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BAZ
I should not be here.
Fiona had expressed—very loudly, I might add—that I was to stay hidden back on the estate in Hampshire until tomorrow when I am to meet my fate on a battlefield.
Until Simon and I—
No. I am not going to allow those thoughts to enter my mind. They won’t do me any good. I can let the thoughts overrun my mind until I’m nearly catatonic with fear. I can allow the image of the battle tomorrow to overtake me completely, but it won’t change anything. Whether or not I want to, I am to face off against Simon Snow, in the event that will most likely end in my death.
And there is nothing I can do to prevent that.
Father had tried to convince me to run away —he’d used the phrase “taking a gap year”— to Canada. Daphne has some relatives in Winnipeg who would be glad to take me in (I’m pretty sure she was responsible for putting the idea in my father’s head). I all but scoffed in his face (I do try to respect my father, even if his suggestions are ridiculous). Running away to a frozen, barren wasteland of a city in a commonwealth country no one cares about will do me no bloody good.
The war is imminent. The battle for Watford will happen, and I was meant to be in the front lines, protecting my mother’s legacy and everything she stood for.
Ever since she died, it’s been my destiny. My entire life has led to this very moment, and come tomorrow, I shall face it with all the grace and poise that a Pitch is wont to have.
At this moment, however, I am far from having any grace or poise. Instead, I’m standing in the White Chapel, facing the entrance into the Catacombs, I am all nervous energy.
This was such a stupid idea.
I slowly make my way down into the Catacombs, and it occurs to me that I probably should have told someone where I was headed tonight. As far as my parents know, I was spending the evening at Dev’s house (preparing for the big battle) and would return home after they’d gone to bed.
Well, they aren’t entirely wrong. I was at Dev’s house, earlier this evening, but instead of heading home after convincing him to finally tell Niall that he loves him (as if Niall hasn’t felt the same way about Dev since Fifth Year) (simpletons, the both of them), I drove towards Watford. The only reason my parents allowed me out of the house was because they knew I would be with Dev. Assuming I make it out of here alive—I don’t think I’ll make it out of here alive—I’ll have to pay him back.
I suppose he can have the Jag. I’ll make sure to tell Daphne to arrange it with our solicitor. He does deserve it even if he is a ponce.
It was too easy for me to get past the gates. They opened up for me without any hesitation. I was sure wards would have been put, preventing unwanted guests from entering the school. It only occurs to me now that I might be heading into a trap. It would be all too fortunate for The Mage to catch me here, his perfect prisoner of war.
None of that matters. I still have to do this. This last act. Before everything goes to hell tomorrow, I have to make sure I see her one last time.
I need to say a final goodbye to my mother.
She deserves that much from me at the very least. If I plan on ending my life by Simon Snow’s hands, I should pay my final respects to the one person I’d be letting down the most.
As I make my way down the dark, damp corridors, my mind fills with thoughts of her. The memories of her hands, her smile, her laugh—they all keep me warm here.
It takes me no time at all to reach her tomb (I’ve known the way ever since I was a child). Once I reach Les Tombeaux des Enfants, the first thing I do is cast an April Showers over her tomb. Several calla lilies spring up from the stones. They were always my mother’s favourite flowers. If I had the strength and the power to do so, I’d fill this entire room with the biggest and brightest flowers. I often wondered—during childhood visits with my father—why my mother had to be kept here, where it was dark and cold, and so lonely .
My mother should have been laid to rest amongst the flowers and the sunshine. I might not have known much about my mother, but I know she loved the sun.
Father told me then that those who’d died protecting Watford were buried in the Catacombs. I distinctly remember him waving an arm at the other tombs, ancestors of mine who’d also died in the line of duty. Even as a child, I knew that wasn’t fair to her. I remember thinking that I would do whatever I could to ensure she would never feel lonely here.
As I got older, I started wondering if I should have died with her that day . Would it not have been better if I joined her? If I did die that day, would I have been buried beside her? On tough nights, I wondered if it would have been better that way. At least she wouldn’t have had to be alone.
When I die tomorrow, I’ll be lucky if The Mage and his cronies allow my family to collect my body, let alone allow me to be buried down here with my mother.
I suppose the most tragic truth in all this is once I’m gone, there’ll be no one left to think of my mother. Once I’m gone, there will be no one left to grow calla lilies, to talk to her, to make sure she isn’t alone.
I smell him before anything else. The room practically fills with the scent of smoke and spices.
It’s butter and cinnamon, and an entire forest in flames.
Snow .
I should have expected this. I was naïve to think I could make my way into Watford without the Saviour of the World of Mages knowing. Snow was probably stalking the grounds, waiting for me to show up.
(I can’t help but hope that was the case).
“Word of advice, Snow,” I drawl while turning to face him. Snow’s red in the face (I wonder if he ran here). “If you plan on sneaking up on the enemy, make sure you don’t stomp about like an oversized troll.”
Snow’s holding his sword at attention, ready to attack if need be. A wiser person would be scared, but I find myself pretending that the vision of him isn’t causing my breath to catch in my throat. He approaches me slowly, his blue eyes glaring at me as if he’s trying to read into my soul. (As if I have a soul.)
Crowley , it’s Fifth Year all over again. The last time we were here, like this, I nearly threw myself on him, ready to kiss him or kill him (or improvise). Instead, I rambled drunkenly about the stories of The Catacombs. That meeting was a culmination of us playing a game of cat and mouse with each other. Simon, waiting to catch me in the act of sacrificing a virgin or something just as dastardly; Me, waiting to decide when I’ve had enough of the game. I had hoped he would understand the words I wasn’t saying. I was tired, weary, and the numbness brought about by several swigs of gin made me ready for Simon to do what was right.
Instead, he ran away, leaving me in the dark to drink myself to sleep.
I wonder if he’ll fulfill his destiny tonight.
“You made a mistake coming here, Baz,” he snarls, stepping closer to me. I pay attention to a small bead of sweat making its way down the curve of Snow’s cheek. In another life, maybe I could be wiping up away with my thumb, my lips, or even my tongue. But this isn’t an alternate reality, and for all intents and purposes, the sword held in Snow’s hands is meant to be driven into my chest.
That very same sword has now moved inches from the base of my neck. All he has to do is take another step towards me, and it’ll all be over.
I really shouldn’t find any of this as attractive as I do, but I am slightly disturbed… and gay… hopelessly gay.
I take a deep breath, resolved not to allow Snow to see the effect he has on me. I cross my arms and lean against the wall.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask him.
He scoffs, “Did you think The Mage wouldn’t have put any wards up? I was alerted as soon as you passed through the gates.” He keeps the sword to my throat and his eyes on me.
Those boring blue eyes. Always searching, staring, looking to solve whatever mystery he’s made up in his head about me.
All I want is for him to look at me and finally see me. That when it comes down to it, I choose him over myself.
“I knew I would find you here. You never could stay away from this place for too long.”
I push myself off of the wall, letting the tip of the blade pinch me uncomfortably. I make sure to meet his eyes with my own. A challenge, if you will.
“Now that you’ve found me, whatever shall you do?” I shake my wand out of my sleeve and casually move the sword away from my neck. “Come now, Snow. Aren’t you going to attempt even a First Year spell before you come at me with your sword? I’m sure even you can handle something as simple as a Topsy Turvy .”
If he wants a fight tonight I suppose I have no choice but to oblige.
Snow growls at me, my taunts hitting a nerve with him. Topsy Turvy is practically a child’s spell and one that most magicians learn as soon as their magic starts to come in. Even someone with the barest flicker of magic within them can perform the spell. I smirk at Snow and dive to the right, away from him and his sword.
“ Head Over Heels! ” I cast. Snow manages to spin away from me, and the spell doesn’t catch.
“Why are you here, Baz?” He spits, composing himself, sword held up in front of him and casting a golden light over him. “Come to finish me off?” He dives towards me, sword slashing at my arm. I’m not the best fighter, but I am fast, and I keep moving away from him.
I focus on keeping my distance from him as he slashes and thrusts towards me. I’m hoping that eventually, he’ll tire himself out, and I can make my escape.
“Finish you off, Snow? Not a very difficult feat to accomplish,” I chuckle as I jump away from another sword slash. “I could end you here and now, and I wouldn’t break a sweat.” I cast Butterfingers at him, and this time, the spell connects with its target. The sword in Snow’s hand slips away from him and flies across the room.
I don’t have much time to celebrate because as soon as he loses his sword, Simon charges at me, slamming me to the ground. Before I can even catch my breath, a fist connects with my face and I howl in pain.
I swear to Aleister Crowley, if he breaks my nose again…
I bring my fists down on Snow’s shoulder. The brief moment where he’s catching his breath is enough for me to twist my hips and kick him off of me.
Simon manages to recover quick enough to throw a kick to my lower back, and fuck that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does! He uses my slight disorientation to his advantage by grabbing the back of my hair and—
A crack.
And pain.
Sharp, throbbing, in my head.
My vision blurs. My head is screaming through the fog in my mind.
Move! Get up!
I think Snow’s yelling something in my ear, but I can’t hear him over the rushing—is it blood?—in my head. His voice is muffled, underwater, static .
Get up, Basilton. You need to get up.
I can’t get up, no matter how much I need to. My head is swimming, I’m at risk of losing my dinner, and the trickle of liquid flowing down my face is definitely blood. I am able to moan and slowly roll onto my back. I blink my eyes open.
Fuck. That doesn’t help the dizzy, nauseous feeling. I close my eyes and breathe deeply through my nose. In… and out…
The static clears from my head, slowly, slowly.
In… out…
I can smell him. Cinnamon. Butter. Smoke and spice intermixing and twisting together.
I keep my eyes closed and continue breathing.
In, out.
“Baz?”
In…
He leans over me, breathing heavily over my face (mouth-breather).
Out…
I open my eyes, and although my vision is still a little blurry, I can make out his face. Blue eyes, bronze curls, and a constellation of freckles dotting his nose, cheeks, and one dot on the corner of his lip.
I could kiss him.
It wouldn’t be too difficult to do so.
Instead, I hook one of my legs around one of his and attempt to pull him onto the floor. Snow uses the momentum of the fall to pin me to the ground.
Well that certainly couldn’t have gone much worse than it did. Simon’s now on top of me, with his hands reaching for my neck.
As he puts more weight on me, my breath catches in my throat. I start kicking out and scratching at his arms, but Snow’s not one to give up so easily. He’s fought creatures far more brutal and ruthless than I. He’s fought to kill before, and if he wants to, he can decide to snap my neck in an instant.
He can end all of this with a simple crack.
I could continue to fight, make sure I don’t give up too easily. I’m a Pitch after all. My family has never given up without a fight. My own mother died fighting. I should kick him off of me. I could do it. My strength is coming back, my vision is clear as day. I’m certain that what was a concussion is passing. I could kick him off of me, pin him below me. I could reach up for his neck and break it.
If I wanted to.
But I don’t want to.
So I let my arms fall to my sides. I don’t fight him anymore. I let him wrap his hands around my neck, and I think a silent apology to my mother. I look up at his blue eyes. Eyes full of anger, hatred and life .
And I wait.
Wait for him to twist his hands.
Wait for the pain and the dark.
Simon momentarily squeezes against my windpipe, and I let out a strangled cry.
He can end it.
He will end it.
If he were smart…
End it, Snow, please .
He lets go.
Simon Snow, the merciful idiot, pulls his hands away from me (I gasp in a welcome breath of air), and lifts his weight off from me.
“Stay down, Baz,” he says.
I stare up at the ceiling. I know what happens next. Now, Simon will make sure I’m brought to his fearless leader. Now they can use me as their prisoner, their prize, their bargaining chip against my family.
Frankly, I’d rather he kill me here and now. But, if Simon won’t do what’s right, then I’ll have to force his hand.
“Pathetic, Snow,” I wheeze. The sharp, burning pain in my throat makes it difficult for me to sound intimidating. “Waiting for The Mage to finish your work for you?”
He spins and stalks back toward me, bright blue fire in his eyes. “ We’re meant to kill each other!” He snarls, leaning over me.
Perfect .
I smile and grab onto the collar of his shirt. My knee connects with his stomach, flipping him onto the floor. I lift myself from the floor and shake away the remaining clouds in my head. Simon groans and rolls onto his back, and without thinking, I deliver a swift kick to his face (I make sure to aim for the nose) (I would love to give him a matching broken nose to mine).
I feel anger brewing deep inside my stomach. I’m mostly angry at myself, I think. How could I have been so careless? Why did I think coming here tonight was a good idea? Why was I not allowed to wish my mother a final goodbye without the likes of Simon fucking Snow coming in and slashing that to shreds?
I stare at him, his nose bloody, curls frizzy, and teased apart. Ready to pull the super hero act, when he’s just as bloodthirsty as the monsters he kills.
(I’m one more monster he has yet to kill.)
Except seeing him, lying on the floor, he doesn’t look like a killer. He’s not a killer, not really. He’s just a boy.
He’s a boy, and he’s not moving.
Simon’s on the ground, and he’s not moving.
He’s not dead. I can hear the rush of blood in his veins. His heart is beating rapidly, supplying his body with the oxygen it desperately needs. Although his breath is raspy and laboured, it’s there.
But still, Simon’s not moving.
No.
No.
I rush over to him, my chest constricting against my ribs. I need to help him. I need to get him out of here. I—I didn’t mean to hurt him. I was supposed to be the one to die tonight, not him. Not Simon. Never Simon.
“Simon?” I whisper to him. Can he hear me? I don’t—I don’t know how badly injured he is. I—I couldn’t have kicked him that hard, could I?
But what if I did? What if I not only broke his nose but gave him a concussion as well? I’m a vampire, I can survive a bloody concussion. But Simon . Simon’s mortal. He’s—
I can’t think. I can’t breathe .
And Simon’s not moving.
I need to move him out of here. I need to make sure he receives medical attention. Then, I’ll take my punishment. I’ll let them tie me up and lock me in the dungeons. I just need to get him out of here.
“Fuck, Snow. I didn’t want this.”
I didn’t...
I didn’t want this .
I don’t want to hurt him. Every punch, every jab, every cruel word shouted at him from opposite ends of the room was always meant to get a rise out of him. Because I wanted those blue eyes to look at me, to see me.
I just wanted to have him close to me.
“Please say something,” I say as I lean closer to him, listening for the ins and outs of his breath.
The blood spilling from his nose is bright ruby red. The smell of cinnamon and smoke fills the room as a sharp, familiar, tugging in my gums takes up my attention.
I can’t. I won’t . I dig my fingers in my hair and yank at the roots, as a way to distract me from the…
When was the last time I fed on anything? I remember hunting in the woods behind the estate right before leaving. Surely that must have been enough to satiate the hunger.
But Simon, whether he wanted to or not, has always found a way to call me to him. And I’ve always answered.
But this is one line that I will never cross. No matter how hungry I am, no matter how desperate I feel…
I tear off one of my sleeves and gently wipe the blood from Simon’s face. He looks peaceful like this. Almost as if there weren’t the ambitions of a madman burdened on his shoulders.
I wonder if he’s stuck in the same position as me. Trapped in a war he wants no part of. Maybe if things were different, and if we were just two boys without any loyalties or obligations, perhaps we could have been friends.
I whisper a spell to collect water from the damp room. It drenches the now-ruined fabric, and I use that to clean Simon up. I carefully wipe the sweat and dirt from his face. I linger right above his lips and imagine myself bending over, just a little bit…
A groan. A soft, strangled one that slips out of his mouth, and it’s beautiful and the most precious sound I’ve heard tonight. The relief I feel is enough to weigh me down heavily over him, my chest nearly touching his.
It’s the closest we’ve ever been to one another, so when his knee comes up suddenly, hitting my stomach, it completely knocks the wind out of me, and I lose my balance, collapsing onto him.
As I struggle to get off of him, I lose my focus, and it’s enough for Snow to grab my collar and pull me down towards his face—
And…
Our lips meet.
It was meant as a headbutt, but I tried to dodge it, and I’m still swimming in pain and nausea, and I’m sure Simon’s not doing any better.
But they meet.
It’s brief.
A graze.
A whisper.
A second of contact, not nearly enough to mean anything.
And yet.
And yet.
It’s enough to elicit a gasp, a sigh, a whimper out of me. It rushes out, silently pleading with Snow for more.
Snow moans against my lips, and I know I should pull away. I need to pull away. We’re sweaty and bloody, and we’re meant to kill each other.
But then—
Simon, hands still grasping onto my collar, pulls me closer to him and kisses me with the urgency and determination that can only come from Simon Snow.
At first, I don’t know where to put my hands, but as I lean into the kiss, I settle for placing them on the sides of Simon’s face and lowering my body until it’s prone against his.
Simon and I are flush against each other.
Is this real? Am I still feeling the effects of that concussion from before? (Are vampires able to get concussions?)
Simon Snow is kissing me, and I may as well be dying because never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect this to happen. My body is tired, aching, and a million mines are going off in my head. I should be home, warm in bed under down comforters.
The truth is, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.
This may be my last night alive , and if I am to die tomorrow, if that is my destiny, well, then I’m going to make the most of it.
I allow Simon to slip his hand to the small of my back and carefully lift both of us off of the floor. We’re sitting on the cold ground now, but Snow’s heat envelops me, keeping me warm. I wonder if he’s uttered a warming spell. I don’t think he has, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s managed to heat the room with only a thought.
He pulls me onto his lap and wraps his arms around me. I should be thinking of my family, of my expectations, of the fact that I nearly killed him (that I almost lost myself at the scent of his blood). But Simon’s lips are warm and his tongue hot. The scent of our sweat and something heady (something base) mix together.
He drags me away from my thoughts, and maybe, just for tonight, I can let myself have this. Simon and I, we’re given a stay of execution, a reprieve , a chance to be two ordinary boys, kissing and hungry, and ready to push for more.
I’d give it all to him, if he asks me to.
And maybe it could be enough.
Maybe I could be enough.
Simon… Golden, perfect, the hero of this story.
Simon. The one who could tear me down to pieces until nothing is left.
Simon. A boy. A warm body pressing itself to mine. Cinnamon and smoke lingering on the surface of his skin. I hold onto him, tracing lines on his back.
He keeps me warm.
I can feel the magic in him thrumming beneath my fingertips. And like a moth to a flame, I let him draw me in as close as he can. I’ll open my heart and soul and let his fire swallow me whole until it burns right through me.
Simon tugs at my shirt, ripping the buttons apart (it’s alright, this isn’t my favourite shirt), kisses spreading down to my neck, my collarbone, and my shoulder. Each kiss sends sparks and shivers throughout my body. They make me feel, for the first time in such a long time, that I’m alive.
I need to touch him. I need to feel his heart beating underneath my fingertips. It’s an ache that builds up from the depth of my belly. I gently place one of my hands to his chest, my fingers dragging slowly to the button of his shirt, tugging the hem out of his jeans. I smile as Simon bites my lip. He laughs against me, letting me coax the shirt off of him.
My breath catches as I take him in.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen him shirtless. We’ve shared a room for seven years, and I’ve spent many times staring at the expanse of tawny skin and golden freckles (contemplating if it would be suspicious to take a cold shower in the middle of the night).
He’s bulked up. I wonder if The Mage had him running drills over the summer, or if he’s been out hunting monsters in his spare time. The muscles he has are pulling at his shoulders—strong, broad, meant for holding—
He’s beautiful.
To think, this whole time, we could have been doing this instead of fighting. How long has Simon wanted this? How much time did we waste running in circles around each other, chasing after something we both wanted, but were too stubborn to admit? We spent so much time fighting and tugging at opposite sides of a war when all we needed to do was meet in the middle.
Simon slips two fingers underneath the hem of my jeans and drags them towards my flies, tugging at the hem as he goes.
I’m nearly tearing my clothes in the haste to get them off of me. I’m treated to laughter in return, and if I thought Snow was beautiful when he’s ready for a fight, well, that is nothing compared to a smiling, joyful Simon.
Simon, in the throes of laughter, something I want to see again and again. His cheeks flush the prettiest shade of red, tiny lines appearing at the corners of his eyes (which almost twinkle). His mouth opens wide, and the sound is loud, unrestrained. Simon laughs like there isn’t anything to be embarrassed about.
It’s an experience .
He must have noticed the fond look in my eyes because he traces my lips with the pad of his thumb, his eyes softening as they take me in.
“Beautiful,” he says.
He then grabs me by the back of my neck and crushes his lips to mine and it’s perfect and euphoric and—
Pain .
Burning sharp like acid. Hitting me square in my chest. I howl and push him roughly off of me. Simon tumbles back, falling onto his arse. He looks up at me, and his eyes go wide.
“ Fuck, ” he whispers.
I look down at the angry red welts on my chest. Red welts caused by the golden cross around his neck. He fingers the cross for a moment before roughly ripping it off and tossing it away from us. He turns back to me, but I start to push away from him.
He knows now. My big, bloody (literally) secret is out, and he has all the proof he needs to bring me in front of The Coven. My prime instinct is to run away, but Snow reaches out and grabs my hands before I can get too far.
“Hey. C’mere,” he says while gently tugging at my arms. I let him drag me closer (because I’m weak. Because I’m a constant disappointment to myself) and into his arms. He lowers me back onto the ground, handling me as one would handle the flowers around my mother’s tomb; with grace and tenderness.
He brushes some flyaway hairs from my face with the back of his hand. I nearly melt into his touch as he cradles the back of my head, his fingers running through the back, checking for injuries. He picks up my wand from where it had fallen on the floor only moments ago.
“Snow. Wh-what are you—”
“Shhh,” Snow quiets me down by placing a soft kiss on my lips. “Do you trust me, Baz?”
I do. Crowley, I do. He’s here, keeping me safe and secure, instead of running off to prepare a dungeon for me.
Looking into his eyes, I nod quickly. Snow smiles and takes one of my hands in his. He places the tip of my wand to the wound on my chest, causing me to wince with the contact.
“‘M sorry,”
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper.
“Yeah, you will,” he says, giving me a final kiss before moving to inspect my wound.
And suddenly, he’s not inspecting, so much as placing his lips to the edge of the burns.
“ Kiss it Better ,” he whispers, placing small kisses across my chest. His lips, previously hot, now act as a cooling balm over the screaming red welts. A deep, satisfied sigh escapes me as Simon works on healing me (healing me with a Kiss it Better no less) (that is a family spell, it should not have worked on me).
I think I might just start crying (that is if I haven’t already) (it’s late) (and I’m exhausted) (and Snow is looking at me with his blue eyes and tawny skin). I should be mortified, but instead, all I feel is peace.
Snow looks back up at me once he’s finished, a smug smile plastered on his face. His nose is still bruised from when I kicked him early. I touch my fingertips to the edge of it and frown.
“May I?” I whisper. Snow nods and hands his wand over to me. I know exactly what spell to use. I carefully touch the tip of my wand to Simon’s nose.
“ Kiss it Better .” I say as I place a small kiss on the tip of his nose. The colour slowly fades away, and his nose slowly mends itself.
Whatever Simon’s feeling for me, it’s mutual. I love him. He smiles at me, eyes bright and lips parted. Hope springs in my chest, and I know I should push it down and ignore it. Having hope that things can change is dangerous. It’s dangerous and stupid, and if I were a smarter man, I’d recognize it as the most evil of sentiments.
But I’ve always been stupidly weak for Simon Snow, and so I allow myself to believe in another possibility. I allow myself to hope.
Maybe we can walk away.
He’s smiling at me, and we both used a family spell on each other.
Maybe we’re both tired of fighting.
I want to show him. I want him to know that despite what he was taught to believe, he is good . He is not a weapon; he is a man.
Despite what we were taught to believe, I trust him.
So, I start to place gentle, deliberate kisses along the bridge of his nose, taking great care to smell and taste him. His eyes flicker, stubby eyelashes fluttering lightly. So I move to his eyelids and place kisses there as well. Simon trembles beneath my hands, and I have to wonder if he’s ever been allowed to know a gentle touch. Was Simon permitted to be taken care of? Was he allowed to want something so soft before?
“Baz I—” he starts, but I silence him with a kiss. Simon responds by pushing against me, fighting for control.
It’s always a battle with him.
I can fight too.
Fight for him, fight with him, fight to have him.
I can do it.
“Simon,” I breathe into his mouth. He moans in response, hands reaching up to run through my hair, tugging at the roots.
“I want—” I start, but he cuts me off by moving down to my neck and pressing his mouth against the small of it. His teeth graze my skin; my stomach flips, a deep pulling heat coiling inside.
Blood rushing between my legs.
And fuck I want him.
“Simon, please,” I plead, climbing onto his lap, my legs wrapping around his hips. He’s got his head buried in my shoulder, and he grinds against me, his erection pulsing beneath the fabric of his jeans. I shiver (both in anticipation, and because I’m in nothing but my pants).
Simon looks up at me, pushing some of my hair away from my face.
“You’re freezing,” he whispers.
“I’m alright,” I say.
He maneuvers his jeans off and wraps his legs around me, letting his warmth wash over the both of us. I grind against him, pressure building between my legs. I moan, pushing myself closer and closer to him. I need—I need him.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, my hands grasping the small of his back, inching closer to the hem of his pants. I finger the inside of his pants, and Simon juts forward, pushing his cock into my hands.
“Baz, please, ” he mumbles, nibbling on my ear.
I kiss the hollow of his neck before reaching for my wand once more. There’s a spell that can help make all this a lot easier.
“ Slippery When Wet ,” I say, and my hands suddenly become slick.
Simon holds onto me, thrusting and pushing himself up and down, up and down, and against my near-painful erection. Finally, I slip my hand inside of his pants and pull out his cock.
I give him a hard, strong pull, grinding myself against him, up and down, up and down, and against him. Simon starts gasping, holding desperately to me.
“Baz. Fuck . I—” he starts, but Simon struggles with words without someone wanking him, so his words are lost.
“I got you, love. I got you.” I give him another slow pull, letting him know that I mean it. I have him. I will continue to have him, so long as he allows me to. His hands move up my back, fingernails grazing at my skin. I moan and thrust more harshly against him, my cock brushing against my fist and Simon’s cock.
“ Please . I’m so close, Baz.” Simon buries his face against my ears and breathes me in deeply and slowly. “You smell so good , Baz. I need more. Please, Baz,” He whimpers, jutting against my palm. I drag my thumb against his frenulum, and Simon squeals, biting against my hairline.
“That’s it, love. You're getting there, aren’t you?” I whisper, quickening my pace a little.
“You’re such a fucking wanker, Baz,” he growls. Crowley the sound of him growling like that, because I caused it, sends a sharp pulse of pleasure to my cock, and I moan.
“Clearly, I am,” I chuckle, pumping him faster and faster, quickening my rutting against him.
“Should shut you up,” he says.
“I’d like to see you try—,” my words are cut off by fingers being shoved into my mouth, pressing down against my tongue. I close my mouth around his fingers and suck slowly and deeply while pulling at his cock.
And it’s good… So. Bloody. Good. All of it. Simon pushes his fingers deeper inside my mouth, and I moan, breathing through my nose.
(I don’t want to think about the drool dribbling down my chin).
“That’s right. That’s my boy,” he whispers. His fingers move against my tongue, pulling out sounds I didn’t even know I could make. I continue working on him as well, feeling the blood pulsing strong beneath my fingers.
I’m so close, and he’s so close. And I want this to go on forever, but if I don’t finish soon, I might implode into myself. I groan as I lap my tongue over his fingers, mumbling incoherent phrases.
Simon grabs a hold on my shoulder and works his body with my pumping. And we move together, faster and harder and—and he’s so close .
He explodes in a loud keening noise (and I wonder if I should shove my fingers in his mouth), spurting hot, sticky come all over the front of my pants. I should be disgusted by it. I should demand he clean himself up.
But my mind is addled, and I’m swimming in a pool of want and need . And now I’m wet, and the throbbing in my cock isn’t going away, and I have to finish. So I thrust myself against Simon, begging him to take me in his hands and help me.
One thing I know about Snow is that he doesn’t like to leave a mission unfinished. So as soon as he’s done, he turns his attention to me. Keeping his fingers in my mouth, he palms my cock through the fabric of my pants.
“ Pweesh ,” I moan.
Snow shushes me and adds more force against my pants, rubbing me harder and faster. I hold on tight to his hips, pulling him closer to me. He needs to be closer to me, touching me, holding me.
Simon does. As he keeps me in his grasp, he whispers encouragement in my ear, and it’s the sweetest thing in the world. He continues to tug me and hold me, and I—
I just—
I thrash wildly against him. Simon pulls his fingers out of my mouth and keeps me close, as I come in my pants. He embraces me as I pant and shudder, as tears threaten to fall down my face.
He cradles me through all of it, rubbing my back and nuzzling my shoulder. He holds me and kisses me, and keeps telling me how beautiful I am and how I come so well for him.
Then we lay down on the ground, amidst our clothes and the cobwebs, and it hits me that this is all so bloody preposterous. We just rutted against each other at my mother’s resting place.
My breath hitches and bile rises in my throat. I turn away from Simon’s hold and start dry heaving. I cough and I gag and I need to rid my entire body of everything .
Because this was wrong. And that fact that it was the first time in a long time that I felt so fucking alive is killing me on the inside. And it’s not just because of where we did this, but because we can’t continue this. Not realistically. We still have a battle tomorrow.
There’s still the war to think about. Simon’s whole future depends on it. He needs to fight tomorrow, and he’s supposed to do what is right.
And I can’t be here.
I’m supposed to be home. I’m supposed to put my affairs in order.
I shift to get up, but Simon wraps his arms around me and pulls me back against his chest. I try to pull away from him, but he keeps me held tight in his arms.
“You’re ok, Baz,” he says.
“I—I need to go. I can’t—”
“Hey. Stay with me, yeah?”
I stop struggling and turn to face him.
He’s concerned. His eyes are wide open in alarm, and he’s frowning at me. He shushes me and places a small kiss on the side of my head. He tightens his hold on me, just a little, and I feel my nerves calming down. I close my eyes as Simon guides me to take in deep breaths.
In… Out…
In… Out...
We do this for a few minutes, until I relax against him. When I look back up at him, his eyes have softened, and his smile is relaxed. The lines of his face have smoothed out. He tucks some hair behind my ear and reaches to peck my nose.
“Stay with me, Baz?” he asks again.
“Yeah. Alright.”
I nod and settle back down beside him. As I lay here, in Simon’s arms, I realize that there’s nowhere else I think I should be. Not really.
Simon reaches for my wand again, placing it between the two of us, whispering a “My Love Keeps Me Warm .” And I think I do cry now because that spell only works if you're madly in love with someone. The whole point of the spell is that the strength of the love shared keeps the partners warm.
The spell only works under those conditions, and yet suddenly, the room becomes so hot I worry we might melt into the ground.
“Let’s sleep for now, okay? We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow,” he whispers, pulling our clothes closer and draping them over us.
“Tomorrow,” I mumble, the heat and my coming down from such an orgasm taking the energy away from me. I can’t think anymore. I can’t worry anymore.
All I can think about are golden freckles and smokey cinnamon in the air. And the way my love keeps me warm. Simon keeps me warm.
I close my eyes and allow sleep to hold me close and pull me under.
I wake up to fingers carding through my hair. I open my eyes to meet Simon’s. A strand of my hair is twirled around one of his fingers, and he’s got a frown on his face. The chamber is still warm, the flowers are still in bloom, and Simon is still here beside me.
“I—I can’t do it, Baz,” he whispers, shaking his head. My heart drops to my stomach. I feel a flash of cold, despite the heat here. Is he talking about us having sex? Does he want us to go back to the way we were?
Does he still want to fight me?
I take a deep breath and turn away from him. Very well, if this is what he wants, I’ll be more than happy to give it to him. I don’t plan on living past today anyway; at least I got to enjoy my last day alive. If Snow still wants to kill me, there’s really nothing I can do to deter that.
(Or rather, nothing I plan on doing to deter that).
“Baz. No, that’s not—” he starts, but I lift my hand up to silence him, because frankly, I don’t want to hear him say how what we did was a mistake, and how he isn’t even gay, and how he and Wellbelove are supposed to be the final golden couple after he defeats me.
I don’t want to hear any of it.
I stand up and gather my clothes, slipping them on. My body is dirty and covered in different bodily fluids but I can’t find the will to care about that. I just want to get out of here as fast as possible. Maybe, if I’m lucky, the sun hasn’t risen yet. Maybe I can still make it home before the battle begins.
Snow grabs onto my wrist as I’m about to button my shirt (my dirty, torn, ruined shirt). I turn to face him, and I must look terrifying (good) because he flinches momentarily before straightening himself out (pun intended). He looks ready to fight again, all squared shoulders, legs standing apart, and chin raised in defiance.
“Will you just stop ?” he snaps.
My scowl only deepens. I want to get away from here and not listen to any of this. I rip my wrist free from his grasp and stand in front of him, my arms akimbo.
“No. No, I will not stop, Snow. You want to pretend that what we did didn’t happen? That’s perfectly fine with me.”
“That’s not—I mean, I don’t—” he stammers and it’s just so fucking pathetic that all I want to do is kiss the words out of his mouth.
“You don’t want this with me, is that right? Plan on marching me to the dungeons, are you?” I step closer to him, using the full advantage of my height to look as intimidating as I can (even though I feel no taller than two feet on the inside). I force the lump in my throat to drop and the tears in my eyes to stay right where they are. I will not cry over a boy who doesn’t want me. I will not embarrass myself more than I already have.
“Or,” I continue, “Do you plan on driving that sword through me right here and now?” I point to the sword, still on the ground, obscured amongst the flowers still growing.
Snow’s face looks like I’ve just slapped him. He steps back and shakes his head, eyes darting between me and the sword on the ground.
“Is. Is that what you think, Baz?” He asks, backing up until he’s flush against the wall. “Do you think I’d kill you, after all that?”
I shake my head. “I know you’ll do what’s right, Snow. And if this isn’t what you want, I understand.” I look to the floor. I wasn’t planning on becoming so vulnerable, but I suppose when you let a boy grind against you until you come into your pants, what else can you do?
I feel warm hands on the sides of my face, lifting up to meet a pair of sad, blue eyes. Sad blue eyes on a tired face.
“No. That’s not what I want, Baz,” he whispers, tightening his grip on me. My heart skips a beat, I shake my head, wanting to look away from him again, but he won’t let go. He pushes my hair away from my face, and keeps the hand at the back of my neck.
Simon then slowly draws me closer to him until he’s kissing me again. I lift one of my hands to grasp at his curls and push my tongue into his mouth. Tears are trailing down my face because he’s kissing me while telling me that he doesn’t want to kill me or imprison me.
And if that’s that case; if his reaction is to grab me and kiss me again—
Oh…
He stops kissing me, and runs his thumbs under my eyes, wiping away my tears. It’s a miracle that I’m not swooning at the moment (it wouldn’t be beneath me). Instead, I lean into his touch, letting it reach me to my core, warming me up again.
“I want this , whatever this is between us, Baz,” he says, placing a kiss on my forehead.
“But the war— ” I start. I need him to understand the things he’d be giving up if he chooses this path. Simon shuts me up by kissing me again (really, the only way he can shut me up at this point).
“I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to fight anyone anymore.” He presses his forehead to mine. “I can’t ,” he says, voice breaking just at the end. His hands are still gripping me and squeezing me closer, using me as someone to keep him steady.
I can do that. I can keep him standing. Through the difficult road ahead of us, I can keep him standing tall and strong. I can do that for him.
“Okay,” I say as I pull him closer, letting his head drop to my shoulder. He clutches me as one would desperately cling to a life raft in the middle of a storm.
We stay like that for a few more moments before the spell, cast last night, fades away, and the chamber is once more damp and cold. We then take our time to get dressed, stealing glances at each other.
Once we’re both fully dressed, Simon gives me a small smile and holds his hand out to me. I smile back and nod as well, taking his hand in mine.
With a final look at my mother’s chambers, from flowers still growing to the place where Simon and I slept together, we walk out.
We have no idea how we’re going to go about this now. Simon has made it quite clear that he doesn’t intend to fight me, and I’ve already decided not to fight him. We could very well be walking out onto a battle already happening.
Whatever is waiting for us outside, we’ll face it together, hand in hand.
We reach the entrance to the White Chapel. The sounds of shouting have reached our ears.
The battle is here.
And we’re both ready to face it.
Simon and I give each other one final look. He looks beautiful. Blue eyes bright, and focused. He’s determined.
So am I.
We push the doors open, and step outside.