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Baz
Unsurprisingly, it happened when Snow and I were in the heat of an argument, the room a mess of words, his smoking magic, and vitriol.
In my defense it’s been a few days since I’ve fed, and he’s been getting especially on my nerves lately (I presume it’s on purpose, though), and there’s only so much of Snow’s loud, open-mouthed chewing and exaggerated sniffling a man can take before retaliating. In this case, it came in the form of an insult about his eating skills being lower than a child’s, and then the next thing I knew, Snow’s disgusting, half-eaten apple core collided with my cheek.
“What the hell,” I’d snapped, glowering at his smug expression and pulling the core off my textbook. “If you’d ruined this--”
“You’d have deserved it,” Snow had interrupted, but he had looked a little guilty. Probably because he knew he can’t pay for a replacement.
(It’s still nothing magic couldn’t fix, of course, but he was clearly not thinking of that.)
“You could always learn to chew with some manners. This is my room too, and it’s annoying.”
Snow sniffled loudly again, stare unbreaking.
“You’re insufferable!” I’d exclaimed, slamming the ruined book shut and storming into the bathroom. I turned the shower on, knowing full well I had no plan to actually get in; I just wanted an excuse to slump down onto the floor of our bathroom, arms crossed almost childishly in frustration, because I’m not always above it.
I’m not sure how long I sat there stewing in anger and coming down from the high of Snow’s ridiculously potent magic, but it must have been a considerable amount of time because now here I am as the door behind my back shudders under the force of his knock.
“Baz? You’re using up all the hot water and I need to shower,” he calls through the door.
“Good.”
A beat. “Are you even in the shower? God, you’re such a prat sometimes. Open up and get out.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. I can feel the magic still simmering, even through the door, and I try to ignore the way it tugs at me.
“Fine. I’m coming in,” Snow decides, and the door pushes against my back. I steel myself, pressing back to keep it shut.
“Baz? Cut it out, now who’s acting like a child?” Oh, look, he finally makes a good point. The door shoves again, harder, and I finally swallow down my slight dizziness and stand, yanking the door open out of his hand.
He’s a bit shorter than me, but in this moment I can hardly tell. His magic hits me at full force, and the stare he fixes me with is deadly. “You don’t get to lecture me about being a considerate roommate and then go and lock yourself in our bathroom.”
“Fuck off, Snow.” I’m not going to argue right now. I need to get out of here. “And get your magic under control. I don’t need you going off on me right now, I have a lot to do.”
“I can’t, I don’t know how. ”
I knew that already, but I don’t really care, and I tell him as much.
“If you don’t like it, you can always leave.”
“I can’t just leave. I told you, I have a lot to do and you’ve already ruined my Greek book.”
“No, I haven’t,” he rolls his eyes, pointing over at my bed, where my book rests open.
I step over to examine it. To my surprise, the pages are dry and apple-scent free. The pages even look less aged than before. Shockingly so. It’s almost as if the book is… good as new .
“‘Good as new,’” he says, like he can read my mind. (Maybe he can. He never really fails to amaze me, loathe as I am to admit it.) “It’s what I used, I mean. I think it may have gotten rid of some of your notes though. Sorry.”
Did Simon Snow just apologize? No matter. I pick up the book and run my fingers down the uncracked spine. “I didn’t know you could do that without ruining the book.”
“Well, you don’t have to act so incredulous,” he huffs, and he looks a bit hurt. For some reason, this time it sends a pang through my chest to see him like that. “I can do magic, too. Sometimes.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say quietly. And I mean it, really. “You just surprised me.” And then, I surprise myself, because I say, “Do it again.”
“Again? I--I don’t think I can just do it like that--”
I interrupt him, ripping a page from the book and crumpling it in my hand.
“Hey--! Okay, fine, hang on,” he fumbles for the book, magic flaring wildly around the two of us, and I can feel that he’s almost got a handle on it this time as he closes his eyes and whispers over and over, good as new, good as new, good as new. The page shivers in his hand, and so do I as the magic thickens, nearly suffocating, and for a fleeting moment I think it’s almost enough to choke on, but then it recedes, sours, and frustration is evident on his face as his hand releases the un-mended page. “I can’t, I told you. Fix it,” he murmurs, voice stilted with emotion.
“No,” I say, firm. “You can do it. I know you can.” He gives me a strange look, and I can’t blame him--I’m not sure why I’m being so nice to him right now, either. He doesn’t make a move to try again, though. I sigh and place my hand over his, folding it back over the page and ignoring how his eyes snap back up to search my face.
(He’s so warm. He’s so warm, like the feeling of climbing back beneath the covers after getting out of bed in the night. Part of me knows the feeling of his warmth will never be as familiar as the feeling of getting back under a blanket, but for now I’ll soak up what I can and be disappointed later.)
“Focus,” I say. “You did it before. How did you do it then?”
“I don’t know, it just happened. I wanted it, and it happened. That’s how it always goes, but this time the spell worked.”
That’s certainly new information. Of course a magician must want something to happen, and have the words needed to make it so, but Simon’s never had a grasp on making them work together.
“You can do it,” I repeat. “Just think about it. Picture the book how you want it to look, and say it.” He takes a deep breath. I feel his fingers twitch beneath mine, and his brow furrows.
And, slowly, beneath our hands, the page begins to right itself. He hasn’t even spoken a word.
“Crowley,” I breathe, because this really is one of the more magical things I’ve ever seen--Snow doing a spell without words, only want. I can’t even begin to imagine how powerful he would really be, if he could get a handle on his magic like he is right now. It wavers as he opens his eyes, sucking in a breath of surprise and snapping his gaze up to meet mine incredulously. Perhaps, for the first time ever, we share a little laugh. His eyes are gleaming, crinkled at the corners, and he looks so damn beautiful that my own concentration wavers, the paper shuddering before I snap myself out of it. “You’re almost there.”
He nods. I don’t think he trusts himself to speak right now. I don’t either, but for entirely different reasons. Somehow, I feel exposed, like I’m the one under his spell right now.
Maybe I am.
The room smells thick, smoky-sweet, and my head is spinning. It’s only after the page is decidedly back in place that I snap the book shut, and the magic recedes, as does Snow’s hand. Instantly, I miss the warmth of both.
“We did it,” he grins.
“We did.” Simon Snow is standing in my space, breathing in my air, and he’s so close--
--so close, it would be so easy to lean in--
--just a little further--
--and--
--my fumbling hands drop the book because he seems to get the message, seems to read my mind, because he’s pulling me close and kissing me.
Simon Snow, kissing me.
This feels stronger than any spell, far gentler than I ever imagined. His lips are warm like his hands and magic, and I welcome it hungrily.
“Baz,” he murmurs against my mouth. I let out a horribly embarrassing little whine, but he seems to like it well enough, because he’s tugging me closer, kissing me more desperately, and if I thought I was breathless before, it was nothing compared to this.
His thumbs. Simon’s thumbs. Running gently across my cheeks, tilting my head slightly to give him better access as he licks my lower lip.
Is this a dream? This feels better than the dreams I’ve had. I don’t want this to stop. Which is, of course, when it does, his forehead pressed to mine. We’re both panting, and I think with a pang of pride that I made him feel like this.
“Snow.”
“Simon.”
“... Simon.”
(Another kiss. I have a sneaking suspicion we’re never going to get anything done ever again.)
“Fireworks,” I whisper when we break apart again.
“I know,” he nods. “I feel it, too. Like, in my chest.”
I chuckle. “No.” I use my thumb to tilt his head up, and I can see the recognition in his eyes.
All around us are a thousand tiny bursts of light, twinkling as they filter through the air of our room, some fading while others are only just exploding. Fireworks.
“Did I do that?” He breathes, back to that crooked, incredulous grin I love so much. This time, I really can kiss it off, and do.
“You did that,” I say, after what feels like a million years of our increasing boldness. “That’s your magic, Simon. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s how I feel.” His hand in mine. His knees bumping against mine. His lips firm and warm against mine. Him against me, and for once, not in a way that ends up with one of us hurting.
“Me, too, Simon. Me too.”