Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The moon shines through the window, stars glinting around it. It’s large and full, providing enough light that I can still see my surroundings.

I look to Baz on my left. Black hair against white sheets. Still awake but quiet and soft.

He glows, even like this. Despite darkness and the late hour of the night. I rise up and move a strand of hair behind his ear, letting my shadow cover him in darkness. (Even in darkness, his body wrapped in blankets and my arms I’ll see him. Know him.) I know how his heart beats when my head lays on his chest. How his eyes sparkle when he says something snide.

We lie together, whispering words of adoration as the moon rises higher in the sky, desperate to stay awake as long as we can. (It’s one of the only times we have together.)

We often have to fear being caught. But now, as the world’s asleep, it’s just us. Just this.

My hands brush through black hair—long and soft. My fingers trail to a scar that rests on his neck. A mark he received as a child. A story I’ve asked for a million times. A tale he’s gladly given in return.

(He always indulges me.) (Even when he complains.)

“You know we have to do something,” he whispers, letting worry be brought to the surface. His eyes are closed and he’s leaning into my touch as my hand cups his cheek. “If we let him continue, he might—”

I rush to stop his spiralling thoughts, “I know.”

I don’t need to hear the words to know the fears. To understand what has to happen next.

I sigh and shift, pulling him closer. He’s warm. We’ve lain like this for hours. In each other’s arms.

I don’t want it to end.

(I just want to have this a little longer.)

“Soon,” he responds, running a hand up and down my arm. A small comfort as we move forward in plans we never wanted to make.

He opens his eyes, letting me see the worries written plainly in them.

(We’re in danger. We know it.)

Not only our lives, but our magic.

(All magic.)

He’s right to worry. I do too. I just never wanted it to be like this. We’re still young. Still have so much life to live.

But I think we may be the only two people who can stop it (him).

(Who might even try.)

“Tomorrow,” I whisper, kissing his forehead.

I need it. I need another day to pretend the world isn’t crumbling. That no lives are at stake.

Another night where I can lie like this, in his arms before we start a war.

(Before we end one.)

He leans closer, kissing my collarbone. “Tomorrow,” he agrees.

I sigh in relief.

Tomorrow holds a whole world’s worth of problems—but tonight…

Tonight we can simply exist. Tonight we can be two lovers, wrapped in each other’s arms.

He kisses my neck, bringing want and passion to the forefront of our minds. Blocking any worry or strife that might inhabit our brains.

For tonight, I can love and be loved.

For tonight, it’s me and him.

Just like it’s always supposed to be.

***

I stumble outside through the double doors. The sun always manages to be a shock to my eyes after being under fluorescents for so long. I quickly toss my bag over my shoulder. I’m desperate, frantically trying to escape and hide in the comfort of the dining hall.

(I’m trying to hide.)

(I know what’s to come.)

“Simon!” a shrill voice shrieks behind me.

(I knew she’d catch up. She always does.)

It was foolish of me to think I could get away with hiding from her. Especially when we share a building this time of day.

“I know you’re avoiding me.”

I don’t often avoid Penelope. (Well, that’s incorrect—I’m not often able to avoid her.) (And it seems this avoidance tactic definitely isn’t working.) I desperately need to escape her clutches. My to-do list has items too important for what she has in mind.

(Sandwiches, revision, telly.) (The big three of my life.) (I won’t let her interrupt them.)

“Please,” she says, jogging to catch up to me. (I was walking quickly, but the second she yelled I knew it was over—so I slowed down.) Simon Snow the coward: even when he runs away from his problems he slows down so they can catch up. “Can you at least think about it?”

I sigh, pausing on the street, letting her catch up fully. She’s huffing. (Must have rushed down the stairs, knowing full well I was going to try to make a run for it.) A gust of wind blows past, and the curls resting against her face move to reveal red cheeks and fierce eyes. The rest sits unmoving on top of her head, pulled back into a bun. There’s a pencil in it, and I wonder briefly if she’s forgotten it—or if it was put there purposefully. (Both?)

“Please?” She asks. (Pleads.)

Her face changes—her eyes become wide and soft.

I groan.

There’s a party being thrown by some people in her programme. A who’s who of sorts, with dozens of random friends, significant others, and more. And since her advisor told her she needed to work on connections and being social with her peers, she feels like she has to go. But, of course, she doesn’t want to go alone.

(That’s where I come in.)

I told her she could find other ways to network. To make connections or whatever. It’s just a party, how much networking could happen? Besides, Penny hates parties. Says all people do is get embarrassingly drunk and stupidly post their journeys all over social media.

(I don’t bring it up now.) (If I did I’d have to sit through another hour on the perils of Snapchat.)

(I won’t make that mistake twice.)

(Three times. I won’t make it three times.)

(She had Snapchat for one hour and decided everyone who goes to uni with us are a bunch of idiots.) (Then proceeded to lecture me every time I opened it!)

(I’m not saying she’s wrong. But also—it’s uni.) (Who cares?)

“I don’t want to go without you,” she says. “Please, Simon.” It’s soft, desperate. I close my eyes, feeling my stubbornness begin to falter.

(It nearly always does with Penelope.) (She’s too strong and my will is too weak.)

I squeeze my eyes tight, resigning myself to the decision I’m about to make. “Penny, you know I have work tomorrow.” I open my eyes again, she nods furiously.

“We’ll leave before eleven,” she says quickly.

“And I’ve an essay to write for Professor Minos,” I continue. My protests are feeble, I’ve already made my decision—I’m going. (It’s for Penny.) (I’d do anything for her.) (Even sit in a sweaty sitting room with warm beer and nothing that I’d constitute as a food group.) “You know I have to do well on it.”

I do if I want to comfortably get through this class. I’m determined not to end this term like every other: furiously calculating percentages required to pass.

She takes another step closer, shifting her bag on her shoulder. Her eyes are fire and her shoulders are squared. (The professional Penelope Bunce stance when she’s starting a fight.)

I’m over. Completely done for and slaughtered. Stick a fork in me and take me out of the oven. I’m done.

I mourn the sleep I’m about to lose tonight—thinking instead of the coffee I’m going to purchase in the morning. (Coffees to be exact.)

(I’ll need every drop.)

“I’ll help you finish!” (I laugh internally at the idea that I’ve started said paper.) (I thought she knew me.) “The party doesn’t start until eight, which really means we don’t have to get there until nine or ten.” She starts walking past me, and I follow her. I have to squeeze through a couple of other students who are too focused on their conversation to see me. They nearly push my bag off my shoulder.

I turn to glare at them as she continues to speak. (They could have moved.) (Tossers.)

“And then we can leave at eleven or midnight,” she says. We pass the dining hall and I try to see through the large windows into what lies beyond. (The sandwiches call for me.) (I yearn for the soft bread, delicious condiments, and the wide array of deli meats that could have been mine.) “You don’t have work until nine, Simon. That gives you plenty of time to sleep.”

I sigh again, looking back at Penny as she continues to the Tube. I’ve half a mind to tell her that it’s the weekend. That sleep on the weekend is ten hours minimum. She’s shaving that time off drastically.

(But I don’t.) (I’ll just make it up on Sunday.)

She’s walking us back to our flat, determined to get me started on my essay. “So let’s go home, work, get ready, and then it’ll all be great!” She smiles brightly, excited at the possibilities.

I had a date with the cafe and the library, but I guess this works too.

“Fine,” I say, debating my future food choices. (There’s curry next to us—though even a Maccies would do.) “But I’m not spending the whole night playing bodyguard for you so you can avoid Shepard.”

Shepard. Study abroad student who, in Penny’s opinion, has been abroad long enough.

I fear sometimes she might pack his bags for him and ship him off.

She groans, throwing her head back in frustration. “I can’t deal with him, Simon. He’s so annoying.”

I shrug. He seems nice to me. A bit overeager, but nothing wrong with being excited. “You just think that because he’s American.”

“Do not!” she yelps, frowning at me. I see the entrance to the Tube, so close to us. (So close to food.) (Fuck, I’m hungry.) She stops and it takes everything in me not to whine. “I’ve dated Americans, Simon. I never thought they were annoying before.”

I think of Micah, her ex, who certainly was annoying.

“Maybe you should have—”

“He just never shuts up!” She turns back around, strutting towards the entrance. I could leap with joy. (Please. I just want food.) (There’s a Gregg’s on the way.) “And he’s just so damned positive.” My mouth waters at the thought of pasties and sandwiches.

I smirk, following her through the entrance, pulling out my Oyster card to tap me through the gates. “So you’re saying you dislike him because he’s nice?”

I see a man pass by with a bag of crisps in his hands.

My stomach growls.

Salt and vinegar. Tangy. Delicious.

(I need them.)

“Too nice, Simon. Who has the energy to be so bloody helpful all the time?” She swipes herself through, walking beside me towards our line. (I pass by several bags of food attached to other humans.) (It’s like they’re mocking me. Tempting me at every turn.) “Americans are already fairly distrustful—have you seen their president?”

“Have you seen our prime minister?”

She huffs. “Fair.”

“I’m just saying, whatever’s going on between you and Shepard—I’m not getting involved.”

She groans. “Fine.”

The only sign of a defeated Bunce. A huff and an end in debate.

I’d be satisfied if I wasn’t so fucking hungry.

My stomach growls again. She glares at me, as if my need for food has personally offended her.

I’ve half a mind to tell her that she has offended my need for food. (Could have already eaten a full meal at this rate.) (Might even be on my third scone.)

A tube pulls up, relieving me of the Bunce glare. (Another moment and my demise was imminent.) We hear the familiar voice over the speakers tell us to “mind the gap”. (One time I didn’t pay attention and I actually tripped. Stopped making fun of the reminder after that.)

“So you’ll do it?” she asks, taking an open seat. I grab the handle next to the door, leaning against the wall and looking at her.

I nod. “Yeah, Penny. I’ll go.”

Her face lights up with excitement.

The rest of the journey dissolves into plans and discussing the who’s who of the party.

***

Between Penelope’s sheer will, curry, and a constant flurry of rubber bands flicked at my head—I managed to turn in my assignment. (A whole four hours early, I might add.) (Minos might think I cheated, honestly.)

It’s the outfit she has a problem with in the end. (I’m not sure what jeans and a normal top ever did to her—but she acts as if I put on a potato sack.)

Which is how, in some obscene turn of events, I end up in the only nice pair of trousers I own (black—slightly small, but Penny says they hug my arse nicely.) (I try not to think about her looking at my arse.) And a long sleeved white shirt. (I tried to tell her it’s too warm for long sleeves. She didn’t listen.)

(I roll them up as soon as she looks away.)

One uncomfortable Tube ride and short walk later—we arrive at the destination.

(Some woman of the older variety kept staring at me uncomfortably on the way.) (I try not to assume ages. But I know she was far above mine.) (And her eyes weren’t on my face—I’ll put it that way.)

I check the time on my phone.

22:35.

Later than we meant to arrive. (I hope that doesn’t push our exit time back at all.)

We walk through the door and it’s everything I’d thought it’d be. Loud music played through shoddy speakers, making it impossible to understand. The smell of beer and pot mixing in the air. (Oxygen, where are you?)

(I swear my feet stick to a spot near the entrance.) (It’s absolutely disgusting.)

I turn to Penny, ready to confirm the time of exit (T.O.E for short). (Penny and I operate every social gathering with a T.O.E. in place.) But she’s already become distracted. She's across the room, in front of a person I’ve seen, but never known. They’re talking, clearly already striking up an intense conversation. (Pen’s hands are flying as she clearly begins to argue with him.) I take a deep breath.

Just one hour, Simon.

(You can do almost anything for an hour.)

Stats.

Yoga.

An incident on the toilet I’d rather not relive.

It’ll be fine.

I make my way to where I assume the drinks are, find one, and take my designated spot against the wall. People watching. There’s a pool table, surrounded by a mixture of girls and boys. (Boys trying to impress the girls, girls trying to get attention from the boys.) (Girls making eyes at each other.) (Boys walking to the toilet, hand in hand.)

I spot Shepard—the boy Penny’s avoiding. He’s currently chatting up another girl, and I swear I hear him say something about aliens.

He’s a good kid—really. Bit strange—but aren’t we all? (He once gave me a fifty minute lecture on why Bigfoot is real.) (It was right fascinating—I don’t consider it a waste of a good lunch period.) I don’t quite understand what she has against him, other than he seems generally unphased by her certain brand of intenseness.

(She glares, he smiles.) (The typical response is withering in fear.)

Penelope walks towards a table stacked with food. (I passed by it—none of it’s edible.) (There aren’t even crisps on the table!) (Whoever’s in charge of snacks here needs to be fired.) She scans it, decides it’s useless, and continues walking. (I taught her well.)

I lift my drink to take another sip, but am met with nothing. Not even a drop. I frown, staring down the bottle. (Empty.)

Well. Alright, then.

I check the time again. 23:15. (Almost time to go.) I quickly scan the room, desperate to find my target—when finally I spot her standing in the kitchen. I catch Penelope’s eyes and scratch my ear. (A signal we came up with a while ago—telling the other to wrap it up, it’s time to go.) She nods and continues her conversation. (Fifteen, Penny. Only fifteen minutes.) (I’ve got a phone to scroll mindlessly through before falling asleep.)

I turn around, ready to toss my drink in the bin, when I accidentally bump into someone else.

“Fuck’s sake—” he groans, stepping back.

He’s got dark hair that meets his shoulders. It’s loose and looks impeccably soft. He’s taller than me—not sure how much, but I can definitely feel his height advantage right now. Especially as he looks down on me, raising a singular brow in mockery.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Just needed to throw out my drink.”

“Watch where you’re fucking going next time,” he growls, pushing past me and out of sight. It’s a full on strop—dramatic and unnecessary.

It’s a bloody party. People bump into each other all the time. It’s practically a requirement.

I frown, glaring in his direction. Who the fuck does this prat think he is?

I toss my drink, managing not to piss anyone else off. (Or bump into anything more than an ill-placed chair.)

I’m trying to look for Pen again when I catch sight of him across the room, leaning against a bookshelf. He’s staring at his phone. (Glaring, more likely.)

And I’m glaring daggers at him.

I feel like I’m fuming at the ears. Anger out of nowhere steaming out of me. (Over what? An entitled prat with a god complex?) I feel my face turning red. An unfortunate side effect that happens sometimes. Penny likes to point it out. She thinks it’s adorable. (I think it’s infuriating.)

Stupid prat.

I stare at him more, having nothing better to do.

(Surely it’s nearly time to go?)

He didn’t have Penelope Bunce breathing down his throat as he got dressed for this party. So he didn’t feel pressured to wear nice trousers like me. He’s wearing dark wash jeans—an item that Penny declared was inappropriate.

(He still looks bloody fine with them on.) (Clearly it’s not that inappropriate for a fucking party.)

I catch his eye on accident and almost look away. But I decide to start a war instead.

(I should really check the time.)

(Not now though, now I must win a battle.)

(A battle of staring—I guess.)

I’d think more about what exactly I’m trying to prove, but my eyes are starting to water and my brain’s fuzzy from the beer. (I hardly drink—so it really bites me when I do.)

“Ready to—” Pen starts.

“Not now, Penelope,” I growl, not looking at her. He rolls his eyes before looking back at his phone.

I want to say I won—but somehow it doesn’t feel like it. (But technically I did. I won.)

“What did Baz do to you?” she asks.

“Who?” I snap.

She raises both hands in defeat. (Fuck.) I try to soften my face, seeing how utterly ridiculous I look in the reflection of a window.

“Baz—the guy you’ve been staring at for the past twenty minutes.”

My eyes go wide. I check my phone.

Twenty minutes?

23:47.

Fuck.

I meant for us to be gone by half past. Now it’ll be well beyond midnight before I get home, another couple hours after that before I sleep.

(Three coffees it is, then.)

I groan. “Let’s just go, Pen.”

She shrugs and leads me out. I manage to pass by Baz, making eye contact with him briefly. His eyes are grey—not boring, but alluring. They’re like the color of the ocean where it meets the sand.

I blink once before turning towards the door again, leaving him behind.

Baz.

(What a stupid name.)

I try to tell myself the reason my heart's pounding isn’t because of the way his collarbone stuck out of his shirt, or the way his lips lifted into a smirk.

It’s probably the alcohol.

The anger.

Both.

***

His lips meet my shoulder, soft and cool against my skin. My heart jumps at his touch. Eager for more.

“Do you remember when we first met?” he asks.

I smile, thinking of that day. We were young. (Well, younger.)

“Yeah—I hated you.” I was made to.

He laughs, his breath hitting my skin. “I thought you were going to punch me.”

I shift in our bed, facing him, bringing my hand to his chin.

He’s so lovely—especially now. His eyes are grey and sparkling. His face relaxed and comfortable, no armour or fighting stance in sight. Nothing about his mannerisms say he feels unsafe or hurt. He’s here. With someone he loves.

(It’s better now. Even if he’s in hiding. He’s protected. Safe.)

“I almost did,” I respond, kissing his cheek. “Luckily we got beyond that.”

He chuckles as I kiss his jaw, his chin, his nose. “Thankful I didn’t watch you eat until after I had already fallen for you.”

I roll my eyes, pulling back. He chases me, pulling himself up, towering over me, a laugh still present on his lips.

I wish every moment could be like this. Soft whispers and light kisses. Laughs being exchanged easily and with abandon.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what tomorrow may bring—or the day after that. But I’ll know that for as long as I’m here. For as many lives as we may live—I love you.”

He kisses me once, twice, three times. The last one slower and longer than the rest.

The sun starts to creep into our room, letting a warm glow wash over him as he continues to kiss me. Bright yellow against red-gold.

His chest against mine, warm because it’s lain with me all night.

Legs slotted between my own.

Home.

And when he lifts up, allowing me to breathe for a moment, I tell him the same. “I love you.”

We let our words sink into our flesh, letting our love grow as the sun rises.

Chapter Text

I’m being attacked by scones. They're all around, speaking a language I don’t know. One’s standing above me, cherries placed in a sort of maniacal smile. There’s a knife suspended in mid air, a slab of butter on the end of it, slowly being lowered to my face.

Another stands in the background, a bite taken out of it. It stands next to a pile of crumbs. The remains of a devastating snack session.

(Devastating for it.) (Not for me.)

(Though, given my current predicament, maybe it was devastating for me too.)

But even now, as I feel butter being smeared against my face, I don’t regret it.

(I was hungry.)

A shrill sound echoes in the background.

(Is it my screams echoing around this crowded room? Will anyone hear me?) (I can’t believe I’m about to die due to buttering by scone.) (How would a scone even digest me?)

In some ways, this is payback. I’ve devoured so many, covered them in the finest butters.

The shrill scream gets louder, echoing in my brain. My body feels like it starts to crash into itself. I squeeze my eyes tight, bracing for whatever future lies before me via scone kidnapping and murdering.

A little of the butter slips through my lips. (Kerrygold.) (At least they’re using good butter.)

The noise gets louder, my skin feels colder, I feel something soft against my chin. (Butter, is that you?)

I open my eyes and see my ceiling. A sea of off-white, a tiny crack resting in the corner.

I jump up like my life depends on it. I’m panting, desperately trying to fight off a butter knife held by an appendage-less scone.

(It takes me a moment to realize it’s not there.) (Only my pillows and blankets. Bunched together and beaten up for a crime they didn’t commit.)

My stomach growls. A noise that seems to always go off when least appropriate.

(Not now.) (Didn’t you learn your lesson?)

I clutch my stomach, desperate to make the sound stop.

(One wrong bite and you’ll lose your life.)

The noise continues going, and it finally registers to me.

My alarm.

I clamber over to my nightstand, hitting my knee (ouch).

I silence the alarm, relief hitting me as soon as the room fills in comfortable silence.

But then, I see the time.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I stare at the screen again, a soft light in my dark room glaring my sins in my face.

7:58.

My alarm was supposed to have gone off an hour ago. I was supposed to already be on the Tube heading to class—which is in half an hour.

(Half an hour. It’s in half a fucking hour.)

I grab the first pair of trousers I can find, using the adrenaline to my advantage. (Nearly killed by scones, but at least it’s given me energy this morning, allowing me to quickly jump to action.)

I slip the jeans over my pants. Once they’re resting just below my hips, I realise there’s a grass stain on the knee. A mishap while playing football on the lawn.

I sigh, sealing my fate, pulling the jeans up the rest of the way and zipping my fly.

No time to go back now.

Grass-stained jeans to go with a messy day. There’s something poetic about it, really.

I grab the first shirt I see in my closet and quickly pull it over my head. (It’s a tad too tight, and I feel like it’s choking me, but it’ll do.)

I grab my bag, hoping and praying to all above that my computer’s in it, slip a piece of gum into my mouth, grab a package of biscuits, and somehow manage to not only close—but also lock—the door.

I check my phone again as I walk down the hallway.

8:10.

Twenty minutes to get to class, find a seat, and act like I’m not completely out of breath.

Manageable, right?

(I’ve done worse in less time.)

I speed walk towards the end of the hall, nearly crashing into a kid and his mother. I give a quick apology, but don’t stop moving. (Sorry, neighbours. I’ve got a class to catch and being polite isn’t an option right now.)

I reach silver doors and stop, taking large deep breaths to hide how utterly out of shape I’ve become.

(Should take up running.)

I’m dancing from foot to foot as I press the button to the lift one too many times. (More like twelve too many times.) The mother I bulldozed over gives me an odd glance as she brings her son to the door of the stairs.

I think briefly that I should run for it. Take the stairs instead of tempting fate to break down the elevator as I’m on it.

I cough, trying to regulate my breaths.

(Fuck running.)

I count in my head.

(If it doesn’t open in five seconds, I’ll go down the stairs.) (Fuck my lungs. I’ll be doing them a favour.) (I’ll build a bit of stamina in them.)

1…

The kid asks his mother why they can’t take the lift. She opens the door and pushes him through.

2…

The door closes, muffling her response.

3…

I pull at my collar, feeling restricted when I realise my shirt’s on backwards. I look around to make sure the coast is clear before twisting it back around. (I guess that’s why it was tight against my neck.)

2…

The door in front of me pings. The arrow glows. I nearly shout with relief.

1…

The door opens and I dart through, pausing only because the absolute last person I expect to see is standing in the corner.

He’s got a bag lazily draped over his shoulder, his hair’s slicked back—smooth and posh. (Unsurprising given the rest of him.) He has one long finger swiping softly at his phone. A faint smile plays on his lips.

Baz.

I feel my cheeks heat up, and I briefly debate waiting until the next lift comes. About gunning for the stairs instead. (Surely that woman and her child are gone by now. No risk of more run-ins.)

But I’m running late. And I need to be there. Maths is going to kill me even more if I’m not there for lecture.

I begrudgingly walk in, sealing my fate. I turn quickly to avoid eye contact, not wanting the judgement I know lies beneath grey irises. I go to press the button, but see it’s already lit up. It confirms my fears—we’re on for the same destination.

(No chance of separation. Destined to awkwardly walk the same way after exiting this metal box of doom.) (Maybe it’ll break and everything will end quickly.)

(Then again, it would be dying in a lift with him.) (Not ideal.)

I glance behind me, and I think I see his eyes quickly dart back to his phone. He’s watching me. He has to be. It was too fast, though. Nearly unnoticeable. It could simply be my brain filling in the gaps.

(Probably not, though.)

Regardless of if he notices me—he doesn’t say anything.

The lift pings once, twice, three times. Each chime of the bell makes me flinch, reminding me of yet another period of time I have to spend with Baz. Of how much more space separates me from freedom. I’m staring at the numbers, willing (begging) them to move faster. To let me out of this prison.

(I feel like I can’t breathe. Like he’s suffocating me by his very presence.)

The final ping goes and the doors slide open, making my shoulders relax and anxiety decrease. I’m free. I was able to get through the interaction unscathed and without notice.

“Hello, Snow,” Baz murmurs. He passes me. I jolt, feeling like the floor beneath me is falling out. I look up, meeting his eyes. His face transforms from a soft smile into a smirk. He winks even. (Wink!) (Who winks?) (Arseholes, that’s who. Total and complete pricks.)

I pause dead in my tracks, watching him walk away. He shifts his bag.

Everything about him today is clean cut. His shirt looks ironed. Trousers—impeccable. I’d be willing to bet he got his shoes shined even.

It’s a stark contrast to the mess I represent. Unkempt hair and grass stained jeans.

He waves as he exits through the front door, making my ears feel warm.

Tosser.

(He’s trying to make me late for class.)

I pull my bag tighter against me, sprinting to make it to lecture on time.

*

I make it to class with thirty seconds to spare.

***

If I thought running into Baz once was bad, then the following two weeks were hell.

He’s practically everywhere. A piece of gum stuck to the shoe of my life. (I wonder if he thinks the same about me.)

He’s in the lift, smirking up at me from his phone. Eyebrow raised to the heavens above, judging me for all I am. (All that I own I’m sure.) (I should really toss out my shoes. They’re falling apart.)

I barged into him in the loo outside my literature class. (Literally. I opened the door and hit his nose.) (I thought I broke it for a second.) His nose has always been crooked though.

I spotted him in the dining hall drinking tea as his mates ate lunch.

Saw him another time, walking down the road with AirPods in. (I spent the rest of the day trying to guess what he could be listening to.)

Another time on the Tube with a book in one hand and an apple in the other.

And again, in the library, studying.

(He’s invaded my dreams even.) (Telling me my shirt colour isn’t good for my complexion.)

He’s everywhere.

I’ve learned his schedule. I know when he leaves for class. When he eats lunch. (What he gets to drink from the coffee shop.)

I tried to time it so I was leaving later than him. I thought I was being smart. Thought I could use this new found knowledge to benefit me. I could spare the five minutes to avoid the ever present Pitch.

I left late thinking I could avoid him. The lift was empty when I walked in. It was like a curse had lifted. (The curse of the dreaded Pitch.) I leaned against the wall, let a soft sigh pass between my lips as relief washed over me. My eyes closed as I enjoyed the peaceful silence and emptiness.

No Baz today.

But when I reached forward to press the button to go down, a hand stopped the doors from closing. My finger paused centimeters from my selection.

I was confused, but then parts started to come into view.

Navy blue trousers, black shoes, a sleek white button-up. Black hair slicked back perfectly.

Baz.

I frowned as he entered, hoping the steam that had to be pluming from my ears was enough to keep him away. He remained frustratingly calm, only nodding once in my direction.

“Don’t you live on a different floor?” I spat out.

He looked me up and down as the door closed and he pressed the button for the ground floor. I felt squirmy, praying the ride down would be quick. “Yes, but my cousin lives on this floor. I needed to drop something off for him.”

I huffed, not wanting to interact any further. He looked down at his phone.

I thought about yelling at him. About pushing him against the wall and interrogating him. Asking him why he’d begun to invade every facet of my life.

Why me?

He stretched. A bit of skin around his hip briefly slipping into view. (Brief, but I caught it.)

(Of course he tucks in his shirts.)

When he lowered his arms he fixed the bit that came untucked.

I scoffed.

I wanted to snap at him for that too. If he’s going to act like a professional twat, then his shirts should be properly tucked in. A proper tuck means it’s not so easily pulled out by long arms stretching in the air.

I opened my mouth to say more—

The lift stopped.

The doors opened.

An old woman walked in.

I almost said sod it and yelled anyway. But she smiled at me and said I looked like her grandson. (Baz smirked.)

She gave me a sweet from her bag.

So I thought better of it.

***

When I’m at work the next day, however, I nearly do it. I nearly punch Baz on sight.

“Are you fucking serious?” I mutter. Ebb hits me with a dish towel. “Sorry.”

Ebb’s the owner of the bakery. A surrogate mom for me ever since I took the job. She’s a delight, absolute spitfire and fiend for goats, but she hates when I curse around customers. Says it scares away the children and makes the older customers uncomfortable.

(And while she doesn’t mind making older customers feel uncomfortable, she's rather fond of the littluns.)

She rolls her eyes. “Who’s this kid?” she asks quietly. “Do I need to give him the boot?”

I shake my head. “No. Just some guy that goes to my uni. Total prick.”

She nods knowingly. “I know the type.” She tosses the towel over her shoulder and lets out a deep sigh. “I’ll ring him up. You get Gareth in the back to make some more coffee.”

Ebb’s always too good to me. Does more than a boss should. Listens to me. Sends me with free goods at the end of a shift. Even helped get me out of a nasty situation with my last landlord.

She’s the mom I always wanted.

I owe her so much.

I mouth thank you to her before walking to the back. (Just add it to the list of things I owe Ebb.) (My life, at this point. My first born, should it ever come.) (Hell, maybe my future degree.)

I’m lucky because it doesn’t take much effort to get Gareth to make another pot of coffee. (Surprising.)

But I’m unlucky because when I move through the door, Baz is still there.

How long’s it take to get a fucking pastry? Get a scone and get out. Stop following me everywhere.

He’s standing with a younger girl, staring at the contents behind the class, designer sunglasses on their heads. (I can’t see a label, I just assume.)

I wrack my brain trying to decipher who she is. (Sister? Cousin?) (Girlfriend’s sister or cousin?)

They look similar. Possibly siblings—but even then I’m not sure. There’s enough difference there that it could be anything.

She’s pointing at different pastries in our case, chatting excitedly. He’s smiling, nodding at her choices and having Ebb grab whatever she’s asking for.

He looks… soft. Happy.

It’s unexpected.

It’s a good look on him. No suit—just jeans and a shirt. (No patterns. A lovely and plain deep blue. Boring, even.) His hair’s half back, the remaining bits draping lazily on the tops of his shoulders.

I lean my head against the doorway, watching the scene unfold. Watching the man I thought I’d figured out act like someone else entirely.

Anger slips into curiosity.

He’s kind.

He even laughs at a joke Ebb makes. I feel jealousy stir deep in my belly.

How can someone so annoying have a laugh so lovely?

He’s acting completely normal. Like a human.

I didn’t expect this.

“Anything else, Mordelia?” he asks as they slide to the register. He’s pulling his wallet out of his back pocket as she takes one last glance at the shelves.

I step forward, grab a glove, and reach into the case. “She looks like she could use a sour cherry scone,” I say. When I look back up he’s wide eyed, clearly surprised to see me. (Honestly I’m surprised too. Thought I’d stay hidden against the wall until he left.) I pass the scone to Ebb to place into the box. She gives me a strange look, and I know she wants me to explain, but I can’t. (Truly, I can’t. I’m not sure what’s possessing me right now.)

“On the house,” I whisper. She gives a soft and singular nod, handing him the bag.

He protests, but I wave him off, moving to the back room again.

I can’t continue watching this.

It’s making my chest too warm.

I start a new batch of scones, distracting myself until Ebb comes to talk to me. (Here comes the impossible. When she tries to get me to talk about feelings I’m not sure I’ve processed yet.)

“So... he’s cute,” she says matter-of-factly.

I groan.

(That’s definitely not what I thought she was going to say.)

“What?” She leans against the counter. “It’s true.”

I roll my eyes and start kneading the butter into the mixture. “I’ll concede to that—yes.”

I mean—he is fit. Even I can admit that. (I may hate him but I’m not blind.) (I’ve got two semi-working eyes and an attraction to men that I’ve only recently discovered.) (Uni’s changed me. I do laundry once a week. Get to class on time. Have an attraction for men.)

So. Yeah. He’s fit. So what?

“So…,” she ponders, watching me break the butter chunks up, trying to get them cohesively into the mixture. “When’re you gonna ask him out.”

I jump, dropping the bowl, the flour, the butter on the ground. She starts laughing. “Shove it, Ebb,” I choke out, bending down and trying to pick up what I can.

She walks away to return to the front of the store, cackling so loud it echos off the appliances.

I’d run after her and tell her off, but I decide to call us even for the night instead. One IOU off the table for your distasteful joke about me dating my enemy.

***

We close the entrance to our room, needing as much space as possible between us and any wandering ears.

(Even closed doors may not be sacred enough.)

“Simon,” he whispers, pulling me to the side of the room, careful not to let either of us be in view of the window. “We have to do something.”

I nod my head. “I know, I know.”

We’ve pushed it off long enough. The ‘tomorrow’ we promised before became the next week, which turned into a fortnight.

We can’t keep running forever. There’s evil, true evil out there. Collecting power, gaining followers.

Our hands join, and I take a deep breath, letting my magic come to the surface. His own comes to meet mine in greeting.

It’s like fire every time we do this. Sparks and flames. It shouldn’t go together as well as it does. We should both need a cooler source—someone based in water or air to help balance us.

But they’ve never felt the way Baz’s magic mixes with mine. The way the fire soothes my soul and calms me down.

Our magic elevates us, pushes us, binds us together.

And it’ll be our magic that helps us fight this evil.

We knew it’d come down to this. No one else knows what we do. No one else is close enough to try.

(No one’s dumb or reckless enough.)

But we have to be quick—we can’t continue dawdling like we have been. Like we continue to do.

Another week and he may be too strong to defeat.

Another week and he could find us.

Another week and—

I lean my forehead against Baz’s.

I think of the Mage’s words the last time I met with him.

“It would be a shame if something were to happen to those who you keep close,” he whispered in my ear, sword pressing against my throat. I kept trying to bring my magic to the surface, but I couldn’t.

I felt like I was suffocating. Both with the sword against my neck, and the lack of magic in the air. It was impossible to conjure or to breathe.

I thought he was going to kill me right then and there. I thought it was over.

I kept saying Baz’s name in my head like a mantra.

Baz, Baz, Baz.

“Consider this a warning,” he said, lowering the blade.

Relief hit me instantly.

I held my neck, letting my breath come out in heavy and ragged waves. I kept waiting for the choking sensation to subside. For my magic to return so I could fight him properly.

“I won’t be so kind again,” he seethed. “Next time it’ll be you and him.” My eyes went wide. He didn’t have to say a name—there was only one person he could be talking about.

“I know you think he’s hidden. That you’ve managed to keep him safe from me.” He stepped forward, making me flinch. “But it won’t be long, Simon. He’ll be mine soon. And if you don’t stop your foolishness—you’ll both end up dead.”

I closed my eyes, focusing on breathing.

“You know me, Simon,” he continued. “You know what I can do. What I can cause.”

I opened my eyes again to search his.

He’s right. I did know what he was capable of. I’d seen it. Watched him cast spells on people. On souls. Determined to make sure that this isn’t the only life people suffer in.

He smirked when he realized I knew what he was talking about.

(Would he do that to Baz and I? If we don’t let it go? If we refuse to back down?)

Baz is the last piece of the puzzle to the Mage. He thinks that as long as he gets rid of Baz, he’ll be able to finally finish this stupid mission he’s on.

He dragged me into it for years. Built me up to make Baz an enemy. Told me we’d fight, that I’d kill him.

(But I couldn’t.) (I could never.)

I took a deep breath, standing up. My magic still choking deep within, but dying to push out. I wondered, for a moment, if I could manage to bring it to the surface. With enough push, could I do it?

Might cause an explosion. But it’d rid us of him.

He reached out, putting a hand on my shoulder. I shook it off.

“Don’t continue to make me an enemy, Simon. You think it’s noble, but it’s just foolish.”

He stared at me for another moment, waiting for a reaction I refused to provide. A long exhale, an adjustment of his sword against his hip, and a quick turn before the only sound was his shoes against stone.

I looked at my fingertips, desperate to feel the familiar spark to come to the surface, terrified it never would.

My magic didn’t come back until long after his footsteps died down.

(I’d never felt that before. Like suffocating on the inside. A dry scratch scraping against my throat.)

I squeeze Baz’s hand.

I never told Baz about it. That the Mage threatened his life. About how he almost took mine.

About a curse left unsaid.

(I don’t think he cast it.) (A threat, at best.)

It doesn’t matter, though, because I won’t let the Mage get close to him.

I can’t let him die.

I have too much left to do with him.

Too much love still left to give.

***

Penelope and I clamber into the closest coffee shop to our flat, desperate for anything to wake us up.

We’re overwhelmed. We have projects, papers, exams crammed down our throats. It’s impossible—I’m truly and completely fucked.

(Not Penelope though. She’ll be fine.) (She thrives off this kind of stuff.)

“I’ll take the largest coffee you have,” she says groggily. She’s dishevelled, hair frizzy from the work we did all night.

I’m not sure why she suggested the all-nighter. She never operates well afterwards.

“Do you do Red Bull lattes?” she asks urgently.

The man behind the counter looks at her like she’s insane. (I think she is.)

(Red Bull latte? What is that?)

I step forward, attempting to cut off whatever insensitive thing might come out of Pen’s mouth next.

I look at the man’s name tag. Davy.

Davy. What a name.

I look at his face.

What a moustache.

“Sorry, Davy,” I say, softly smiling, trying to be polite. “My friend here and I are students at the uni down the road. We had a late night studying. She just wants as much caffeine as she can get.”

He nods once, looking me up and down. “And you?” He asks. His face looks bored, but his eyes look intense. A contradiction personified.

I feel like he’s examining me. His eyes have this weird fire behind them, like he’s trying to analyse me. It makes my skin crawl in the worst of ways.

(Maybe it’s the lack of sleep talking.)

He tries to ask what school we go to. I reply quickly and try to change the subject.

(I’m never doing an all-nighter again.)

It’s uncomfortable. I want to run out of here—get away from the weirdness he’s giving off. But the need for caffeine takes over.

I order the same as Penny, trusting her caffeine choices, adding a couple of scones and a muffin.

(I deserve it.) (All of it.)

We grab our order and find a set of chairs to collapse in, discussing the plan for the day.

I still have another paper to finish. She has an exam this afternoon. Penny will allow for one nap, but it can’t be longer than a singular REM cycle. (I had to beg for it.)

She continues on, going through our schedule for the day and I hazily listen, drinking coffee like my life depends on it. (Frankly, at this point, it might.)

In my sleepy daze, I manage to miss a few details.

The way the barista watches Penny and I. How he passes our table not once, twice, but three times.

How he listens in the corner, carefully dissecting our words. Trying to parse out a story.

And I certainly miss the way that he takes off the apron and tosses it into the bin when we leave.

As if he never worked there in the first place.

Chapter Text

Sandwiches.

There’s something deliciously magical about them. A je ne sais quoi, if you will.

They seem ordinary, but they’re so much more. A comfort in a time of need. Nourishment when you’re hungry.

The bread can be soft and fresh or crunchy and lovely, depending on the sandwich journey you’re on. The cheese—oh god the cheese—perfectly placed so you get it with every bite. The freshly sliced deli meat, seasoned perfectly. All of it completed with the picture perfect side of crisps. (Salt and Vinegar—tangy and crunchy.) It makes my mouth water just imagining it. (And it rarely lasts long when I’ve got one in front of me.)

And, if it’s a good sandwich, there’s butter.

Penny says I eat disgustingly fast. I tell her that the cooks simply make the food taste too good.

(What else am I supposed to do? Let it sit there? When it could very well be in my mouth?)

I’m seated at a table, the final bite of my beloved sandwich of the day (roast beef on rye) in my hand. A book bound in death and written in a language that’s impossible to understand rests in my lap.

Psychology through History.

I thought, maybe, it would be a good course. That I could hear about theories old and new, learn how it's changed throughout time. Gain knowledge and maybe a clearer path to what I want in the future beyond all of this. (Can’t stay in Uni forever, I suppose.)

And maybe in the hands of someone else it would have been alright. The current professor is as dreadful as he is old. (That’s to say—very.)

I let my eyes scan the room as I enjoy my final bite, not letting the reality of my studies ruin the beauty of my lunch. (And also, in part, hopeful that I might be able to find a distraction.)

I find it quickly (though I always do. Without a doubt. The world is a distraction waiting to envelope me.) in the form of Baz Pitch.

My brows furrow as I examine the enigma of him. I’m still trying to parse out my thoughts. My stance on if he’s an arse or if my anger is based on an unfortunate happenstance.

I lean forward to get a better look at the details of him. (Penny, somewhere, is yelling at me to get glasses.)

He’s sitting at another table near the windows, seated in the oddest of positions. There’s no way he’s comfortable like that. (Yet he seems completely content.)

He’s got one foot resting on a nearby chair, stretched out so the toe of his shoe pokes through the gap in the back. His other leg’s placed precariously on the chair he’s sitting on. His knee’s under his chin (which he has resting on it in this inexplicably adorable way). There’s a pencil sticking through the bun in his hair, half-pulled back and loose, and his head softly bobs up and down to the music he’s playing in his ears.

I swallow, watching him move. The tip of his foot tapping. His fingers typing on his keyboard.

It’s quiet today. The typical bustle of campus isn’t quite there, instead replaced with empty walkways and open tables which are typically filled to the brim.

On Fridays everyone either doesn’t have class, or waits till a later time for lunch. They’re not cursed like I am (like Baz is) with having lecture during an appropriate lunch-eating hour.

There’s a whole room filled with empty tables and chairs. I’ve got a thousand things to do. Yet I find myself wondering if I should go up to him.

I feel a pull. Like I’m falling into orbit (into place) the closer I let myself get to him. If I only allow myself to step closer, my world might tip upside down.

I continue to stare at him, mind dizzy with thoughts and observations. Watching the way his lips purse, how his shirt moves when he scratches his leg.

In an act of stupidity or impulse (both?), I pick up my book to put it in my bag, deciding to follow the pull—but at the moment I almost have my bag packed, another bag drops in the chair next to mine.

“Oh thank god,” Shepard says. I flinch—he’s so loud sometimes. “Have you done the reading yet? I’m itching to talk about it.”

I look at the book halfway in my bag. “Uh—” I look back up at Baz, who’s now watching the scene unfold.

I give him a soft smile. He returns the favour, raising his hand in a small wave. My stomach flips slightly in its place. (I really need to eat.) (Again.) (One sandwich is never enough.)

Shepard keeps talking, setting down his lunch and opening his Coke, unknowingly rescinding my decision to change locations. (I guess I could bring him with me. I wonder how Baz feels about obnoxiously loud and kind Americans?) (Probably not great, considering how he felt about me.)

(How I assume, at least.)

I sigh, putting the book back on the table, destined to hear a full review of it in twenty minutes.

(At least I might not have to read it now.) (Shepard’s great at giving a cliff notes version of things.)

Though how he finds the content in this book interesting…

“Did you see the section on Edwin Boring?” He asks, opening his bag of crisps. “Imagine having the last name Boring.” He chuckles softly to himself, digging into his food.

I nod, staring at his sandwich. (I should get another before class.)

*

Later, after I’ve eaten another sandwich and we’ve gathered our things, Shepard’s still talking about the book. (He’s gone over the entire reading due for class.) (At this rate I can pull responses out of my arse should I be called upon to participate.) (He’s a blessing in circle frames and a jean jacket.)

I look towards the table by the window. Baz is still resting there, legs crossed in his chair now. I open my mouth to say something, but instead, when his eyes look up—I wave.

He raises an eyebrow, taken aback. (Maybe the wave was a mistake.) (Christ, Snow, how daft can you be?) (I can practically hear him say it.)

But, despite how idiotic he may think I am, he raises a hand in return, waving back.

Shepard comments on a new found spring to my step when we walk out, and I pass it off as excitement for the book.

***

Fire alarms.

Half the time I try to ignore they exist. (It’s not safe, mind you. But the majority of the time they’re going off because of some dunce overcooking their food.) (Me. I’m the dunce.) (And I have it properly under control, thank you very much.) (No need to sound an alarm every time I burn toast.)

The shrill brrrrrrriiiiingggggg of it going off during class is frightening—I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I was so frightened I left all my things in the room. Destined to burn alive should the flames of whatever fire reach my seat.

Fresh air hits me as I walk out through the doors, ushered by professors and squished like a sardine in a can between classmates I’ve never spoken to. I’m forced to spend the journey breathing in someone’s Lynx body spray. (We’ve all been there. Tempted by the can and the urge to quickly get rid of the body odor caused by puberty.) (But most of us give it up before Uni.)

The fresh air hits me like a relief, and my lungs try to overcompensate for the previous loss in oxygen.

Outside is a group of other students, fated to stand outside in the chilled air like me. Our only crime being that we showed up for class that day.

I reach into my pocket, hoping to text Pen, only to realize it’s empty.

Fuck.

I left my phone in the pocket of my bag, determined to focus on the lecture. My bag, which is tragically upstairs. Meaning I’m stuck here staring at clouds until we’re allowed back in.

I look up to the sky, not a cloud in sight.

Not even clouds are here to entertain me.

I sigh, looking to my left, spotting Baz almost instantly. (How is he always there?) (It’s got to be a ploy at this point.) (A plot, perhaps.) (He seems more the plotting type.)

He’s leaning against a tree, typing something on his phone. (Baz somehow makes everything look cool. His long legs are stretched out, one ankle over the other. My eyes trail up them to his—)

I shake my head. Nope.

Can’t let the panic of a possible fire take over my brain like this. I need a distraction. Something to get my brain to stop going into overdrive.

I feel the same familiar tug that I felt during lunch the other day. The one that says talk to him. A push to connect, to figure him out.

I’m still not sure why I keep getting drawn in. Pulled into the orbit around Baz Pitch. But it’s there, ever prevalent. If a distraction is what I’m looking for, then it comes easily in the form of a six foot plus man with black hair and long fingers.

Better than nothing, I guess.

My feet take me to him, moving of their own accord, until I’m standing about a metre away.

“Hey—” I start, raising a hand. He looks up from his screen, examining me. (I’m suddenly too aware of the sauce stain on my trousers.) “Do you know what tripped the alarm?”

Everyone’s got a guess as to what caused it. Heard several hypotheses as I ran down the stairs. One person thought it was some dumb kid who used a microwave wrong. Another theory is that someone who didn’t study for their maths exam flipped the switch. (Could you imagine?) (The bollocks that would take.)

“Chemistry lab,” he replies, looking back at his phone. He finishes typing and slides it smoothly into his back pocket. “My cousin, actually. Dev. He apparently didn’t realise that water wouldn’t be sufficient to extinguish a chemical fire.”

I grimace, acting as if I would have done differently. (How else do you put out fires?) (I thought water was the end all be all of putting out fires?)

“Fuck,” I mutter. “How bad was it? D’ya know?”

He shakes his head. “No clue. Not awful, though. The halls weren’t smoking as we left.”

I nod softly.

I’m not sure how to respond, but I don’t want to stop the conversation either.

He clears his throat. “Thank you, by the way.” It’s soft, quiet.

I try to wrack my brains for what he’s thanking me for. (For talking to him?) (For fighting with him at that party?) (For—)

“The scones,” he continues. I nod, relieved to have an answer. “They were delicious.” Sirens pull closer, men flood the building. “Or, at least, what Mordelia let me have of them.” He chuckles.

There’s a huge amount of ruckus behind us, but for some reason I’m only focused on the soft tilt of his lips as he laughs at a memory only he has. That I, for some reason, caused.

“Yeah—Ebb’s food is delicious. And you especially can’t go wrong with the scones. Specifically the sour cherry. They’re magical and everything good in the world. ”

People behind us start talking more and more about what’s going on inside the building.

“We’ve gone before—Mordelia loves the little cakes.”

We hit another lull, waiting it out. I tilt slightly from foot to foot, Baz picks at a cuticle. I’m about to open my mouth again and say something (say what?) when we hear a few professors nearby announce classes are cancelled.

I look back up to the building. My laptop, my phone, my keys to the flat. They all lie up several stairs and around two corners.

I’m doomed.

(How close to the chemistry lab was I?) (I think far…)

Baz sighs, pulling me from my panic. “Well, Dev must have caused a proper amount of chaos to get Professor Tully to cancel. Man’s a menace, I swear.”

I laugh, temporarily forgetting the aforementioned doom I’m approaching. (What will I do if my possessions don’t survive the tragic flame that Baz’s cousin set in the lab?)

“I’ll see you around sometime,” I say. (I ask practically.) (What’s wrong with me? I see the bloke in a bakery one time and grow soft.)

He smiles and nods, pulling his phone from his pocket once more.

*

It’s three hours and forty-two minutes until I get my stuff back. (I spent the entire time sitting outside the building with a clear view of a clock. It’s purple and green, school colors, with a large W behind the hands.)

A man with a weird moustache tosses the bag my way when I shout at him. (Gives a grunt , as if he’d have some use for a bag with three textbooks and some number twos.) (Maybe he’d be able to take my exams for me.)

I thank him profusely, despite his weird response. He gives me an odd once over, as if I’m the weird one in this situation. (Alright, maybe I could have sounded a little less desperate for my phone.) (The voice crack was a bit embarrassing.) He gives a wave and walks towards the other men.

I dig through my bag, grateful nothing burned. (Apparently not much did. Just a slight scorching of the lab.)

As I walk away, I catch the man’s eyes again. He’s about my height. Stout. Really intense looking.

I give a thumbs, hoping to soften his expression and to express further gratitude.

(It doesn’t work.)

I feel his eyes crawling up my spine until I turn the corner.

***

The following Friday, two days after the fire alarm incident, I make no hesitation. I don’t sit across the room with a sandwich and crisps in my hand, staring across the way, trying to build up the nerve.

I simply walk over with as much confidence as I can muster—

“Can I sit here?” I ask. My voice is cracky, and I hope he doesn’t notice.

Baz pulls an earbud out, looking me up and down. Making a decision. After a moment, he moves his foot off the chair across from him and kicks it out.

I nod in acknowledgement and take a seat, pulling out my computer and work.

He keeps one ear open, an invitation for me to speak. (I don’t, not at first.)

We remain fairly quiet, both of us eating and working in our own spaces. No one else is around us, so we don’t have to worry about any background noise. Eventually conversation begins to pick up. Jokes fly about the fire his cousin caused. The punishment he’s yet to receive.

It begins a Friday tradition. We still see each other outside of this space, destined to run into each other wherever we go, but for the next several weeks this is the only time we speak. At the small table in the corner of the dining hall, plates of food resting between us. Both of us balancing books and giving off frantic energy as we prepare for the next lesson of the day.

The second time I sit with him, he doesn’t even have his earbuds in. A sign that he was expecting it. (Maybe hoping?) (I won’t let myself get too excited at that thought.) When I walk up to him the chair across is empty—not even his foot’s resting on it.

We discuss his siblings. (Apparently he has more than just his sister.) He tells me that she (Mordelia) keeps pestering him to bring him to the bakery again. Spends a whole twenty minutes discussing her sweet tooth.

(He smiles through it. A large, lovely smile.) (He seems to care for her dearly.)

There are two babies too. Twins. Baz says they’re all half-siblings. His father remarried, and he has a step mother. (Who he likes.) (No Cinderella story here at least.)

I decide to wait to ask him what happened to his mother. (I’m not sure if we’re there yet.) Though I think I could guess from the way he pointedly doesn’t mention her.

Trauma recognises trauma, and all that.

The third week I bring him scones, and pull up a third chair for him to stretch his foot on. He takes the bag gratefully and promises to save some for his sister.

I tell him he doesn’t have to.

He asks about my family, forcing me to either lie or tell the truth. (I’m never sure which is better.)

I don’t usually talk about it with people. It never feels necessary or worth the trouble. Sometimes I’m not sure I trust them. Other times I’m not sure I can trust myself.

But… I trust him. I think.

(I’m not sure why, but I do.)

I don’t go too far. We’re not that close. Not yet. (I think I’d like to be, though.)

I grew up mostly in care homes. My mother died giving birth to me, and they couldn’t ever find my father.

I obsessed about it for the longest time. That possibly my dad was out there somewhere, unaware he had a child. Or maybe he just couldn’t find me.

I kept making excuses for him. Creating reasons he wouldn’t come for me. Weaving stories that I picked up from books or TV shows. All about the fictional man who I thought held all the answers to my life.

That he was too young. He got caught up in legality. Maybe he died too.

I know it’s naive, but it’s better than the alternative. (Or at least that’s what I told myself for a long time.)

I don’t tell Baz this.

I don’t tell Baz that I researched. That I looked through records and websites, followed any last trace I could to figure it out.

And that one day I had to accept that some people don’t want to be found. And that I didn’t need him. Whoever he was (is.)

Baz listens. He responds better than anyone else ever has.

He doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t try to say that maybe my father is out there, searching for me.

He listens, acknowledges, and then, after a moment, he shares part of himself, too.

That his mother passed when he was young. (The answer to the question I never asked.) There was fire and screaming and he pulls back his collar to show me a scar on his shoulder. A burn. A place that he had skin grafts and operations on to heal it.

A reminder of what happened.

It’s raining today. A soft drizzle, grey skies. The maudlin ambiance of the weather pushes us to confess more, I think. It makes us more open to talking. As if the sun being hidden means no one can hear our secrets.

I take a chance. Feeling bravery flowing through my veins, and a push that’s all too familiar where Baz is concerned.

(It’s not steered me wrong yet, at least.)

“Would you want to hang out?” I ask. He’s taking a sip of his tea, his eyes growing wide over the rim at my question. We’ve both a few minutes before we need to leave for class, so I need to be quick. “You could come round my flat later? Play a game, order in, maybe watch a film?”

He ponders me, taking another drink. I swallow. (Maybe it was too far?)

“Sure, Snow,” he responds after another moment.

And I’m so elated I nearly forget to get his number.

***

Baz Pitch at my flat is a different breed of Baz. He’s less composed, more crooked smiles and dark humour.

I offer to order takeaway, and Baz insists on something sweet. (A sweet tooth on a man with more bite than bottom shelf whiskey.) (The most shocking thing I’ve learned about him yet.)

It’s comfortable. We play a show, but talk too much to pay attention to it.

It only gets weird when Penelope walks in. We don’t notice her at first, the two of us falling into a fit of laughter at some stupid post a classmate of ours—Rhys—made about the football team.

When the door closes shut with a soft thud we both stop and look towards her.

She frowns.

“Hello Bunce,” Baz greets, stretching his legs forward onto the coffee table, leaning his head back against the sofa.

She nods towards him. Then she looks at me, her brown eyes piercing my soul. I know I’ll have to explain why he’s here later. She’ll probably pounce on me the second Baz’s foot has crossed the threshold. I’ll be lucky if I survive.

But, for now, she heads to her room, and Baz and I flip through the telly, looking for a new thing to watch and ignore.

***

Feet, bare against the forest floor. They’re screaming in pain, the soles and my toes. I’ll have gashes from twigs and rocks for weeks to come.

But I can’t stop running.

A hand in my own, being pulled by me as we both continue our getaway. Fast. Faster. Like our lives depend on it.

(They might.)

(They do.)

Heavy breaths, hushed whispers, desperate not to be found. Not to be heard.

The Mage, always true to his threats, sent his men—a swarm of green and stoic faces filled with small moustaches—after us. They found me. They found Baz.

The one thing I wanted to prevent. If he gets him—

I hold onto his hand. Harder. Tighter. Desperate to never let him go.

He won’t. I won’t let him.

Swords unsheathed, shouting, a fire that couldn’t be put out.

We jumped. We fell. We flew.

Magic.

Baz has always been better at it. I have power, but none of the control. He has both—power and control. And skill more impressive than anyone I know. It’s part of the reason why the Mage sees him as such a threat.

Even more so with me on his side. (“You’re a bomb, Simon,” he once told me.)

The Mage liked it more when he could use me. When I was his puppet to control.

But I learned. I grew.

(I decided I’d no longer go off at his command.)

I saw the Mage for what he is. A power-hungry maniac—desperate for control over things that shouldn’t be controlled. Hiding his evil under promises of saving everyone. Convincing people to join him because he’s doing good.

Making them see only the image of himself he wanted them to see. Not letting others know how much blood he has on his hands. (Baz’s mum.) Or the countless others he’s killed since. (Ebb, Agatha.) (My mum.)

Baz and I duck under a branch, take a turn around a bush, and find ourselves in a clearing.It’s not a good spot to pause, but our feet stop anyway, letting exhaustion overwhelm us before we move forward.

“Do you think we lost them?” I ask, hands on my knees, breath coming heavy out of my lungs. I cough, trying hard to regulate.

Baz is panting too. He looks around us, listening closely. His wand’s in his hand, ready to cast when needed. I think, for a moment, that I should pull mine out too. But I’m never sure if it’d be any help. (At least with me wielding it.)

“I’m not sure,” he murmurs. “We have to keep going.” He reaches to me, and I reach back.

Before we continue to run I risk pulling him close for a chaste kiss. Because if this is the end I want to feel Baz close one last time.

He lets me. Even deepens the kiss briefly.

We pull apart, breath mixing in the air between us.

“Ready?” He asks.

I nod.

We turn around, ready to continue, but stop quickly. An answer we were afraid of standing in front of us.

A man in between two trees. A sword in one hand, a wand in the other. A sick smile plastered plainly on his face.

“How adorable,” he sneers.

Baz’s hand squeezes once in mine. But before we can attack my world goes black.

It’s all I can do to scream one last time.

Chapter Text

“Is this seat open?” A light and airy voice says beside me.

I look up from my computer to see a girl with long blonde hair pointing at the chair next to me.

I nod once, quickly looking back at the screen.

I’ve only precious moments before my exam begins, and I need all the time in the world to shove information into my brain.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” she says. A hand pushes its way into view, forcing me to look from the study guide I’m trying to absorb. She smiles again. It’s beautiful. Lovely. Polite.

I shake her hand, and I must either be too weak or too quick, because after I pull my hand away she lets out a soft tch. (Of course she’s the type to take note of a handshake.) (Didn’t know I was being put on trial.) “Hello,” I grunt, turning back to my computer.

I try to absorb the same sentence I’ve been staring at for the past few moments (days) (weeks) (the entire semester).

“Have you always been so studious?” she asks.

I sigh, closing my laptop in defeat. “Only for about the past two hours.” I put my head in my hands and rub my eyes. Hoping that if maybe I use force against my brain it’ll stuff the information in better.

“Oh.” I look up and she’s frowning.

I’m beyond confused.

What’s happening here?

(Shouldn’t she be studying too?)

Oh fuck there’s the professer.

(Why does she care how studious I am?)

Shit do I have a pencil?

“You’re friends with Basil, right?” she asks. I’m flailing, looking for a pencil I must have misplaced.

She picks it off the ground and hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“So?” she asks again. I wrack my brains trying to figure out what she’s asking.

Clearly I take too long because she asks again. “You and Basil are close, correct? Friends?”

I blink.

Are we friends?

(Wonder if he would say we are.)

Certainly we’re mates, right? I mean, he’s sat on my sofa, drank my tea, shared my chips. What else is there? “Yeah, I think,” I respond. I see The professor hand an exam to the student four rows ahead of me.

“You think or you know?” she asks. Then, before I can respond, “What books do you like to read?”

“Er—”

“Shows? Do you watch anything?”

“Doctor—”

“How do you feel about Baz?” It’s so fast I don’t have time to stop myself before I say—

“Well—he’s brilliant, isn’t he?” I respond, flustered. My heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest. (What shows do I watch?)

She looks me up and down, pausing in her interrogation. (Is this how she is with all the people she meets?) I feel like I’m getting an exam right now. Is this the actual thing? It’s a psychology course, so maybe he’s testing my ability to last under pressure. (If so I’m likely not doing well.)

But I’ve not lied. He is brilliant. Smart and witty and all that.

“Ms. Wellbelove,” the professor states, sliding the exam towards me. “Have you always been signed up for this course?”

Agatha looks up at the professor, blinking once. “Oh, is this not Theory of—”

“This is a psychology course, miss.” He continues down the row, mumbling directions as he does so, not paying her any more attention.

She turns back to me, face changing from faked confusion to once again piercing my soul. (Fucking hell she’s terrifying.) (I worry about what it might be like if she and Penny became friends.) (A duo I’d never want to cross.)

A bit of righteousness comes creeping up, however. (I fucking knew it.)

“I knew you weren’t in this course,” I whisper angrily. “Why are you here?”

Why have you invaded my life just to ask about Baz?

Fucking—

Even when he isn’t here he manages to barge into every nook and cranny of my existence. It’s only a matter of time before he runs into me in the shower.

I feel my face warm.

(No shower thoughts. Not before an exam.)

I look back at the paper in front of me.

During. No shower thoughts during the exam.

I look back up to Agatha when I hear her shift.

She shrugs, collecting her things quickly. “Had to gather some intel.” She winks. “See you later, Simon.”

Intel.

What the bloody fuck does that mean?

(Wait—did I tell her my name?)

I look down at the test and feel every bit of knowledge leave my brain.

Fuck.

***

“I’ve failed, Penny,” I say. “I’m never going to graduate.”

The sigh she gives somehow sounds louder through the phone than it does in person. Just as exhausted. Just as disappointed.

“Simon, I’m sure not,” she mutters. (She’s only half paying attention to me, but I’ll take it.)

I’m walking back to our flat, wallowing in the knowledge that I’ll never get a degree. No job. No future.

“When I get kicked out, will you help pay my rent and expenses? Until I can manage to get on my feet again?”

I spot a Greggs nearby as Penny gives her response. I’m not sure what she says, but it sounds monotone. The energy of a person who has had to listen to these ramblings before.

Maybe I’ll work there. Couldn’t be too bad, right?

Get some food for free even.

(I hope.)

(A tandoori chicken baguette could hit the spot right about now.)

My stomach grumbles, and I decide that this is fate. That I need to taste the food of my future workplace in the name of quality control.

“My stream of thought was interrupted by some girl,” I ponder, thinking about what I’ll get.

Chicken mayo?

“Do you know who she was?”

“No. Do you?”

“How would I know Simon?” She huffs. “What did she look like?”

“Er—” I pause. “Pretty? Blonde? Sounds northern.”

“Maybe Agatha.”

“Oh! Yeah—maybe. Wellbelove?”

“Yeah that would be Agatha.”

Mexican chicken?

“Well—either way—she kept asking about Baz,” I continue. (Maybe a tuna crunch?) “Like—questions about how I feel about him. Odd, don’t you think?”

Penny huffs. I hear the faint sound of a book closing. (This must be bad.) “Simon, you’re an idiot.”

I pause, so close to food and comfort. “Well, thanks Pen. Thanks for the comfort in my time of need. I’ll be sure to come straight to you when I fail out of uni.”

“Christ, Simon. Not that.”

“Well then, what—”

“I mean,” she interrupts. “About the girl, asking about Baz. Do you know who she was?”

I frown. “Agatha Wellbelove. Why?”

“Yes, so we’ve established.” I can almost hear the eye roll through the phone. “Simon, she and Baz are friends. She was asking you questions for him.”

I frown.

“Huh?” I’m not getting it. Why couldn’t Baz ask me? He’s got my number. Could even ask me about my studies on Fridays during lunch.

“Can you think of any reasons one of Baz’s close friends would come, after never having spoken to you before, and ask you questions about him?” A pause. “Asking you about how you feel about him?”

I breathe. Someone walks past me, shouting into their phone about needing a refund for their flight.

“I’m confused, Pen,” I say.

“Of course you are,” she mutters. “How do you feel about him, Simon?” She asks louder.

“I—” I start. I pause.

How do I feel about him?

He’s great. Funny. Absolutely infuriating in the best of ways.

Fit.

But… also…

There’s something I can’t quite stick my thumb on. A feeling that keeps pulling me in. His presence is calming, yet exciting. He makes me feel like there’s a million pieces in my life floating in midair, but that he’s putting them together.

It’s scratching an itch in my soul I didn’t know I had.

I shake my head. It’s all too big. Too much for someone I barely know. (Well. Maybe not barely.)

But.

Well.

I don’t know his blood type!

(Fuck, wait. We donated blood together last week.) (O negative. Universal donor.)

I can’t admit any of this to Penny. She’ll think I’m mad.

“Look—”

“He likes you too, Simon,” she says. “Now come home and get your head out of your arse.”

The line goes dead.

I let out a breath and pocket my phone.

Greggs.

I walk in, the words she said ringing in my ears.

He likes you too, Simon.

Baz Pitch.

Likes me?

I feel like my heart is floating into my throat. (Can’t be good for the digestive tract…)

I think of Penny. Of Shepard.

Both are my friends, but I don’t feel the way I feel about Baz when I’m around them. I care for them deeply, of course. They’re my friends! But…

I think of Baz on my sofa laughing at something I said. How his joy and laughter spread to me. Into my lungs making it hard to breathe. Making my brain dizzy and my cheeks hurt.

I was… proud? Elated?

It felt bigger than me. A moment that I found myself wanting to capture in a bottle not big enough to contain it. To relish the parts I could keep with me and take it out as comfort when things are bad.

I take a few more steps to the counter. (I’m ordering a sausage roll, a doughnut, and two steak bakes.)

All of what I’m feeling adds up to one thing.

I like him.

I’m beaming when the cashier moves to get my food from behind the counter.

I like him.

I feel my phone go off and I look down to see a message from Baz.

I smile and look up, seeing the exasperated cashier holding his hand out.

“Oh, sorry,” I laugh. He looks unamused. I reach into my pocket and pull out my card. “Just an interesting day.”

“How so?” he asks.

“Just—” I smile. “Wait…” Does he look—? “Have we met?” I swear he looks familiar.

“Doubt it,” he grumbles. “Next!” He shouts, getting the next person in line to move up.

“Er—” I stumble, moving out of the way. “Thanks?”

He glares at me before moving onto the next customer.

I shift my food to make it easier to type.

I pause at the door, thinking.

I catch the eye of the man behind the counter. (I could have sworn I’ve seen him somewhere else.)

I snort, walking through the door.

I roll my eyes. Twat.

I sigh, looking at the contents of my bag.

Fuck, I must really like him.

***

When I open my eyes I see Baz on the ground, sprawled out and unmoving.

I feel my stomach rise to my throat as everything I feared starts to unravel before me.

I try to scream. (For what?) (For help?) (For Baz?)

All it does is rattle between my ears and burn my throat. No noise comes out no matter how hard I feel my voice scratch with my shouts.

“Don’t worry, boy,” the Mage drawls. As if I’m not sitting here losing my mind. “He’s not dead yet.” He bends down above him, moving a strand of hair from his face. It takes everything in me not to vomit.

(I don’t miss the way he said yet.)

It gives me a glimmer of hope I didn’t have moments before. I close my mouth and think.

I have to get us out of here. I have to get Baz as far from the Mage as I can.

I watch as he stands back up, eyes not moving from Baz.

Tears begin to prick the edges of my eyes, and I try to take as deep of a breath as I can.

Now’s not the time for tears, Simon.

It was everything we feared would happen. That he’d get us first—that we wouldn’t be ready and that he’d—

“He will be soon, though,” he whispers. My breath hitches, latching on to every word like I’ll find an answer to his destruction between each syllable. “As will you.”

Fuck.

Alright then.

He looks at me for the first time, examining me like I’m a pest to deal with, rather than the boy he took in from the cold.

It makes my chest clench in anger. In hurt. A pain I don’t like to acknowledge crawls up my spine and into the front of my head and sits down. A weight I’ve lived with for a while. An unfortunate truth to the Mage I never wanted to admit.

That he never actually cared.

Which, I knew. I knew he didn’t. But it was so much easier to pretend, wasn’t it? That maybe he’d see me crying over a boy I loved and that he’d take heart of it.

That he’d call off all this fighting and want me to be happy. Want us both to be.

But that’s something I’ve only heard in stories. Stories that don’t know the true evil of the world. The power-hungry and greedy.

This isn't a story. This is reality.

A reality we knew might come to this. An end of death. Him, or us.

My brain rattles, trying hard to figure out a way to turn the situation around. To figure out how to save us both. (Fuck—even just Baz if I could.)

If he kills Baz it’s over. The last block in his way to full power. Everything Natasha did—everything we tried to complete—

When I first met Baz I hated him. He was absolutely infuriatingly fit and smart. So when the Mage told me I had to hate him—that we were enemies—it was easy.

It was so easy to hate Baz.

The Mage holds his wand out over Baz, casting spells in whispers above him.

I thought I was going to punch him that first time. We were both kids, practically. I was probably a head shorter and had half the muscles. He was still taller than me, even then. But he was quick and brilliant and absolutely ruthless.

And I hardly knew anything but hunger and fear. Not to mention how to yield the sword the Mage gave to me.

The second time I met Baz I did punch him. Made his nose crooked and everything.

(I had learned how to use my sword at that point. But I was so angry I wanted to feel it.)

The Mage twisted everything in my head, just like he does with all of his followers. About Baz. About the Pitches and Natasha. About the power he claims to be protecting.

He tells people he’s getting us ready for a war. That we’re stronger united. That he can make us all stronger than ever.

United.

If anything he’s tearing us apart. Pulling us away from each other limb by limb.

I know he killed Baz’s mum. Told me himself. Was all fucking proud of it too when he admitted it. Like it was just a step in his overall plan—as if she was just in his way.

But, unfortunately for him, she wasn’t the only person between him and his final goal.

Baz was always going to be the final piece for the Mage. There was no way to avoid it.

The Mage thought he could use me and my unfettered power to get to him. To get the answers he wanted. To kill him as soon as I learned it.

Hell—kill him to learn it, if needed.

He didn’t think I’d switch sides and fall in love.

I look around, trying to figure a way out of this, when I manage to see a box at the other end of the room. A box which holds what the Mage really wants.

The Humdrum. The source of all the Mage’s desires.

It’s a sort of Pandora's box. Minus the plague and the locusts, I guess. A box which contains something that could make the Mage more powerful than anyone could imagine.

He claims it’ll save magic.

But, after talking to Baz and Fiona—it seems more sinister than the Mage put on.

It’s impossible to take another mage's magic. There are no spells. No curses or rituals. No way to slice or dice to take it away.

But the Humdrum can help him do it.

It’s hungry. Always wanting more and more. It never stops.

Which is why it was locked up for so long. The Pitches managed to get it contained into this box, put spells and curses on it to contain it. They’d been working to try to destroy it for years.

Only Natasha's magic could open the box. Said she didn’t want anyone else tempted by power to try to gain access.

But, when she died, the box changed ownership without anyone knowing.

And when the Mage realized what had happened, a target was placed on Baz’s back.

“I talked with one of the oracles,” the Mage continues, turning to face me. He looks unravelled, hair sticking up on all ends.

For all the sleep Baz and I have lost, it seems the Mage has lost even more.

“I thought it’d be enough to kill his mother, but it seems the young heir of Pitch needs to die too.” He sighs deep, like this is another exhausting step in his life. Though, in his eyes it may as well be. “I hate the loss of magic—especially strong magic. But…” He takes a step towards me. I watch Baz, his chest rising and falling. (It’s not over yet.) (It’s not done.) (He’s still alive.) (Alive. Alive. Alive.) “I need the Humdrum. It’s the one thing that will help save us all and make us stronger.”

We’ve heard the same stories and predictions. We know what he’s been told. That someone will defeat him.

It was a warning. That if he continues on this course it’ll end in pain for him.

We saw it as a plea to get him to stop.

He took it as motivation to get anyone out of his way.

Another step closer, another breath from Baz.

“You didn’t need to be involved,” he continues. I breathe in unison with Baz, as if my breath will continue his own. As if our lungs are tied together, and I’m what’s keeping him tied to this earth. “You could have continued your way, been with me as I took hold. But instead you switched sides, fell in love with the enemy.”

He bends down where I’m kneeling, arms behind my back and an invisible gag around my mouth. Rough fingers that smell like forest floor and cedar grab my chin and make me look up into horrid eyes. Bloodshot to the point that the blue in them seems nonexistent.

“You’re in the way,” he says. His breath hits my cheek and I flinch. “And now I must get rid of you too.”

He grabs my arm and drags my body towards Baz. I try fighting against whatever he’s used to restrain me, but I can barely move more than a pinky.

“And now that you’ve caused me so much trouble, I need to make sure that it’ll never happen again.” He raises his wand, I feel my eyes close.

I hear him continue to speak. (Can Baz hear too?) (Does he know I’m here?)

I feel a tear go down my cheek, finally unable to keep it in.

We tried. We fought. And now…

Now we lose.

***

“Simon, you’ve got to ask him out,” Penny says. She and I are on the sofa, a season of GBBO deep, pizza completely devoured. “It’s clear you both like each other. Fucking ask already so I don’t have to listen to more of your whinging.”

“I’m not whinging,” I grumble. (I am, I know it.) “Just… whining excessively.”

“That’s whinging.” She tosses a pillow on my face. “Now step the fuck up and do it.”

She hands me my phone and I stare at it.

I could do it. Just shoot off a message, hide the phone under the couch cushion, then never check it again. Could I live a life without it?

Probably.

Could get a new number and pretend it never existed.

Penny nudges me. I know I’ve no choice. She won’t push too much, but she’ll look devastatingly disappointed in me in a way that’s far worse than any nudge she could give.

I unlock it and open up our text messages.

It feels wrong. Impersonal. Shallow. (Also, how do I respond to: Snow, you’re an idiot.) (Certainly not with a please go on a date with me.)

I set the phone down.

“No. Not like this.”

She groans.

“I’ll be back,” I state, grabbing a pepperoni that was left fallen from a slice of pizza.

(A fallen soldier given one last chance to be devoured with its mates.)

“Where are you going?” she asks. I’m slipping on my trainers, focusing on remembering where my keys are.

“Simon?” She asks. I find my keys on the table by the door. “Simon, where are you going?”

“I’ll be right back, promise,” I say before opening the door. She looks like she’s going to say something else, but the door closes behind me, and I’m gone.

*

(Is this crazy?)

Maybe.

But...

I was on air last week when Baz came around our flat. At the possibility that maybe…

Maybe.

I’ve overanalysed everything. Looked at every smile, thought about every response.

I think he does.

I think he likes me.

God I feel like a fucking idiot.

Does he like me?

It feels gross. Like I’m a teenager again, crushing on some girl in maths class.

What happened to when I saw him and hated him? How I spent the whole night seething at a party just because he crashed into me?

Now I’m bumbling like an idiot trying to get his attention.

I take a deep breath, and turn another corner.

It’d be easier if he still lived here. Could just go up a few flights and be done with it.

But he lives with his aunt, and she decided to move. (Something about space.) (And a creepy janitor.)

But, now, it feels like I’m on a trek through the city to find him.

My feet start moving faster until I’m almost at a run. (Why am I running?) (What’s the rush?)

My brain’s confused but everything in my body says I need to get there faster. That I need to get past this part.

Like there’s a deadline.

(There’s not.) (I’ve a whole life to live.) (So does he.)

But my heart’s racing and I’m in his building rushing up the stairs to his flat. (I know all the codes.) (Somehow can’t manage to memorise a bloody definition for uni but can manage all three door codes to Baz’s flat.)

Then I stop, panting heavily outside his door.

I knock once, twice, three times.

Silence.

Fuck. Maybe I should’ve checked if he was home.

I pull my phone from my back pocket when the door opens, and a dishevelled Baz opens the door.

His hair’s sticking up oddly. (It’s cute.)

“Hullo?” He says. He’s wearing a shirt and joggers. (Baz Pitch. In joggers.) “Oh. Simon.” His eyes go wide.

“Baz, can I ask you a question?” I step closer, he steps aside to let me in.

“Yes,” he yawns. “Sorry if you texted, I fell asleep.”

I pause. “Should I come back?” My urgency suddenly feels embarrassing. I should have texted or called first. Checked to make sure this was alright instead of just barging through his door. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No no, s’fine,” he stretches, leading me to the kitchen. “Need to be up anyway or I’ll stay awake all night.” He flips on the kettle. “Tea?”

I nod.

He leans against the counter and watches me, eyes looking me up and down. “So.”

“So…” I repeat, taking a seat on a stool at the other side of the counter.

“You had a question?” He asks.

“Oh! Er—yeah.” I shift. I can feel warmth crawling up my neck. (Great. Blushing. Just what I need to be doing right now.) I ponder lying for a moment. Maybe ask him his favourite cheese. But I’ve woken him up, barged into his life, and dramatically left Penny. She’ll kill me if I come back without having asked, and he’ll probably never speak to me again if I don’t get on with it. “I wanted to ask if maybe you’d like to go out some time.”

My heart beats hard in my chest. I feel it rising into my throat.

Fuck.

“Go out?” He asks, turning to grab two mugs from the cupboard. “Like…?”

“Like a date,” I say firmly. (No sense in backing down now.) “With me. I’d like to take you on a date.” My mouth goes dry, and I suddenly wish I had tea in front of me. (Or water. Maybe a cold cider to numb the anxiety.)

Baz sets the cups on the counter, blinking in shock. “You—”

“Want to go on a date, yes.” I swallow. The kettle clicks off. Neither of us move.

Baz clears his throat.

“If you don’t want to, I understand,” I panic.

“No I—” He moves to grab two tea bags and the kettle. “I want to, I'm just…” He pours water into both and slides a cup towards me. “Surprised? I guess.”

I frown. “Surprised?”

“Hadn’t taken you for the… well.” He gestures to himself. “Thought you’d like someone a little less like a… man.”

“So a girl?” I ask, lifting the string to the bag of tea to move it around in the water. Baz hums in response, agreeing. “I mean I do.” He lets out a long exhale. When I look back up I see pursed lips and tired eyes. “But I like this—” I reach for his hand. “Men… you, too.”

He smiles where our hands meet and lets his fingers intertwine with mine.

“Alright,” he responds. “A date.” He runs his thumb softly against my own. “I’d like that a lot, Simon.”

My chest feels on fire and calm at the same time. I want to kiss him. Snog him senseless right here, even if his mouth is stale from a nap. Make his hair even more tangled in my fingers.

But it’s too quick.

You’ve only just got a date, Simon. Hold back some.

***

“I love you,” I say to Baz. “In every way, in every life.”

Baz smiles at me.

He’s lying on his back, a mixture of grass and wild daisies around his hair. His skin’s glowing from the sun hitting it, making his skin shine bright.

“I love you too, Simon.” He beams, pulling me down for a kiss.

I pull back. “Baz I—” A pause as I collect my thoughts. “I have an idea. And I need you to take it seriously, despite how mad it sounds.”

Baz raises an eyebrow. There’s a slew of questions there as he looks into my eyes.

I move to my knees, pulling Baz up with a soft grunt.

“Just…” I stand up. “Follow me, alright?”

And he does.

*

As the Mage continues his spells and I feel life coming to a close I remember that day. The day we bound our souls.

The sun shining above us. Not a cloud in the sky to block out what we had to say to each other.

How we made a ritual out of love and commitment and trust.

Forever, we said. Throughout any life, through any circumstance, we would meet.

Others thought we were crazy. That tying our souls together like this would only hurt us.

But I couldn’t imagine a life without him.

And I hope that in the next life our spells work. That we find each other and not have to hide. Not have to live in fear.

It probably is stupid of us. But we never wanted to forget. We wanted to remember how much we’ve always loved each other.

As far as I can remember.

It’s short. One of the many spells we cast that day. That when we found each other. When we kissed. We’d know. We’d remember the moments throughout lives and centuries.

I feel a jolt. A thought.

That, if for some reason it works and we find each other, we can find him. (The Mage.) That we’ll know how to stop him.

There’s no way that once he taps into the Humdrum he’ll be anything less than immortal. He’ll be able to collect all of the magic in the world! Heal any ailment that comes his way or destroy any person who dared to attack.

But, I hope and pray someone else gets to him first. That it didn’t have to rest on our shoulders. That someone else out there has been watching and waiting, learning from our mistakes.

I hear Baz’s breath stop.

What will he do with the Humdrum?

What evil will he cause?

(Will there be any magic left after him?)

I feel my lungs starting to work harder for air.

I don’t know what the Mage is doing. I just hear him whispering. Mutters under his breath in languages I’ve never heard before.

I’m not sure why he’s doing this magically. Wouldn’t it be less effort to just drive his sword through our hearts?

But then I hear him say, “You’ll never live to love again.”

It dawns on me, too late in the process. (Why does it always take me so long to figure it out? Surely Baz realised it quickly.) (He was always the smart one of the two of us.)

He’s trying to perform a ritual. Trying to ensure we’ll never find each other.

(Did he hear? Does he know?)

Did he learn of the spells we cast surrounded by sunshine and flowers?

(Did he figure out what we could do in another life?) (How we could still pose a threat to whatever craze he’s trying to act upon?)

I feel my magic rise to the surface. (Is he stealing it? Using it?) (Did he figure out something no mage has been able to do before?)

He’s trying to curse us. Like I knew he did to so many others. I should have seen it coming—I should have known.

I hear something about death.

(Curse us to die?) (That can’t be right.)

It’s not enough for the Mage to kill us. He has to make it hurt.

Maybe it’s because he plans to live through many lifetimes. He doesn’t want to deal with the same souls coming after him each time.

Or maybe he’s just that evil. To want everyone to suffer beyond one life.

He stops speaking. My magic continues to rest comfortably on top of my skin as I feel my body start to give.

With my last breath I realize—

He’s not stealing my magic. It’s sitting at the top, protecting.

His ritual, however powerful, can’t undo ours.

(I’ll see you again, Baz.)

Chapter Text

“Magic isn’t the mysterious concept you try to make it out to be.”

Penny’s pacing in front of me, frustrated by my apathetic demeanor.

Which—yeah—I get why she’d be frustrated. I’m not exactly making this whole ‘teach Simon to control his magic’ bit easy. I’m unable to focus on anything she says. I feel both tired and like my mind’s racing towards something I can’t catch up with. Every time I think I’ve gotten close the thought escapes me again.

And I can’t shake the feeling that I need to be somewhere else.

“I feel like magic being a mysterious concept is its whole thing.” She glares at me. “Look—” I continue “just tell me how it does work then. What the big key to it is so I can just fucking unlock it, figure out my stupid magic and get on with it.”

I’m squirming in my seat. We’ve been at this for hours. Fuck—an entire fortnight.

It’s exhausting and boring and clearly not helping. All I’m left with is feeling jumpy and stressed out.

Penny sighs, taking a seat across from me. “Take a breath, Simon.”

I frown. “Why?” I’m breathing. Inhale, exhale. Chest rising and falling. The whole bit. What else is there to do?

“Just—“ a breath, “just do it, okay?”

I breathe in. Out. She smiles.

“What does your magic feel like?”

I pause. Holding my breath until my chest starts to feel tight.

It’s not the first time she’s asked this question. And it’s not the first time I’ve answered it.

But I think about it anyway. Closing my eyes to get a better sense.

My magic pools in my chest, spreads to my fingertips. It’s sparks and warmth. A storm ready to pour out of me.

I try to hold it, not let it go any further. Let it sit.

It feels like I’m trying to hold my breath. Like not using it might strangle me. Now that it’s here at the ready, it’s near impossible to ignore.

I look to the side and see where Penny has lit a fire, “Make a Wish,” I murmur, making the fire turn to smoke.

It’s a release, like I’ve let part of me out.

“How’d that feel?” she asks.

“Like too much,” I mumble, watching as the flames lick up the logs. It reminds me of Baz. He could spell fire in his palm and weave it through his fingers like it was nothing.

I tried it once. Nearly burnt my hand.

Penny leans back against the wall behind her. “You’ve got a lot in you, Simon. Magic. Fight.” She pauses between words. “Love.”

I gag.

“Penny, don't try to tell me that magic is love. It’s a tale we tell littluns when they’re still too young to know the world turns to shit.”

“Well, don’t you think they’re right? Sometimes stupid tales are around for a reason.”

I stand up and pace back and forth.

I feel anger fill my chest. Anger at myself. Anger at Penny. (Anger she doesn’t deserve.)

Frustration and guilt twist my stomach, my entire torso. I let it fill my lungs, making every breath feel like a burn.

I exhale and sparks fly in the direction of the logs I had only just spelled out. I feel the warmth radiating from the flame that begins to grow.

“I love you, Pen.” It comes out tight, but I hope she knows that it’s true.

She’s my best friend, and the closest to family I’ll ever get. I don’t want to be mad. I don’t want to hurt her.

She smiles. “I love you too, Simon.” She stands with me and stops my pacing. Her face is serious, and I brace myself. “The way you treat magic now—harsh and rough and like a burden—it’s not good for you. For anyone.” She pulls back again, looking me over. “You know my feelings on this whole thing.”

I huff.

“I don’t like—”

“Yes yes, you don’t like the Mage,” I mumble. Does anyone? Do you have to like someone to know that they’re doing good? Not every likeable person’s good for you.

“You hear me, but do you listen?”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I really don’t want to pick a fight with her. But I can see a lecture starting to build.

“I’ve got to go.“

”Simon—“

“Thanks for your help, Pen.”

I walk away, not giving her a glance. I know if I do I’d stay. Listen to her tell me all the reasons I need to stop this.

But she doesn’t understand.

What else am I to do if not fight?

My feet hit stone.

I still feel sparks on my skin.

The personification of lightning, Penny once called me.

Penny always has something to say or an opinion to share.

And fuck—she’s usually right. I mean, she’s fucking brilliant. But sometimes I don’t need rational thinking or brilliance.

Sometimes I just need the straight truth and it feels like I’m not getting it.

I sit with Penny every afternoon until the sun hangs low in the sky to learn how to control my magic. To fight a battle I never asked for, but that I’m willing to join regardless.

Magic I’m not sure how I ended up with. Boundless amounts that have done me no good.

The Mage loves it. My power, that is. Not me necessarily. I think if he could have the power without any of the “person in his care” he’d have gotten rid of me ages ago.

But, despite who I am, he keeps me around. Gives me home and shelter and food at least half of the time. When we talk he tells me I’m every war-head’s dream. That I can be the end of the fighting. Can defeat the enemies and help bring peace.

“It’s not peace he’s looking for,” Penny once said.

I pause and lean against a wall. Rocks against my back, voices in the distance.

Peace.

I’m not sure what peace looks like at this point. My life’s been filled with fighting. Fighting to be heard, fighting to eat, fighting anything that moves practically.

What’s wrong with fighting for someone else, as long as they know what’s going on?

Fighting for a cause that’s good and right.

Using this fucking magic for something useful.

I turn back to the road, spotting black hair and a tall frame out of the corner of my eye.

Do you know why you’re even fighting?

I can’t let myself think about it. Magic. Penny. Her insane theories as to why my magic is the way it is. The Mage and his plans for me.

Past or future. I can’t think about it.

But something that’s always been easy is Baz. The one person I know I can fight and maybe even beat.

I haven’t yet but—well—he hasn’t beaten me either.

I look both ways and slip off the road again and over a stone wall, watching as he walks into the woods.

He’s plotting something, I know it. Always is.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

I follow him through the trees, stepping in time with his feet to remain undetected. An invisible entity following him like he’s leading me to treasure. (Maybe he is.) (Maybe I’ll find answers that I’ve been looking for for years.)

I leave all thoughts behind, focusing on Baz and his movements, the rustle of leaves and the fading noises from town.

Could be dangerous. Following the enemy into the woods. But I can’t help the tug in my chest towards him, a gut feeling that this is where I figure things out.

***

I’m going on a date with Baz Pitch.

I’m still astonished, even now. Even though Penny told me he’d say yes. (Penny’s always right.) (Except for the times she’s wrong but don’t let her know.)

I was completely high after he agreed to it. I sat at his counter in a fog, completely taken with him. We sat and drank tea together, the air charged after my question and his response. My hand in his, a smile resting softly on his face.

I was in such a haze that I didn’t consider one tiny detail—

What do I do on a date with Baz?

I fretted for days, trying to play it cool with Baz every time we interacted. Any time we texted I tried not to bring it up. In person I tried to keep the sweating to a minimum. (I’m already hot and sweaty on a normal day, add anxiety into the mix and I’m a bloody disaster. A flood of salty water and body odor.)

But now, the day of, I realise I may have made a mistake.

Where am I going to take Baz? Greggs? (Certainly the establishment is below him.) (Though I can’t imagine it’d be too low for anyone.)

Do I want to be dating a man who doesn’t like Greggs?

I shake my head.

(Don’t worry, Simon. He’s already had the steak bake. He’s a good man.)

I’m standing in my pants, staring at two pairs of trousers trying to decide which is better to wear.

Nice trousers, freshly ironed (thanks Penny), or jeans.

My first instinct is the nicer option. Baz is a nicely dressed bloke. Button downs, well fitting trousers, shoes that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

But is that too much for a first date? He’s seen me in my ratty old trackies, sweatshirts with mysterious stains, my hair in mysterious arrangements.

Maybe I should ease him into freshly pressed and put together Simon Snow. (If he exists.) (I’m sure Penny can help me.)

But are jeans too casual? What if I’m severely underdressed in comparison? (Though there’s almost no world in which I’m not underdressed in comparison to him.)

“Go like that,” Shepard says from my doorway. I jump, briefly forgetting I left the door open. “Really wow him.” I didn’t think Shepard and Penny would be back so soon.

“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll knock him right off his feet,” I mutter.

Shepard shrugs, leaning against the frame. “You’ll be fine, Simon. He agreed to a date for a reason, and it’s not for the type of pants you’ll wear.”

I look down at my pants. They’re plain, black. (Too plain, maybe? Should I get something with more—I don’t know—pizzaz?)

Christ, Baz is not seeing me in my pants tonight.

(Well…)

“Your trousers, Simon,” he says.

Oh.

That makes more sense.

He taps the doorframe twice before making his way down the hall again, leaving me to sit on my bed. The mattress creaks as it buckles under my weight.

I hear Shepard and Penny laughing from the kitchen.

It’s still new, Shepard coming round our flat. Somewhere along the line Penelope stopped her battle with him. Instead now they’re… friends?

(I’d wager they’re flirting, but I’m not going to point that out to Penny.)

I value my life too much.

The first time she brought him through the door, my eyebrows shot up so high they could have rivaled Baz’s. (I’m sure he’d have been proud.) The glare I got in return, however, made me school my features and pretend nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

We haven’t discussed it since.

And now it’s normal. Shepard coming over, Baz lounging on the sofa. Our flat’s not gotten this much action since we moved in.

I feel my phone buzz on the other end of my bed, trapped somewhere in the confines of my bunched up blanket.

I close my eyes.

It’s only a date, Simon. You’re eating lunch, walking around. Maybe getting a pastry from Ebb’s at the end. Nothing out of the ordinary. You’ve eaten his biscuits, seen him in joggers, and have thought about kissing his lips more than you’re ready to admit.

My phone buzzes again, causing my brain to stop it’s spiral on Baz’s lips and the cupid’s bow that I want to bite.

After a desperate unravelling of my blanket, it falls to the ground.

A singular message from Baz: On my way.

Fuck.

I take one last look at both options on my bed, now bunched up and sprawled unevenly against my sheets.

I grab the pair on top (jeans), hoping for the best. Then I turn to face the horrifying reality of choosing shirts.

“Choose the blue one,” Penelope says. (Seems everyone’s coming into my room to help me.) (Not that I mind. But the timing’s odd.) “It’ll bring out the blue in your eyes.”

I nod, taking it off the hanger and pulling it over my head.

“You’ll be fine, Simon.” I hear her stepping closer. When I have my shirt over my head and can see properly, she’s within arms reach. “Your hair, however, is another story.” She reaches up trying desperately to flatten my hair out while I continue pulling the shirt on.

“Pen,” I fret, pushing her away. “‘S fine.”

“Simon you’ve got a curl sticking up in the back. If you just let me—”

“There’s always a curl sticking up somewhere.” I flatten out the front of my shirt. (To tuck, or not to tuck?) “No use in fighting it, you’ll just anger the others and they’ll rebel to join it.”

I start to tuck in my shirt, deciding that maybe it’d be best.

“Don’t. It’s better untucked.”

“I’m fucked, Penny,” I groan, fixing my shirt and collapsing onto my bed. I hope, for a moment, that it might eat me. That maybe the creaking is just a monster that’s inhabited my mattress. Perhaps he’s been keeping score all these times, waiting to enact his revenge against the bloke who continuously crushes him and tosses and turns every night in his sleep. Maybe he’ll eat me now, before Baz comes over to see me in my horrid jeans and hair that sticks up in odd places.

Baz would look good in a black suit at my funeral. Maybe he’ll shed a tear about what could have been.

“Stop that.” A pillow hits the back of my head. “Stop spiralling. I’ve seen you eat three sandwiches in front of this man, and he’s still enthusiastically planning to go out with you. I think he’s fairly sold, Simon.”

A buzz from my back pocket keeps me from arguing with her.

“It’s him,” I mutter. She’s right, I know she is. But the panic in my chest beats on, feeding on any and all insecurities it can find.

“Well, you better get up then, Simon.” She pushes me. “Time to go get your man.”

I groan, getting myself off the bed. (Damned monster never swallowed me whole.) (Maybe next time.)

I slip on my shoes, grab my keys, and walk to the door. I feel another vibration in my back pocket, but assume it’s just a reminder.

“Good luck, Simon,” Shepard says from the kitchen. He’s got his hands in a bowl and an apron covered in flour.

I nod, turning to the door. When I open it I see Baz standing on the other side. He’s got a hand raised, ready to knock, mouth half opened in a shocked expression.

“Hey,” I breathe.

My nerves transform as I look him over. The butterflies in my stomach fly into my throat, catching as my eyes go up and down his body. My skin sparks as he lowers his hand, reaching for mine as he does.

“Hi,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to come up or not. Sent a message but—”

“Oh fuck,” I say. I hear a cough behind me. “Er—bye Pen!” I wave and close the door. “Sorry, Baz. I didn’t read I just assumed—”

“No no, it’s fine.” He lets his thumb move back and forth against the back of my hand. “We found each other, so it worked out.”

We found each other.

Yeah. That’s it, I guess.

Something in my chest warms at the thought. That we found each other. As if no matter what we were meant to meet up. That our souls were tied together.

I blink.

Too much. That’s too much to be feeling right now.

“Hang on—” Baz pauses, looking at a point behind me. I nearly move but he’s licking his thumb and reaching for the back of my head. “You’ve got a hair.”

I blush, thinking of how I fought off Penny, but am now letting Baz do whatever he wants. (Maybe it’s worth it, having a head of hair so insane that Baz has to fix it.)

If it means him raking his fingers through it, attempting to quell whatever it’s decided to do, then I’ll gladly leave it unkempt and wild the rest of my days.

“Oh dear,” he mutters. His hand drops back to his side. “I fear I’ve made it worse.”

I let out a dramatic sigh, reaching for his hand again. “Well, as long as you can handle being seen with me still, knowing you’ve made me look like an oaf.”

“Hmmm,” he ponders, leading me down the hall. “I guess I’ll find a way to get over it. Maybe someone will see it as a cry for help. Try to save me from the beast I’m trying to tame.”

I push open another door, letting Baz go ahead of me. “But you’ll tell them no thank you, I quite like the beast.”

He hums in agreement. “Might be carried to a mental institution.”

“I’ll break you out with my talons,” I chuckle. He lifts my hand to get a closer look.

“Ah yes, your nails are quite talon-like.”

I snatch my hand back. “No they’re not,” I frown, examining them. (Maybe they need a trim. But I feel like talon is harsh.)

Baz breaks character and starts laughing fully now. “Simon, they’re lovely talons. Wonderful, even. I’d gladly let them break me free from a locked prison trying to separate the two of us.”

I look back up. His eyes are bright, his smile genuine and large. He’s having fun, I think. (I hope.)

“Now, where do we begin, my dearest beast?” he asks.

The nerves creep back up, calmed only by the soft way he looks me over.

“This way,” I say, reaching for his hands again, pulling him to follow me.

If it were up to me, I don’t think I’d let his hand leave mine for the rest of the evening. It fits too well. It’s cold (pleasantly so.) Soft.

And I think I’m going to try to follow through on that.

***

I’m rushing home, feet hitting stone as I pass shops and people. Nearly crash into a cart of fruit, creating an enemy of the merchant. She grumbles as I continue running.

Rhys said there’s a fire. I can see smoke pluming from where I know my home stands. (I hope it still is.)

(Please not the book. It’s Ebbs, it’s all I have left of her.)

I turn a corner and come crashing into an unexpecting bystander to the chaotic show that is my life.

One second I’m running, the next I’m tangled on the ground with this person, head thrumming in pain against something sharp. (Just what I need, an injury.)

“What—” the person says.

“Sorry,” I murmur, trying to get up. It’s useless, however, with the way he’s sprawled on top of me. “I—” I attempt to untangle myself. (It’s never going to happen. This person is the human embodiment of a newborn foal. All legs that don’t work.) “Can you get up?” I groan.

He tsks before shifting. “Sorry, I just had the brains knocked out of me by some oaf on two legs who doesn’t know how to walk.”

I open my mouth to snap back, but stop when I see him.

Black, soft hair resting against his shoulders. Grey eyes, skin that shines against the sun.

“Do I know you?” I ask. There’s something about him I can’t place. But it’s familiar, the lot of it.

“You certainly do now,” he mutters, standing up.

Whatever I thought I knew, or felt, seems not to be reciprocated. I breathe in and out, letting my brain unscramble and get my head on straight.

It’s then I smell the smoke again.

Fire.

“Fuck—” I run off after the black and grey smoke filling the sky.

I hear a shout after me, but ignore it. There’s plenty of time for angry men I’ve crashed into later. (Frankly there’s a line, and this one’s at the end of it.)

When I arrive home, I see a wall starting to buckle in.

My home.

My bed.

(Ebb.) (Her cookbook with notes to help me.)

My knees hit grass.

It’s silly. I know it is. To mourn a fucking cookbook, but it’s all I have. Tips and rambles from someone who took me in when I had no other place to go.

I hear something behind me. Another set of feet, another person breathing heavily.

A curse on his breath.

“Is this—?” His voice says softly. I nod. A hand on my shoulder, a small comfort that I can’t take right now. I shake it off, refusing to face any of the reality.

Then, through the rubble and half standing home, I see it, still untouched.

There’s a clear path to it. If I’m quick enough—

I climb to my feet, running without thinking. I hear the man that followed me from the corner screaming at me.

His voice should be getting quieter, but it’s not. It’s getting louder. (He’s following.) (Why? This fire’s not for him. There’s no reason to run into a fire with a stranger.)

I jump over a bump, feeling heat scorching my skin. I try to avoid the worst of it, but I’m sure I’ll have to see Penelope. She’ll chew my ear off with insults about recklessness, but she’ll help. She always does.

My feet stop, reaching the final point.

Ebb’s book of cooking and helping Simon.

“Simon!” I hear behind me.

I hear fire breaking down more of the house, something falls in the distance.

A hand reaches for me. “Simon, come on,” the frantic voice says.

I turn and see the same man that followed me here. (Did I tell him my name?)

“Baz—” I say without thinking. (How do I—)

“We need to get out of here.” He pulls my arm. I stumble forward, tripping over something and into his arms. He catches me, continuing on.

I’m starting to cough, it’s so hot. (Why did I run in here? Was it worth it?) The smoke is overwhelming.

We clamber out of the burning house, coughing and falling to the ground. My brain’s trying to catch up, trying to figure out how I know him without ever knowing him. His eyes are closed, laying down next to me.

There’s something in the back of my brain, trying to climb it’s way through the mess of my thoughts.

Before I can catch my breath, another crash happens, and a part of the wall is now around us, on top of us. It’s dark, and my leg hurts. I’m dizzy but I try to reach out as my brain continues to pull at something I can’t puzzle out.

I lift a piece of wood off me, then another and another. I don’t hear any other movement. (Maybe he’s stuck, this mysterious man I find myself knowing.)

I hear the crunching of grass in the distance. I glance up and see a man walking towards us.

“Help! Please!” I shout, desperate to pull debris off of us. (Certainly he’s here to help, right?)

My brain starts pulling information up again.

Baz.

His hand gets free, but doesn’t budge.

A life in front of us. (How? Why? We only just met.)

I get his arm, his head and his torso free. One piece of my home after another.

He’s still not moving, despite being freed. I pretend he’s asleep for a moment, knocked out from the fumes. Tears pour down my cheeks.

A hand touches my shoulder but I ignore it.

“Baz,” I plea.

His chest doesn’t move.

Memories I’ve never had start seeping into my brain as I cough up smoke and sadness and panic.

Kisses in bed. A life we promised each other.

A spell. Magic.

We bound each other together. Two souls entwined.

(I guess it worked after all.)

Hands pull me up, and I get a look at the person above me.

I know him too.

“It’s over,” he murmurs. I feel something crawl to the surface of my skin. (Magic. I wouldn’t have been able to place it before but now, with all I know, it’s the only explanation.) “And it’ll always be over. Every life you’ll meet the same end.”

(I guess his curse worked too. A ritual extension of our own magic.)

He pushes me down and I’m too caught off guard to fight it. “Tragic that two young men died in a completely preventable house fire.”

I feel my lungs fill with smoke, coughing desperately to get it out. (How is it getting worse? I’m further away.)

It’s getting harder to breathe. My visions blurry and I feel myself fading.

I didn’t know when Baz ran into me that it was him. How did we end up here again? A run-in leading to our deaths.

“I’d recommend you find a way to release your souls from each other,” the man says. (The Mage. That’s who he is.) “Because this will be the end for you in every life.”

I feel his magic thick in the air. “As long as you both find each other, you’ll die. Two souls cursed to reincarnate and die together.”

Did we do this? Did we curse ourselves?

I feel my magic mixing with the Mage’s. His, a green and scorching feeling. Mine, smokey and electric.

That’s what he did, a lifetime ago. He took what we built and made it his own. We wanted to find each other in every life.

The Mage cursed us to die when we do.

Two souls spelled to find each other.

Cursed to die together.

My brain falls into unconsciousness and I know what’s coming.

“Find a way to break your spell, Simon Snow, or you’ll die in each life,” he repeats. I hear footsteps as he walks away, leaving me as I follow Baz.

Souls tied together.

My last thoughts are of him (Baz) and me. Of lives we still have left to live, and chances yet to find a way around this. Around him.

My magic warms me, and I feel the intentions of our past life coming to the surface.

And I know, despite his curse, we won’t be stuck like this forever.

And his end will come quickly after.

He must know it. That’s why he’s here, right? To ensure his spell’s worked?

One last breath.

I’ll find you in another life, Baz.

***

We’re walking down the road, heading for Ebb’s. My stomach’s full of sandwich, heart flying high on the fact that I’ve made Baz laugh somehow.

“You’ll have to bring Mordelia a scone,” I say as we approach the shop.

“Perhaps,” Baz says. “But then I’ll have to explain how I got it, and I’d have to own up to the fact that I’m dating the pastry boy.”

“The what?” I ask.

A man opens the door, and I miss a bit of what Baz says. (Something about Mordelia calling me that after their trip together.) The man seems familiar. The hair on my neck stands up. He’s got a moustache and a surly expression on his face that I’m sure I’d never forget.

(But I must have.) (Can’t quite figure it out.)

He continues out the door, but I pause to watch him out of the window. We make eye contact and there’s an odd glint in his eyes. (Does he recognize me too?) He’s paused outside, looking through the window as if he’s simply checking what might be in there.

Instead it feels like he’s watching me.

But—why?

I’ve got to be mad. I’ve no clue who he is. Maybe he’s just a crotchety old man upset by anyone younger than fifty being in his presence.

“Simon?” Baz asks.

I hum, acknowledging him but curiously wanting to follow this man down the road. (Who is he? Where have I seen him? Why does it feel like my stomach’s dropped?) My body fills with dread and I get the sudden urge to— “Did you see a ghost?” Baz asks. He’s trying to keep it light. I look up at him and he’s got a smile for comfort, but his brows are furrowed in worry.

“No. It’s—” I look back to the window to see that he’s gone. “Have you met that man before?”

Baz frowns fully now. “Who?”

“The man who opened the door for us. Have you seen him before?” I probably sound mad, but there’s a part of my brain that needs to know.

“I—”

“Simon!” Ebb shouts from the counter. Baz stops whatever he was about to say. “Get out of the doorway before someone tramples you.”

“Nevermind, it’s… not important.” He looks concerned again, reading the panic that clearly made its way across my face. “Really, sorry. I just thought I’d seen him before.” I smile, trying to soften the moment. (I think it works, at least some, as he returns the gesture.) “Now, Baz. I believe you insisted on purchasing me a pastry?”

He rolls his eyes, walking towards Ebb. She’s still fretting about, trying to get me to come all the way into the bakery, muttering about how one trampling is enough for a lifetime.

Baz looks confused, and I pointedly ignore the incident of the miswritten sign, promising a free pastry to the first person that morning. (It was a stampede. I twisted an ankle and lost a chunk of hair.)

I rub the back of my neck.

The hair never grew back quite the same.

“Ebb, what’s the freshest thing you’ve got?” I ask, eyes scanning the display.

“Well, since I knew you’d be coming,” she winks at me. (Baz notices. She’s not as sneaky as she thinks she is.) “I’ve got some scones fresh from the oven waiting for you.”

My eyes light up. “Really?”

She nods. “Wanna help me pack them up?” I look at Baz, who's already giving me a look that says go, do it. I’ll be fine. But before I can protest Ebb says “Your boyfriend can come too. Best he learns how to get his way around the kitchen now rather than when you’re back there causing a fuss.”

“A fuss?” Baz says at the same time I say “I don’t fuss!”

Ebb laughs, leading us to the back. There’s a tray of scones laying out like she said there’d be. Fresh icing on a few of the flavours, all releasing a scent I could get lost in.

“What flavours would you like?” she asks. “I made the Simon classics. Wasn’t sure what your boyfriend here would like.”

I cough.

I thought I could ignore it. The boyfriend term she continues to use.

Luckily Baz ignores it too, instead asking for a list of the flavours she has. I decide it’s best to leave it be too, instead resting against the counter and watching the two of them talk.

Baz towers over Ebb. (Nearly everyone does. She’s not very tall.) He’s this posh man with a pale blue button down and jeans too nice to be in this dirty kitchen. But the way he talks with her, and reacts to her stories and weird anecdotes as she explains each flavour and why she decided they belonged here, makes him seem like an old shoe.

When he picks a couple (earl grey with lavender and vanilla chai) he helps her put them into boxes. Then helps pack mine. (Sour cherry. No question.)

It’s soft, watching them interact with each other. I can see her watching how he talks, how he looks at me. When he insists on paying (she tried to send us with free scones, which I expected) she looks at me with knowing eyes and the corners of her mouth tilted up.

I like him, Simon. Do good to keep him around.

“Ready?” he asks, bag in hand.

Yeah, I think I could keep him around for a bit.

“Ready,” I reply.

*

We walk the rest of the way to his flat, and because I don’t want it to end, and something feels like it’s pushing me forward, I walk him to his door.

“Well, Snow,” he says, keys in hand. “I guess this is where—”

“I had fun,” I stammer. “Today, that is. I’d love to do it again, if you’d like.”

His eyebrows raise slightly. A mere glimmer of what they could be doing if living up to their true potential.

“I’d like that,” he says. He licks his lip, looking as if he’s about to say more.

When he doesn’t, an urge I didn’t expect comes over me.

Kiss him.

I feel myself swaying up on my toes, not even considering the actions. Just thinking about how nice it would be.

I rock back on my heels, and I swear he follows me as if stuck in the same orbit I’m a part of. Attached by a string that brings him closer.

“Great,” I breathe, responding finally. “I’ll text you?”

I watch him swallow, follow the movement of his Adam’s apple with my eyes. A depraved thought enters my mind that I squash down as quickly as I can.

(Not now, Simon. It’s the first date. Save the depravity for the second or third date at least.)

I take a step back, letting him get to the knob and open his door. Before he closes it, he mutters, “Talk soon, Simon.”

I nearly fly down the hallway, walking on clouds and feeling like I could conquer the world.

I had a date with Baz Pitch.

And it went well.

I’m so elated that I decide to take the long way home, walking through a tiny park. Kids laugh, adults chatter, a frisbee flies over my head.

I pass a man emptying a trash can and I pause.

Moustache.

Dimple in the center of his chin.

The distinct feeling that I’ve met him. That I know this man.

(It can’t be the same man from earlier, right?)

“Gonna help me, or are you gonna keep watching?” he snaps.

I jump back. “S-sorry. Thought I knew you, is all.”

I turn around and do all but run away from the man at the trashcan. When the walk turns I glance behind me to see him watching me.

I look back down at my feet, trying to quell any panicked thoughts about stalkers and creepy men at the park.

When I look back up he’s gone. No bag, no moustache, no bin even.

I freeze, completely taken aback until I’m nearly ran into by a man on a jog.

*

That night I have strange dreams.

Baz is there. We’re holding hands. We’re kissing.

We’re… running.

(From what? From who?)

The man with the moustache that I’ve run into is there. He’s got a sword in one hand and a stick in the other.

When he raises it I realize it’s not a stick. It’s a wand.

I wake up, gasping and breathing heavily, confused, and cursing myself for eating a scone before bed.

(Messed with my head certainly.)

***

“You’ve been talking about him for weeks, Simon,” Penelope says from the other room. “I think it’s time to just come out with it and tell him.”

I look down at my fingers, picking at my nails.

Everything in me says I should run to him, try to talk to him. Hope he feels the same.

But there’s a panic (a natural one) that it’s going to go poorly.

“Just do it. Stop moping about, Simon, and face it head on.” Penelope walks out the door, probably to check on the goats. (I must be bad if she’s checking on them. She usually leaves that for me.)

I stand up, letting my feet guide me.

It’s not a long walk to town. The trail between where we live and the shops might give me some clarity, a moment to gather my thoughts as I go to find him.

There are trees and daisies and I almost have a mad dash away from a rogue squirrel. (It was rabid, I swear.)

I start thinking about how Baz might respond. Excited? Happy?

Would he think I’m mad? Think I’m disgusting?

A fear creeps into my chest and settles there. My feet start moving me faster along the path, taking me closer to town.

Closer to Baz.

And I’m not sure when it starts, but things that feel like distant memories start to show up.

Maybe an imaginary double life, where we’re together. (It feels real. True. Like we’ve lived it.)

Grass turns into stone, voices around me get louder as the bustle of the town hits. My heart beats in my chest, singing of fear and worry. (Of what?)

Another flash in my head starts as I look around for Baz.

A life where I crash into him, where a house is on fire.

Where we die.

And as another memory forms, I realize that it’s not some wild imagination brewed in my time of self-wondering and worry of being rejected.

These are memories. Past lives that we’ve lived. Where we’ve met.

Where we’ve died.

I run to where I know he is, but I already know what’s going to be there when I see him.

We’re getting closer. One life we died immediately after finding each other. Another we got two run-ins. Then three.

We’re getting more time each round.

Either the curse is wearing off or ours is getting stronger. (How?) (We’ve not practiced magic.) (I didn’t even know I had magic, let alone that it existed.)

I crash through his door and find Baz on the floor. His chest’s not rising, body limp and motionless.

I collapse on my knees beside him, bring his forehead up to mine. I cry and I plea and I hope.

“Love,” I whisper through choked-on tears. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

My vision starts to go blurry. I think it’s because of the tears, but then I realise this is magic.

A magic I don’t recognize. (Do I recognize magic now?) My own sits comfortably just below the surface. (Mine?) (Since when was magic ever mine?)

I feel choked by something else. By the unrecognizable magic. A green and dark thing ravelling around my body.

My lungs fill with smoke, my vision goes dark. I feel my body collapse next to Baz’s.

Nothing but smoke and magic, a curse that crosses lifetimes and demands a body count of two.

Souls tied together in life, but also in death.

I wonder, briefly, where the Mage is. He usually shows up right around now to collect his bounty. To give me some ominous threat about fixing this myself, or else Baz will die each and every life. (And so will I, it seems.)

Maybe he trusts his curse. Maybe he’s dead.

(I fear something as disgusting as him wouldn’t find a way to die, unfortunately.)

Him not being here confirms one other thing. (I think.)

That it’s not him personally killing us each life.

It’s magic.

And it’s wearing down. Gives me a hope I didn’t know I needed before the past five minutes.

I feel my magic surrounding me, surrounding us, until my body gives and life ends.

Chapter Text

Baz is above me, eyes swimming with tears. They’re beautiful, even like this. Grey and soft. Broken and riddled with pain.

With love and loss.

I wish he wasn’t crying. It’s not his fault this happened.

I want to wipe the tears away, tell him there’s no reason to cry, but my eyes are tired and my arms are too heavy.

I can hardly keep my eyes focused enough to look at him. I catch bits. But it’s exhausting, so I let my eyes unfocus. Let him slip into a blurry reality.

I feel something wet hit my cheek.

“Simon, you fucking terror,” he cries. “It’s supposed to be me.” He pushes a curl off my forehead. His hand shakes. I want to hold it, keep him still and tell him it’s okay. “It’s always me first, don’t you know?”

I do know. Or, at least, I know now.

It was like a flood at that moment. Things I never knew, never lived.

I got hit. I saw him and something pulled me forward to try to stop it. I didn’t even know what was happening until I was already doing it.

I thought—

I thought this was going to be it for me. That despite needing to keep us a secret, that we could be together. I was going to ask him. To kiss him, if he let me. Even if it was behind closed doors, I’d take it.

I’d take him in any form, really. In whatever way he’d let me have him.

That’s how deep I was.

I am.

But now—

If I thought I knew what deep was before, nothing prepared me for what I feel now.

“Please,” he whispers. “There’ll be a doctor soon, just hold on.”

It was an accident—no one was trying to shoot us. To shoot Baz. There was a crash and the man near us jumped and shot his gun improperly. (It’s a shooting range. A safe place to practice for hunting or for wars we’ll hopefully never have to fight in.) (Some of these men just do it for pleasure, I think.)

I ran forward and pushed him down. He was confused but realised what was happening.

I wasn’t fast enough. (My chest hurts.) (It hurts so bad.)

“Please,” he whispers again.

Baz, we both know how this ends.

His forehead’s on mine, and he’s whispering. “We were so close this time, Simon,” he says. “I want—“

I let my eyes close. It’s too much effort and I’m too tired.

I’m grateful I was able to see him again.

One last time before I forget this.

Forget us.

“I want the life we were supposed to have,” he sobs into my shoulder. (I want to hug him, hold him close and tell him we will.) (We will, we will, we will.)

I promise.

We were so close.

Why are we so stupid? Each life if we only figured it out sooner we’d be out of this mess. We’d be together.

There’s a ritual we performed. Something I’m trying to grasp at straws to connect. Something that’s supposed to help us out of this mess.

How are we supposed to know before the end? In what world can we skip death and get our lives back?

There’s something smoky in my lungs. Something I can’t quite catch. (Is this what dying feels like?) (Dying before Baz. Something I’ve never known.) (Something I don’t want to experience again. Never want him to have to live through.)

I feel tingling on my fingers. (Magic? Blood loss?) (I’m not sure at this point.) All I’m certain of is I want a kiss. I want to kiss him and leave. It’s been so long. (It’s been lifetimes.)

“I love you,” he whispers. I feel my world begin to go dark as softness hits my lips. A spark. (That’s magic.) (I’d know it anywhere.) A jolt through me. A sensation that crawls up my spine but falters at the last second.

An answer?

(A solution.)

I hear him gasp. (Will he still die? Like I do each life?) (If it’s me first, then does he get to live?)

I’m not sure of the answer because the jolt dissipates, the smoke takes hold, and I’m gone.

***

I continue to have these dreams with Baz sporadically. They’re always a bit strange. It feels so fucking real in the moment, but then I wake up and realise I was only asleep.

We don’t know each other sometimes. That’s weird, not knowing Baz, even in my sleep.

Other times we do. Even more than I know him now.

Sometimes we’re… well.

Compromised.

Other times they're scary. Filled with beings I don’t recognize and a sense of dread I’ve never felt before.

I’m not sure why they keep happening, but they’re ever present. As much a part of my routine now as brushing my teeth, or drinking tea.

Maybe it’s my eating habits? Penny says eating too late at night can lead to weird dreams. So perhaps I should stop my snack-before-bed routine.

But they also feel so fucking real. Like I’m living them in real time. Stuck in some kind of hellscape where the only ending seems to be death or pain.

It’s always the same.

Running. (From what?)

Sometimes there’s yelling. Other times we’re trying to be quiet. Hiding from an unknown entity.

Baz is there. (Always.) (In my waking and sleeping hours, Baz is there.) It’s a comfort, though. Seeing his face. Knowing he’s here with me.

Last night there was fire. A house, I think? I remember something about a cookbook.

I was probably hungry, though. I tried not to eat too late, and that’s where I ended up. Starving and thinking a cookbook was burning, with it all the fate of my food.

The guy with the weird mustache continues to show up. A haunting of all the times I’ve run into him from day to day.

That one’s clear to me, at least. He keeps showing up in my life too, in various versions of himself. (I think that’s him at least.) (Not many people could compare to the level of surliness he carries.) It’s almost like he’s pulled from some kind of cartoon where the villain follows the protagonist around, trying to gather information.

(What information?) (Why?)

I’m certainly not the protagonist. And there’s no reason anyone would follow me around.

(Right?)

(Especially not a villain.) (What does he hope to gain? A passion for baked goods and a hankering for an obscene amount of butter?)

I sit up in bed, looking at the sun pouring through the edges of my curtains. It’s the weekend, and I don’t have work. (Ebb’s orders.) (Says I overworked myself the following two Saturdays, and I need the time off.)

I check the time—10:37—and realise I needed more sleep than I’d previously thought.

There’s a message from Baz sitting unread.

I laugh.

I let my head hit my pillow again, unable to quell the smile I feel on my lips as I formulate my reply.

And then—

I place my phone down, staring at the ceiling.

It’s been two weeks since that first date. Two weeks of us talking, of us flirting.

(Christ, the flirting.)

Flirting with Baz Pitch isn’t much different than being friends with him. (Or enemies, I suppose.) I wonder if it was always flirting? If the insults and the light conversations were just meant to be some kind of foreplay for him. (For me, even.) (It made me more intrigued, certainly. Like a moth to a flame I flew to him.)

But he’s also nice, too. We message in the mornings. In the evenings. We come and go to each other’s flats so often that I’ve debated giving him a key.

(But that’s too fast.) (We’ve not even kissed yet.)

Our friend groups have merged. Game nights become some kind of coagulation of us all. Penny and I, of course. Which means Shepard comes too. Baz, as well, comes (because, of course.) And because we wanted even numbers, Agatha.

(Who is great, of course.) (But she’s really too good at some of the games we play.) (She almost always wins.)

So we’ve been together since that first date. But it hasn’t been together. Not in the same sense, that is. Not like it will be today—on our second date. (Bloody hell, can’t believe he’s agreed to a second date.) (Especially after me acting like I’m fucking crazy in Ebb’s bakery. Looking like I’d seen a fucking ghost.)

It’s Baz’s turn to plan it. Said I needed to dress nicely. So I pulled out a pair of clean trousers that I’m pretty sure still fit. Ironed them last night and everything.

I’ve still no clue what we’re doing. Just that I’ve got to try to tame my hair (Penny’s words) and not act like an idiot (Agatha’s words).

My phone buzzes on the stand beside me.

I smile and sit back up, pulling the covers off me. When I get to the door and open it, I notice a post-it. A note written in Penny’s handwriting.

1. Shower.

2. Use the product left on the sink for you. BUT NOT TOO MUCH. Just a pea-sized amount. Any more and Baz will think your hair’s as crunchy as a packet of freshly purchased crisps.

3. I found Lynx spray in the cupboard. If you want a third date don’t use it.

4. Don’t listen to any piece of advice Shepard gives you.

I frown at the note. Did she think I wasn’t going to shower?

(Forgot about the Lynx spray.) (I never used it, mind you.) (But she’s right. Better toss it just in case.) (Don’t want to use it in an emergency situation and then people think I want to smell that way.)

And Shepard’s advice isn’t all that bad.

I’ve half a mind to send her a message, saying he somehow managed to get her to come round, so his advice can’t be all that useless. But decide against it.

I walk into the bathroom to take a piss and get ready. There’s a jar of something next to the sink. (The product I assume Penny’s told me to use.) I spot the Lynx spray in the bin next to the toilet. (She beat me to it.) (Good for her.)

I wash up and attempt my best with my hair. (It doesn’t work.) (Still manages to dry all funky.)

I end up shaking it out with my hands, trying to get a few curls unstuck from each other. (Might have used more than a pea-sized amount.) (It’s hard! Peas are so fucking small.) (How did she think I was going to do it?)

I walk to my room and see two messages on my phone.

One from Shep: Don’t forget deodorant!

(See, Pen? His advice isn’t always bad.)

I smell my pits, confirming what I knew. (I didn’t forget it.)

Another from Baz: On my way.

Sent ten minutes ago.

I stare at my pants and then look at the closet. (Might need to reapply the deodorant.)

It’s minimum fifteen minutes to walk between our flats. Twenty if you get stuck behind a few slow fuckers.

Thirty if one of us has requested food (me) or coffee (Baz.)

I try my best to get my clothes on before the inevitable knock on the door. I’d have been all right, of course, if I hadn’t missed a belt loop twice while trying to put it on.

I look in the mirror.

The trousers are a touch small around my hips and arse. But it’s all I got, so it’ll have to do. The shirt fits fine at least.

I look at the jacket Penny hung for me on the door. I desperately don’t want to wear it. It’ll be hot. And the sleeves don’t go all the way down. (She says it’s close enough.) (I know I’ll just be pulling at them all day.)

I hear a knock.

I grab the jacket, making a plan. (If I open the door and he’s wearing one, I’ll slip it on casually.) (If not I’ll toss it on the sofa like it never existed.) (Really hoping for the latter of those two options.)

I pause right in front of the door and take a deep breath in, and let a long exhale out.

A second knock.

“Impatient, are we?” I ask, opening the door.

“You could say that,” he smirks.

I pause, taking him in. Wondering how on earth I managed to snag another date with him.

He—

Well…

He looks bloody gorgeous.

(Always.) (Swear he could show up in arseless chaps and a shirt that says “I’m with stupid” and I’d still think he looked good.) (Though, come to think of it…)

“Are you going to put that on?” He asks, pointing at the jacket. (Fuck, not smooth at all.) “Or will you be leaving the full suit at home today?”

“Uh,” I stammer. He’s not wearing a jacket, but he wasn’t supposed to know I had one prepared. What do I do now? “No?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a question, Snow?”

I cough. “No. I mean.” I laugh and toss the jacket on the sofa. “I wasn’t sure how nice you meant and—“

He reaches forward and puts a hand on my waist and my brain stops. “This is good,” he murmurs.

I smile. “Good,” I breathe.

We stay like that. Door wide open, Baz barely one step into the flat. His hand still on my waist. (I never want it to leave.) I want him to keep it there. To move his other hand so it completes the parentheses around my hips.

He’s wearing shoes with a slight lift, making him somehow even taller than me. But at this moment, my head tilted up to look at him and his grey eyes, I don’t seem to mind.

My lips part and I want.

I want I want I want.

I want to kiss him so bad. “Baz?” I ask. I put a hand on his shoulder.

“Simon?” he whispers. He completes the step into my flat, bringing him closer. He lifts his other hand and I think he’s going to put it on my waist. That this is what I’ve wanted. (God, his lips.) (I want his cupid’s bow between my teeth.) (I want the taste of him on my tongue and the touch of him against my skin.)

I lean up. “Can—“

A scream.

We jump. Baz steps back into the hall to look. I sway on my toes, head dizzy and chest feeling empty. Like I’ve lost a chunk of my lung.

When Baz looks back at me, his expression softens again. “Some kid,” he says. “Seems like someone’s getting a shot today.”

We laugh, falling into a weird silence.

(How do we get back to the moment before?) (I want.) (Need.)

“Ready?” he asks. I nod, stepping through the door to follow him down the hall.

And I’m so distracted, my head’s so dizzy, that it’s no surprise that I have to run back and grab my keys.

***

I’m staring at a plaque, reading the same sentence for the fourth time and asking myself why academic writers always need to be so overly complicated.

(Just say the gun was used for war. Why flourish the sentence? We all know what was happening.)

“You’re bored,” Baz says, not unkindly.

I jump. “No—no, I’m not. This is exciting,” I say, trying to perk up. It’s not boring. I love listening to Baz talk. Love to see him in his element with all the things he’s learned and experienced, sharing bits of himself with me. (It’s beautiful, the pieces of his heart he lets me into.) (I could build a home there. I’d tend to the gardens in his arteries. Mend any leaks and keep it whole and together.)

He sighs. “But also, a bit boring.” He looks around. “But I’ve got a few other things up my sleeve.”

I look back at the plaque, then back at him. “What do you have planned, Pitch?”

The damned eyebrow raise greets me once more. “Follow me, Snow.”

And I do.

I think I’d follow him anywhere, really.

***

I’m standing at the railing on top of Baz’ building. It’s tall. (Scarily so. If I think about it too much I might actually fall off.) I can see the roofs of others, empty and plain.

I turn around. Baz is lying down on the blanket he brought with him. A basket of food rests just outside the blanket. Empty from all that I ate. He’s got these large sunglasses on that make him look like an instagram model. One of his hands is resting under his head, the other across his chest.

“If you jump, I promise to cry at your funeral,” he says.

“What?”

“Come back, Simon,” he says quieter. I turn around and he’s raised himself on his elbows, watching me.

“Isn’t it cool?” I ask, not moving. “Just coming up here and seeing everything.”

“I wouldn’t say you can see everything, Snow.” I hear movement. Him surrendering and joining me to look over the ledge. “Though if you don’t watch where you’re looking, you might accidentally catch someone naked in a window.”

I turn. “You’re joking, right?”

“I wish,” he sighs.

“How long until Fiona comes up here to let us back in?” I ask.

Technically we’re not allowed up here. Baz, however, has his connections.

The only catch is we needed to keep the door cracked so we could get back down.

(I really needed to piss.) (And I forgot.)

“If we’re lucky?” Baz rests his arms on the ledge. “An hour.”

I nod. “That’s not too long.”

“More likely a few more. She’ll probably keep us waiting here all night just to take the piss.”

“That sounds… unfortunate.” I turn to face the blanket, back against the concrete wall behind me. If I’m being honest, I could think of a thousand worse ways to spend a night than stuck on a roof with him. (We’d probably have to huddle for warmth.) (That would be my excuse, at least.)

“But likely.” Baz turns too, standing with our shoulders touching each other. “So good thing you went piss.”

I grimace, worrying that the water I just drank might run through me too quickly. (Don’t think about running water, Simon.)

“I’ll give her another call, but chances are we might be out here for longer than I planned.”

Again, doesn’t sound all that bad.

We lie down on the blanket again, looking up at the sky. We talk, point at clouds, laugh at the honks we hear from the roads below.

I have an itch in my soul, however. One telling me to kiss him. (I want.) (So bad.) But I swallow it down. Keep it in the space below my sternum and let it fester, let it grow.

If we’re to be here all night, wouldn’t a kiss under the stars be nice?

He could point out the constellations. I’ll get excited over a shooting star. (Baz will then correct me. Say it’s not a shooting star, Simon. That’s an aeroplane.) And we’ll laugh. We’ll laugh so hard we won’t even notice how close our faces become.

He’ll hitch his breath when I touch his cheek. I’ll lean in close, our breath mixing together.

Pause. Wait. Let him show he wants it, too.

Then I’ll close the gap and finally kiss him. (I’m not sure I’d be able to stop.) (Might stay up here for eternity.) (Kissing, kissing, kissing.)

My eyes are closed as Baz talks about something that feels so far away I can’t decipher. The warmth of the evening sun washes over my skin. (One more hour closer to night time.) (To stars and the moon and to Baz in my arms.)

I hear a click behind us. Baz stops talking.

“About time, Fiona,” he growls, shifting in his spot.

I keep my eyes closed, not completely registering what this means.

“Well, whose fault’s it you locked yourself on the roof? Gotta learn not to somehow.” I hear the door creak as she pushes it wider. “Now grab yer shit and come on. I’ve got dinner on the way.”

Baz leans down. “Are you asleep?” I open my eyes, letting blue meet grey. I shake my head. “Well, better move along then. Before she changes her mind.” He leans down and grabs the basket. I shift and stand up, following him to the door.

I take one final look behind me. Regrets form in my mind that I try to fight off. (Why’d you try to wait for the stars?) (You could have done it there. Clouds in the sky, sun making him glow.)

“Come along, Snow!” Baz shouts from down the stairs.

I shake my head and follow him the rest of the way.

Chapter Text

My feet hit sticks, the sound of snaps echoing in my ears. I hope Baz confuses the noises for an animal. I know he must hear them, know that something is moving around him.

But he doesn’t look back or act suspicious. He simply moves on, headed towards his destination.

I duck under branches, swerve around protruding plants. All to follow one thing.

One person.

“Snow!” he shouts. I freeze, unsure what to do.

(He wasn’t supposed to know.)

I look around me.

(Do I hide?)

“I know you’re following me.” He’s standing in a clearing. Not even turned around yet, that’s how confident he is. “You’re not subtle. You're about as graceful as a newborn calf.”

“Hey!” I shout back. I immediately close my mouth and dart behind a tree.

Fuck.

Why can’t I leave an insult be? Just for once.

I hear footsteps and I hold my breath.

A sigh. “Snow, why are you following me?”

It’s closer. Probably on the other side of the tree. Probably on the other side of the tree. And quiet. Filled with less anger and more exhaustion.

I keep my mouth closed as if being silent now will erase all the noise I’ve already made.

(I always said Baz didn’t know when to shut up, but turns out I’m not so different.)

A few more footsteps. A face entering my view.

“Oh, hey Baz!” I say, trying to stay casual. “Fancy meeting you here. Out for a stroll?”

His face is flat and exhausted. (By me? By life?)

“I ask again—why are you following me?”

“Uh—“

“Don’t lie to me. You’re not good at it.”

I frown. (I’m plenty good at lying, Basil.)

His foot taps mine, too impatient to give words.

“Because you’re up to something,” I blurt out. He rolls his eyes. “You always are! And if I’m supposed to defeat you, then I need intel.”

He rolls his eyes. “Intel,” he mutters mockingly.

“What are you doing out here, Baz?” I ask. May as well just come out with it.

He sighs again. “Nothing important.” He steps away from the tree, looking somewhere I can’t see. “Not to you, at least.”

“You don’t know what’s important to me.”

He looks at me, considering something. Takes two more steps away from me. I take one step forward. (He’s not leaving me now. I’ve got him.) (There’s got to be something here.)

“Fine, follow me then. But don’t be upset when you’re disappointed with the results.”

I stand next to him. “I won’t be.”

This time I don’t have to be as careful. Which means I trip over stray branches fallen on the ground, get hit in the face with a twig as it ricochets when Baz passes it (swear he’s doing it on fucking purpose), and yelp when I touch something slimy. (What the fuck is that?)

“Snow, do quiet yourself. Would it be easier to pretend you were still following me?”

“Oh shove it,” I growl, pushing him slightly. He wobbles, and I think I see the outline of a smile for a minute, but it’s a sneer too quickly for me to know for certain.

He opens his mouth to retort, but I see the outline of stone ahead. Some small structure. “What’s that?” I ask before he gets the insult out.

He pauses and turns around, mouth still forming a word I don’t know. “Our destination,” he mutters after a moment.

I stay frozen in place as he begins to walk. Something feels off. Like there’s danger ahead.

Baz gets another ten paces ahead of me before he stops and turns around. “Are you done following me? Have you realised there’s nothing to be found?”

“Something doesn’t feel right,” I mumble, looking around me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end.

Something feels charged.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask. I’ve still not stepped forward.

“You’d find out if you’d just come along, Simon.”

I blink.

He’s never called me by my first name before. Didn’t even think he knew it.

“If you’re done following me, I’ll go alone. I’ve no qualms doing so. You’ve intruded on my trip, so it’s your choice if you continue or not.” He steps forward. “See you around, Snow.”

Snow.

Well that doesn’t feel the same, does it?

I walk gingerly forward, looking around me in caution. (Where’s he taking me?) (Is this where he murders me?)

I hold my hand at my hip, ready to conjure my sword if needed.

I’ll stab him through the heart if he tries anything.

We get closer and a small building comes into view. It’s after three more steps I realise what it is.

A mausoleum, in the middle of the forest. I look at the top of the structure, seeing the Pitch crest in the middle of it.

“Why is your family buried in the middle of the woods?” I ask as we step towards the entrance.

Baz pauses in the frame, hand grazing over etches and grooves in the stone. “Well, it’s best to keep them hidden given—“ He looks back to me then back to the inner structure. “Everything.”

He steps in, and I take one last look behind me.

Something still doesn’t feel right. It feels off. But I don’t see anything. And as much as I think Baz is out to kill me—I don’t think he is right now.

I step forward and follow him in.

He takes a seat in front of a tomb front and centre of the building. Looking up at the stonework.

I step closer and look at the engravings.

Natasha Pitch.

“Your mother,” I whisper.

“It was supposed to be her birthday today,” he says. He pulls his wand out and I instinctively reach for my hip, readying myself for a fight. “Put your hand down, I’m not spelling you.”

He murmurs something, a spell. I can feel his magic in the air as he does it, fire and warmth. (It’s always fire with Baz.) Flowers appear in his hand. Deep in colour. Purples and reds and golds. Green even deeper than The Mage’s clothes; than grass in the spring after fresh rainfall. Baz examines them, making sure they’re up to his level of quality, before placing them in front of his mother’s tomb.

He whispers a few words, and I feel uncomfortable, like I’m barging in on something I shouldn’t be a part of. (I guess I shouldn’t be, should I?) (He told me that. I just didn’t listen.)

I look at the entry and back towards him before silently moving to the exit. He doesn’t budge or say anything as I do so. Just continues on talking to his mom like she’s still there.

I step outside, feeling the charge I felt on the way in. When I look behind me I see Baz still sitting, and I decide to wait.

For now, we don’t have to be enemies. Even he deserves a moment to mourn.

I lean against the wall.

If I knew my mother. When she lived, when she died. (If she died.) I’d be the same way.

Baz is the enemy.

But he’s not a monster.

He’s just a boy.

*

I wait as long as it takes him to come back out. The sun’s gone down, light barely passing through the trees.

When he steps out he seems surprised to find me seated against the stone.

“You didn’t need to wait,” he says.

I shrug. “Something still feels off. Didn’t want to leave you alone.”

He frowns. “I’ve nothing planned, Sn—“

“No, I know.” I do. I trust him, for some reason. “But something else feels off.” I stand up. “Don’t you feel it? In the air?”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Another.

I wait for him to feel it. The undercurrent of something not quite right, but not present enough to grasp.

He opens his eyes, seeming to be more alert as he searches the area around us.

“You feel it, don’t you?” I ask, following him as he walks around the building. He holds up a finger to make me quiet down.

Usually I wouldn’t listen, but I do now.

We walk all around the building before it happens. A growl, a thud, a blast of fire.

I jump on Baz instinctively, tackling him to the ground, making sure we both miss the burst of fire.

“Fuck—“ he huffs. “What have you done, Snow?”

“Me?” I shout, sitting up and looking the chimera in the face. It’s a bit see-through—not fully corporeal. “I didn’t do anything.” (I try not to point out the only thing I’m doing is saving his bloody life.) I stand up, saying the enchantment to summon my sword. “What did you do?”

Baz stands up just in time for us to both jump out of the way, avoiding another burst of fire.

“I did nothing besides visit my dead mother,” he spits. His wand’s pointed upwards and he’s casting before I can make his words out.

I think, briefly, that we’ll be able to get by easy. Baz is a great mage (I don’t mind admitting that. He’s better than me in every way.) and probably knows exactly what to—

Baz mutters a fuck as he watches his spell go right through the beast.

His eyes widen.

It’s not corporeal yet. It’s all gossamer and mist.

We look at each other. I lift my sword and take a step forward.

“Snow, if a spell won’t hit it, what good do you think a sword will do?”

I pause. “Right.” I lower it.

He grabs my hand, I shake it from my grasp. He huffs and starts to run.

It takes me another second before I do, too. Into the trees, away from the beast.

But it doesn’t take long for it to catch up to us. Trees fall over, the ground shakes.

I’m running until I realise I can’t see Baz. I pause, looking around me.

Where have you gone?

It’s impossible not to notice Baz. In a room of a hundred people I’d find him in a second.

I open my mouth to shout, but a hand grabs my arm and pulls me down behind a rock. “Simon, we can’t outrun it.” He’s breathing heavily, worry written all over his face.

“Well, what do we do?” I ask. My sword’s still in my hands, ready to strike anything that comes close.

He looks over the rock. (Boulder, I guess.) (It’s a nice one too, perfectly sized to hide us both.) I shake my head and look over as well.

The chimera’s stomping it’s way towards us, looking from side to side.

“Someone must have sent it after us,” Baz whispers. I look at him and back up.

“Who?”

He bends down out of view, looking around us for another place to hide behind. I sit next to him, my back against the rock. I hear the familiar growl of the chimera approaching. Fire comes pouring around the boulder.

We look at each other, realising it’s too late to move or to hide anywhere else.

It’s time to fight.

Baz leans up and shoots another spell. It goes right through it again.

“Fuck,” he huffs. He turns to me. “You’ve got to do it.”

“You said if a spell won’t hit it, then certainly a sword won’t!” What’s he on about?

“No, I mean—“ Another burst of fire. Steps coming closer. “You’ve got to do that thing you’re so good at.”

I frown. I didn’t think I was good at anything. Especially not to Baz.

“Go off, Simon.”

I watch him, his shoulders squared away and jaw clenched tight. He leans up and casts another spell, this time making a tree crash through the creature.

It stops for a moment, looking downward, buying Baz another moment. “Fucking blow before this thing comes and kills us itself.”

I tear my eyes from the creature to look back to Baz. “I can’t just do it on fucking command, Baz.”

“Sure as fuck you can,” he growls. Leaning up to cast another spell. I lean up and pull out my wand, thinking of something, anything. Staring at the piece of glorified wood and hoping for an answer.

Baz grabs me and my eyes shoot up to his. They’re grey. Warm and comforting. I feel my magic starting to rise to the surface and I close my eyes, trying to conjure the reaction that happens too often out of my control.

(Can I make it happen when I want to?) (Crowley, if the Mage finds out I’ve figured out how to control it, he’ll make me do it all the time.)

Magic sparks in my fingertips.

(Fuck that’ll be exhausting. I hate going off.) (I feel raw and scratched through afterwards, like every piece of me came pouring out and was on display for the world to see.)

I feel a tear prick the edges of my eyes.

Baz’s face gets soft. (Fuck, I can’t let him see me like this.) “Deep breath, Simon.”

Every time he’s said my name (my actual name) my heart’s done this odd flip. I wish he’d say it more.

(Why?) (So he can kill me with my real name on his lips?)

“I can’t do it,” I murmur. It comes out weak. (Fuck.) (Definitely can’t let the enemy think I’m weak.)

“Yes you can,” he says. He’s gripping my shoulders harder, making them hurt. I feel my magic concentrated where he’s touching. Decide to focus on that another time. (If I get another time.) “Just light a match and blow on the tinder.”

I frown, confused.

“It’s what my mother always said.” His grip loosens on me and one of my hands finds his. He stares at it for a moment. “That your magic comes from your heart.”

Another burst of fire. A growl.

We look above us and see it’s face, wispy and full of fury. It opens its mouth and I feel panic fill my chest.

“Go Away,” I scream, magic pouring out with my voice. I feel it erupting from me.

It shouldn’t be possible to do. Casting without a spell. I didn’t even have my wand pointing towards it.

But I guess there’s so much of my magic that doesn't follow typical rules.

I hear Baz murmur “oh” from beside me as the chimera freezes. I look down at my skin, seeing the way the edges are blurring. Feeling the explosion coming close.

(Please, not now.)

The chimera walks away. (I guess I could do it after all. Without an actual spell or an explosion.)

Baz’s hands grip my arms, and I know he’s whispering something in my ear. He’s probably scared I’m going to take him with me when I explode.

I can hardly breathe.

I just want a little bit of it out. Like a release of pressure.

I close my eyes tight.

(Please, don’t do it.)

More whispers from Baz.

(Wish he could take some of it.)

I think about it, what it’d be like to let some of the extra into another person.

Then, it’s like I feel it happen. A bit of it loosens where Baz grips me, and I can feel it start to mix with his.

I open my eyes. His fingers are white with how hard he’s gripping me. (It should hurt.) (But then again, everything does right now.) (But also it feels calming. Like I’m letting it all out without the explosion.)

“What the fuck are you doing?” He panics.

“I—I’ve no clue.” I close my eyes and let out a breath.

It’s… helping?

How is Baz helping?

(It’s not a plot, is it?)

He rips his hands from my arms, breaking the connection, making me feel at a loss. My magic hangs in the air, an extension of my fingertips, searching for him.

I pull it back.

I still feel scorched. But, less so than normal.

The air is less charged. The woods are quiet. I’m not sure how quickly the sound from the chimera went away, but it feels like a distant memory already.

Baz stands up, dusting off his trousers. “Well, Snow. Let’s try never to do this again.”

I watch him walk away before I get the thought to follow.

*

I catch up to him right before he gets to the edge of the wood.

“What was that?” I ask, huffing. (Why am I so out of breath?)

Baz stops. “What was what, Snow?” He sounds angry. (Fair.) But also… confused?

Maybe just as confused as I am.

“The thing with the magic,” I continue, getting close enough to grab his arm. When I touch him he turns to me, face filled with fury, eyes dancing with rage. “It was like… you were taking it—“

“I was not stealing your magic, Snow. Imagine if mages could do that? We’d eat each other alive.” He wrenches his arm from my grasp.

“I know—“ I reach again, but stop myself. “I didn’t mean—I just…” I move my hand to my hair, pulling at my curls, trying to find the words. “I kept thinking how I just wish I could get rid of the excess. All the magic that builds up and then—“ I sigh, dropping my hands. “Then it was like we shared. Like you took the extra.”

Baz avoids my eyes, choosing to look at a tree nearby.

I step closer. “You felt it, right?”

He purses his lips. “What are you trying to get at, Snow?” He lifts his eyes to mine and I see two things before he schools his features. Fear and curiosity. Quickly it’s replaced with an emotion I’ve seen all too much from Baz—anger. But the former is what gives me hope that I can convince him to do it again. “I’m not stealing your magic. I wasn’t plotting anything. I’m not even after your neck right now for triggering the chimera attack.”

I frown. “I didn’t do that.”

“How do I know that wasn’t a scheme from you?”

“A scheme from—? No! I don’t scheme. That’s what you do.”

“Why else would there be a chimera outside my mother’s grave?” He steps closer to me, head tilted to make better eye contact. I stand up straighter, desperate to close the height difference. “Did you follow me there to ensure it would show up? Wanted to watch it finish the job?”

I frown. “What—no!” I step away. Baz grabs my hand. “I would have been killed too. I wasn’t out to kill you. I didn’t even know the chimera was there—“

“You said you felt something—“

“Yeah, which is why I waited. I was—“ What was I? Nervous? “Worried.” He drops my hand again and steps closer to the edge of the wood. “I was!” I repeat. “I didn’t know what was out there and you were…” I sigh. “You were just mourning your mother,” I murmur. “I didn’t want you to get hurt just because you were visiting your dead mum on her birthday.”

Baz examines me. “You’re telling the truth.”

I nod. “I am.”

“Why did you run after me? You made it out alive. You’re not even killing me now. What’s the plan?”

Usually it’s me accusing Baz of plotting. Of trying to take me or The Mage down. But now I see it goes both ways. He’s as afraid of me and what I might have up my sleeve as I am of him.

“I… don’t have one?” I say. (Ask, practically.) “I just… I’ve never had a moment like that before. Where I came so close to going off and didn’t.” His right eyebrow goes up. “I’m not sure what happened, but I need to know.” I reach out. “I’d like to try again.”

He examines my hand.

“Why should I help you?”

I blink.

Fuck.

Why should he help me?

“I guess I don’t have a good reason for it.” I lower my hand.

Baz looks back through the trees. I’m not sure what he’s watching, but it looks like he’s considering something. (Me?) (I think he’s considering helping me.)

“Curiosity?” I offer. “It didn’t hurt right?” (Fuck, what if it did?) (Am I asking him to harm himself to help me figure out my fucking magic?)

“No it—“ He looks at his hands. “It didn’t hurt.”

I step forward. He looks at me again. “What did it feel like for you?”

“Like how magic usually feels, I guess. Except endless. Like there’s a tap and it was a bottomless well.” I smile. “Is that what it feels like for you, Snow? Like an endless bounty of magic?”

“Yeah. I guess.” It feels more like I’m trapped some days. Less like a well I can conjure up. More like an endless cave I can’t ever find my way out of. And every so often you build up so much frustration over never finding your way out that you just explode. You pound on walls, kick rocks. You feel like you’re setting the whole world alight because all you want is to get out—but you can’t. And for a moment you feel like you’ve found relief. A reprieve, of sorts. That there’s an ending to the tunnel. A light. “Something like that,” I murmur.

But then you realise the light’s from a fire, not from the sun.

“Wow,” he whispers. He’s amazing, and I let myself be amazed with him.

My magic, while sharing it with him, was the best it had ever felt. Less like a burden, more like an enhancement.

Like I could have conquered the world if I wanted.

We stand for another moment. He’s watching his feet. I’m watching his face.

I’m not sure what I’m hoping for. Mainly I just want to do it again. See if it was a fluke, or something I could do regularly. (Could I with Penny?)

Maybe I’m hoping for answers? To me. To my magic.

To everything The Mage wants to fix in me. That Penny wants to help me learn to manage.

“I need your help too, with something,” he says. He looks up now. Eyes determined and jaw set. I let my stance match his own. “So I’ll help you if you help me.”

He reaches a hand out.

I raise my own without thinking. Without even asking what it is he needs help with. “I’ll help you.”

He raises his wand. I flinch back, nearly pulling my hand from his. He holds me tighter. “Promise. With magic.” I freeze, then nod.

His magic threads our hands together, as we give our terms of truce.

That he’ll help me figure out my magic to the best of his ability.

And that I’ll—

“Help you with your mother’s death,” I say.

***

Third date.

That’s big, right? Kind of a serious step in the direction of an actual relationship. (Though I’d argue we might already be there.) (In a relationship.)

We’ve not kissed yet. I never felt it was the right time. But we’ve come close. There was during our second date, which got painfully interrupted. (Both times.) (Though the second time may have been my fault. Shouldn’t have tried to wait for the stars. Could have just jumped at the chance then.) Another time while eating lunch. I got up to throw away some garbage, grabbed some of his, and leaned in casually. Not a thought in my head. Only reflexes.

I paused a centimetre above his hair, realising what I was about to do. I could feel a strand on my lips. Smell his shampoo.

I cleared my throat and stood up straight. Any hope that he didn’t notice went out the window when I saw the smirk on his face.

“Don’t,” I said. He laughed. (I couldn’t be upset about it after that. He was smiling. Laughing even. Because of me.) (Fuck, I’m gone, aren’t I?)

But I don’t think he’d have minded. (Right?) (He would have stopped me if that were the case.) I feel like he would have reciprocated. (Fuck I’m overthinking this too much.)

As I walked to the bin, I cursed myself. That I could have gotten it out of the fucking way. A kiss without thought.

I’m walking back and forth outside my flat, waiting until it’s a more appropriate time to leave. (If I show up now I’ll be at least ten minutes early.) All that consumes me is thoughts of kissing Baz.

What if my breath smells?

I cup my hand around my mouth and give a couple breaths, trying to smell myself. It’s not bad. I avoided all garlic and onion and salt and vinegar during lunch to be cautious, but I’m not exactly minty fresh. I reach into my pocket and pop a mint.

What if he doesn’t want to kiss?

That’s bollocks, I think. (I think.) Last date when I leaned in, I could have sworn I saw his eyes close too. Saw a slight purse of his lips. When we were on the roof we kept making eye contact, and it was more than just a glance. It felt purposeful, like maybe he was waiting.

Stupid of him, really. To wait for me to get the courage to ask him. I’m sure he figured all of this out earlier than me, and now he’s spent all this time waiting for me to catch up.

(Baz, you’ve got to let me know when you figure this kind of stuff out.) (We’ll spend an eternity asking questions if you wait on me.)

The all too scary thought of what if I’m no good creeps into my brain. What if we kiss and Baz says he’s fine.

Texts left on read.

Eyes not making contact with my own.

That pit in your stomach that you screwed something up when you pass each other.

I shake my head and start walking down the road. (I’ll get coffee. It’ll be a nice surprise.) (Fuck.) (I can’t have coffee breath when I see him.) (When I kiss him.)

I make my plan as my trainers hit the walk. Get coffee. Go to Baz’s. Surprise him with the coffee—but—kiss him before he takes a sip.

(Might go cold, though.) (If I start kissing him I’m not sure if I’ll ever want to stop.)

Iced coffee then.

(Will the ice melt?)

Cars honk. I hear a siren from an ambulance. I watch it as it follows the road away from me. (Hopefully everyone’s okay.)

I make it to the coffee shop and get in line when I get a text.

I freeze. Agatha. (Hit by what?) (Her?) (A train?) (A turtle?)

I feel something creep in my chest. More than fear—more than worry. Something trying to come out of me. (Vomit?) (No, that’s not it.)

A car hit him. (Why couldn’t it have been a turtle?) (A practical joke planned by Baz to make me laugh before our third date.)

No. The fucker had to get hit by a bloody vehicle.

I forgot. They were having lunch. Agatha was there for the whole thing then. (I wonder if she tried to stop it.)

“Sir?” The person at the counter asks. I look up, blinking my way into knowing my surroundings. “You’re next.”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

I tap the empty textbox and type my message.

I turn around and follow the pull. The one that has always been there for us, for me. That orbit I keep around Baz, his gravity always pulling me in.

My brain is hazy as I grasp my phone tight and run. My feet hit hard against the pavement.

(I’ve dreamt about this once.) (The running.) (The push towards something I’m not sure of.) (The pull away from something I don’t know.)

I’m not even sure I’m going to the right place. (That’s a lie. Something in me knows.) (But, how?) (How do I know where he is?)

I see the hospital getting nearer. (Well, I am getting nearer to it.)

My mind rolls through possibilities. (They’re endless.) (And none of them are what I thought today was going to add up to.)

We were supposed to run away for the day. I was going to take him outside of the city, kiss him where the stars shine bright without any lights to dim their shine.

I dodge someone riding a bicycle, but then I see something—red. Large.

There’s a honk.

I feel an arm grab mine and pull me.

“Watch where you’re going!” The man screams at me from his window. I’m in someone’s arms, watching him drive off.

I turn to the person. “Thank you—“

I pause.

“You,” I mutter, pulling my arm out of his grasp. He holds on tighter, not letting me free.

“You’re really lucky I was here to help,” he sneers.

Images form in my mind.

The moustache. The green.

The upper lip pulled up in disgust.

Gregg’s. The bakery. The park. School.

My dreams.

(More?) (I feel like there’s more.)

“Are you okay?” he continues, trying to lead me in the opposite direction. “We should go get you looked at.”

I pull back. “Shouldn’t we go to the hospital?” I ask through my teeth.

I feel fine. Nothing hit or touched me. But if I’m going anywhere it’s the hospital, with Baz.

“I saw a few ambulances go by just a few minutes ago, it’s probably best to go elsewhere.” He tries to reach for me again, managing to wrap a hand around my wrist.

Something smokey starts to fill my lungs. (Is this guy a chain smoker?) I cough, trying to get it out of my lungs.

Someone screams in the distance, startling the man. He loosens his grip enough that I’m able to pull away and start moving as fast as I can.

My head swims with thoughts I never thought of.

Baz, smiling below me. Reaching up for my mouth.

“I love you,” he whispers.

(Love? Have we gotten there yet?)

My chest feels warm, my legs burn, my palms are white against the pressure as I clench them by my sides.

It’s like the dreams. Where I feel myself running to Baz. (Did I predict this? Did I know?)

The dreams always felt too real. Maybe that’s why. Something somewhere in my subconscious knew I’d be here one day.

I dodge some people walking slowly. My feet feel sore. The heel of the shoe digs into my foot. I’ll probably blister.

Me, reaching for Baz. Kissing him long and slow.

(That’s how it’s supposed to be.)

I pause, despite everything in my body telling me to go. Run. Run faster.

My head spins.

“I love you too, Baz,” I say.

I blink once, twice. Trying to get myself back into my head.

What’s going on?

My heart jumps, and I move again.

I love you I love you I love you.

(I do, I think.)

I think of him on the roof of his flat. At the museum talking about things I’ve never known or ever cared for. (But I care for him.) (With everything, I think.)

No.

I know.

I make it all the way to the hospital doors and turn around, thinking that man will be there. (The man I don’t know but continue to come across.)

My dream.

(The man with a sword and a wand.)

They looked the same.

(But wands aren’t real.) (Magic doesn’t exist.)

I feel something tingle on my fingertips. Something I don’t have a name for. (Maybe it’s adrenaline mixed with muscle fatigue.) (How long was I running?)

I squint my eyes. (Fucking—I need to get glasses after this.) (Maybe Baz will help pick me out a pair of frames.)

He’s nowhere.

“It’s over,” he said in a dream.

I look at the glass doors and walk in, taking deep breaths. I can’t let them see me get so bent out of shape. They’ll think I’m crazy.

Deep Breath.

(I’m close, at least.)

I walk forward to the desk. (Find the room number, get out.)

“Hullo?” I ask. There’s a person with her back turned, talking to someone on the phone. She holds up a finger, telling me to wait a second. “Er—“ I look around as if there will be a sign saying 'Baz is this way’. “Baz Pitch?” I ask.

She turns around, giving me the ugliest glare. I’d care more about politeness if I wasn’t itching to get to him.

Look, miss, I’ve got a boyfriend to find.

(Boyfriend?) (Since when have I called him that?)

(Third date and I’m calling him boyfriend and chasing after him to the hospital.) (One day we’ll laugh about it, I’m sure.)

She opens her mouth but a hand appears on her shoulder, making her stop.

I look up and see the one person I was running from.

(Dark. Green. Angry.)

“How can I help you?” he asks with a smirk.

I look back to the nurse, hoping she’ll help me instead. (Not him, please.) (I don’t know him but it’s not good. He’s not good.) She turns around again and walks a few feet away. Phone cord dangling in the air.

I meet the man’s eyes. Blue, not unlike my own.

Something hits me.

Blue eyes bearing into my own. Baz, dying next to me.

(What the fuck?)

“You’re in the way.”

It’s not fragments of my life. Or even the dreams that are starting to pop into my brain. They feel like memories I’ve never had. (But they can’t be, right?) Spells pouring from his mouth. (Magic’s not real. It can’t be. If it were—well. Things would be different, right? We could spell Baz better and I could take him on this fucking date and kiss him under the stars.) (I could probably spell the stars to shine brighter, even.)

I blink.

“Have you figured it out yet, Simon?” he asks, leaning forward. “Always takes you longer than the Pitch boy.”

Baz.

I look to my left. (Where’s the pull when I need it?) (Which way do I go?)

I close my eyes.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

My heart beats. My chest moves.

“You’re too late,” he sneers behind me.

A curse. A link.

Deaths from memories I’ve not gotten.

(He dies first. Then I follow.)

Not last time, though. Last time I died first. He kissed me and—

I feel it, the jolt. Something warm on my fingertips. A well inside my stomach of something I can’t quite tap into.

I turn back to him.

A name.

The Mage.

A story. (It’s his fault.)

I take a step away from him and towards the hallway on my left.

He pulls out a wand. “So you have remembered.” He steps forward. “Typically I let my curses do the dirty work, but maybe now's the time I start getting my hands dirty myself.”

I step back, trying to follow my gut.

It’s not like my dreams. The Mage wasn’t around for them much. He spelled us and then—

Fuck why am I talking about my dreams like they’re real?

“S-sorry, sir.” I turn to the hall. “Must have made a mistake. I’m just going to look for my friend.”

I feel that smoke start to reach for my lungs again, but it dissipates as quickly as it begins.

He frowns.

In my dreams it never stopped.

A lady with a man on a stretcher rushes through, pushing me to the side, and taking the Mage’s attention away from me.

So I take this opportunity to run around the desk and to a hall on the left.

And I hope that my gut, my heart, my whatever is enough to take me to Baz.

Chapter Text

“You’ve done what with Basilton Pitch?” Penny screeches.

“Calm down, Penny. It’s just a truce.” I lie down in the grass, letting the sun wash over me. It’s nice outside. Spring has hit the air in full force, bringing warmth and sunshine; crisp mornings, and hazy afternoons. It’s the only thing that’s gotten Penny to have one of our “lessons” outside. “Just wants my help figuring out how his mum died. That’s all.”

“In exchange for—?”

“For helping me with my magic.”

She huffs. “I’m helping you with your magic. And I also happen to not be the enemy.”

I lift myself up on my elbows to give her a look. “Yeah, but what happened—I… it was different, Pen.” It was. We’ve tried it one other time since the chimera. He said it made him feel drunk. (My magic, that is. Not the chimera.)

He cast stars in the sky and we watched them for hours. It was magic as I had never known it. Soft and delicate. Lovely and sweet. A comfort where I hadn’t known it to be.

I want to do it again. Soon.

“Then show me, Simon.” She’s begging. Penelope never begs.

I lie back down, letting the grass cushion my head. “I don’t think it’ll work.” She groans in frustration, tired of pushing me to share my magic with her. Exhausted by my constant refusal.

What she doesn’t know is I have tried. I tried to bring my magic to the surface with her one day while we were practicing summoning spells. (I was supposed to be summoning an apple. Managed to summon a rat instead.) Thought I’d try it, see if it could happen naturally. Wanted to surprise her with this newfound knowledge. Raised my magic to the surface and tried to push. All it did was result in her being hurt.

She jumped back in pain and there was a slight burn on her palm from my hand. My magic.

(We cancelled the rest of the lesson.)

I can’t do that to her again. I can’t hurt her.

What I can’t figure out, though, is why it seems to work with Baz and not her. How he somehow held this magickal key to me finding a way to control my magic in a way no one else could.

I’m sure Penelope could figure it out. But I’m not sure I want her answers yet.

“So. How’re you going to figure out his mother’s death?”

“We’re meeting tonight actually. He says he talked to his aunt and wants to mull some ideas over with me.” We’ve had a couple sessions of practicing magic; tonight’s the first time we’re discussing his mum.

Penny opens her mouth to say something, but is interrupted by a bird flying between us. It takes a seat on my chest, a note attached to its foot. She looks at it like it shat on her nose.

I frown and remove the note.

Simon: Please come to meet with me. Urgent.

(The Mage.) (It’s always the Mage when it comes to notes attached to birds.)

And it’s almost always urgent.

“Not again,” she says. Penny knows. She’s seen all sorts of these instances. “What’s he got you on now? Hunting pixies? Chasing trolls? Before you know it you’ll have run all the faeries out of house and home! They’ll never want to come back to us!”

I sit up, making the bird flutter away. I watch it land on a nearby tree, preening its feathers. “Who knows. But I better go now. Baz and I are meeting at dusk and I want to be on time.”

She wants to stop me, to learn more, but she doesn’t push. Probably tired of fighting me on it, despite the fact that each day our sessions grow shorter and my magic becomes more uncontrollable. (Which I thought was impossible. But.)

She gets frustrated almost every time we meet. I let slip something I’ve done with the Mage, and she goes on a tirade. The same cycle over and over.

I know she disagrees with what he’s doing. Says he’s not protecting magic. That it’s more like he’s suffocating it; controlling it where it doesn’t need to be.

I asked her once why she still helps me. Why she continues to give me lessons on magic despite knowing what the Mage is doing. How I’m helping him.

“Because I know you’re not like him, Simon,” she said. “You’re good. You’re not the weapon he’s trying to turn you into.”

She asked me what I want out of all of this. For me. My life.

I laughed in her face. (My life? When have I ever had a life that I’d be able to live? Choices in my control?) (I’ve got food on my plate and a shelter. It’s more than I’ve had before.)

She didn’t think it was funny, but let me move on without giving her an answer.

I’m not even sure what I want.

Not anymore.

*

When I get to the Mage, he pulls me behind a wall, hiding me from any onlookers.

It’s not odd. I feel like the Mage is always hiding from something or someone. (Who? Why? I’m not completely sure.)

I learned forever ago that everything he does is odd, and stopped questioning it. Any time I did I just ended up with answers I never wanted. Or responses like “stay vigilant” to keep me wondering. (I’m not even sure he knows what vigilant means.)

So I play along, not wanting to press the issue.

“You’re a good man,” he whispers. His pride fills my chest with warmth. I’m not sure what’s happening—what I’ve done—but the moments when the Mage approves of me are far and few between. “I’ve seen what you’ve been doing.”

I frown. “I’m sorry, sir. What exactly have I been doing?” I’m almost afraid to ask, like searching for clarification might ruin the good I’ve apparently been doing.

“With the Pitch boy. Your little meetings.”

I deflate. “Oh.” I didn’t think he knew about those. My heart pangs in my chest, worry about what he might ask me to do swimming in my head.

“Letting him get close to you,” he continues. He pats my back.

I feel less proud and more sick.

I wasn’t starting a truce to betray him. I started it to get answers. (We both did.) How did the Mage find out? Is he following me? Trailing Baz? Did someone from town tell him?

I still hate him. Baz. (I think.) His eyebrow is judgemental as fuck. He’s a bloody show-off. And he insults the Mage any chance he can get.

But… I’m not out to kill him. Not now. Not after what I’ve seen already.

“Have you learned anything of interest? Anything that will help us get information?”

I clear my throat, taking a step back. “I—No, not yet.” Not unless the Mage wants to know that Baz likes sweets. That he’s got a scar on his neck from the fire that killed his mother. That he’s afraid of butterflies and smiles like the sun when I’ve figured out a spell. “Nothing of use.”

He nods his head. “These things do come in time, Simon. Stay vigilant.” He sighs, mulling something over.

I pause, waiting for him to speak. Knowing he must have more to say.

“Sir—“ I say, breaking the silence. Too impatient to play the long con. “What was urgent?”

He sighs. “Well, I wanted to speak to you about him. These meetings you have. How to use them more to our advantage. Especially if he’s not giving information freely.”

“What do you mean?“

“I mean, if he’s not willing to tell us how to access the Humdrum—to defeat the evil his family created,“—he turns to face away from me—“then we’ll have to take care of him ourselves. Get him out of the way before he becomes a bigger obstacle than he already is.”

What?

Get him out of the way?

Does he mean kill?

(Didn’t I want to kill Baz?)

“Why?”

(No, never. I think.) (Punch him, yeah.) (But kill? Murder?)

“Haven’t you been listening, boy?” he says with fury licking up his throat. He turns on me, eyes wild and face twisted. “If he doesn’t then our plan goes to ruins. We’ll never be able to access the Humdrum. We’ll never be able to save magic from people like him.”

“I—“ I’m not sure what to say that won’t make it worse.

I can’t…

I can’t kill him.

“This is why his mother had to go,” he huffs. “She was in the way. Wouldn’t let us fix the mess her family started.”

My brain stops. Everything stops moving. Even the bugs outside cease their incessant noises for a moment.

“Are you—did you—“ My magic coming to the surface. A feeling like I’m suffocating. (Where’s Baz?) (What am I supposed to do?) “Did you kill his mum?” I choke out finally.

“Not directly,” he murmurs. “But I wasn’t opposed to her death either.”

“What does that mean?” I ask through gritted teeth. I’m trying to stay calm, to not let him feel the fury in my chest.

But what else am I supposed to feel if not anger and betrayal?

I knew the Mage killed people. He fought battles. He was in charge of a fucking war for gods’ sake.

But… Baz’s mum? Was she really that awful?

I think of Baz on the floor in front of her tomb. Flowers in his hands, emotion pouring from his lips as he talked to her on her birthday.

That’s not the type of person you kill off. A mother. A person.

He’s acting like she was a monster.

(Light a match and blow on the tinder.) (A monster wouldn’t phrase magic like that.) (Like it’s love.)

(Crowley, Penny’s spiel about magic being centered in love is getting to me.)

“It means she was in the way,” he huffs. “This is war Simon. They either surrender or die. That’s how war works.”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“So you killed a mother?” I ask.

“What kind of mother was she? A corrupt one, at best. Filled that brat of hers up with lies and conspiracies against me and the cause. If anything I’m sure I did the Pitch boy a favour.“

“So you did. You killed her.”

“Why is this such an ordeal, Simon? It’s not like you care about them. They’re the enemy.” We stare at each other for a moment. Heavy breaths filling the space between us. “Oh. I see.”

“You see what?” I growl. I can’t do cryptic messages from him. Not now.

“Have you grown soft for him?”

My eyes widen. “No of course not!” He can’t know. (I’m not soft, am I?) (Not wanting to kill someone doesn’t make me soft.)

“Maybe you shouldn’t see him after all. I thought this was a good idea. Seeing him, gathering information. Getting you close enough to kill if we needed.” I move my hand to my hip. (Why?) (Am I trying to fight the Mage?) I feel magic build beneath my fingertips, ready for me to say the incantation. I can almost feel the handle in my palm. “But it seems getting you close is only going to turn you. Make you an accomplice in his crimes.”

“What crimes has he committed?” I shout. “He’s just a boy!” He’s not a monster. “He’s lost a mother, just like me. His father’s gone too. Probably chased off.”

He laughs. Actually laughs. But not out of humour. It feels dark. Sinister. “Simon, you are forbidden from seeing him. Do you understand?”

I stare at him.

“You must promise me you will not see him,” he continues. His eyes are dark. The blue turning into a storm about to engulf me and swallow me whole. “I won’t repeat myself.”

And, for the first time since I’ve met the Mage, I lie. “Yes, sir.”

He pats me on the back one more time before walking away. It takes everything in me to not flinch. Not to fight him and draw my sword against his throat. Threaten him to stay away.

I look at the sun, beginning to set.

And I walk to the same location I have the past few nights. Because if the Mage thinks he’s going to keep me away, he’s a fool.

*

I find Baz where I always do. Sitting on a rock with his wand in his hand. He’s spinning it between his fingers impatiently. I have to stop myself from commenting on it. Making a joke about wand safety.

“Baz.” I feel rushed. Like I have eons worth of words to say in only a few breaths.

“Snow,” he says. His eyebrow’s up, judging me for my tardiness already. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show up. Haven’t backed out of our truce yet, have you?” He stands up. I shake my head, watching him move. My throat’s dry. The words are caught somewhere beneath my sternum. “We’ve got a few things to look through. I’ve been talking to my aunt—“

“Baz,” I say again, interrupting. My voice is shaky and barely there.

“She says it’s the Mage. But she always says it’s the Mage and it’s gotten us nowhere yet,” he continues. He’s frowning as he looks in the distance, thinking of something that I don’t know. (Not yet. I’ll ask him later.) (But now I’ve got something more important to say.)

“Baz!” I say louder. He looks at me like I’m mad.

“What? What could you have to say that’s so bloody important—“

“Your aunt’s right,” I say. I say it quietly, trying to keep it between us and the trees. “The Mage he—he killed your mum.”

He stares at me for a moment. I watch as his face twists from shock to disbelief to anger and finally to—“And you…you knew this?” Accusations?

“No I—“

“Crowley, is this the only reason you agreed to help me? Because you already knew?” He practically spits in my face. “Thought it’d be funny to dangle information in front of me? That I’d be so easily tempted and foolish to help you while you had no intention of really giving me help.”

“No!”

“Then how’d you find out so easily?” He has tears in his eyes. The feeling of teasing and working together gone so quickly. “I’ve been trying to catch the Mage for years, and you found out in a matter of a week? How?”

“He—“ My throat feels thick. Like it doesn’t want to get the rest out. “Baz, we need to run.” I grab his hands, urging him deeper into the wood. “Wherever’s safe. Wherever he can’t find us.”

“Why? Simon, what aren’t you telling me?” I freeze. I do every time he uses my name. It’s like a spell from his lips.

“He admitted it. Freely. Said she was in the way. Talked about the Humdrum. Said he wanted me to help him kill you.” He pulls his hands away from mine, taking a step back. Guess I can’t blame him. “Baz, please,” I beg. “I need to get you safe. Away from—“

“Away from the person you fight for,” he sneers. “Likely story. You’re probably leading me straight to him!”

“No, I’m not. Please, Baz. I don’t want to fight. Not you,” I cry.

I didn’t want it to go like this. He was supposed to find out and run. It’s not safe for him. Not here. Not where the Mage’s control casts a shadow on every corner. On every branch. It’s inescapable and completely suffocating once you’ve realised it. Surely Baz knows a place to hide? His family’s been doing it for years.

I’ve only known Baz to be able to walk to our town and back. His aunt came once, clambered into the Mage’s home, and attempted to steal something. (I was never told what. Just that it was vital to his mission, and in her hands would have caused darkness no one could understand.)

I’m starting to think Penny was right.

I never should have trusted him.

“How am I supposed to believe that? All you’ve done is fight me.”

But he gave me a home. Food. A purpose.

“Not recently!”

He points his wand at me and I hold my hands up. “Please. I—I want to help you. I want to get back at him. I’ve no clue what he’s got up his sleeve but… It’s not good. He wants you. If you don’t surrender and help him, he’ll kill you.” His wand drops an inch before moving back up. “He’ll have me kill you,” I mutter.

“So, don’t kill me then.”

“I won’t!” I shout. The sky’s getting darker around us. We need to act quickly. Get out before darkness envelopes us. The Mage thinks I went back to my home. That I didn’t seek Baz out. But knowing him and his tactics, he’s likely to be looking for Baz himself.

I can’t let him find him.

“Please. Let me help you.”

Something snaps behind us and we jump. I close the gap between me and him and, by some miracle, Baz grabs my hand.

“Ready to trust me now?”

He looks into my eyes, and I swear I can see stars in his. (Can eyes sparkle? Is that a thing? I swear his do.) I want to count the number of constellations found in his irises. Fall into the abyss of his pupils.

Baz Pitch, please let me save you. Let me help you. I’ve made so many mistakes already in my life. I don’t want you to end up as another one of them.

Thankfully, he nods.

We run.

***

I’m sprinting down the hall. Simultaneously trying to get away quickly and also not bring attention to myself. (I don’t think I’m succeeding at either.)

Seeing him, this guy I’ve seen so many times, ignites some ingrained fight or flight response.

I’m not sure what’s happening as I run. What’s filling my head. (But there is something that’s consuming my thoughts.)

It’s like all the dreams I’ve been having lately but increased in frequency and vividness. Like someone took them and amplified them, increasing the sharpness. I feel dizzy, turning corners and nearly running into nurses and patients.

(Really not doing great at staying subtle.)

I’m worried if I don’t slow down or hide, someone will have me admitted.

Bright side? It could possibly keep the Mage away.

But would also mean I can’t get to Baz.

I pause, leaning against a wall. I look to my left, to my right.

What the fuck is happening?

I look at my hands. They feel tingly. (Numb?) (Am I going numb?)

No, it can’t be that.

It’s not the familiar static of losing circulation to an appendage. It’s more other. It’s both mad and completely fascinating. I let both of my thumbs touch each fingertip, dancing across them as I wait for the feeling to pass.

There’s a moment where I think I see a spark.

(Fuck maybe I should be locked up.)

I feel this chasm in my stomach—and not because I’m hungry. (I don’t think I could eat if I tried right now.) It’s large. Like a second set of lungs.

I breathe deep, but it doesn’t affect it. It still sits feeling empty and full at the same time. I want to scream and get rid of some, but I’m not sure if that would help either.

“Sir,” someone says. I look up to see a nurse staring at me from above her nose. She’s upset (fair) and looks too tired to want to deal with anything I might be up to. “Are you okay?”

“Uh,” I breathe. (I’m not meant for running. Why am I doing this?)

“Excuse me miss,” a deep voice says down the hall. “I’m looking for someone. You may have seen him—“ My heart stops.

It’s him.

“I need to hide,” I plead. She looks at me like I’m crazy. (I am, I know it.) (I feel crazy at this point.) “Please.”

She sighs. “If it gets you out of the hallway…” She opens the door to the nearest room and I clamber inside.

It’s empty save for a bed and a couple machines that have been turned off.

She’s at the door still, watching me. “You can’t be here long.”

“I don’t plan to be.”

She huffs, turning to leave.

“Wait—“

“What?”

“I need your help.”

“More help?” she asks.

I hear footsteps coming closer. “Close the door, please.” She takes a step out the door, intending to close herself out of the room. (I’m shocked, really. What medical professional would let some delusional person be alone in a room?) I grab her arm.

“Please,” I pull. “I need to ask you something. I need to find someone.”

“That sounds more like a question for someone at the front desk,” she sighs. The door closes softly behind her. I hear the Mage talk to someone nearby again, asking where I am.

“Yes but they were entirely unhelpful,” I reply quietly. I’ve no clue how the Mage might be able to hear me, but I wouldn’t put it past him.

But I feel like he already knows where I am. That he’s playing a game like a predator with its prey. Playing with its food before making the final snap.

“Paging Nurse Keris.” The intercom.

She rolls her eyes. “If you’re here when I get back I’m calling security.”

”But—“

“No.” She points a finger in my face. “No buts or please help me. This is a hospital. Not some playground where you run around or try to sneak into people's rooms who clearly don’t want you.”

I try to say something but she walks out, the door closing softly behind her.

I stare at my hands.

What the fuck am I going to do?

The tingling on my fingertips grows.

A memory from an unknown part of my brain forms.

“Follow your heart.”

“What?” I asked.

“A spell, Snow. It’ll lead you wherever it is your heart desires most,” Baz sneered.

I lean against the bed, closing my eyes.

“But you’ve got to feel it with your whole heart.” He stepped forward, touched my chest. It was soft. Made my heart skip. “It’s the only thing that keeps mages from using it on the regular. There’s only so much you can feel. It has to be deep. Achingly from the depths of your heart.”

This is crazy. I’m going off the deep end, aren’t I? Full-blown mad. These fucking… I don’t know, visions?

Dreams?

Memories?

They feel so fucking real. Like I’ve lived through them. I can feel them. I touch my chest now, and it’s as if I can feel Baz’s fingertips against my skin. Cool. Calming.

My chest fills with something deep at the thought.

This Mage character. I’ve seen him around town. I've even dreamt of him. In real life he’s been some odd person following me around.

In my dreams though…

In my dreams he’s out to kill me. (Well, Baz.)

Baz.

Fuck. If my dreams are real (I’m mad.) (Mad mad mad.), then he’s in big trouble.

In each of these dreams, he died. (Except one where I died.) And moments before so, I felt these same sensations. Had the same memories pop into my brain. Felt like whole lifetimes’ worth of shit was being crushed into my skull at once.

(But why.)

“I think I saw him go in there,” someone says outside the door.

I jump and look at the door.

Fuck.

(Can I lock it?)

I move to the door but see the handle twist.

Fuck fuck fuck.

“Thank you, miss.” Deep voice. Smooth like butter. Footsteps inching closer.

I look around quickly and dart beneath the bed. The door creaks, and I’ve never wanted to be invisible more in my life.

(Is there a spell for that?)

Fuck, I’m truly and well fucked.

The tingling feeling shoots up my arm and into my chest. It feels warm. Comforting.

Safe.

(Either I’m having a heart attack or this is… well…)

I look up and see his eyes. Blue, intense (a bit mad if I’m being honest). I wait for him to bend down and grab me.

My heart’s thrumming so loud he has to hear it. There’s no way he can’t. It’s basically a beacon call. Come get him. Simon Snow, the boy with absolutely no defences. No clue what he’s doing. Waiting beneath a fucking hospital bed like it’ll provide him any security.

“Where the fuck—?” he asks. I frown. (Just finish it now. I’ve had a good run.) (Means I won’t have to deal with another round of exams.) “Fucking nurses—they’re incompetent on a good day.”

I feel static fill the room. Gooseflesh spreading up my arms and on the back of my neck.

He steps out of the room, and I breathe.

(How the fuck did I get past that?)

(He’s got to be playing with me, right?)

I pull myself out from under the bed, hitting my arm and head on various poles on the underside. (Maybe this wasn’t the best spot to hide.) When I look down to rub the static away, I see my arms starting to come into vision. Like they weren’t there before.

(Wait, did I—?)

(No, there’s no way.)

Baz, I have to get to Baz.

“Follow your heart.” A whisper in my ears.

I feel that build up in my chest again, something wanting to get out. It fills me with crazy ideas. A notion that maybe I can do this.

In my dreams I have a wand, but I don’t think I was very good at it. (The wand-waving that is.) (Or the entirety of magic bit, I guess.)

(Fuck am I really considering this as a possibility?)

And there were times when I could just…

I close my eyes, trying to consciously bring that tingly weird feeling to the surface. Make it concrete and something useful.

It feels mad—but it works.

Baz. I need to find Baz.

My heart aches, thinking I might not get there in time.

(How do I fix this? How do I make sure he doesn’t die like in my dreams?)

We never got to go on our third date.

(I was going to kiss him.)

I take a deep breath.

I’m going to, still. I’ll kiss him till he warms up under my fingers and his mouth is sore, and then I’ll kiss him some more. Because this isn’t going to be the end.

Not this time.

Baz.

I put my hands over my heart, because I don’t know what else to do. (How does one do magic?) (I’m still not even sure it’s real.)

“Follow your heart,” I say. And I feel it. The difference in speaking. Like a spark leaving my chest. Like I’m charging the air around me.

And, more importantly, I feel a pull. One that I’ve known too well when it comes to Baz, but stronger. Guided, almost.

I clutch my shirt right over my heart. The centre of what I’m feeling. (What I’m casting.)

I walk forward and put my hand on the door. I listen closely, desperately searching for the Mage’s voice.

But it’s not there.

I open the door and follow the pull to my left.

Even if this is some mad concoction of my own making, it’s better than nothing.

So I follow my heart to Baz.

***

“You’ve got to stop thinking so much about it.”

“Funny,” I huff, pulling myself up. “Don’t I never think? Isn’t that what you’ve told me before?”

Baz grabs my hand, bringing me the rest of the way up. “Somehow you managed to surprise me.”

I dust off my trousers. When I look up Baz is looking to the edge of the trees.

This is where we do this now—practice magic. In the woods where no one can see us. It’s where we do everything now. In secret. Keeping Baz hidden.

He took me to the far end of the wood after the Mage threatened his life. To a shelter protected by more wards than I can see. (Could imagine.) I accidentally tripped one and managed to burn my eyebrows off. (Who the fuck sets fire as a trap?) (Fiona Pitch, that’s who.)

Baz spelled my eyebrows back. (I think they’re neater now. I swear I had a few more stray hairs than this.) But I’m still nervous when I walk along this path.

The Mage thinks I’m not seeing Baz anymore. That I denounced Baz and am trying to find him. To kill him. I tell him each evening that I’m looking for Baz in the woods.

(I don’t think the Mage knows I’ve found him. That I’m the reason he’s hidden.) (I can’t let him die.)

“Fiona thinks we should attack tonight,” he murmurs.

“Fiona thinks we should have attacked a fortnight ago,” I reply. “But that doesn’t mean it’s the best idea.”

He turns back to me. I see fear in his eyes. Eyes that are usually lit up in curiosity or smugness. Sometimes pride. (In himself. In me?) “When? Is it ever going to be the right time?”

We’ve been working since he went into hiding. Trying to figure out our next move.

Fiona and I jumped at killing him. It was probably the only time she and I have seen eye to eye since I’ve met her. But Baz stopped us, told us there was more to the situation to consider. That if we’re going to attack we need to be willing and able to go after the whole instead of just the part.

The Mage has the Humdrum. A source of power that can drain us all dry. A weapon no one should yield. It’s locked. Hidden away. Even he can’t penetrate it.

Fiona’s tried to get it back. They’d been trying for years to destroy it. The best they managed was to get it locked up, but that was long ago—before Baz and I were even a concept to our parents.

It was born forever ago, used for power. But it grew out of control. It had a hunger no one could comprehend.

Baz’s grandfather cast a spell to capture it, preventing it from stealing any more magic. Practically saved what was left in the process. Many called the Pitches heroes. Others accosted them—assuming they were trying to take the power contained within the Humdrum for themselves.

(This is what the Mage told me. That they were power-hungry mongers out to steal magic.)

Natasha was close to destroying it.

But then she died. (Was killed, really. Made it look like an accident when really it was the Mage.)

Fiona says she was planning to try a new spell the next day. But then the fire happened.

They went into hiding after that—their family threatened and their home destroyed.

The Humdrum was taken from their protection and placed, instead, in the Mage’s.

Our only luck is that he can’t open it. The enchantments keeping it locked can only be undone through Pitch magic. He doesn’t have the correct kind of magic. (Fire magic.) (He’s all sparks, but none of the warmth.) (Both burn, but his shocks and theirs feel more like being near the pyre. The heat that radiates off and makes your skin feel hot and comforted at the same time.)

I’ve learned more about what it’s like to experience Pitch magic. (Well, Baz’s magic.) We practice and plan each night.

With the Mage growing more impatient, it’s important we begin to act before he finds a workaround or finds Baz.

I don’t blame them for hiding for so long. Especially since the Mage started his plan. Trying to bide their time as they plan their attack. It doesn’t explain why Baz still came around. Risking everything.

“Someone had to get food,” he shrugged the one time I asked him. “I’ve caused the least trouble. So it may as well be me.”

Said the Mage wasn’t out to kill him yet. That if Fiona had stepped foot in his vicinity, he would have killed her on sight. (Fiona, of course, argues she would have killed him.)

I’ve been attempting to get closer. To learn more about the Humdrum. See if he’s planning to use it or merely keep it “safe”.

I put my hand on Baz’s. “We will. Soon. Swear it, Baz. I just don’t want to risk you getting hurt.”

There’s thunder rolling through the sky. I see lightning strike.

I frown. “Did you know it was supposed to storm?” He shakes his head. “I better head back then, before it starts getting too bad.” My hands slip from his, and I miss the feel of his touch in an instant.

As if on cue, rain starts falling. Not just a few drops. It’s like the clouds were told to give me all they’ve got and they took it as a personal challenge.

Baz grabs my arm and pulls me inside. A roof protecting us from the water. I can’t help but laugh when we’re through the door. Especially when I see Baz. Hair stuck to his cheeks and water dripping off his jaw.

I get the urge to lick it off.

(I stop laughing.)

“You’re not going home like this,” he says, ringing out his shirt. Water hits the floor in soft thuds. “You’ll stay here.”

“But—“

“No, none of that. Tell the Mage you thought looking for me in the rain would be useful. He’ll applaud you for your dedication.” He steps into a side room, seemingly on the look for something. “You’re not going home in that.”

Thunder cracks through the air again. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

“Maybe it’ll end soon.”

“Unlikely.” He walks back towards me with spare clothes. “You’ll sleep here.” He thrusts them forward, and I take them hesitantly.

I stare at the fabric in my hands.

“It won’t bite,” he laughs.

“Where will I sleep?” I’m still not sure this is a good idea. What if the Mage finds us? If he finds Baz?

“You can share my bed.”

I frown. “It’s certainly not large enough.”

“Well then, you can sleep on the floor.” He walks out of the room and through the same doorway. (Presumably his bedroom.)

I look at the floor. Hard wood. Can’t be too awful?

“All right.”

“All right?” He asks. He sticks his head out of his room to give me a look of confusion.

“I can take the floor.”

He blinks. “Well. Okay then.”

*

After a failed attempt at lying on the floor (it hurt and I never want to put my spine through that again), I lie down in Baz’s bed. It feels weird. I’ve never shared a bed with anyone.

He closes the window panes.

“Can you leave those open?” I ask.

He frowns. “Why? It’s raining, Snow.”

I shrug. “I dunno, it’s not bad. And there’s a nice breeze. I get hot at night.”

He watches me carefully for a moment before leaving it open. “You’re sleeping close to the window. I refuse to get wet while sleeping.”

I shimmy my body closer to the edge, giving Baz enough room to lie down. He’s all fucking legs, and taller than me by a few inches. I wonder how he manages to fit in this bed comfortably.

(Probably less comfortable with me here taking up what little room is left.)

Our skin is touching in some places. I feel his coolness against the backs of my knees. His shoulder poking into my back.

It’s awkward. Both of us desperate not to touch but also too smushed together to avoid it.

But I’m not hating the parts we have that are in contact. The bits that are touching.

I fall asleep to the sound of rain and the feel of his feet against my calves.

*

When I wake up, he’s gone. The sky is still dark. Clear, though. Unlike before. It can’t even be close to dawn yet.

I sit up and look around me. See if he fell off or something.

“Baz?” I whisper. I don’t want to get on the bad side of Fiona by waking her up. I feel like that would be in the best interest of my own neck.

Nothing.

I stand up and walk out of the room. I find a candle and light it. No spell, no wand, just simply wishing for it to light. (It’s still scary when my magic does that. Act without command and only thought.)

I hold it up to illuminate the room. Nothing. No sign of him at all.

I step towards the door and open it, looking at the dark outside. It smells wet and feels cool.

I see nothing as I squint my eyes and search for him. Like he’ll just be out here relaxed and enjoying the stars. (They’re starting to peek through the clouds now. Twinkling in the sky and giving a weak source of light.)

But then I realise—

His shoes are gone.

Where would he have gone?

I run into the house. Fiona’s still asleep (I can hear her snore) and there’s still no sign of him.

It might not be a big deal. It could just be that he stepped out for a moment. Taking a stroll in the middle of the night.

But if it isn’t something… then why does my heart feel like it’s going to burst out of my chest? Why am I panting like I’m running?

I spin around, as if looking fast enough will help me find him.

I run and dig out my wand from my clothes.

There’s a spell that Baz taught me. It’ll help you find someone when you need it.

One of the stronger finding spells we have.

But you need to feel it with your whole heart. You need to feel it with everything you’ve got.

My heart’s pounding. I look at my chest and point the wand at it.

I’m not sure my heart’s big enough to contain this feeling right now. The fear and anxiety.

But it’s got to be something.

There’s something more there. Something small that’s taken hold, sowed seed and grown roots in the deepest parts of my brain, and taken refuge in my heart.

“Follow your heart,” I say. I feel the magic pour from my wand to my chest and feel it take hold.

A pull.

Well then. I guess it worked.

*

When I find Baz, he’s at the end of the forest. (Too close.) (Doesn’t he know he could be found like this?)

“Baz, what are you doing?” I ask. I see him flinch but try to cover up his surprise.

“Plotting,” he murmurs.

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.

“Baz, if you’re caught—”

“If I’m caught then maybe we could end this.” He’s facing me now. Fists clenched and brows furrowed.

He’s still wearing the clothes he went to bed in. Just with shoes now to protect his feet. “I need this over, I’m done waiting around.” He glances back.

The village is dark. The sun is still far from rising. The air around us is cool, the grass and trees damp from the storm.

“Baz, I know,” I whisper. Please don’t do something stupid. “But we have to be smart.”

“Do you know what he does to people?” he screams. Something scatters away from us. (A mouse?) “What he probably did to my mother?”

I blink. “I—I know he killed her, Baz.”

“He curses them, Simon. He has a whole slew of potions and rituals at his disposal. All to be sure that people who betray him never find peace. That they only know suffering in every life.”

There’s nothing between us for a moment besides space and our breaths.

I knew the Mage did something but—curses?

How—

Why?

I knew he believed in reincarnation. That our lives today are but one of a million we’ll live.

And if he’s cursing people—

“My mother will know nothing but suffering because of him.” He relaxes his fists. “And I’m just sitting here. Doing nothing.”

I step forward. “You’re not doing nothing, Baz.”

“I am. I’m doing nothing and she’s out there suffering in another life. Why? Because she was trying to solve this nonsense with the Humdrum?” I step closer again. “Or because she had power? A family? Supporters? A son?” His voice cracks on the last word. “A son who’s failing her,” he whispers.

I watch his face twist in pain as he falls to his knees. I rush to catch him but only lessen the fall.

“Baz, you’re not failing her.”

He leans his head into my shoulder. I feel the fabric on my skin start to grow damp as he shakes his head violently.

“Baz,” I say again. No response.

I pull him off of me, trying to catch his eyes with my own. It takes a moment and some odd twists of my neck to get him to stop looking at the ground, but I catch him.

“Baz, you’re the most ruthless, fiercest, most hard-headed person I know.” He frowns. “And that’s saying something because I know Penelope Bunce!” His lips turn upward at that.

A smile.

Good.

I can work with that.

“You’re not doing nothing. We are learning, we are preparing.” His eyes are wet. I bring my hands to his cheeks to wipe away his tears with my thumbs.

He doesn’t push them aside.

“And—” It hits me. “And you’re an amazing teacher!” A clear question on his face. “I cast a spell to find you, Baz!”

He sniffs. “I haven’t taught you any finding spells, Simon.”

“Yeah, you did.” My hands are still on his face. I let them fall to his shoulders. “Remember?”

Follow your heart.

His eyes go wide when he realises. “Oh—”

“Yeah.”

My knees hurt. My hair is wet from water dripping off leaves. Baz is crying.

But I refuse to move.

“You—”

“I.”

“Stop interrupting me, Snow.”

“Never,” I respond. I lean in slightly, waiting for a response. Thinking he’ll stop me.

He doesn’t.

Doesn’t even say a word.

His eyes are looking into mine. I hope he sees the question I’m dying to ask. My voice is stuck in my chest, caught between the breath I’m holding and the beats so violently pounding from my heart.

He closes his eyes and leans closer. Not completely, but enough to push me forward.

And when my lips meet his, cold and wet (But perfect, so fucking perfect.), I don’t think about my knees hurting. Or how we’re both wet.

Only his lips against mine. My hands moving up his neck and resting on his cheeks.

His hands on my waist.

On my chest.

Around my neck.

It’s like finding what I was looking for, without realising I was looking in the first place.

A piece I never knew I needed.

My chest warms and I think it’s because of the spell. That I fucked it up somehow and it’s going to cause my heart to explode.

But then Baz’s fingers twist in my hair and I feel it jump slightly.

“Can we go home?” he whispers between kisses.

I laugh.

“You’re the one who came to the fucking edge of the forest like some idiot.”

He shoves my shoulder. I lean back to stand, reaching a hand out for him to help him up.

“Well, consider it me channeling you, Snow.” He brushes off his bottoms.

I snort. “You called me Simon, earlier.”

“You must have hallucinated,” he says. He starts walking away, through trees and grass.

I watch him for a moment, until he pauses and turns towards me. “Coming?”

So I follow my heart back through the trees.

***

I let the pull in my chest continue to guide me down the hallway, up the lift, and to my left. It stops me in front of a door and I pause, scared.

Surely the Mage has realised this. All he has to do is find Baz and I’ll come running. Wait it out.

But, also, what other choice do I have? What other option leads me to Baz the way I need to be led?

I lift my hand and twist the handle, opening up to a room.

It’s like the one I just left. A bed. A chair. A window.

Except this one has Baz in it. He’s hooked up to a monitor. It beeps reassuringly. (Creepily, but also at least I know he’s still got a heartbeat.)

I walk slowly towards him. As if being in my proximity might hurt him more.

“Baz?” I ask. He doesn’t budge. (Sleeping? Passed out?) The magickal pull in my chest brings me closer all the same.

Follow your heart.

Can’t believe that’s a spell.

(Can’t believe I cast a spell.)

If Baz is my heart then that must mean—

Well. I guess I already knew on some level, right?

A spell like that wouldn’t just work on feelings of a crush and being smitten.

It would have to be larger.

I put my hands on his bed. “I’ve no clue how much time we have, Baz. But I really need you awake right now. I—“ My throat catches. “I’m not sure what’s happening but… I think it’s something…” I pause. What do I think it is?

“Baz, love.” It slips out before I can stop it. I try to catch it on my tongue before the word leaves my lips, but it’s too late. I watch his chest rise and fall. “Love—“ Fuck it, it’s too late now. I’ve cast magic, something I didn’t think existed before today. Not only that, I cast something called Follow your heart which can only mean one thing.

I lean in and press my lips to his forehead.

“I think if I can’t figure out how to wake you up, we might be dead soon,” I whisper against his skin. “I was supposed to kiss you today.” I laugh. It’s wet. (Fuck, I’m crying.) “Who knew I’d already met you? Already loved you.” I kiss his nose. “I’m still not sure what’s happening. I’m catching memories like they’re smoke. They wisp through my hands so I can’t get a grip on them—but build up in my lungs. Like I can’t name it but I can breathe it. Feel it.” Nothing, still.

There’s no way the Mage won’t show up soon. Won’t kill us both.

(Isn’t there usually something that happens at this point?) (A feeling of choking. I remember choking.)

“I do, though. Love you.” I pause. (How the fuck do I break a curse? How do I get him to wake up?) (How do I undo the damage of a car?) My leg throbs, reminding me that I’ve also been hurt. “So if you could… I dunno… wake up and tell me what to do that’d be great.” I wipe a tear from my cheek. “Because we both know I’m useless at this sort of shit. And that’s on a good day.”

I look around me for a second.

I see a bag. A leather jacket.

(Fiona must be here. Good.)

I still feel a pull in my chest. A sensation I can’t quite put a name to. But the spell had to wear off, right?

Despite logic, I follow it, and hope it isn’t leading me astray. (And also hope against all odds that Baz wants this.) (I’d prefer a bit more consent than kissing him like he’s Sleeping Beauty.)

As I lower my lips to his, I feel the smoke start to form in my chest, trying to take hold of something in my throat. It makes me stop for a moment, but I push on. If I’m going to do this, I’m not going to let some stupid curse ruin it for me.

When I press my lips to his, it feels like breathing fresh air. Like my lungs have been cleared and I can finally breathe right for the first time in my life.

It also feels cold.

I frown.

Is this what it’s like to kiss Baz?

(It’s probably got something to do with the fact that he’s not awake.)

I’m not sure how long to stay like this. How long I should wait. (What am I waiting for?) (A kiss won’t cure a hit and run.)

But then I feel something. (Not him moving. Though that’d be lovely, thanks.) My magic (yeah, I guess that’s what I’m going to call it now) stirring again. But, also, something else. Similar, but different. Warm.

(Maybe it’s just the sensation of Baz’s lips warming under my touch.)

(Christ, if anyone walks in right now they’ll actually lock me up.)

I start to pull back, but something against my neck pulls me forward. The bed shifts. I open my eyes and realise it’s him.

It’s Baz.

And he’s kissing me. Pushing in to me, pulling me closer.

And it’s filled with warmth. Sparking on the edges as I close my eyes again and lean more into the touch. It’s magic. (Literally, I think.)

I pull back, barely a centimetre from his lips. “Hi,” I whisper.

“Fuck,” he whispers back. “My whole body aches.”

“Well, you did get hit by a car—“ I pull back further, letting him get comfortable.

He frowns, and I think it’s because of his pain. “I guess I see your point.”

He winces once more as he shifts on his bed.

“It was odd. Like, this feeling filled up my lungs and I...” He looks at his hands. “Simon. I think—“

“I used a spell to find you,” I blurt out. His eyes go wide. “I—I think we’re magic, Baz.”

He nods. “So do I.” We pause.

“Uh,” I continue. “So I know this is a lot. Magic. Near-death experiences. Life-giving kisses from your boyfriend.” He raises his eyebrows. “But there’s this guy…”

“The Mage.”

“Oh. So you know him?”

“Well. I don’t know him. But I know him.”

“This is all so fucking weird, right?”

He nods. I take a deep breath.

It’s so fucking weird.

“I—I don’t know what to do.” I let my hand find his, intertwining our fingers. That feeling—warmth meeting spark—comes to the surface again. He watches our fingers like they might burst into flames at any moment. “But I think we have to do something.”

He nods again.

I’m not used to him not having something to say. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Know what to do?”

“I—“ A breath. Lips parting to let words pass. Nothing forming. “No.”

How do we get out of this, Baz?

The handle turns. I jump. Baz sits up further. Shoes come in first. Followed by brown trousers and a green shirt. “Thank you for helping me find him!” he says to someone we can’t see.

He turns, his lips upturned and his stare menacing. “Hello boys,” he says as he closes the door. I hear the lock click. “I see you’ve found each other.”

“We have that habit, yes,” I say through my teeth.

A step forward.

I feel my magic grow stronger. It makes me feel dizzy. (I’m going to have to get used to it, aren’t I?)

“The curse should have finished you both by now.” He takes a seat in the chair on the other side of the room. “Can I ask—how did you break it?” He pulls something out of his pocket. (A wand, I think.) (Or a very intricate stick—which, given today’s events, wouldn’t be the weirdest thing for me to see a man carrying.) “This way I can rectify it with the next spell.”

“I think you’ll find that we’ll always defy expectations,” Baz says.

“Oh yes. How unkind of me. How are you, dear Basil?” He leans forward. “Heard you took quite the hit.”

“I’m fine. Got by with just a scrape.” Baz is trying to save face. We both are. I’m not sure how much he believes us and our fake confidence. Neither of us know what’s going on. Not completely.

“Oh good. I’d hate to see a life end so young.” He stands. I see him pull something out from around his neck, something red swirling inside. The sight alone makes the hair on my neck stand up. I try to resist the shiver building in my spine. “Though, I guess that’s exactly what I do need.”

I clutch Baz’s hand harder. He takes it, and I feel the way our magic swirls on our fingertips.

“Have you both figured out what this is?” He asks, pulling the necklace over his head. “Or have those memories not formed yet?”

I frown.

“The Humdrum,” Baz whispers. It clicks in my brain. The Humdrum. Yes. That was in my dreams. (Did Baz have the same ones?) “That’s why we aren’t born with magic anymore.”

“You stole our magic?” I ask. Was I always supposed to have magic?

How did we manage to get it back?

I look to my right and see Fiona’s bag again. (Where is she?) (Surprised she’s not come barging in and stabbed him in the chest herself.) (Mad brilliant she is. Absolutely terrifying, though. Wouldn’t want to be on the other end of a knife if she’s wielding it.) (Then again I don’t prefer to ever be on the other end of a knife.)

“He stole all magic,” Baz answers for the Mage. “So he could use it for himself.”

He growls. “To keep everyone safe. Your family was—“

“My family was trying to destroy it! No one should have that much power. Especially some egotistical power-hungry maniac!”

“You fu—“ He steps forward. I feel my magic come to the surface.

“Stop in the Name of Love!” I shout (sing, basically.) (That’ll be awkward to think about later.) He stumbles forward, his feet stuck to the ground. His fancy stick (wand) flies in the air and I catch it. I stare at it for a moment. “Er—“

“Give it—“ Baz snatches it out of my hands. The Mage watches it pass and looks at the necklace in his hands. “Accio necklace!” he shouts.

Nothing happens.

I frown. “What was that?”

“It works in Harry Potter!” Baz shouts. “Gimme Gimme Gimme!” I feel the magic in the air and watch as the necklace slips out of the Mage’s hands and into Baz’s.

We watch as the Mage continues to struggle to get his feet off the floor, growling and murmuring. He’s trying to cast spells I think. Without a wand. I start to realise that maybe my casting without a wand is weird even for this situation.

“Never mind that,” he spits. He holds his hand at his hip and whispers something. A sword forms in his hands.

“Got any other spell ideas?” I ask Baz. “I can give you some of my extra.”

He watches me.

“Magic. It’s what we do. We share magic.”

The Mage gets a foot free. “Now would be great!” I say, looking around me. (There’s nothing more than Fiona’s bag to use as a weapon.)

Baz raises the wand again, and I feel my magic pushing into him. Letting him draw from it. “Karma’s a Bitch!” he says. I feel my magic mix with his and give his spell life.

It hits the Mage square in the chest. I think for a moment that it’s not good enough. That it didn’t work—that we’re well and truly fucked. But then he pauses and drops his sword. His hands go to his neck and he starts sputtering, choking. I can smell smoke from where I stand. It’s earthy, green.

I know that feeling. That sensation. Feeling your lungs fill with smoke and ash. Suffocating on the magic.

Dying.

”Baz—“

“I know,” he whispers. He drops the wand onto his blanket. “I—I—“

The Mage falls to the ground, choking. I’m not sure what to do. Help him? Watch him? Walk away?

But the decision is made for me as I see his body go limp. His arms fall to either side of his face, his neck relaxes, and I feel the air clear of the smoke.

There’s silence, as we both stare at him. My brain feels stuck, processing something it shouldn’t have to.

I clear my throat.

“How are we going to explain a dead body?” I ask.

“Er—“ Baz looks at the wand. “I can’t think of a spell.”

I hear the door rattle. “Basil?” Fiona says on the other side.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters.

“Of course she shows up now,” I say, walking to the Mage. As I reach for him I slowly see parts of his body dissolving. “Eugh.” I pull my hand back quickly.

“Would you rather she come in while I was waving a wand, Snow.” He shifts in his bed, leaning back, looking worse for wear. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“And leave me alone with your aunt?” I hiss. It feels like the last thing I should worry about, but I am.

“You’re not alone, Simon.” He pulls the blanket up. “I’ll be awake long enough to answer her questions and tell her not to murder you.” He yawns. I feel one build in the back of my mouth just watching him. Between the chase, the magic, and the adrenaline of this whole afternoon, I’m exhausted. Wonder if I can sleep in Baz’s bed with him. “Now let my aunt in before she breaks the door.”

I look down at the space the Mage occupied, now completely deserted. Like nothing happened.

Another set of jiggles from the doorhandle jar me from my thoughts, getting me to walk to the door, pull it open, and make eye contact with Baz’s aunt.

She’s got a mad look on her face and it only gets worse when she sees me.

“Why’d you lock the door?” She asks.

“I-uh-I didn’t?”

She glares.

“Must have gotten stuck.” I step back to allow her to come in.

“Hey, Fi,” Baz says, eyes half-closed.

“Oh puff,” she says softly. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen come from her. Like she’s coming close to tears just by seeing him.

He smiles.

It makes me want to leave. I feel like I’m interrupting something important that should be private. I look at the door then back at the scene.

“I’ll call the doctor. They’ll want to see you now you’re awake.” She places her bottle of Coke next to the chair and steps across the tiles where the Mage’s dead body laid minutes prior. “You can leave now,” she tells me.

I freeze.

(How do I just leave him?)

“No no, please. He should stay.” Baz’s eyes are wider now, fearful. After what just happened I don’t think either of us wants to separate. Not before we truly need to.

“You nearly died, Basil.” She glares at me again. “Hell you were dead for a minute there.”

My eyes are wide again.

Is that what gave us the final hit? Baz’s temporary death?

“Exactly,” he smirks looking towards me. “So my boyfriend should be able to stay. I’ve nearly lost my life, Fi. Don’t make me lose out on love too!”

A pause.

I’m trying to stifle my laughter. It’s dreadfully dramatic of him, completely cheesy, but also adorable. And I can tell by the way Fiona’s face falls from stiffness into joking frustration that she’s not going to fight him on it.

“You’re a pain in my arse, Basil.” She pats his shoulder. It’s an insult, but she says it with kindness. It reminds me of the times Baz has called me an idiot. Same tone and look in his eyes. “I’ll be back, you awful twit.”

She pauses next to me as she makes her way out of the room. “What’s that?” She points to the necklace in my hands.

“Oh—” I pause, holding it up. I see the inside where it holds the Humdrum nearly twinkle, so I cover it with my fist and bring it back to my chest. “Er—”

“It’s a gift,” Baz says. “For me.” He holds out his hands. “Snow got it for our one-month anniversary.”

I blink.

One month—

Anniversary?

She glares at the necklace, and I think that’s it. I’m done for. “It’s a bit hideous, don’t you think?” she asks him.

I hand it over to Baz and he examines it. “Yes, but it’s only been a month, Fi. I’ll train him to do better next time.”

I swallow.

Anniversary? Do—Do I need to get him something for our anniversary?

I didn’t know there was a versary to anni yet.

She huffs but continues anyway. Before she closes the door, she gives a warning. “Don’t lock this again!”

It clicks closed.

“Do I need to—” I start

“For the record—” he says at the same time.

We both stop.

“You go—” We both say.

I wrinkle my face. “Really, you.”

He hands the necklace back to me, and I slip it into my pocket. “For the record,” he says. He slips his fingers between my own and starts playing with them. “You don’t have to get me a gift for our one-month anniversary.”

I let out a breath. “Thank god.”

He laughs, bringing his hand to my cheek. “Though you are indebted to at least five lifetimes’ worth of anniversary presents.”

I blink. He shakes my arm, laughing at my fear. “You’re an idiot, Snow.”

It’s soft, so I know he doesn’t mean it. (Or maybe he does, but it’s not bad.)

His smile is the present. It’s the past.

It’s an echo of lives lived. And I lean in to kiss it. To taste the happiness that lives in the corners of his mouth.

To a love we’ve found at last.

Chapter Text

I’m on Baz’s sofa, lying with his head on my chest. I’ve got one foot on the floor (it’s definitely not big enough for the both of us) and the other perched on the arm. Baz has a pillow under his knee to keep it elevated, both of his feet resting up high with my own.

His back’s on my chest, the afternoon sun’s begun to shine on us making the room warmer. My arse feels sweaty, and I worry for a moment that I’ll leave a mark on Fiona’s leather cushions.

It’s uncomfortable.

“Baz?” I shift my hips some.

He groans. “I’m not moving.”

“There’s no way you’re comfortable.”

“I’m not. My thigh is cramping, your hip bone is digging into my lower back, and my calf is itchy.”

I start to shift, thinking he’s giving in, but he holds me down tight, refusing to budge. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “I wanna stay like this for another moment.”

I let my muscles relax, giving in. (I’ll always give in when it comes to Baz.)

I won’t move.

Not now.

“You never told me,” I ask, trying to distract myself from the way his elbow is pinching a bit of my skin on my side, “what happened in those moments before you were taken to the hospital.”

It’s been such a rush. Since I found him, discovered magic, the Mage, other lives’ filled with memories between the two of us.

(Fuck even Penny and Shepard were in some of them from what I remember. Are souls destined to repeatedly find each other?)

There’s a terrible moment where I wonder if that means the Mage will just come back. If every life we’ll have to hope we can beat him in order to not be doomed to the same cursed loop we’ve been stuck in for lord knows how long.

(We’ve yet to figure out all the exact times of previous lives. Just that they were old.)

He clears his throat and shifts. It relieves my side from his elbow. “It was a lot, all at once.” He pushes up but gets stuck trying to move his leg. I try to give him more room to put his feet on the ground. It’s awkward for a moment, but so fucking relieving once we’re both seated upright. I can shift from my spot onto something a bit cooler. “I’m not sure what it was like for you. But when I got hit it was like all these memories flooded my brain. I couldn’t keep it straight. It was like coming out of amnesia after having it your whole life, except it wasn’t this life I was remembering.”

I nod.

“Agatha was there, panicking—”

“Rightfully so.”

He nods. “Yes.” His fingers are digging into his cast, trying to scratch at his knee I think. “So she was panicking and calling 999 for an ambulance, and then there was this smoke.” His hands go to his throat. “Like the exhaust was blowing into my mouth—but the car was already gone.”

He stops his scratching and looks at me. “And then I was out. I thought I was going to die.” A breath. “Fuck I did die for a moment.” I place my hand on his shoulder, he covers it with his own. “And I was filled with so much new that I didn’t know how to contain it. It was so much—whole lifetimes where we were together. Where we died. And I just kept thinking that this was another fucking time. After the last one—at least I think it was the last life. It’s what I remember. I thought we had gotten somewhere. I felt the magic come through. When I kissed you, even though it was too late—it was like something had been broken. Both in the loop we were caught in, but the curse itself. It was getting weaker, I think.”

A tear rolls down his cheek and I wipe it with my free hand.

“So to feel it starting all over again this time, it felt so defeating. Like no matter what the Mage was going to fucking win every god damn time.”

I cradle his cheek with my hand and lean up to press a kiss to his forehead. I want to say something, to comfort him, but I keep my mouth closed. Let him release this stream of consciousness.

“I was so used to being the one to die, and watching you die that last time—I’m not sure how you did it every life.” His eyes close and his voice is quiet.

“It helps that I forget each life,” I laugh. His lips stretch into a smile. “But I’m glad we didn’t this time.”

“I’d hope you’d be glad you didn’t die.”

“Well yeah. But I’m also glad I didn’t lose you. That we’re… here. That somehow we beat all of this and came out the other end fairly unscathed.”

He looks down at his leg. “I guess an injured leg is a small price to pay for life.”

I look at it and nod.

“I mean we could try to heal it?” I ask, not for the first time.

He sighs.

It’s magic. Magic we haven’t had in… well. Centuries. Why wouldn’t I want to use it?

“I worry we don’t know enough yet.” I open my mouth to counter but he raises a finger to stop me. “And I don’t know how I’d explain to Fiona that my leg all of a sudden got better.”

I close my mouth.

I mean.

I guess.

“I can shake off a broken leg, Simon. It’ll be okay.”

I nod.

The door handle jiggles and we both jump. Fiona walks in. “Stop having sex! I’m home!”

Baz and I stare wide-eyed at each other.

“Fi—“

“—ona! My boyfriend and I are not having sex. Not on the sofa especially. It’s the same one I sat on as a kid and watched Jurassic Park for the first time!” She finishes for him in a deep, mocking tone.

He frowns.

“I know, I’m hilarious,” she walks down the hall.

“Some things really never change,” he murmurs.

He leans his head into the crook of my neck and shoulder.

“I love you.” Lips kiss my neck.

“I love you too.” My jaw, my Adam’s apple.

His arm moves around to my lower back, pushing me closer. It’s a weird angle, so I carefully sit in his lap. Our lips meet and I melt into him, chests flushed together, both of my hands on the back of the sofa behind his head. I’m trying to keep my brain online enough not to mess with his leg—but he’s got a hand in my hair and his tongue in my mouth and I don’t know how I’m supposed to think of anything else.

We’re almost lost when I hear a door fling open and crash into a wall. I’m off him in an instant, nearly flying to the complete opposite end of the sofa.

My ears are buzzing, Baz is adjusting his trousers (did he start—?).

Fiona’s shoes make soft thuds until they pause nearby.

“Did you guys really start doing stuff the second I got home?” She asks.

I look at Baz with wide eyes.

“Your hair’s a mess, Simon.”

“His hair is always a mess,” Baz explains.

“Even worse than normal, then. Besides you both look like you’re the cat caught with the canary. Red cheeks, heavy breathing—”

“All right, Fiona, we get the point.”

“I’m just saying. At the very least wait until I’m gone again.”

Baz doesn’t respond. She walks into the kitchen to make herself some tea.

I pull out my phone and send him a text.

It takes a moment, but Baz’s phone vibrates on the table. He reaches for it, reading my message. He looks to me, back at Fiona, and then returns his phone to the table.

“Definitely,” he murmurs.

***

Baz and I are lying in his bed, similar to the first night we spent here. It was raining then (it’s clear now), and we were scared of being close.

Now it feels like it’s impossible for us to stay apart. Especially after today. As if the spells we cast together surrounded by flowers tied us together in a stronger way than we were before.

(Though, I guess that was the point.)

“Do you think our spell worked?” I whisper. It feels like it did. But how do we know? How will we know for sure that next time, next life, that we’ll find each other.

I can’t imagine a life without Baz. Now that I’ve found him, I don’t want to let him go.

He pulls his forehead away from mine to better look at me. His eyes are soft and his lips are spread in a bright smile.

“Only time will tell, ” he responds. He places a gentle kiss on my nose. “Though it feels… sturdier. Like if we separated I think I could find you. There’s a tug there that wasn’t as prevalent before. Like a compass pointing north, except it’s you.”

I nod. I’ve always felt drawn to Baz. An invisible push always wanting me to get closer, even when I wasn’t sure why.

But now, in the deepest parts of my chest, I feel this pull towards him. Even now in bed.

It makes me feel like I cast a permanent Follow your heart on myself. Like I could be dropped, gagged, and blindfolded in the forest and I could still manage to find him.

But Baz is right. There’s no way to know until the next life. When we find each other again, when we kiss and remember this life and all that we did.

Baz kisses me and I feel a spark ignite in my heart. I push my hands into his hair and bring my body closer.

I close my eyes, and I can still see him. I’ve studied him. Traced his jaw with my fingertips. Told every inch of his skin that I love him. I can see and feel him put a hand on my bare back, palm cool against my skin and fingers spread wide, touching as much of me as he can get.

Today was a reprieve for both of us. A day to love, to do something reckless, but to find happiness in a time surrounded by so much darkness.

We kiss and we love and we take each other apart slowly with fingers and tongues and whispers of adoration, only to bring each other back with softness and ragged breaths.

And I fall asleep thinking of us in a future life, still sleeping under stars (maybe even the same ones), together. In a world without the Mage, but with each other.

***

We sit, legs outstretched across my mattress. Backs against the wall. (Baz says it’s barbaric that I don’t have a headboard. I told him there’s no point with a wall right there.)

After last time when Fiona walked in on us, we decided we could spend a bit more time at my flat. It’s close, and there’s a lift for Baz to use so he doesn’t have to use crutches up the stairs.

Three soft taps hit my door frame.

“Everything alright?” Penny asks

We look at each other, trying to decipher what alright means to us. Especially now.

There are memories that are still forming in our brains of lives we didn’t know. Of pain we never hoped to experience. A thrumming sort of energy neither of us knew about lives under our skin.

Magic.

(Who knew that existed, huh?)

It’s still a big revelation to us. We’re not sure how to navigate it, how to make it work.

There’s so much of it that doesn’t feel safe or allowed.

We nod in unison. She tips her head down to look at her feet. I think, for a moment, that something must be on the floor, but when I shift to look she speaks.

“I’ve been having the oddest of feelings lately.”

Baz and I look at each other.

“Like, energized somehow?” She continues. “Like there’s this well of something in me that I can’t quite tap into.”

“Maybe it’s just nerves?” Baz provides. (I think he wishes it would just be that. But we wondered if this would happen.) “You’re bringing Shepard to meet your mum today, right?”

In my drawer rests the necklace, the Humdrum, and a whole host of magic yet to be released.

We’re still not sure how to do it, I think that’s a step for after we’ve rested up more. After Baz is out of his cast. An adventure for future us to deal with.

But, magic knows hearts. It knows souls. I don’t know a lot about it yet but I know at least that much.

And if magic knows souls, chances are there’s something caught in the necklace reaching out to another soul close to it, one that it recognizes. It saw her and is trying to go home.

But it’s stuck in the confines of the necklace, spelled way beyond either of our novice abilities.

“No, I don’t think it’s that.” She frowns. “My mum’ll hate him regardless. It’s a formality if anything.”

I snort. Baz elbows me.

“Give it some time, Pen,” I say, trying not to laugh. “Maybe it’ll go away on its own.”

She nods. “Yeah, maybe.”

A knock on the door.

“Well, guess I better go,” she murmurs. “Don’t get into any trouble now,” she says louder. “Don’t need any more freak accidents and ending up in the hospital.”

We all laugh, but we know it’s serious.

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem,” I mumble. It’s low enough she doesn’t hear, but Baz does. His hand reaches for mine and rubs his thumb across my skin.

We sit like that as we wait for the door to close. For privacy.

“Do you wanna do it?” I whisper to Baz.

He rolls his eyes, standing up. “You always want to the second Penny leaves.”

“It’s not my fault you’re so bloody good at it!”

He sighs. “It’s in my coat pocket, go ahead and grab it.”

I jump out of bed, rushing to grab his coat from the living room. I dig my hands into the pockets, feeling the wand slip into my hand.

Magic.

We’re figuring it out. Slowly. (Baz faster, of course.) (He’s always been fucking brilliant, hasn’t he?) But there’s one thing that seems to come fairly easy to both of us.

“Want anything to drink while I’m here?” I shout. I spin the wand in my fingers, watching it twirl between each digit.

“Hurry, Snow, before I decide to change my mind.”

I stop messing around and put the wand in my back pocket.

Baz ended up keeping the Mage’s wand. I told him we should try to find his own, that it’d work better. It’s bound to be somewhere.

Snow, I had that wand lifetimes ago. I think it’ll be practically impossible to find.

I told him we simply had to retrace our steps. That the memory has to be somewhere.

(He then told me I could hardly remember where I put my flat keys this morning, let alone something that happened centuries ago.)

I walk back into the room to see Baz trying to close the curtains.

“Took you long enough.”

“Well,” I say, “Have shallower pockets.”

I walk over to him and close the curtains myself. “You know you need to stay off that leg.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m getting a brace tomorrow. I’ll be able to be more mobile. Need to make sure I can still handle it before the reality of two-leg walking hits me.”

I help him to the bed, worried he might make his injury worse. (I remembered a healing spell—Get Well Soon. He won’t let me try it.)

I hand him his wand and sit across from him. He’s got one leg folded, his bare foot against his calf, which is outstretched and resting on a pillow.

He examines it, staring at the edges and the slope of the wood.

“Does it feel all right?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Kind of like a shoe that’s too tight. Like I can make due, but it’s definitely not the correct size.”

“I told you we could—“

“Snow there’s no way—“

“We could try.”

“Do you want to cast this spell or not?”

I shut my mouth and nod.

He reaches a hand out to me and I grab it quickly. Both because I want to hold his hands and also because this is part of what we’ve figured out.

That well deep inside of us both that we can pull up. (Or, at least, sometimes pull up.) (We’re still getting used to it.)

I close my eyes and feel it start to rise easily, like it’s been waiting this whole time. It’s like electricity, rising slowly up my core. I feel it come to my fingertips and I hold it there, waiting.

“Ready?” I ask, itching. I feel his own fiery magic greeting mine, not mixing. Just… ready.

I feel a tug. (Not physically, magically.) I take a deep breath before letting it move freely, a swirl of mixture happening in our hands. Baz’s hand grips mine harder as it starts to flow through his limbs. I can feel his on my palms, a greeting I longed for. Not going any further, however. It seems to be a one-way street. From me to him, for whatever reason that may be.

He grabs my other hand, keeping the wand held between our palms. (It’s poking my wrist, but I don’t dare say anything.)

I hear him say something, speak magic into the air, and I feel a charge around me. I’m too into the sensations to hear him.

I feel the wand poke my forearm and I frown, eyes still closed.

“Snow, open your eyes.”

“I told you to start calling me Si—“I pause, frozen with the view around us.

It’s a whole galaxy, somehow. Stars and planets swirling around us.

“Baz,” I murmur. “It’s—“

“Beautiful,” he mutters. I turn to look at him, expecting him to be watching the stars, but instead see him staring at me.

I smile, leaning forward, letting my hands move up his arms and to his cheeks, not breaking the flow. Not pushing or pulling, simply letting it rest. Letting Baz take what he needs.

“Like you,” I whisper.

“Like you, Simon,” he murmurs back. I lean forward to brush my lips against him. The magic flows freely from our hands, our lips, the place my chest meets his when he pulls me closer.

“I love you,” I mutter against his neck. He hums in reply.

The stars stay in the air, Baz’s spell working as long as we remain in contact. (Which we do. For a long while.) (I’ve finally got him, you see. I can’t let him go. Not for a moment.) (It’s been lifetimes.)

Our magic continues to mix in our palms, our hips, our calves. I learn all the ways I can feel Baz’s magic in me. In every spot he touches. Quickly I want to be consumed, feel him with my whole heart. (My whole soul.)

Souls that were cursed to stay apart, but destined to stay together.

Through magic.

Through love.

Through us.

I kiss his shoulder, his collarbone, his sternum. Pausing above his navel to look up.

He’s looking at me, hair filled with starlight and eyes filled with love.

“What are you thinking?” He asks. His hand comes to my hair, brushing through the tangles. “It’s never good. You almost always cause trouble when you’ve got that look on your face.”

I kiss his abdomen again, thinking.

“Just that I’m glad I found you. Really found you. And I didn’t lose you this time.” I feel prickling on the edges of my eyes. “So many times, so many lives—“

Baz sits up, pulling me close. “And never again. Now’s the time we get to start, Simon. In so many times where things ended, we get to begin.” He kisses my forehead. I nod against him.

I’d like to begin a life with Baz. We’ve had so many endings, that a beginning’s gonna be good.

This right here. I kiss him softly.

A war ended.

A curse defeated.

The end’s where it gets good.

Where it begins.