Work Text:
The first time Baz showed up to chemistry class at Watford was the day one of many droning lessons to follow when Professor Kuft assigned lab partners.
“You’ve got to be bloody joking,” Baz said, clutching his binder angrily against his chest.
“No, Mr. Pitch, I’m not bloody anything. You and Mr. Snow. Lab partners. Sit,” the professor ordered. Baz was fuming. Smoke was practically spewing from his ears.
“But—”
“No but’s Mr. Pitch; you heard me. Take your seat.”
Baz swung around to face the table and slammed his books down at the window seat. He spent most of the class staring out at a cherry blossom tree, watching it move in the wind, and wondering why Snow was so twitchy all the time.
The second time Baz found his way to the class was week three. He had been sick with the flu and was sent home to recover. His time in Pitch Manor had been bleak and dark as the house itself, as though the mute coloring of the walls only brought up his boredom to flourish like ignorance feeding ivy. Finally, when his fever went down, Baz returned to school.
“Baz!” Snow exclaimed from his seat, nearly slipping off of it in an attempt to stand. He startled, stumbling back down in shock, presumably at the sound of the other boy’s name falling from his tongue.
Baz wordlessly walked to his seat. He slumped over, pressing his cheek to the cold of the blacktopped lab table.
“Baz,” Snow whispered. Baz had worried while he was gone that he might forget what his name sounded like when Snow said it. But tuning out Professor Kuft’s lecture on the dangers of mixing bleach and vinegar, it occurred to Baz that forgetting his name on Snow’s lips may be a feat of impossibility.
“Baz,” Snow whispered a little louder.
“What?” Baz groaned.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Baz asked, watching through half-closed eyes as Snow fidgeted with his own shirt sleeve.
“Yeah, nothing. Oh, but we got an A on our first project.” He paused. “I fudged your half.” Snow reached up to scratch the back of his head. Nervous habit.
“And?”
“What and?”
“Why’d you do it?”
He shrugged. “I dunno.”
Baz turned his head away. He’d forgotten how much he loved the cherry blossom tree. The leaves were turning now, dropping to the ground. Baz closed his eyes. Even looking away from Snow, with his eyes closed, Baz couldn’t not picture the boy; his stupid blue eyes, his stupid golden curls, and his stupid, stupid freckled face.
The third time Baz went to chemistry, Simon Snow wouldn’t say a bloody word to him. They worked through their class project in silence, mixing chemicals and testing reactions with sealed lips. Baz’s stomach was in knots.
“Snow,” he snapped, growing sick of the silence passing between them.
“What?” It wasn’t a question, it was a growl. An angry Simon-Snow-growl.
But Baz didn’t know what else to say. They weren't friends. They were enemies; had been since they were eleven and the crucifix threw them together for the rest of their schooling. Baz looked back to the table, keeping his eyes on the reflection of the light. He didn’t want to look into Snow’s eyes. Baz didn’t know what he’d do if he did. His entire chest was in knots now too.
The fourth time Baz went to chemistry, Snow was absent. Baz slipped away from class with a stolen hall pass. He found Snow at the entrance to the auditorium building, sitting on the old stone floor in a corner of the arching doorway. He had his head in his hands. Baz didn’t dare move closer. He stood from behind a tree, staring at the boy, wondering what it would be like to hold his hand.
The fifth and last time Baz went to chemistry, Snow transferred from the class.
So Baz stole another hall pass. He walked the stairs until he reached their dorm and flopped down onto his bed. The ceiling in their all-too-large room was likely the most fascinating thing in there, besides Snow, of course.
Snow never skipped classes. He was annoyingly late, or annoyingly prompt, but he never, ever skipped. It was an unspoken agreement that Snow was the good roommate and Baz was, well, not.
But now, Snow was breaking his streak.
Baz mentally traced through the patterns intricately carved into the arched ceiling of their room until his eyes drifted shut. He didn’t usually sleep during the day.
When Baz woke up, Snow was sitting on his own bed, staring. It took Baz a moment to get his eyes to stay open, to realize he wasn’t dreaming this. Snow, sitting, watching Baz. Then suddenly, Baz was fueled with anger. Snow, who had skipped class twice now and hadn’t been in their room for two weeks—for even so much as a change of clothing—had the nerve to stare at Baz, like he was acting strange.
“Simon!” Baz exclaimed. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”
Snow shrugged. Baz hated his shrugs. He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, so his uniform black oxfords pressed up against the hardwood floor.
“You skipped class!” Baz nearly shouted. “That’s my thing,” his tone dropped down to something more appropriate for a dormitory. “Aren’t you worried you’ll be expelled?”
“Why?” Snow asked.
“What do you mean, why?”
“Do you care?” Snow prodded.
“If you get expelled, no,” Baz shook his head violently.
“There you have it.”
“There I have what?”
“You. That’s just it. You’re such a pain.”
“What the bloody hell do you mean by that?”
“You hate me. You pushed me down the stairs last year. You poured chemicals into a pot until something exploded then blamed it on me. I was washing down Professor Kuft’s desk for two whole weeks because of you. And now you’re all weird.” Snow stood up from his bed and walked to the middle of the room. He stared down at Baz, eyes watering, although he wasn’t quite sure why. “Calling me Simon and asking where I’ve been and I just don’t get you.”
“I never called you Simon,” Baz muttered under his breath. “Shut up.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No.” Now Baz was standing too. “I didn’t. I don’t fucking call you Simon.”
“Well you did.”
“No,” Baz took one intimidating step closer. He loved using the three inches he had on Snow as a weapon. And it worked all too well. “You halfwit, I didn’t.”
“Halfwit, is that the best you’ve got now?” Except now. Now it didn’t work. Simon took another step forward, daring Baz with his eyes.
“You stupid, bloody wanker.”
“Oh, wow, I’m a wanker? I had no idea.”
“You know, you’re an insufferable little tyrant, walking around being all perfect. You’re an arse.”
“Yeah, well at least I’m going somewhere, at least I get the marks to get me to university. Without daddy’s money, you’d be living out the rest of your life in year twelve.”
“No.” Baz’s eyes dropped to the ground. He stepped backwards until he fell back onto the bed, unintentionally. “You’re right.” His eyes watered. He hadn’t meant to fall backwards and it just made this whole scene more of a scene. “You’re not failing all your classes. I am.” Baz choked on the last word.
Simon stared at him, eyes wide.
“You’re right. No one’s gossiping about you in the halls, calling you up to the Dean’s office every month to threaten expulsion,” Baz paused to reach an arm up to wipe his eyes with his white uniform sleeve. “The only reason I’m still here is because my father puppeteers the whole fucking admin board. He has been, probably since my mum died.” Baz paused again, making room for his words next to the lump in his throat. “It’s like his hands are wrapped around my throat.” Tears streaked Baz’s face now.
“Baz,” Simon said. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that, I was just…”
“You were just what?” he choked out, shoving his palms into his eyes. He could feel Snow peering through him. “What?” he said again, louder.
“Being a wanker?” Simon offered quietly.
Baz rolled his eyes behind his hands
“Being an insufferable tyrant?” A little more sass in his voice.
Is it bad that I want to kiss him? Baz thought. Is it bad that I really really want to kiss him?
“You know no one thinks you’re stupid, right?” Snow said, running his hand up through his hair. He was making it all messy. Simon always did that, and Baz always had the urge to fix it. “And I’m the only one who’s reckless enough to say you are.”
“But I am. I’m failing fucking everything.”
“No, you’re not,” Snow stopped to shove his hands into his navy cardigan pockets. “Sure you might be failing, but you’re not a moron. If you were, I would know it. I’m sure of it.”
“Yeah, but I’m still a moron.”
“So what? I’m a moron too. I can’t control shit. Not my magic, that’s for sure. Not even my own bloody magic.”
“Is that why you were out?” Baz asked, it came out more broken than he wanted it to though. He was still crying.
Snow nodded. “Yeah,” he ran a hand through his hair again. “Couldn’t get it to work. Nothing was happening. I spent an hour with a counselor, but I honestly think it was all just a way to cover up that I’m falling apart.” He pitted finger quotes against the twinge of sarcasm.
“So you didn’t skip?”
Snow shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I just neglected to tell the professor I’d be missing class. It’s pretty embarrassing, to be frank. The Chosen One who can’t handle his own magic.”
Baz sat up. “Yeah,” he paused. “You know, you’re not the worst.”
Snow stepped a little closer, waiting for protest from Baz, but Baz said nothing, so Simon sat beside him on his bed. Neither of them moved. There was a hands-width of space between them. Baz was sure of it. And it was too much, way too much space. All they did was space. Baz was so sick and tired of space.
“I’m gonna do something stupid,” he said. Simon tipped his head in confusion and Baz turned to face him. “If you want me to stop, tell me to stop,” he continued, inching his hand closer to Simons so that their fingertips brushed, sending goosebumps up his arms.
Simon nodded. “Okay, but what are you—”
Baz moved so that his nose just barely touched Simon’s.
“Oh,” Simon said quietly.
“Oh?” Baz asked.
“You’re insufferable.”
“What do you—” But Baz couldn’t finish the question as his lips were otherwise occupied by Simon’s. It was strangely comforting, kissing Simon. He tasted like lemonade and chocolate, an otherwise disgusting combination for Baz, but for some reason it worked.
“I believe,” Simon said when Baz pulled up for air. “That this may go against dorm room regulations—”
“I’m nearly positive that I go against dorm room regulations.”
Simon laughed. “Does this mean I’m not a wanker anymore?”
A smile pulled at Baz’s lips. “Yeah,” he said. Looking down at their interlaced fingers. He didn’t remember when that happened. “Yeah, it does.”