Chapter Text
Watford School of Magicks Annual Winter Ball
Bringing a date is encouraged
Weeping Tower
1 December 2014 at seven o’clock in the evening
All sixth years and above are invited to attend
Dinner will be served
SIMON
I crumple up the flyer in my hand and toss it half-heartedly at Baz’s bed. Possibelf passed them out to our class after Magic Words. I watched Agatha’s perfect hair disappear out the doorframe just as I turned around to look at her.
“Agatha, wait—” I called, but she was gone.
Everyone was staring at me when I looked back at the classroom. I watched the corner of Baz’s mouth curl up in an evil smirk. Fucking tosser; I’m sure he’s been happy the last few days (if he’s even capable of feeling happy). Just as things have gone downhill for me, they’re going up for him, aren’t they?
See, Agatha broke up with me.
A week before the Winter Ball. We’ve been waiting to go together since fourth year. We even had our outfits planned already; her dad lent me a suit and a light blue tie to match her gown. She wouldn’t let me see the dress, but I already know she’ll look like a princess in it.
I’m convinced she did it so that she could ask Baz to the ball. In the World of Mages, that’s typically how it’s done—girls ask boys, women propose to men. She insisted that she didn’t break up with me because of Baz, but what else could it be? We were perfect.
The only thing not perfect about us was how they look at each other . Or rather, looked. Baz would shoot her these mysterious dark glances across the dining hall like they were in on a secret, and she would send a soft smile back, the ones she used to reserve for me.
It stung like hell, but maybe that’s why I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been when she broke up with me. I mean, I fought it—until Penny said I should just leave it alone. And now they’ve stopped gazing at each other longingly, which is somehow worse. Like, if she’s going to break up with me over him the least she could do is follow through.
Now that the flyers are out, I’m dreading what’s coming this week. Any day now I’m going to pop into the dining hall to see Agatha presenting Baz with like, a bouquet of roses or something. She’ll run into his arms, and they’ll kiss in front of everyone– eurgh. The thought of them together makes me sick. It makes my blood boil.
Sometimes I’m convinced Baz flirts with her just to antagonise me. He wants to take away one of the only good things I have. He thrives on making me miserable. But Agatha—she’s smitten. You can see it. I can’t believe she’d go after him—after Baz! Sure, he’s fit, but he’s an evil vampire, which you’d think might overshadow the fit part. It doesn’t matter how nice he smells or how perfect his hair is. She deserves someone who’s good— and someone who’s actually into her besides! The notion of Baz, touching Agatha’s hand, dancing with Agatha at the ball? It’s enough to make me go off.
I end up seething in the direction of Baz’s bed until he comes back in. He stops in his tracks to stare me down.
“Is there an invisibeast on my bed, Snow, or is staring into space actually your idea of entertainment?”
I snap out of it and look up at him. I hate looking up at him, so I stand hastily. “You’d probably be friends with an invisibeast, if there was one. I’ve heard they like vampires.”
He looks down his nose at me. “And yet there isn’t one here, so I suppose we’ll never know. Now—” He swivels towards his bed and notices the balled-up flyer. “What’s this?”
I shuffle forward to make a grab for it, but Baz is faster. He holds it out of my reach (those bloody three inches, he delights in them) and unfolds the paper.
“Winter Ball,” he says as if I haven’t read the page a hundred times. “Bringing a date is encouraged.”
And then he looks up and raises an eyebrow at me. “Snow, is this your idea of asking me to the dance? I’ve heard it’s a bit more romantic normally.”
“I… uh, well–” I stutter out something unintelligible, feeling a bluster coming on. I know he’s just saying it to rile me up. Why in Merlin’s name would I ever ask him? He’s my nemesis! The thought of going to the ball with Baz instead of Agatha is… is…
Wait.
That’s actually a brilliant idea! If I go with Baz, then he can’t go with Agatha. She won’t be able to ask him, because he’ll already be going with me.
Why didn’t I think of this before? (Why does Baz have to beat me to everything?) It seems so obvious now. It’s perfect.
“Well, um…” Shit. I have to actually ask him now, don’t I? “I, er… ”
My face is burning and my tongue feels tied into knots. I’m half expecting Baz to curse me with a Cat got your tongue, but he just stares at me, waiting for me to spit it out. I shuffle my feet and clear my throat. (Is this how all the girls feel, when they ask? Like their heart’s about to jump out of their skin?)
I can’t back down now; the plan is foolproof if this goes right. I soldier forward.
“Baz,” I say. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I tuck them behind my back. “Um, yes, I– I want. Uh, you.” His eyebrow shoots up, and I flush.
“I mean! To– to go to the ball with me,” I finish hurriedly.
Merlin’s beard, did I really just do that?? I grimace, already regretting it; knowing Baz, he’s never gonna let it go. He baited me right into this mess. He’ll reject me ruthlessly, then he’ll go ask Agatha just to spite me, and then he’ll taunt me with it for the rest of eternity.
I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake.
So terrible that even Baz seems taken aback by it. (And Baz is never taken aback by anything .) If I wasn’t so mortified right now, I might actually be laughing at his facial expression. He’s staring at me like I’ve found the fairies and turned myself into an egg at the same time. (A mixture of bewilderment and disgust, I think.)
He blinks. Swallows. Blinks again.
I can’t believe I’ve rendered Baz fucking Pitch speechless with my idiocity. (I can’t believe no one’s here to see it.)
He clears his throat. “Very well, Snow,” he finally says. His voice still sounds croaky.
Now I’m the one taken aback. Why the fuck would he agree? He probably constructed a plot already. I should call this off.
Or he thinks I’m bluffing. Which I am, absolutely, but I’d never admit that to Baz. Rule number one: never show any signs of weakness.
“Okay,” I nod. Baz is staring at me and I feel a small sense of victory. I bet the fucker wasn’t expecting that.
“Will you be wearing the suit that’s been hanging in your wardrobe since the start of term?” he asks.
“Have you been going through my stuff?” I sputter. I knew it. I knew he did that!
Baz just raises an eyebrow condescendingly. “Snow, you leave your wardrobe door wide open every other morning. I haven’t touched your stuff, nor do I want to touch your stuff; I just happen to have eyes.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t believe him; that suit’s been tucked in the depths of my wardrobe for months, precisely to stay hidden from Baz. (He’d probably sabotage it or mock my taste. I can’t decide which is worse.)
But then, if I push this any further, Baz might accuse me of going through his stuff and I don’t know what I’d say to that because I have been going through his stuff. (Because I know the tosser is plotting something. It’s called being cautious!)
“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter.
“Not whatever, Snow. You’re a terrible roommate. And you’re also terrible at answering questions. Will you be wearing the suit or not?”
Merlin, here it comes. He’s probably going to call my suit cheap even though it’s Dr Wellbelove’s. It’s most decisively not cheap, but Baz is such a posh prick that everything is cheap by his standards.
I jut my chin out defensively. “Yes. And what about it?”
Baz just looks bored. “Lose the tie. It’ll clash with my suit,” he says before turning around and grabbing a book from his desk. He stops in the doorway. “Besides,” he adds, “the last time a tie that wide was in fashion, the Mage still had a naked top lip.”
I toss myself on the bed as soon as he’s gone.
Fuck him.
I’ll wear whichever tie I want.
BAZ
Snow is up to something.
There’s no other plausible explanation for the fact that he just asked me to the ball.
He seemed nervous. He seemed sincere. But he also asked me seconds after I mockingly suggested it, and that can’t be a coincidence. Something is brewing in that thick-skulled head of his (that isn’t incorrigible-moron juice).
I wish I could believe it wasn’t a plot; I wish I could believe the earnesty in his eyes. And half of me does—I don’t think Snow is manipulative enough for something like this, honestly. Brute force is more his style. If he’d somehow, horrifyingly, found out about my feelings for him…
I rather think he’d prefer to use his sword, or his fists, than… than whatever this might be. Romantic comedy. (Tragedy, more like.) Political intrigue. Enemies-to-lovers. Take the boy to the ball, give him hope that you actually like him, crush his feelings in one fist like a stale sour cherry scone at breakfast.
I won’t fall for it.
Or at least, I wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t been so shocked that he actually did it. That he squared his jaw and looked up at me with his battle-blazing expression and asked me to the ball.
Awkwardly as hell, because Snow couldn’t get a full sentence out to save his life, but still.
The moron actually did it.
So what? So what? He’s heartbroken over Wellbelove. (Is he trying to make her jealous by asking me? Now, that would be an entertaining reversal.) He hates my guts.
And he’s also most definitively straight. There are no spells to change another person’s sexuality, but even if there were, Snow is so painfully heterosexual that they’d have no effect on him whatsoever. No gender-preference-altering magic can touch you once you use 3-in-1 and wear your pants inside out when you’re too lazy to do laundry. (Seriously. Cleaning spells exist.) (Don’t ask how I know that he does that.)
I share a room with him. I’ve seen his displays of heterosexuality more than anyone else. The way he rolls out of bed and sniffs his shirts if they’re clean. The way he never moisturises. The Lynx deodorant. The manspreading.
His clothes.
Snow is a sucker for his uniform—he even wears it on weekends—but on the rare occasions that he does wash it, he changes into the same clothes that he wears in care; Adidas trackies and a t-shirt that’s three sizes too big for him. When he shaves his head in the summer, he looks like a knock-off Slim Shady.
And oh Chomsky, his suit. I feel hypocritical even thinking about it, because I’d sooner die (again) than pass up an opportunity to see Snow in a suit. Any suit.
Well, any suit but this one.
I overheard him mention once that Dr Wellbelove gave him the suit, which leads me to believe that Dr Wellbelove has a terrible sense of fashion (plausible) or that he doesn’t actually like Snow very much, because the suit is, well…
It’s a good suit. If you’re eighty years old. And if you enjoy looking like a box thanks to the massive shoulder pads. (I’ve considered sneaking into his wardrobe and shrinking the shoulder pads, but I don’t trust myself not to make any other alterations.) (A waste of magic, really. Better to just get him a new suit.)
It’s honestly a relief that his tie clashes with my planned look (well, not that I had a planned outfit—I wasn’t actually planning on going to the dance at all—but I have enough suits to find one that purposely clashes with Snow’s tie) because now I’ll have an excuse to replace the suit for him.
Maybe the blue velvet one. It never flattered me (I prefer warmer tones) but Snow would look downright lovely in it. He’s all shades of gold and it would complement him nicely.
Or the grey suit that Daphne bought me last Christmas.
I entertain the thought of Simon Snow in a grey suit (stunning) before my mind catches up with me. Crowley. What am I thinking, imagining the Chosen One in my clothes? We’re not getting fucking married, for Chomsky’s sake! He just asked me to the dance because he’s an idiot and his breakup is messing with his head.
Or maybe he’s actually plotting.
The worst part is, none of this will stop me. Not the terrible suit nor the apparent heterosexuality nor the fact that he might break my heart. I’d let him. I’d let him break my heart over and over again if I could just have one night with him. In a grey suit. Dancing.
SIMON
Baz goes home the weekend before the dance. We haven’t talked much, mostly because I’ve been avoiding his eyes whenever we’re near each other. Because what the fuck am I supposed to say to him? I hate you, go fuck yourself, oh and I can’t wait to waltz with you next Saturday, darling!
I’m trying on the suit from Dr Wellbelove on Sunday night to make sure it still fits. I always put on a few stone by this point in the term, on account of all the sour cherry scones (and the roast beef) (and the Yorkshire pudding). I swivel around to see how my arse looks in the mirror (sad as an unrisen scone, the cut’s not very flattering) when I hear the door click.
Baz sweeps into our room without looking at me, takes something out of his leather duffel bag, and thrusts it at me.
“Uh.”
“Open it, Snow,” he says crisply.
It’s a garment bag, that much is clear. I pinch the metal bit of the hanger with two fingers as if it’s poisoned. (It wouldn’t be beneath Baz.)
“It won’t bite,” he says dryly.
“No, but you might,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I gingerly unzip the bag and push it off the hanger to reveal… a suit? It looks expensive. And grey, but a shiny type of grey, like it’s made of silk or something. I glance at Baz; he’s standing there with his arms crossed, watching me impassively.
“Um,” I say, intelligently. “Is this for me?”
Baz rolls his eyes. “No, I’m just using you as a coat rack.”
“I already have a suit,” I point out, scowling. “I don’t need your charity.”
Baz raises his eyebrow at me. “You have a suit—that your ex-girlfriend’s father gave you, might I add. I can’t help but think that maybe you’re only planning to wear it because you’re not over her and want to win her back.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I say, sitting down heavily on my bed.
“Or maybe you want to make her jealous? We all know how Agatha feels; surely showing up to the dance with me is going to provoke some sort of a reaction.”
Anger boils in my stomach. How dare he talk about Agatha like that? Like she doesn’t mean anything to him, after everything he did to break us up? He’s acting like she’s just another figure in his plots. Another person to poke and prod at and play with her emotions. He’s such a fucking arse.
“Fuck off,” I growl.
“Or what, Snow? Are you going to run off to the Mage and tell him that you being too useless to have a relationship is somehow my fault?”
Within seconds, I’m off my bed, pinning Baz against the wall and ready to start throwing punches when he grabs my wrist and holds it steady. His hands are ice cold.
“Anathema, Snow,” he drawls. “If you get expelled, you’ll never get to take me to the ball.” I shove his hand away and take a few steps back. I can feel my magic rolling off of me—I’m sure the whole of Mummers can smell it by now.
“That’s better,” Baz says patronisingly. “I was almost afraid I’d have to ask your precious Agatha instead.”
“I fucking hate you!” I spit out, and storm out of the room. I need to have a breather, or I’ll actually end up breaking the Anathema. (Does it count if you accidentally go off on your roommate? It probably counts.)
“The feeling’s mutual!” I hear Baz yell behind me. It almost makes me turn around and go punch him in his bloody perfect face, Anathema be damned.
I have a technique to calm down when Baz gets like this. When he pokes at me so much that I want to scream. First, I have to stop and take a few deep breaths. Then I have to make a list: I have to remind myself that if I get expelled, I won’t be able to keep tabs on Baz. If I don’t keep tabs on Baz, then the Mage loses his connection to the Old Families. We won’t know what they’re plotting until it’s too late—and then we’ll lose the war.
I absolutely must know what he’s up to. There’s only one thing more dangerous than a vampire and that’s a plotting vampire. (A plotting vampire who’s wicked good at magic.)
Speaking of which, I’m sure Baz is plotting. Why else would he agree to go to the dance with me? Is he trying to make Agatha jealous? Or is he just trying to play with her feelings because he knows it’ll make me angry?
Or maybe he’s up to something much more sinister; maybe he poisoned my suit. Maybe he’ll poison my food. Maybe he’ll thrall me and drag me off into the Wood and drain me dry.
Oh, fuck. What if he thralled me into asking him? Now that I think about it, I’m sure it was a thrall. This could all be a part of his plot… Why else would he bring me a suit if he didn’t already know we were going to the dance together?
I decide I have to talk to Penny about this. I’ve already surpassed my Baz quota for the day, but this is an emergency. I have to tell her that he’s plotting.
And then I have to un-invite Baz from the dance.
PENNY
I know it’s going to be about Baz before Simon even opens his mouth. It’s always about Baz with him, especially now that he and Agatha broke up.
We have a quota, but I’m letting it slide for this week; I know he’s all worked up because of the breakup, and while his rambling on and on about Baz is annoying, it at least distracts him from everything else. (I swear to Morgana, if Simon devoted half as much of his attention to schoolwork as he does to Baz, he’d be the top of our class.)
So when he practically throws himself down at my usual desk at the library, I already know it’s going to be another tirade about Baz. I sigh and put my notes away, resigned.
“I asked Baz to the dance,” Simon blurts out.
Oh.
Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting that .
The thing is… even though it’s unexpected, it’s not exactly surprising. Mum once told me hatred and love are just two sides of the same coin; the emotions produce the same hormones and everything.
Maybe breaking up with Agatha just made Simon realise he was on the wrong side of the coin with Baz.
“Oh,” I say. “Well, that makes a lot of sense actua—”
“I think he thralled me into it,” Simon cuts me off. “I think it’s all a part of his plot; he wants me at the dance, either to make Agatha jealous or to hurt me.”
I sigh. Of course. Only Simon would develop feelings for Baz, and then somehow write them off as part of Baz’s evil masterplan.
“I don’t think vampire thrall works like that,” I begin, but Simon cuts me off again.
“He brought me a suit, Penny! A tailored suit! Where would he get a suit that fits me—unless he didn’t already know I was going to ask him?” he rambles. “And why’d he get me a suit, anyway?”
Probably because of the shoulder pads , my mind supplies.
“Simon, you do realise Baz probably owns a lot of suits? Maybe he just picked one that he thought would match?” I say instead. (I love Simon, but the suit he wanted to wear made him look like my uncles on Mum’s side who drink too much whiskey and wear weird, brown sandals with everything.)
I do think this act of charity is uncharacteristic of Baz; I think he’d rather be staked than do something nice for Simon, but I also think he’d rather do something nice for Simon than look unfashionable. He probably just didn’t want to be seen anywhere near that horrid suit.
“What if he spells it itchy?” Simon asks with genuine concern in his voice. I can’t help it; I burst out laughing.
“If he spells it itchy, I’ll unspell it for you,” I promise. He doesn’t look convinced.
“I don’t know, Pen… this all seems too suspicious. I really think he’s plotting. The best thing to do would just be to uninvite him.”
I smack him upside the head.
“Are you mad? You can’t uninvite him. It’s completely impolite, especially since he already brought you a suit!”
“But—”
“How’d you end up asking him, anyway?” I demand. “First it was Baz is an evil prick, and now it’s Baz is an evil prick who’s also my date?”
Simon huffs. “I wanted to stop him going with Agatha. It’s the perfect plan, right?”
“Simon—”
“I know,” he groans. “It’s weird. He’s a bloke. But like, he was just staring at me with his evil eyebrow and I– I panicked. It was my only hope!”
“Simon—”
“And I know,” he continues, pressing his palms into his eye sockets, “that like, ‘Agatha doesn’t belong to me,’ and that in the interest of like, feminism or whatever, she should be able to go to the ball with whoever she chooses, but—”
“Simon!” I kick him under the table this time, and he startles, finally looking up at me. “You know you could’ve just gone with me if you wanted a date so badly.”
“But Micah—”
“Is on the other side of the world.” I roll my eyes. “Not that I want a date,” I add. “Isn’t it ridiculous that they wrote it’s ‘encouraged’? And I heard that there’s going to be a discount for couples. Can you believe that?”
“Uh, I think it’s fine?” he says.
“It’s exclusionary. I’m protesting it by going alone,” I say. “Anyway if your goal was to make Agatha jealous– honestly, Simon, are you five?”
He looks indignant. And then he sags a little. “I dunno. I just– I can’t believe she really broke up with me. I thought we were good.”
I reach across the table to touch his arm. “If it helps at all,” I say, “she wasn’t going to ask Baz. I think she’s only going to show off her dress.”
Simon sighs. “Real helpful,” he says. “After I’ve made a fool of myself with Baz. Now the whole thing’s useless.”
“You still can’t un-ask him,” I remind him.
He rests his head in his hands. “I don’t even know how to act civil around Baz. How the fuck am I meant to take him to a ball?”
Why does he bother asking me for advice about these things? I’m about as helpful as the Ask Magickal Mary column in Mages Today. (I don’t read it, I just know.) (Okay, I’ve read it once or twice.) The point is, I’m more likely to fuck things up further than actually help him.
And this new development, with Baz Pitch, whether Simon’s feelings are genuine or not…
(He’s obsessed, he’s always been obsessed.)
“You made this bed,” I say, because I’m a mage after all, and in crisis we cast about for metaphor. “Now sleep in it.”
He snorts. “Cast that spell on me. Then I won’t have to go to the ball.”
“I’m not knocking you out so you can avoid interacting with Baz.”
“It’s not just that– What’s everyone gonna think?” he groans. “Like you said, we’re, we’re—”
“They’re going to think,” I interrupt, “that you make a great-looking couple.” (No one’s going to be all that surprised, with the way they’re constantly at each others’ throats—I don’t tell him that, though. He’ll have a fit.)
Simon gives me a flat look.
“That is, if you wear the suit Baz got you,” I add quickly.
He huffs. “What’s everyone got against Dr Wellbelove’s suit?”
“Everything!” I burst out. From somewhere between the stacks, the librarian shushes me.
“Everything,” I repeat in a whisper. “Burn it.”
BAZ
Simon Snow looks stunning in a grey suit.
He stalked into the room an hour after our fight, and, with an apparent change of heart, flung Dr Wellbelove’s suit out the window.
“Snow?” I said. “Did your optic nerve come back in?”
“Shut up,” he said, rounding on me. “Listen, Baz. If we’re gonna do this, we’re not gonna half-arse it, okay?”
“Half-arse… what?”
He just huffed and started stripping.
Stripping.
I nearly had an aneurysm.
Stripping—in front of me! He never does that, on account of his fear that I’m going to give in to my uncontrollable vampire urges and bite him if I see even an inch of bare skin. (It’s not unfounded.) He tore off his Watford jumper and trousers in record speed and grabbed the garment bag from where I’d lain it on his bed after he left. (Best not to give up hope for salvation of his fashion sense.)
The sight of his back, tanned and freckled at the top, carved through with muscle and dotted with moles—I felt like I had to shield my eyes from the sight. Another glance and I’d be blinded.
I stared out the window at the moat instead. The suit was so horrible that even the merwolves didn’t like it. Those fuckers eat everything, but I watched with amusement as they dragged the chewed-up garment to the edge of the moat and left it there.
“Well?” Snow says.
I look back at him and my breath catches.
He turns slowly in a circle, showing off for me. I think I’ve entered Purgatory and this is what’s supposed to cleanse my eyes of all sin—Simon Snow in my suit.
“How’s it look?” he asks.
“It looks.” I clear my throat. “Too small,” I say.
My wand’s out before he can respond. I say a silent tearful goodbye to the suit in case I fuck something up, point at the garment, and cast Room to Grow.
Snow tugs at the waistband, satisfied, and rolls out his shoulders. I bite my tongue to keep myself from ogling him. The grey always washes me out, but it casts Snow into brilliance, making his eyes bluer, his cheeks pinker, his hair bronzer. “Better,” he says, looking up at me through his lashes.
I shouldn’t dare. It’s a dangerous line of thought.
But in this moment—with Snow wearing my suit, and looking at me with something softer than hatred, and not even mentioning our fight or Wellbelove or how much of a massive prick I am—in this moment, I start to believe he might actually be sincere. He might actually not be plotting anything.
Aleister Crowley, I’m going to die.
(If not tonight, then at the ball.)
(The ball I’m going to with Simon Snow.)
SIMON
“What else?” I demand, pacing around the room. I glance back at Baz, who’s just staring at me. Maybe he’s worried I’ll rumple his precious suit dirty or get it dirty. “Should I– should I take this off?”
Baz looks exasperated. “You know, Snow, usually it’s customary to wait until the third date to undress.”
“Is this a date?” I ask, confused.
He rolls his eyes in an even more suffering manner than usual. “You’re an idiot. It was a joke.”
“Right…”
(Baz Pitch doesn’t make jokes.)
“Though you would take someone on a date to their own room, Snow,” he adds with a grimace.
I frown. “I wouldn’t. I’d take you on a date somewhere nice!” I insist. Mrs Wellbelove once told me I’m a fine young gentleman; Baz doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “Like… the British Museum.”
He folds his arms. “Why’s that?”
“You’re…” I gesture to him haplessly. “Y’know, posh. Posh people like museums, right?”
“Posh people do more than go to museums and lounge in three-piece suits, Snow.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Polo then. Posh people like horses.”
Baz raises his eyebrows at me. “I think many go just for the tight trousers,” he says.
Huh. I never considered that. Do they really?
My brain has now conjured up an image of Baz in skin-tight white trousers. He’d look good in them, probably; there are few things Baz doesn’t look good in. (Watford boaters being one of them.)
I mean, he’s got footballer thighs. And his legs are so long. It’d work.
“And I thought you hated horses. You whinged about it all the time to Wellbelove,” Baz’s voice snaps me from my thoughts. I narrow my eyes at him.
“How do you know that?”
I knew it! They must be having secret meetings. Probably Baz thralls her and makes her spill all my secrets so that he can plot my downfall. (Not that I have any secrets. I’m horrible at keeping them.) (But still.)
“Your whinging is extremely loud and incredibly annoying,” Baz says. “You can hear it from across the school grounds.”
Huh. Or maybe it’s just his vampire hearing.
It’s probably his vampire hearing.
“Anyway,” I clear my throat. “I actually wanted to– I think we should, um, practice.”
“Practice what?” he snaps. “Are you being purposefully cryptic today, or—”
“Dancing!” I interrupt. Baz doesn’t run away immediately, so I forge on. “I thought– I mean, we’ll have to– to dance at the ball, won’t we?”
And if I keep him occupied by dancing the whole time, he won’t be able to run away with Agatha in the middle of the event, which I’m sure is his plot.
“I expect so,” Baz says warily.
“Right and– and Agatha always says I’m shit at dancing so– so here.” I don’t think, I just lurch forward and grab Baz’s hands. He literally flinches back as if burned.
“Snow, what are you doing?” he hisses, glaring.
“I just said! We have to dance.”
“With no music?”
“Uh, I didn’t– think of that?”
Baz’s face looks a little pained, honestly. Kind of reminds me how Agatha looked the last time she had to dance with me, at her parents’ Christmas party—right before her French ex-boyfriend Misha or Michel or whatever showed up and said, May I have zis dance? and she looked at me with puppy eyes so what the fuck was I supposed to do but let the horseback-riding, ascot-wearing twat dance with my girlfriend?
Anyway.
I probably should have seen it sooner, with Agatha. And I guess I can’t blame Baz for his apprehension. He’s seen me step on a lot of feet. Including his. (Mostly on purpose, but still.)
He’s walking away and I let him go.
I’m not disappointed; it’s not like I even actually want to go to the ball with him. I just figured, if I was going to go through with it, I might as well not look like a complete idiot. (My chances have already been improved by this suit—I’ll never tell Baz he was right, though.)
But Baz doesn’t leave the room.
He just hauls a fancy-looking record player out of a box under his bed, sets a record on the turntable, and carefully places the needle.
A song starts playing that I don’t recognise. Something waltzy.
He turns back to me and swallows, looking grave. “Now we can dance, Snow.”
“Er– okay.” I bumble forward once again and take his hands; they’re cold. It occurs to me that I’m less than a foot away from a vampire and exposed as ever. I tuck my chin into my chest in an attempt to hide my neck.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Baz says flatly.
“I’m– nothing.” We haven’t moved; we’re just standing there, holding hands. “So, uh,” I say. “How do we– I mean, who’s the girl and who’s the guy?”
Baz makes a sound in his throat that might be a sob. “Snow, you’re an insufferable fool.”
“I just meant—”
“I will lead” he snaps, interrupting me. “It’s clear you’re incapable.”
I glare and squeeze his hands really hard so hopefully it hurts him, but he just squeezes back in a death grip tight enough to make me wince. His expression doesn’t even change.
“Plus,” he adds lightly, “I’m taller.”
“Buzz off,” I say, but it’s hard to pour my usual anger into it when I’m stood here holding hands with him.
I still don’t know what to do with my hands, and eventually Baz heaves an almighty sigh and places my left hand on his shoulder. I can feel his muscles shift through his shirt as he reaches out and presses his right hand to my back. He raises our other hands, still-joined, higher into the air.
“It’s a basic box step,” he explains with the air of a bored lecturer. “Do you know what that is?”
“Um. I think?”
I don’t like being this close to Baz; I think I might be sick all over him honestly. My heart’s pounding. My blood’s racing, itching for a fight, for anything. His touch is making me shiver. The only time I’ve ever been this close was when we were at each other’s throats.
I’m afraid if I look into his eyes he’ll thrall me again, or whatever he did before. But then, if I haven’t been thralled yet today, how come I don’t want to leave? How come I sincerely want to dance with him, and well? (Does a thrall last more than a day? Does it last forever?)
Baz kicks my right leg gently. “Step forward. Left joins it. Now right goes back— right, Snow, right— now left back, and right to left—”
I fumble a few times, but it’s simple enough, and I get it after a couple repetitions.
“Let’s try it in real time instead of slow-motion,” Baz drawls.
I listen to the music, watch Baz’s feet and not his face, try to time my steps.
We actually get it after a while. Baz is a good dancer, not that I’m surprised—he’s all grace, even with those long fucking legs of his. Every move is so fluid, so connected, unlike my stilted, stumbling steps. But eventually I fall into the rhythm too, and we’re dancing.
“Confident?” Baz asks, and I nod, still utterly focussed on my feet. “Good. Let’s spin.”
“What, no—”
Too late. Baz leans us over, guiding our steps, and our waltz begins a circular movement around the room. I feel carried away in the tide of him, utterly helpless. I keep tripping over my feet, but he moves on like nothing happened.
We don’t say much. I stare at our feet, at his polished Oxfords and my shitty trainers.
And eventually, we’re decent at the spinning version too. I feel good about it, and a new song comes on, something slightly faster, and so I dare a glance up.
Big mistake.
Not because I stumble.
Because I make eye contact with Baz’s eyes, and I’m enchanted. Captivated. They’re so grey, and I lean slightly closer, trying to parse the colour—dark blue and dark green mixed together, a storm at sea—and I’m…
Enthralled.
Oh, shit.
Is this it? Is this the thrall? Is this why I can’t look away?
Why I feel myself starting to smile—do I imagine the hint of one on Baz’s face—and move with him naturally, like we’ve always been dancing instead of fighting?
“Baz,” I start, not knowing what I’m going to say, and then I feel something under my foot.
Something slippery. Something very, very slippery.
Oh, fuck.
My foot glides across the floor, almost gracefully. That is, until it coasts along past the point my hip is actually able to stretch, the point of no return, and I make a wild grab for Baz to save myself—Baz’s face, fuck—
“Snow, ow—”
“Fuck!”
The offending foot’s gone, dead to me forever. The other foot skids out of sight haphazardly. Couldn’t tell you where they’ve gone, except that they’re certainly not in contact with the floor. I grab onto Baz’s shoulders for dear life as I go crashing down.
Which means we both go crashing down.
Baz lands on top of me, and he quickly pushes off with a look of disgust. His hair falls into my face as he does, dark locks brushing my forehead. “Crowley, Snow, you’re even more hopeless than I thought.”
“I was doing fine!” I protest. I rub at the place of impact on my arm. “I slipped on– on—”
I grope around for the offending object and hold it up triumphantly. When I see the familiar green packaging, I burst out laughing. “On this!”
Baz just blinks at the empty bag of Walkers Salt & Vinegar Crisps for a moment, and then, ever-surprisingly, smiles. “Apparently I’ve sabotaged you.”
I knew he was plotting.
(Still can’t stop smiling, though.)