Chapter Text
New Beginnings.
🌟
~Baz~
It’s started to drizzle, so I pick up an extra umbrella for Snow as I leave my flat.
During the fifteen-minute walk to the station, my traitorous mind starts to craft thoughts of our reunion scene. Will it be unbearably awkward? Most likely. I’m not expecting him to run into my arms or anything (as much as I would like that). He might shift from foot to foot. He might look down and mumble something unintelligible. If I’m lucky, he’ll say my name.
Who am I kidding—have I ever been lucky?
I can scarcely believe this is happening. Maybe this is some kind of twisted, sexual-frustration induced hallucination and I’m going to end up standing alone outside the train station for hours like a numpty. That seems more probable than Simon fucking Snow deciding to come visit me in Florence. Alone.
(I’m the one who invited him. It feels like self-sabotage, now.)
Simon Snow. Here. In Florence.
My mind supplies a helpful fantasy of us frolicking arm in arm down Via de Tornabuoni, the crowd parting effortlessly as the afternoon sun shines down on us. I take him to my favourite gelato place across the bridge, and he gets chocolate on his nose, and he lets me lick it off.
I shove the image to the back of my mind. It stays just that—just a fantasy. (He’s not here for that. He would have said.) (Or maybe not. It’s Snow, after all.) (And why else?) (But I shouldn’t expect—shouldn’t presume.)
I quicken my pace to shake off the feeling that this is a dream, shoving my hands into my coat pockets, and curse out loud as I end up with a fistful of pins. This is what I get for rushing straight from the fashion studio. I wanted to have Snow’s suit done before he arrived—not that he’s actually going to wear it. I grimace and pluck the pins out, ignoring the tangy-musty scent of my own blood, and nearly trip over a loose piece of cobblestone.
Shit. Thoughts of Snow have me more ruffled than I realised.
As I near the square, I smell him before I see him. I can’t smell his magic anymore, but the scent of his brown-butter blood is as overwhelming as ever. He’s sweeter and more familiar than anything else in this city.
My pulse quickens, and as I round the corner to the station I feel a tangible tug in my stomach, like a hook behind my navel. Like the Crucible all over again.
I scan the crowd in the plaza but I don’t see him. I just smell him, everywhere. Pervading my senses—it’s like our room at Watford. I’m tingling with nerves and anticipation as I spin in a slow circle, looking for those familiar features. Maybe he’s not here after all.
I keep seeing flashes of bronze hair, but they’re not him. My heart leaps into my throat. Maybe there, to the left. I crane my neck—
And some buffoon comes careening into me from behind. Literally—I hear him trip and say “ouch, fuck,” and his wildly flailing arm catches me in the shoulder before his body smacks into mine. I stumble forward and my umbrella is knocked violently out of my hand.
I right myself and turn around, scowling, ready to snark at the clumsy idiot.
“Sorry, mate—” He looks up. “Oh.”
It’s a very familiar clumsy idiot.
I forget how to breathe.
I forget that I need to breathe.
For a moment, I forget everything except the fact that I’m staring into the face of my still devastatingly gorgeous, still resolutely moronic, ex-boyfriend.
It’s fitting that Simon Snow should come quite literally crashing back into my life.
🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟
~Simon~
I don’t ask for much. I didn’t expect us to have a perfect reunion, or a not-awkward one, or even a mediocre one! I would have been happily surprised by a bad one! But these fucking cobblestones decided to fuck up my life once and for all by tripping me, sending me and my bag flying directly into none other than Baz Pitch.
Our eyes meet—his are a bright, cloud-grey today because of the rain—and suddenly I’m laughing hysterically. I haven’t seen Baz in five months and of course this is how it goes. With crashes and bumps because, well, we wouldn’t be us without that.
“B-Baz,” I stammer out, my face flaming. “Sorry.”
His lip curls into a sneer. It’s a familiar look on his face, though not the most flattering one. (He’s got a lovely smile, really, though I doubt he’s even aware—I picture him smiling at a mirror and it nearly sends me into another fit of laughter.)
“Snow,” he says. “Still making a fool of yourself at every possible opportunity, I see.”
I swallow and stoop to pick up my bag, and when I look up again he attempts a small smile. It makes my insides go all kinds of soft and I punch down those feelings as quickly as possible. (They feel too big and too intense inside me. I don’t know where to put them.) (My therapist suggested out loud, when I told her I was coming here last week, and I laughed so hard I nearly fell out of my chair.)
Baz hands me an umbrella. I didn’t realise he was carrying an extra for me, and honestly I’m touched. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” he says with a cursory nod. “Your bag?”
I roll my eyes and hoist the bag further onto my shoulder. My jacket’s soaking wet already, and I give my hair a little shake, accidentally splattering Baz with raindrops. “I’ve got it.”
He starts walking and I follow. We cross the plaza and a busy street and pass by a McDonalds. Then we’re winding into a narrower street with uneven cobblestone sidewalks. I’m glad I didn’t bring anything with wheels.
Baz walks unnaturally fast because of his long legs (okay, and the vampirism) and I hesitate, wondering whether to scurry to keep up and risk looking like an overeager puppy, or fall behind and risk getting hopelessly lost in this maze of a city. I settle on walking half a step behind him; he doesn’t seem to want to compromise and fall into step with me.
Tosser.
At least I have a good view here. This city is positively gorgeous; it looks like it was made to be painted and hung on a wall. Every building is old and charming, and even though these cobblestone pathways have it out for my toes, at least they look nice. Everything is shades of cream and taupe and beige, like an interior decorator’s fantasy.
I have a good view of something else, too. Baz is wearing jeans. (Did he do that for me, I wonder? He knows I like them.) (I shouldn’t read too much into this.) They’re dark tailored ones, and they cling tightly to the backs of his thighs. He’s wearing a grey woolen peacoat, so I can’t see above his thighs, unfortunately. (Fortunately?)
Finally, thankfully (I’m a bit out of shape these days), Baz slows down and falls into step with me. It’s not unnatural walking together like this, not anymore—what does feel unnatural is not holding hands.
Because when we were together that’s about all we did, wasn’t it? Held hands, all the time—until the last couple of months, at least. I could do an artistic study of Baz’s hands. He has nice hands—long and elegant like the rest of him. He has attractive hands, if such a thing is possible. I remember being transfixed when he would use them nimbly—writing, playing the violin, raking them through his hair…
Nope. No. I need to end this line of thought immediately. His hand is curled gracefully around the wooden handle of his umbrella and—
“It’s about ten minutes more,” he says.
Thank fuck he said something.
Eventually, we turn left onto a street lined with double-door entrances to flats on both sides. I look for the sign: Via S. Gallo.
“Is this your street?” I ask.
Baz nods and starts to point things out along the way. “That’s where I go food shopping. Nice flower shop there. That’s my favourite cafe; they have free wifi. And that’s where I go when I’m craving the comfort of a salad.”
I nod along but pull up short at the last bit. Did he say comfort of a salad? Did he just use the word comfort and salad in the same sentence? Are my ears alright? Maybe the air pressure on the flight messed them up. I give the left one a tug just to be sure. “I– what?”
“What?”
“Did… did you say—the comfort? Of a salad? What the fuck?”
A smirk graces his features. “A man can only eat so much pasta, Snow. It becomes mundane eventually.”
I could never tire of pasta, and I tell him so. He smiles at me again. (I know he’s trying to be friendly, but it’s a little weird, honestly. He acts cold and snarks at me but then he smiles, and smiles.)
Baz looks good when he smiles. (He always looks good.) He looks good here. It’s hard to believe he lives here—that he’s lived here, for five months. He has favourite cafés that he’s probably a regular at. He can walk these streets without a map. He’s settled in.
He looks peaceful and warm. His skin is still touched with a grey pallor but his features look more relaxed, somehow. His hair’s got a bit longer. His jaw’s a bit softer. (Maybe it’s the pasta.)
We reach a set of wooden doors right along the street and his keyring jingles as he unlocks them. I fumble to close my umbrella as we climb a set of marble stairs, footsteps echoing. It’s dark and cool, the only illumination shining down from a skylight far above.
We climb another set of stairs. And another.
“Merlin,” I mutter, “how high up do you live?”
Baz’s hand slips along the banister. “Six storeys,” he says wearily. “No lift.”
For a moment, I genuinely consider popping my wings out and flying us up to his window.
We finally, blessedly reach a door on the sixth landing. I’m panting. Baz isn’t. The door has a complicated system of deadlocks for some reason, and I look around curiously as we step in.
“Welcome,” he says flatly.
It doesn’t look like I expected Baz’s living quarters to look. The hallway is dim with no natural light, and I follow him down to a living room with a tiny kitchen jutting out the side. In between, there’s a dining table cluttered with papers and textbooks.
I linger, dreading reaching the bedroom. Baz’s roommate isn’t leaving until tomorrow night, but I’m here today because the flight was cheaper. And there’s no couch—Baz warned me about that, over FaceTime. There’s a beanbag sort of… thing. I can sleep there.
Merlin—I’ll sleep on the floor.
The only window is at the far end of the kitchen area. The overall effect isn’t too tasteful, but it’s charming in a shabby sort of way. I suppose I had expected some lavish flat, but this just looks like a typical uni student’s place.
“It was included with the program,” Baz says, as if reading my mind. He gestures down the hallway again, and I reluctantly walk towards the other end of the flat. “There’s the loo.”
Only one toilet for four of them—Baz must be going mental. He used to spend hours in our ensuite at Watford.
There are two bedrooms at the end of the hall. He ushers me into his room, where two twin beds are set up, one against each wall. Just like our setup at Mummers. I drop my bag heavily onto the floor next to his bed. (I know immediately which one is his—dark green duvet, hospital corners.)
“What’s it like having a roommate again?” I ask, just to have something to say.
He casts a long glance over at me. “Well… it’s not you.”
My insides stir.
I can’t tell if he means that his roommate is fantastic and never leaves the window open or his dirty underwear strewn about, or if he means… the other stuff. About me.
Don’t read too much into it.
“You’ll meet him tonight. He’s American.”
“Cool.”
(Not cool—it means the other bed will be occupied.) (The beds are tiny.)
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Yes. Always.”
He laughs. “I did extra shopping this week.”
He did extra food shopping for me.
I’m about to follow him out when I feel a vestige of magic sparking at my shoulders. (Took them long enough.) I make a sudden jerking motion away from Baz. “Hold on—”
I barely have time to rip off my coat before my wings burst from my back brilliantly, popping through the magickal slits in my shirt. I let out a little groan of relief as I’m finally able to stretch them out. Baz stares mutely from the doorway.
“Forgot about them?”
He blinks. “Never. But you might need to— the hallway’s quite—” I’m flapping them, stirring the air above Baz’s bed, and it feels so good after all these hours. Baz shakes his head, and I feel abashed, suddenly.
“Sorry. I can get rid of them again—”
But then he says, “I’ll just bring the food here.”
I poke around his things while he’s gone, folding my wings flat to my back. I know I’m probably being invasive, but I can’t help but marvel at the little home he’s created here. He has a wardrobe full of floral shirts, unsurprisingly. His shoes are lined up neatly at the door, all shiny and pointed.
Crammed into the corner of the room, jammed between the desk and the wall, is a headless mannequin. It’s proper creepy, like something out of Doctor Who. (I’d half expect it to come to life and start walking towards me—if it had legs, that is. Thank Merlin it’s mounted on a pole.)
Its torso is draped in a silky-looking silver suit jacket, so shiny it’s like liquid metal, with patterns cut into the arms like phases of the moon. There are sketches taped up onto the wall around it—sketches in Baz’s hand—a neat drawing in black ballpoint to match the jacket, notes that say cryptic things like toile in studio and lagenlook and fix hand??? and, the way I definitely know this stuff is Baz’s— see: gucci collection autumn 2012.
He has a whole life here. He has things he actually likes to do that aren’t plotting against me. I feel intrusive, suddenly. I don’t know what I thought, coming here.
I don’t know what I’m thinking.
And then I see Baz’s desk.
There are photos pinned above it. Four.
I’m in all of them.
A class photo from Watford, sixth year. One from his Leavers Ball. Merlin, that feels like ages ago; a different life. There’s a selfie of us kissing shortly after Penny and I had moved into our flat, my wings forming a red backdrop behind us. (I wonder what it means that he still has that one up.) And a newer one that Penny took of us in London. I wasn’t happy, I doubt either of us was happy, but we were together. It hurts to look at.
Baz clears his throat, and I turn around. He hands me a covered bowl and a fork. “Leftover salad,” he says.
I don’t take it. “You’re having me on. My first meal in Italy is not going to be a fucking salad—”
He thrusts the bowl toward me. I pull off the lid and it’s pasta. Baz smirks. I hate him. (I don’t.)
“Thanks,” I say around a forkful. I think this is cacio e pepe. It’s good.
“Nice to see your table manners have improved,” he deadpans.
“Not at a table,” I point out mid-chew. A noodle falls onto my shirt.
He sits down on his bed, crossing his legs, and I take a seat in his spinning desk chair. (I straddle it the wrong way round, so my wings don’t hit the back and my tail doesn’t get crushed.) Baz rolls his eyes.
“I have class in a few minutes,” he says. “It’s just down the street. If you want you can take a shower and then wander around, get a coffee or something. Go to Nabucco; they speak English there.”
“Okay. Um, I didn’t bring any… shower stuff,” I say. “I was—I mean, I didn’t want to impose, I was just—just gonna buy stuff. Here.”
I don’t add that it’s because I was too nervous to pack properly until this morning—and not just nervous. That I didn’t believe it was truly happening. That by packing my things, it would make it real.
“You can use mine. You’ll, er—” Baz clears his throat. “You’ll know which ones they are.”
Of course I know; it’s almost uncomfortable, knowing. We never tried to skirt around our history—we can’t, it’s interwoven with everything we are—but neither of us has mentioned it explicitly until now.
“Okay.”
He stands up. “I can meet you there at five. I have another class after that, but it’s across the bridge so you can come along. We’ll take the scenic route. And my favourite gelato place is there.” He looks almost sheepish as he says it. (Baz doesn’t get sheepish; it must be something else.)
“Really?”
“Well, I have to show you all the best spots, haven’t I? You’re nothing if not a foodie, Snow.”
I shrug. “I s’pose so.”
He picks up his wand from the bedside table. “Do you want me to spell your wings off?”
Does he not know…?
I realise I’m staring when he raises an eyebrow, waiting. “Oh. Um,” I say. “You don’t— I mean. You don’t have to. I can do it.”
Baz jolts up straight. “You’ve got your magic back?” He sounds so hesitant. He’s also trying not to look too excited and failing.
“Merlin, no. I would have told you…”
He deflates. “I wasn’t sure.”
“I just.” I gesture to my wings. There’s a long explanation and a short one, and I’m not sure which one Baz wants to hear. (He deserves the long one, probably. But he has class, so…) “It’s a long story. The short version is—I can kind of… retract them at will, now.”
“How?” His eyebrows knit together. “They always seemed to have a mind of their own…”
“They don’t. Not really,” I explain. “They’re a body part, just like my arm or leg. Once I stopped thinking of them as temporary—” As something to deal with, rather than a real part of me— “I had more control over them.”
Not full control—I can only hold them in for so long at a time, and I have to concentrate. After a few hours, it starts to get kind of like the feeling when you have to take a piss. Bearable, if you’ve had enough practice holding it, but not quite comfortable. And they always pop when I’m sleeping. But either way, it’s better than before.
“They’re magic,” Baz says, eyes narrowing. “Aren’t they.”
I nod.
Baz doesn’t say anything else, so I close my eyes. I like having my wings out, but this flat is cramped and so are the winding streets here. I don’t want to knock into anything. I focus on pulling them in; it feels like flexing a muscle. I feel their magic pulse and narrow to two points in my back. And then they’re gone.
The tail—well, I’m still working on the tail. Haven’t really figured out what it’s good for yet. At least wings have a use. The tail refuses to behave, but it usually tucks into my trouser leg easily enough.
When I open my eyes, Baz is gazing at me inscrutably. He looks like he’s going to say something, but then he doesn’t.
“Neat, right?”
“Neat?” He’s looking at me, really looking at me, and it’s terrifying. I glance away just as he says, “It’s wonderful, Snow.”
Baz is all limbs and hair and cedar as he reaches across me to pick up his bookbag. He shoulders his grey coat on again and checks his hair in the mirror. Then he flashes me a strange smile. Again. “See you later. Don’t get lost.”
I’m too stunned to smile back. “I’ll try.”
🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟
~Baz~
I think about Snow using my shampoo.
And then I categorically don’t think about that.
I think about his wings…
He made them disappear. He took them in, accepted them.
I can do that with my fangs, now. Stop them from popping when I smell food or blood. It took a visit to the local vampires here—Fiona told me where to go.
Florence’s vampire scene is mostly lavish partying and expensive wine. (A little bit culty, but I didn’t expect anything else with that much of a history and mythology here. They call themselves La Fratellanza— the Brotherhood.) They have a whole pocket of the city and a castle out in the countryside. A fucking castle.
Being there felt like something I’d been waiting for, but hadn’t even known about. At home my vampirism is cast to the side by everyone, myself included. It’s a problem to be dealt with. It’s something we don’t speak about, something everyone tries to ignore in the hopes they’ll just forget about it one day.
I’ve spent my whole life immersed in the World of Mages. Desperately shoving my vampirism down, but I can’t forget about it. It’s a part of me. A hideous part, or so I thought, but it’s there for good.
I think after seeing the vampires here, I can deal with that. It took being in a place where this part of me was seen as okay. Someone who finally said you’re a man, not a monster. Someone who offered to help, rather than condemn.
The vampires here are one hundred percent vampire. Nothing else to cover it up, so they wear it. They slip through the city and through time unnoticed, simply… living. (Unliving?) They’re glamorous, even. Alluring.
And they’re not monsters. Not really. They drink human blood, but they do it gracefully and beautifully, somehow—they don’t kill anyone. They’re the same as me, I thought. Vampires. But… different.
I didn’t stay.
The parties were nice, but I didn’t fit there as a mage—which I am, first and foremost, so deeply in my bones. They said I was welcome, but it was the same old trade-off: choose one or the other. You can’t be both. (No one wants to accept me as both.) You can’t be a vampire and speak with Magic. You can’t be a vampire who refuses to drink human blood.
I suppose I’ll know where to go if the World of Mages ever figures out what I am and decides to cast me out. And I suppose I’ve seen that this “evil” part of me… doesn’t have to be so evil.
I don’t know how Simon got control over his wings. Last I remember they were such a nuisance, and he was constantly agitated by them. Constantly wishing them away, yet they’d never go.
But I know they’re tied to everything he is. The night he defeated the Humdrum he poured the last of his magic into them. I wanted to be free, he said.
And freedom, I’ve learnt, isn’t getting rid of the monster parts. Not at first, at least. I’d resented the way my fangs dropped of their own volition for so long that I’d never thought that I could be the one in control of this part of me.
That’s what Simon said. They’re a body part.
Thank magic he didn’t get them removed. They’re— well, they’re everything Simon.
And Simon’s here. Here, with me. Here, with his moles and his red wings and his overgrown hair.
I’m determined to make this go well. By all means, it shouldn’t work, but he’s here, isn’t he? That means something. It means he wants…
I don’t know what he wants.
I thought Snow and I wouldn’t be able to repair anything. That there was no way for him to spring back from how far away he’d drifted. And for a while, we couldn’t. We were two sides of an elastic thread, stretching out—we nearly snapped.
And then we did.
Like everything had been since the Humdrum, it wasn’t some big dramatic fight. It was a quiet fizzle. We burnt out until there were only embers left.
Snow had been wading through years of trauma with his magickal therapist. He finally hit pause and the world smashed into him, the years catching up to him. I was trying to be there for him; I didn’t want him to go through that alone.
Except...
Except he wanted to.
It was the January of our first year of uni, just after our one year anniversary. He’d changed. We both had. Simon’s always had a weight to him, the burden of so many hopes carried on his shoulders. But he was even more thoughtful then, introspective in a way he’d never been before.
He gave me an honest-to-Morgana speech. A painful one, that I wanted to believe for so long was uncharacteristic; but in truth, it was just true. In the same breath that he told me how much he cared about me, he insisted we needed time apart. He said he needed to figure out who he was. (I told him that was a load of tosh at the time—I said, you’re still Simon Snow.) (I regret it, now. He was right; he’s not the same.)
Because we started our relationship practically the same time as… well, everything. And he said he couldn’t isolate it. Couldn’t separate the feelings around me from all of the horrible ones—losing his magic and Ebb and the Mage all in one day.
Crowley, if it was up to me, I’d hide Simon from everything bad in the world. We’d run away and I’d make sure he was never hurt again. But that’s not what he wanted. He wanted time.
And so I gave it to him. I have a little to spare, I think.
A break. Not a breakup. Just a break.
It felt like the same thing. Letting Simon go, and not knowing if I’d ever have him back… it was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do.
It was terrible at first. It was terrible for a while.
Stilted, awkward conversations. The way we had to tiptoe around every other topic. The way seeing each other was physically painful, a cardiovascular nightmare. We had broken up but we’d kept up this vain attempt to be friendly, to stay in touch.
But in July I left to study abroad. We stopped speaking to each other, and somehow, it healed something.
We had time to grow on our own for the first time in ages.
Time goes by slower when you’re missing someone. It wasn’t long before he reached out again. And against all odds, we became friends.
I think it makes sense, in a way. We’ve always been surrounded by each other, wrapped up in each other. Simon Snow has consumed at least two-thirds of my mind since fifth year. (And I still graduated with top marks.)
We’ve always been in each other’s orbits. We don’t know how to be apart.
🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟
~Simon~
Baz wouldn’t risk six months in Italy without a full stock of his precious bath products. Sure enough, when I step into the shower I spot the familiar amber-coloured bottles of posh shampoo and conditioner. I take a sniff and have to press a palm to the tiles to steady myself as cedar and bergamot permeates everything. It’s like Baz but a thousand times concentrated; like a tequila shot of Baz straight to my senses.
It’s a familiar smell and it shouldn’t shock me as much as it does. I shared a room with him for eight years, for Merlin’s sake. He smelled like this today, ten minutes ago. But before that it’d been months since I came anywhere near this particular scent, and it sends me into a tumbling bout of nostalgia.
It doesn’t hurt to see Baz as much as I thought it might. It’s nice, actually. Maybe because we’ve been texting and Facetiming regularly for a couple months now. Before that…
It’s not that he was holding me back from starting to recover; I’d never want him to think that. But having him around was a constant reminder of who I once was. He told me that he chose me, but I know what version of me he fell in love with. I can look back on that Simon in third person, as if it’s someone else.
I pour a bit of shampoo into my hand and start to massage it into my curls. I’m going to smell like Baz. He’s narcissistic enough that he might actually like that.
When he left, taking all traces of himself along with him, I was finally able to wipe the slate clean of everything from before. Purge my hands of the blood and rid my head of the nightmares and figure out who the fuck this version of Simon Snow was going to be.
I want him to fall in love with this version of me. Because I’m not the person I was at fifteen. I’m not the person I was two years ago. I want him to—I don’t know if he will.
I’m at a point where I feel ready to start again. To show myself, finally. To allow myself to be seen.
I just have to talk to him.
Easier said than done.
I dry off, wrapping the towel around my waist, and walk back down the hallway to Baz’s room. I freeze when I see a figure stooped over the bed on the other side of the room. “Uh—hello?”
He turns around. This must be Baz’s American roommate. He’s a black guy around our age, with a friendly smile and large, gold-rimmed glasses. “Hi! You must be… Snow?”
I tuck the end of the towel into a knot. Water is dripping from my hair onto the floor. Baz is going to kill me. “Um, just Simon is fine.”
Baz is the only person who still calls me Snow.
“I’m Shepard,” he says. He sits down on his bed, where he has an old-fashioned looking suitcase open. It’s brown with lots of leather and buckles, and it’s absolutely covered in stickers. “Basil’s roommate, obviously. I’m from Nebraska.”
He says ‘Basil’ wrong. Like bay-sil. Is that how all Americans say it? Maybe he does it just to get on Baz’s nerves.
I’m still standing awkwardly behind Baz’s bed.
Shepard smiles again. “Are you his, uh…”
“Friend,” I say quickly. “We were roommates back in school.”
Shepard glances down at my clothes on Baz’s bed, up to his wall of photos, and then back at me. (Still half-naked, and probably red as a tomato.) “Right.”
“I’ll just, uh—” I grab my clothes and walk backwards out of the room as fast as possible. I reach the bathroom, slam the door shut and lean back on it, taking a deep breath.
Friends. Roommates.
I don’t think we were ever friends before we dated. Not until now.
I think we’re friends now.
(Friends who share a bed. Merlin.)
Baz can spell the floor squishy for me.
🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟