be so rude, you know,” he says, his lips curving into a pout.
“You’re drunk, Snow,” Baz mutters. Outside their window, the world is dark and silent, the only light coming from the lamp beside Baz’s bed. “Shut up and leave me alone.”
Simon laughs a gorgeous laugh, and something akin to affection curls up in Baz’s chest. He pushes it away.
“I’m not drunk,” he denies, waving his hands in the air haphazardly. At Baz’s scoff, Simon smiles – a true smile this time, not a half one. “I’m not,” he insists. “I only had a few drinks, Penny…” His voice trails off, and a long, drawled-out, dramatic sigh escapes from his chest. Baz rolls his eyes. Simon is in one of his whining states, where he complains about Agatha and the Mage and his bloody destiny. Please. That boy has more magic than anyone, ever, and all he does is complain. It’s almost a waste.
There’s silence for a moment and Baz flicks his gaze back down to his book. In a few minutes, Simon will be asleep, the room will be quiet again, and he’ll wake up with a nasty headache in the morning. That’d be all; that’s all there ever is, when it comes to Simon.
But the sound of shifting sheets is heard, and Baz jerks his head up just in time to see – and feel – Simon collapsing dramatically next to him, his ankles plopping on top of Baz’s legs.
Baz recoils, and he imagines, that if his heart beat, it would be slamming against his ribcage and crawling up his throat. “Fucking hell, get off,” Baz snarls.
Simon props himself up at an elbow. “You don’t have to be so rude, you know,” he says. “Penny might like you more if you weren’t so rude. Agatha too. Though I don’t know why she likes you in the first place.”
“Get off my bed, Snow. Before I force you off.” He can’t breathe. He hasn’t been this close to Simon in years, not since they were children – not since he’d realized that he was deeply, magnificently, terrifyingly in love with Simon Snow.
Simon ignores this, and continues prattling on in that oblivious tone of his. “I’ve thought about this a lot, you know. Why Agatha likes you. I tried not to. But it just happens.” He leans more into his palm. “She thinks you’re pretty, probably. I think you’re pretty too. Dark eyes and all that.”
Baz looks away, down at the book in his lap. The corner of the page is torn now. “Shut up, Snow.” His voice is shaky. Shit. Shitshitshitshit. “You’re drunk,” he says, but that last bit is more for himself than for Simon. It’s a reminder. It’s a warning.
“I don’t love her anymore,” Simon continues, his voice as even as if he’s talking about the weather, and Baz’s breath hitches. “I used to, you know. She was the golden girl and I was the golden boy and we were destined to be together.” Simon shifts himself so that he’s pressed closer to Baz. His thigh brushes against Baz’s hip and Baz swallows, thickly. He slams his eyes shut. “Seems like a dream, now. A prophecy meant for someone else.”
“You’re drunk,” Baz breathes as he feels Simon’s palm curl over his knee. His touch feels like fire, burning him inside and out. His roommate’s other hand presses onto his hip, thumbing at the fabric there. “You’re drunk.”
“Shut up,” Simon whispers, and then Baz feels lips pressing against his own, and he can’t. fucking. breathe.
He tastes like peppermint, Baz thinks, as Simon kisses him slowly, carefully, his lips capturing and releasing Baz’s over and over with a certain rhythm, and why had he ever thought that Simon Snow didn’t have rhythm? With trembling hands, Baz reaches up to curl one hand around the back of Simon’s neck, his thumb pressing against the smooth skin there.
He keeps his eyes closed as Simon’s magic washes over him, nestling into every inch of his body and sinking into his skin. Simon tilts his head to the side ever so slightly and their noses brush. Baz gasps; Simon takes this almost as a challenge, his tongue sweeping over Baz’s bottom lip. Baz’s toes curl and he pushes back, Simon’s breath hot against his skin.
Simon shifts so that their hips are nearly aligned, and Baz feels heat spiral through his veins. He’s flushed, burning; he’s never felt heat like this, he’s a vampire for Merlin’s sake. His book falls to the floor, forgotten.
Baz breaks away for a moment, his chest heaving, taking in everything: Simon Snow, unraveling and trembling, blue eyes so fucking wide, is before him, and Baz breathes, because he’s been deprived of oxygen for so long and he hadn’t even realized it. He tilts his head down, brushing his lips against Simon’s collarbone; the other boy shivers and Baz continues, nipping and sucking until Simon has the edge of Baz’s shirt crumpled up in his fingertips and is gasping, “Baz.”
Simon pulls back, slumping against him. He’s so beautiful. Crowley, he’s gorgeous. Baz releases the back of his neck, his hands instead making to move through one of Simon’s curls. He’s wanted to touch Simon’s hair for so long – how long, he can’t exactly be sure.
He’d made out with Simon Snow. Simon Snow. The boy that he’d been in love with quite nearly as long as he’d known him.
He’d imagined this so many times, but fantasy had nothing on reality.
Simon looks up at him, his eyelids fluttering. “So,” he says, a bit of cheekiness sneaking into his voice, “I think I may, quite possibly, be bi.”
Baz snorts. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “You might.”
Simon lowers his head again, his cheek pressing against Baz’s clothed chest. Baz tilts his head back against the headboard, one hand stroking through Simon’s curls. He wishes they could stay like this, forever and ever, with the war and the Mage and the Pitch legacy far from their thoughts.
Eventually, he falls asleep too, Simon Snow warm and alive in his arms.