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I know you

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“We’re enemies, Snow.”

“No we’re not.”

“Yes we are. I’m your self-proclaimed mortal enemy, remember?”



“We’re not enemies, Baz.”

“Fine. What are we, then?”


“We are not friends.”

“Yes we are.”

“Since when?”

“Since we became friends.”

“We are not friends.”

“Yes we are.”

“No we are not. You’re my enemy, Snow.”

“Fine. I’m your enemy. You’re my friend, though.”

“I am no such thing. You hate me.”

“No I don’t, Baz. Not anymore, I don’t. I know you.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“But I do.”

“Drop it, Snow. You don’t know me. You don’t want to know me. You don’t want to be my friend.”

But I do, I want to say. I do want to want to be your friend. I do want to know you.

I do know you.

I know you’re a rich, posh, self-important tosser, who thinks he’s better than everyone else. I know you are better than everyone else, almost.

I know you’re scary smart. Top of the class. I know that you play the violin, and that you own the pitch. You’re a force to be reckoned with. Strong, graceful, fucking ruthless. I know that you’re amazing at everything you do.

I know you’re brutal.

I know you’ve always got something up your sleeve, even if it’s just your wand.

I know you love magic, even if it’s not in the same way that I do. I know you know how to control it; I know you know how to make every spell land.

(I know you loved the stars.)

I know you love fire, even if you’re flammable. (Or is it because you’re flammable?)

I know you’re a vampire. I know you know I know, but you won’t ever admit that I’m right. I know you think you’re a monster, but you’re not. You’re just a boy.

I know you’re a secretly incredibly emotional person. I know you get drunk sometimes, when you visit your mother’s grave. I know you love her, and I know you miss her. She loves you too, you know. (You’re her little puff.) I know that you’re an older brother, and that you only pretend to be annoyed by your siblings. I know you love them, too.

I know you have nightmares. (We both do.) I know you sometimes cry yourself to sleep after them, so very quietly, making sure I won’t hear you.

I know something happened to you in those weeks you weren’t here, when you were off somewhere where I couldn’t keep an eye on you. I know you try to hide your limp, and I know that to someone who doesn’t pay as much attention to you as me wouldn’t notice it.

I know you like to pretend to be incredibly neat, and that me leaving anything messy drives you up the walls, but I also know you brush the crumbs of your salt and vinegar crisps between our beds. I know you eat them when you think I’m asleep.

I know you’re always cold. I know you sleep with three different blankets pulled over your head. I know you look peaceful when you sleep. I know you watch me when I’m asleep, nearly as much as I watch you when you’re awake.

I know your eyes are grey, but the type of grey you get when you mix dark green and dark blue. Deep-water grey. Like wet pavement.

I know you like showering at night: I think it’s because you hate feeling the dirt and grime of the catacombs on your skin; or maybe it’s just because you hate waking up in the morning.

I know you smell of cedar and bergamot. I know you’d spend hours slicking your hair back, if you had that much time to spare. (I don’t know why you do it, it looks better loose.) I know you iron and press your uniform. I know you knot your tie anew every morning: I know it always rests in the middle of your chest perfectly.

(Everything about you is perfectly.)

I know you know all this about yourself. I know you know you’re smart, and witty, and too gorgeous for your own good.

I know you’re self-confident, but also that you hate yourself. (I wish you wouldn’t hate yourself. I don’t know how you do it. I don’t think I’ve ever really managed, to hate you, that is. You’re too lovely.)

I know Penny is right. I am obsessed with you. But I also know that it’s more than that.

I know I like you.

I know I want to be your friend.

I know I want to be more than your friend.

I know I want to know what your hand feels like in mine. I want to feel your long fingers curling onto mine. I want to hold your hand again and push my magic into you. I know I want to pull you onto your bed and press my entire side to yours, ankles to hips to shoulders, our intertwined hands resting on our thighs.

I know I want to know what your hair feels like between my fingers. I want to turn towards you, run my hands through your hair. I want to mess it up, to get those soft waves to frame your face. I want to pull your shirt out of your trousers, to run my hands in between the buttons. I want to rub circles into the softness of your stomach. I know I want to grab you by the waist, and pull you against me.

I know I want to know what you feel like against me. I want to feel you warming up in my arms, under my touch. I want to feel you shudder against me when I run my hands up and down your spine. I want to be the one to hold you up when you swoon, even when we’re lying down; I know I want to be the one to make you swoon.

I know I want to know what your lips feel like on mine. I want to know if your lips are as soft as they look. I want to know how they’d move against my mouth. I want to know if you can use your tongue for other things, not just putting me down.

I want to slowly close the distance between us, sharing the same breath, until we’re connected in every possible way. I want to kiss you gently first, only a little more than a peck. I want to feel you melt under me, to open up to me, and I want to deepen the kiss then. I want to pour every single emotion I’m feeling into that kiss, because I’ve never been good with words, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use my mouth to solve problems.

I know, more than anything else, that I want you.

I want to hold you and have you and to kiss you.

I really want to kiss you.

But I also know you’d kill me if I did that.

I know that if I did that, the world would go up in flames. (Maybe I’ll do it if the world is actually up in flames.) (Kissing the boy you love with your dying breath is the sort of dramatic shit you’d pull.)

“Okay. Yeah, you’re right,” I say instead. “I don’t know why I ever thought we could be friends.”

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The world goes up in flames anyway when Baz gives me a curt nod and turns away from me, going back to his homework.

I suppose I should be glad it took me so long to realise my true feelings, because this—whatever this is—isn’t something I can deal with: if I’m already burning, I guess it doesn’t matter too much if I tread to my death.

(Crowley, why the fuck do I sound like Baz?)

“I can’t be friends with you, Baz,” I say again.

“I heard you, Snow. It’s the first wise decision you’ve ever made in your life.”

At least I survived this long.

“I can’t be friends with you, because I want to be so much more than that.”

I have nothing to lose, now—except maybe my head, but I’ve already lost my mind, so I suppose that doesn’t matter too much—, so when his head snaps back to my face, I do it.

I kiss him.

(And he kisses me back, and I think I finally understand why Baz is obsessed with fire.)