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BAZ
Simon is casually hunched over on the floor when I walk into the living room, and he seems to be scribbling on something rather messily. He gasps when he sees me and immediately puts his hands over it.
“Baz! Don’t look,” he says, and then suddenly he glances around and slides the entire thing (a piece of paper on top of a clipboard) under the couch.
I cock my eyebrow at him and smirk.
“I was working on something and you’re not allowed to look.” He gets up off the floor and settles down on the sofa, just as Bunce walks in with a plate of scones and a bowl of biscuits.
“Ah, Baz, I didn’t realize you were here,” she says, handing the plate of scones to Snow. I sit down on the end of the couch and she sits at the other end, then awkwardly reaches behind Snow and pushes through his ridiculous, folded wings to offer me a biscuit from the bowl. I really don’t want one, but now I can’t refuse after she (literally) went through all of that trouble.
“What were you working on, Snow?” I ask, taking the biscuit and sitting it down on a coaster on the side table.
“I can’ tell ‘ou, Baz,” Snow says, his mouth full of scone. “Is a surprise.”
I roll my eyes, and Bunce giggles.
“As long as it’s not one of those cheesy Valentine’s cards you get from Clintons,” I say.
Snow glares at me, but I can’t take him seriously when there are crumbs falling from his mouth.
“Wha’s wong with cheeshy Valen’ine’sh cardsh fwom Clin’ons?”
“Quite simply,” I say, smiling gently at him, and I reach up to swipe a crumb off of his lip. “They’re lame.”
Snow sarcastically gasps, crumbs falling all around him, and Bunce giggles again.
“Probably because you never got any in school,” Bunce says.
I glare at her through a gap in Snow’s wings. “You probably didn’t get any either,” I say back.
“Fair point,” she says, and stuffs a biscuit into her mouth.
Snow is staring at me when I look away from her.
“You really never got any, Baz?” He asks. “Although, I guess I never saw any in our room.”
I laugh at this. “I would never have kept them even if I did.”
Snow glances over at Bunce, then back at me.
“So neither of you got any valentines cards?”
Bunce seems to be shaking her head. “We weren’t as popular as you, Simon. And I know you got a lot because I remember helping you carry the box of them up to your room in sixth year. You insisted we not use magic.”
“Look, Penny--,” Snow begins, but stops, and I notice through the gap that Bunce is looking at him fiercely.
“Simon!” she says, rather excitedly. “That was the year you got that secret admirer letter, remember?”
Fuck.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”
So did I .
“We never figured out who wrote it.”
Aleister Crowley, this is bad.
Snow is laughing. “We read it so many times.”
Fuck, Snow. Please stop talking.
“At least a dozen!”
You too, Bunce.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, carefully and calmly, although I’ve never felt this much embarrassment. This is one of the few times I thank my vampirism.
Yes, I wrote it. Yes, it was embarrassing. No, no one can ever find out.
“So in sixth year,” Bunce begins, and I know this situation couldn’t get any worse.
“Crowley! I still have it!” Snow shouts, and immediately jumps off the couch and runs to his room.
Bunce is laughing. I was wrong.
“So anyway,” she says. “In sixth year, after Simon made me lug up his ridiculous box of valentines cards, we found a letter attached to the outside of the bedroom door. It was from some mysterious secret admirer, who wrote in perfect cursive, and I had to basically read it to Simon since his cursive skills were atrocious.”
I smirk at this. “Typical Snow.”
Bunce nods and her phone buzzes. She pulls it out of her pocket and casually scrolls through it as she continues. “It was quite cheesy, and we read it so many times. They even quoted Shakespeare and Kierkegaard, which I thought was lovely, but Simon didn’t really seem to get it. He was obsessed with it for some time though, and we assumed at first it was from Agatha--,” I mentally frown at this, “--but she denied it multiple times. So then we made a list of people who could have sent it. Simon even went so far as to ask random people to write in cursive for him. He was obsessed.”
I snort at this. As embarrassed as I am, it’s a rather funny thought to imagine the looks Snow received from people when he asked them to do something so ridiculous.
“So what happened?” I ask. It was really the only question I could come up with that didn’t remotely give me away.
“Simon finally gave up. I mean, I think there was even a line at the end written in French.”
It was Greek.
“I mean, who writes in perfect cursive and just casually quotes Søren Kierkegaard?”
“Are you sure Agatha was just too embarrassed to admit it was her?” I ask.
“Agatha doesn’t give a damn about 19th century philosophers. Or cursive. Or foreign languages. And really, I can’t believe Simon kept that letter all these years. He’s never going to figure it…” Bunce trails off, and I know that I’m doomed. She sets her phone down and slowly turns her head towards me, her eyes gleaming.
I cock an eyebrow at her.
“I found it!” Snow says, waving an envelope around as he plops back down on the sofa. His wings are folded neatly behind him this time, and Bunce is staring straight at me. She mouths the words ‘It was you’, and really, her stare is so intense that I have no way of denying it.
‘Don’t. Say. Anything.’ I mouth back at her.
Bunce smiles maliciously and laughs. Snow looks over at her and shakes his head.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Nothing, Simon. Why don’t I read that letter? Aloud.” Bunce smiles at me.
Fuck you, Bunce.
Snow takes the letter out of the envelope, and it’s so crinkled, like he’s held it countless times.
“Okay, okay,” he says, unfolding it and handing it to her.
Bunce takes the letter, smiles at me again, glances back to the letter, and dramatically clears her throat. But then, she looks back at me.
“Actually,” she says, and I know this can’t be good. “Baz writes in perfect cursive. Why don’t we let him read it?”
I cast a glare at Bunce so fierce, it could set a forest ablaze in seconds. But she deflects it like it’s a useless first-year spell.
Fuck you, Bunce.
Before I can respond, she passes the letter to Snow, who smiles at me. I curse that smile inwardly and take the dreaded paper. I glance it up and down a few times, also cursing my 15-year old self for writing such a horrid piece.
“Our life,” I begin, “ always expresses the result of our dominant thoughts. And you, Simon Snow, are at the center of my mind.”
Bunce glances over and cocks an eyebrow, as if mocking me. I ignore her.
“ Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is wing’d cupid painted blind. And you, Simon Snow, are the center of my world, my universe, and my heart.”
I’m cringing. And Bunce is giggling. But Snow is smiling at me, and Crowley, he looks beautiful.
“Don’t forget the last line,” she says.
“It’s in Greek, by the way,” I say. “Not French.”
Snow smiles even more and turns to me. “Baz! I forgot that you know Greek!”
Thank Crowley for Snow’s obliviousness. Because I was sure anyone else would have realized it at that point.
“Go on, then, Baz,” Bunce says.
I sigh, and stare at the last line for a long time. Not because I’m translating it (because I know it by heart), but because it’s so cringey to read the writing of your 15-year old self.
“ Simon Snow, είσαι το κέντρο των πάντων μου,” I say. My Greek is still flawless. “You are the center of my everything.”
Bunce wrinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue. “Wow,” she says. “It’s even cheesier in English.”
“Shut it, Bunce,” I say, sighing. I begin to hand Simon the letter, and he’s just smiling at me. Crowley.
He takes the letter and stares at it. “Wow,” he says. “It sounds so nice when you read it, Baz.”
“I wonder why,” Bunce says, snickering, and I glare at her again.
“Well, we’ll probably never figure it out,” Snow sighs, folding the letter and carefully placing it back in the envelope.
Bunce pats Snow on the shoulder. “Oh, I’m sure you will soon.” And then, she winks at me. Winks.
Snow gets up and heads back to his room. When he’s out of earshot, Bunce turns to me.
“You will have to tell him sometime ,” she whispers.
“Not a chance.”