Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

BAZ

Auditions are held at the end of the school year, just before summer break, as usual. Honestly, I was surprised when our director announced we would be doing Once Upon A One More Time. Not only is it a jukebox musical featuring nothing but Britney Spears songs, but it’s also a highly queer show. While secondary school theatre directors aren’t strangers to acceptance and allyship, getting pronouns correct (most of the time) and actually doing a show with openly queer characters are two different things.

One aspect that worried me when I first read the script was that two of the male characters are romantically involved. That’s not why I was worried. It’s nice to see our director is willing to do shows that aren’t a bunch of heteronormative bollocks. What’s got me on edge is intimacy training.

In the past, actors were expected to just grin and bear it when it came to onstage intimacy. Directors pushed two actors together and said, “Now kiss”, and those who were uncomfortable were shamed. These methods have died down considerably in recent years, giving actors more privacy and communication tools, or even professionally trained intimacy coordinators. However, when there are two men onstage, suddenly the theatre reverts to the “Now kiss” mantra. 

“You’re both blokes, it shouldn’t be a big deal!”

That is why I was pleased when I saw that intimacy training for Clumsy and Prince Erudite had already been put on the schedule. It’s nice to know Miss Possibelf isn’t a complete hypocrite. 

(Of course, she’s the same director who claims that Snow always getting cast as the male lead is a total coincidence, so truthfully, that’s still debatable.)

I thought my audition went well. My Prince Charming was as good as I could’ve done him, and I thought my Narrator was nuanced and satisfying. Reading for Clumsy had been fun, if a little pointless (I’m not exactly a comedic actor, and no one in their right mind would cast Tyrannus Basilton Grimm Pitch as a dwarf ). The look on Snow’s face when he was called to read for Prince Erudite in that scene had been priceless. I’m pretty sure he didn’t even know they were romantically involved beforehand. (I doubt he read the script before auditions.)

He looked like a lost puppy the entire time; it was unnervingly endearing… I made sure to give him my most passionate lovelorn look to make him even more uncomfortable. It wasn’t as hard to do as I would’ve liked.

Niall and Dev both did quite well as was to be expected of them, and Niamh’s rendition of “Times Are Hard For Dreamers” had been enjoyable to listen to. (I heard from Wellbelove in passing that Niamh has been taking vocal lessons, so it seems those are working out well for her.) Speaking of Wellbelove, she was… as blonde as usual. Truthfully, I’m not sure she has much going for her as an actress other than her beauty. Most of her characters blend into an amalgamation of “pretty woman” and not much else. Which, in many ways, is an insult to Wellbelove’s abilities. I’m sure she could do quite well if she were trusted with a more complex role than the “love interest”. She had done well at the audition. Her boyfriend , however, had been an utter catastrophe. Nothing new there.

First, he had shown up late: to an audition! The lack of professionalism would have him laughed out of anything that wasn’t secondary school theatre. He’d whispered an apology to the girl whose monologue he had interrupted. (Someone named Pippa? I wasn’t paying her much attention.) Then he started laughing loudly at Bunce, who was doing nothing out of the ordinary as far as I could tell. She was just sitting behind the director's table, looking at the schedule like any stage manager does at auditions, yet Snow laughed as though he’d just been told the greatest joke he’d ever heard. Finally, when he and Agatha had gotten called up to read a side together (typical), they both seemed very uncomfortable. This was the oddest of Snow’s blunders that day. No matter what happened, Snow always felt comfortable with Wellbelove (a little too comfortable at times if you ask me). The way he avoided eye contact and refused to touch her throughout their scene was entirely out of character for him.

Not that I’m complaining, the less I have to watch those two make insufferable goo-goo eyes at each other, the better. I hope their little tiff lasts another month! Perhaps two! Maybe then I’ll finally know a moment of peace in this department.

Much to my surprise, the most standout performance of the entire audition came from someone I’ve never seen before: Shepard Love. I only remember his name because “Love” is undoubtedly one of the oddest surnames I’ve ever heard, and Love’s American accent caught everyone quite off guard when he introduced himself. He’s a handsome enough boy with boxy glasses and a patch-covered jacket. I took note of the titular purple, pink, and blue of the bisexual flag pinned onto his left arm, and the way he seemed comfortable almost immediately in the unfamiliar space. Love behaved as though he had been on that stage a million times before, instead of his first time ever seeing it.

He was tooth-achingly charming. Even I was impressed by his confidence, and I’m not impressed by anything. (Other than Snow’s ability to eat an entire stick of butter on his own, but that’s more horrified disgust than anything else.)

Shepard’s smile was reassuring and wide, and he practically glowed as he introduced himself. When he read for Prince Charming, he exuded a slightly annoying masculine energy that fit Prince Charming to a T. If I were casting the show, I would’ve given him the part on the spot. Of course, he is new, so giving him such a crucial role would be a bit of a risk. However, I would say his candor indicated he’s got enough experience in acting to qualify him for it. 

Of course, that would be in a perfect world where casting is based on ability instead of favoritism or typecasting. I already know what the actual cast list will look like: Agatha as Cinderella, Simon as Prince Charming, and me as the evil Narrator who learns the error of my ways. Perhaps Shepard will get Erudite or Clumsy, I’m sure he’d do a fine job with either of them.

Two days after callbacks, I receive an email from Miss Possibelf with the cast list. I open it, scanning for my name, and I’m surprised to find that it is not the one sitting next to NARRATOR. (I’ll have to congratulate Niall later.) I keep looking for my name and nearly spit out my tea when I finally find it.

PRINCE ERUDITE: Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

I re-read the text several times. Waiting for it to change or fade into something that makes more sense. It doesn’t. (Of course, it doesn’t; it’s an email, not magic.) A cold panic sets into my mind. What will Father say? What will Niall and Dev say? Will Daphne even let the kids come to the show? Or will nobody come at all because their son’s playing a queer little prince in tights?

It wasn’t until after I read who Clumsy was that I fully lost my mind.

SIMON

It’s bollocks! It’s absolute bullshit, that’s what it is! I can’t do it! I won’t do it! He’s literally evil. And I’m about 99% sure he’s also a vampire! How am I supposed to do anything with him onstage other than beat the ever-living shit out of him?! That’s what we always do! Well, not always-always (some years Baz plays supporting roles) but most of the time! And obviously, we've never been… well…

No! I have to refuse the part. It’s that simple! I just can’t do the show this year! What a shame! Should’ve thought about that before sticking me with Baz!

I’m pacing the length of my bedroom back and forth. I’m pretty sure the whole house can hear my muttering, but I don’t care; this is too weird to care if Mum or Gran or Uncle Jamie hear me stomping. As I swivel my way about, I catch a glimpse of the photo I have from my first year in theatre: I was a knife in Beauty & The Beast. I was right shit at it, I’m sure. I could barely do a box-step for magic’s sake. Nevertheless, looking at my dopey first-year grin makes something sentimental bubble behind my eyes. Damn it… Why can't I have a normal hobby? One that doesn’t require vampire kissing.

I pick up the photo and trace my little smiling self wearing an uncomfortable-looking wooden knife strapped to my back, and I sigh.

This is my last show. I can’t skip out on my last show. Not for Baz. Besides, I don’t wanna let Miss Possibelf down. 

I mean, I love theatre! It’s brilliant! I get to run around in stupid clothes and say dumb shit, and nobody bats an eye, but this just feels like… too much. 

I mean, I wouldn’t mind playing Clumsy. It would mean I get to wear a sick outfit (I’ve looked up the costumes online and I love the trousers). And he’s fucking hilarious. He just falls over a bunch. (Classic).

But kissing Baz?!

It’s insanity! I’m not even sure Baz is capable of doing anything other than biting my head off! And I don’t want to test it out by getting too close to that mouth…

I pull at my curls. It’s something I do when I feel like things are out of my control. Penny says that I’ll go bald by 30 if I keep it up, but it helps Goddamnit! (Mum says I need to stop cursing like a Normal, but I really don’t know why we can’t use a healthy helping of both styles of cursing when the need arises.) (Also, “Magic damn it” just doesn’t have the same ring to it now does it?) I need to think of something. Some solution or way of making this better. But my brain isn’t giving me anything!

“Is it really so difficult for you to use your own brain, Snow?”

Merlin, I hate him.

I let out a long sigh, pulling my hands out of my hair and staring at them. 

What’s wrong with me?

This shouldn’t be that big of a deal, right?

I try to think of why this is upsetting me so much, but my mind comes up blank.

Other than the obvious: I don’t want to kiss Baz. There’s no other reason I would feel so… uncomfortable with this. Unless… Shit, am I secretly homophobic?!

I mean… I did get all weirded out when Baz wore a crop top that one time, but that was mostly shock that Baz could wear crop tops. (Apparently it was on some dare or something, but I highly doubt Baz is the type to take a dare.) (Wait! Did he feel the need to lie because I made him uncomfortable?!)

Shit!

I’m a total homophobe.

Should I ask Penny? Penny would know.

Before I can think better of it, I’m already calling her.

As soon as she picks up the phone, I ask,

“Penny, am I homophobic?”

There’s a long silence as I hear Penelope thinking (probably making mental “What We Know” and “What We Don’t Know” lists) before she responds.

“I feel like I’m the wrong person to ask. I don’t think you are, but it’s really up to gay people to decide what counts as homophobia. What happened?”

“I don’t know. I got uncomfortable seeing Baz in a crop top.”

“That was like two years ago! You apologized! He called you an ignorant numpty, and you called him a ‘right Tory prick’ .” I can practically hear the air quotes over the phone, “I thought we were over this?”

“Yeah… It’s not that, actually! Um… you saw the cast list, right?”

“Mhm, I’m the stage manager; I helped write it.”

“Right, so me and Baz…” I can’t even finish the sentence. Merlin and Morgana, I’m such a homophobe! How did I not see it sooner?!

“Is that what this is about? Simon, it’s completely normal not to want to kiss your sworn enemy. That’s not homophobic; that’s just common sense.”

I try to hide how relieved I am by her reassurance, but I’m sure she probably hears my sigh over the phone. 

“Why did she cast us as love interests at all? Isn’t that like… weird or something? She has to know we hate each other.” It seems like everybody knows me and Baz hate each other. It’s pretty bloody obvious! Written in stone and all that. No one in their right mind who sees us fight would cast us as lovers.

“Apparently, you two had really good chemistry during auditions, and you are both eighth-years now. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to put childhood rivalries behind you at this point, Simon.” She was using her mum voice on me. It’s really annoying. Especially when she says stuff that I know is probably right.

“Fine… Whatever, look, I gotta go. I still need ta tell Mum about the cast list, and Gran’ll already have a cake ready by now. Bye, Pen.”

“Bye, Simon! Try not to be too thick about it, yeah? It’s a good role, and you’re one of the main characters. Baz can’t possibly make it that weird,”

——————————————————————

Baz is making it right weird. Because he isn’t making it weird at all! He texted me congratulating me on the part. (Something he does with everybody in the show every year.) (It’s extremely pompous and I hate it.) At the first read-through, he read his lines normally (and he actually did quite a bang-up job with them, much to my disappointment). He looked at me like he was actually in love with me for magic’s sake! I mean, I know he’s a good actor, but it’s just a read through he doesn’t have to put his all into it. Even that’s not out of the ordinary, though; he always comes to the read-through with all his lines memorized beforehand and an outline for his character ready. 

I can’t handle it one bit. Why isn’t he freaking out about this? Did he forget we’re sworn enemies? Or is he such an ass he doesn’t care? 

Soon we move back into Watford housing, and I’ve never dreaded something more than seeing that pompous ass in the same room as me every day. I just know he’s gonna lord this over me all year somehow. 

“Don’t be so ridiculous, Snow, you’re nothing special. Why would I bother you all year with anything?”

I smack my head into a pillow to shut up the invisible Baz in the back of my head. It doesn’t work. (It never works.)

Chapter Text

SIMON

Mum was ecstatic when she heard the news. She’s always ecstatic when I tell her anything about school. She wasn’t in theatre when she went to Watford, more into languages, studying, and following around some jerk who just so happened to be my father (may he rot in hell). But despite us having somewhat entirely different school experiences, Mum’s always happy whenever I come home for holidays and tell her all about theatre and football and Penny. She’s proud of me no matter how shit my grades are or how awful I am at magic. 

“You will always be my wonderful rosebud boy, Simon. There is nothing you could do to make me love you any less.”

Mum’s excitement for me—combined with Gran’s love for celebrations—is probably why the dinner table is covered in a feast of butter and pastries. I’m not complaining, of course! I’d never argue with one of Gran’s feasts, but I’m not really feeling the celebration at the moment. I wish I could tell Mum that I’m actually not that thrilled with the part, but I don’t want to piss on her parade when he’s smiling at me like I just won the lottery. So instead, I grin and bear it. (What’s having a talent for acting for if not getting through social interactions?) 

“So, darling, what’s the show about?” It’s Gran. She’s where I get all my talent from. When she went to Watford, she lived for theatre, and as the President of the Student Social Board of The Watford Theatre Society three years in a row, by the time she graduated, she practically ran the theatre department. Then, when she came back only a few years later as the newest Director of Theatre Arts at Watford, she actually did run the theatre department. That was until she retired full-time to help raise me. She never needed the money anyway; she did it for the fun of it. For the “art of it,” as she would say. Miss Possibelf still invites her to rehearsals every once and a while to give critiques and polish blocking when she needs a second opinion. 

I open my mouth to respond, but my mum gives me the “don’t speak with your mouth full” look, so instead I swallow my biscuit and wipe my mouth on my sleeve like a proper gent.

“It’s about like fairy tales and all that. It’s kinda like Mamma Mia? I guess.” 

I’ve never been good at describing theatre. I’m not even really that big into musicals! I’ve never seen Hamilton. (And that’s just plain laziness!) (It’s still on Disney Plus!) And I don’t really get the appeal of West Side Story. (Sondheim’s a genius, but I just don’t think it’s all that interesting.) I just love the feeling of being in a show. The playing around backstage, the goofing off on stage, making up characters, and doing random accents. There isn’t anything like it. In no other place is it socially acceptable for a teenage boy and his mates to run around in skirts and makeup, and I like that. Of course, none of that makes up for the fact that I will never be able to explain the plot of any show ever to my Gran.

“So it’s a jukebox then?” After she re-explains jukebox musicals to me (really, why don’t you just call it a pop-musical or something), I nod.

“Yeah, basically it’s just Britney Spears, girl-power, and all that.”

“So what’s your role?” That’s Uncle Jamie. My cheeks heat up as I shove another biscuit in my mouth. I don’t really wanna explain this, but they are gonna see the show in a couple of months, so might as well be honest.

“Well… um… I’m playing like one of the Seven dwarves, Clumsy, you know? But like that isn’t actually one of the original seven dwarves from any of the movies or anything. And also, there aren’t any other dwarves in the show, which I think is weird, but whatever. And, uh, he’s like Snow White’s best friend, and he helps the girls out in a lot of ways, and…” Why are words so bloody stupid?! “And… uh,”

“Use your words, Snow.” 

I feel like I’m gonna throw up. Maybe I should just run away and change my name. I’ve always thought I look more like a Harry than a Simon.

“My rose?” Mum. I look up from my plate, and see her smiling at me understandingly. She’s always so patient when I can’t find my words. “It’s alright. You can take your time.” 

I take a deep breath. I’m not in any danger. My family loves me, and as far as I know, they aren’t homophobic. (Jury’s still out about me, though.) (Pen isn’t exactly an expert.)

“He, um, he's really into this… prince? And they, like, dance around each other for a while and then get together, obviously. It is a musical, after all. You don’t really get a lot of tragically unrequited feelings in jukebox musicals, really.” I shut up after realizing I’m rambling. I don’t know what I was expecting, really. Outrage? Slight disgust? Awkward silence?

“That sounds nice, dear! Although I am a bit worried about it being a jukebox musical. Those can be quite tacky at times.” I let out a breath; of course she’d worry more about it being a jukebox than about it being gay. I love Gran.

“Mother! I’m sure it’s going to be great!” Mum dabs a cloth at her mouth, then she turns to me, “What parts did everyone else get?” 

“Well, Ags is playing Cinderella, and Niamh got Snow White. Niall is playing the Narrator.”

“Niall…?” Uncle Jamie asks.

“Peter Pan.” 

“Ohhhh, right!” He digs back into his mash, only half paying attention. Gran perks up, though.

“Well, he hasn’t played a leading role in a long time, has he? I always thought he was quite promising!” I guess she’s right. Niall hasn’t been anything big since Peter Pan, and that was in third or fourth year. 

“I suppose so…” I’m not really checked into the conversation at this point. I’m just hoping nobody asks the question I know they’re going to ask.

“And what about Basilton?” Thanks, Mum. I try to push down my nerves, but when has that ever worked? “Darling? Are you alright? You look quite flushed.” 

I take a sip of water to hopefully cool down my face. “Yeah! I’m fine! Baz is… uh… he’s well, he’s playin’ one of the princes. Prince Erudite. ”

“Oh, how lovely! He’s always been so regal.”

Magic, my mum is a saint.

BAZ

I have somehow managed to avoid telling my family about my role in the show. Father didn’t ask many questions, but Daphne seemed a bit perturbed to hear I wasn’t a lead. I explained that I was quite alright with a more support-centric role as it would give me more time to focus on my academics, and everyone was happy after that. 

Well, everyone other than my dearest sister Mordelia. 

She’s been bothering me all summer with questions about the musical because she’s convinced herself I’m hiding something. (Whether or not I am is irrelevant.) All summer it’s been:

“Why aren’t you practicing lines like usual?” (Because if Father heard me wax poetic about a man, I’d be disinherited.)

“Why aren’t you playing the musical songs for this year?” (If Father heard me listening to Britney Spears, I’d be disowned.)

“Why haven’t you and Niall talked about the show at all?” (Because Mor-del-i-A! I’m playing a fucking pansy while being a fucking pansy! And Father is quite miffed about the latter, so I’m pretty sure he’s going to go fucking mental about the former!)

It’s all quite grating when I’m trying to mope around and forget that I exist on the same planet as Simon Snow without my seven-year-old sister reminding me I’m not acting properly all the bloody time. Of course, I’ve been practicing, just not in my regular locations. This year I’ve taken to memorizing lines in the woods, the cellar, and the public library (quite a delightful place, honestly, if it weren’t for all the slobbering children.)

Singing in the woods before devouring rats makes me feel like some messed-up version of a Disney princess, and I don’t know if I like it or despise it.

What I do know is that these lines are going to drive me insane. All of them feel far too pertinent. All about being in love with some idiot who's clumsy, short, and weirdly adorable despite how annoying he is. It’s as if Miss Possibelf cast me in this role to say, “stop being so obvious, you gay idiot.” 

It’s especially infuriating that the nickname for Snow White in the script is Snow. So I find myself saying things like:

“I see the way you take care of Snow, but who’s taking care of you?” 

Which is entirely ridiculous because Snow can’t take care of anybody, let alone himself, yet he’s playing a caretaker for a character with his name! (Well, his middle name, but still.) 

I’ve decided this musical is entirely pointless. Jukeboxes already have a point against them for lacking originality. (As Fiona would say, “If you don’t even have the creativity to write your own songs, what hope is there for a decent plot?”) Plus, it’s an oversimplification of feminism, dumbing it down to “men suck, women strong” in a way that doesn’t accomplish anything for the movement whatsoever. And above all else, it’s just plain tacky. Overdone, formulaic, and disgustingly feel-good.

Where’s the depth? Where’s the drama?! Blah, blah, blah “men are controlling,” blah, blah, blah “write our own story”. It’s all so reductionist in its own right by reframing Brittney Spears as some women’s rights icon when in fact she was a victim of a highly patriarchal system herself in the form of family pressure and the music industry as a whole! The show pretends to have some profound greater meaning, but if you break it down to its base details, all you find is worthless platitudes and a fair bit of early noughties “girl power” propaganda!

And the stupidest part of all of it?

I fucking love it.

The stupid puns, the bold-faced clichés, the gay stereotypes, they’re all so fucking funny! It’s so garishly American and awful, and I can’t help but laugh at it every time I read the script all the way through. It’s shit. It’s the lowest of the low when it comes to theatre. It’s camp. It has absolutely nothing new to say. And I love it with a burning passion.

One of my lines is literally: “When I first saw you, I thought: ‘Oh my. Who is that short drink of water whistling while he works?”

The first time I read it, I laughed out loud and didn’t stop for a minute straight.

It’s not even that good of a joke.

I’m going fucking insane, I’m sure of it, but for some unexplainable reason, I’m excited to do this show. I can’t wait to see how Miss Possibelf intends to block certain scenes, and no doubt Miss Petty’s set design will be brilliant as usual, and Trixie will go all out on costuming—this show obviously calls for a fair amount of glitter, and if all else fails, I know the choreography will be fun (there’s no way to mess up Britney Spears). 

Of course, it doesn’t matter how brilliant the choreography is when Father inevitably finds out exactly who Prince Erudite is. I’m not just playing one of many background princes, but am in fact the loud, openly queer sort of supporting role. I wonder if he will storm out of the theater in a scandalized huff, or if he’ll stew in a silent rage, refusing to speak to me about it for months until I finally believe I am safe when he springs “I just want to say…” onto me. I can only hope he leaves Miss Possibelf out of it. She doesn’t deserve to hear his homophobic temper tantrum.

Maybe it’s the image of Father chewing out my director that instinctively takes me to Mother’s grave. I find myself in the family graveyard a lot. Seeking out her presence like I’m a mewling child again. As if she’d have anything supportive to say on the matter. It’s not as though I’ve somehow convinced myself she wouldn’t agree with Father. I’m not naive enough for that. No, she wouldn’t be on my side either. She’d have Miss Possibelf fired for even implying her son was anything less than the paragon of masculinity. Even though her son is the one who likes to dance around in tights and spandex.

The flowers on her grave are barely two days old, but I still freshen them for her. She’d hate to see them wilt even slightly.

I sit down by her tombstone. There’s an indent in the grass where I always sit. I wonder if it will still be there when I return home next summer. I wonder if Father will allow me back home.

“Hey Mum, I hope you’re alright.” I give her space to respond, even though I know she won’t. “My lines are coming along well. Obviously, we won’t know if I have them down until rehearsals start.”

With the sounds of rustling leaves in the wind, I can almost pretend I hear her. Even if every day I find myself less and less able to remember what her voice sounds like.

Sometimes I like to pretend she doesn't hate me. I pretend she’s proud. I pretend she’d look at me and say,

“Oh, Basil, why so glum? You’ve always been a prince, now the world’s finally gone and recognized it. Your father will come around eventually.”

It’s probably the most painful fantasy I allow myself to indulge in: having a mother who loves me.

Daphne’s always been kind, but I know I’m not her son. I’m sure she’d be happy to be rid of the depressed teenage reminder of my father’s first marriage stalking about her house at night. Although I’m sure she appreciates the free babysitting every now and again, vampirism has got to be a drawback.

As if my own vampiric stomach can hear my complaints, a low grumble emanates from my stomach. 

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Five rats and I’m still hungry.

I track down a nearby squirrel and pounce on it before it has time to hear me coming. Snapping its neck is so second nature to me that I do it without thought. The blood begins to flow, and I sink my teeth into the small, fragile creature.

I glance to my side and cringe when I realize that my mother’s grave is still within view. Now I hope she really can’t see me from beyond the veil. I don’t think she’d like the idea of her son desecrating her eternal resting place with his vampiric dinner.

Chapter Text

BAZ

Niall and Dev are blasé about the situation, and I could not be more grateful for their indifference. 

We have never directly discussed the topic of queerness before, but instead of the awkward or downright negative reaction I was expecting from them, they both reacted quite unceremoniously. As if it were any other role I’ve gotten over the years. A polite congratulatory text message, and a short conversation over call where nothing of note was said was the only fuss made about it. If I didn’t know any better I’d say they were even supportive, in their understated way.  

All three of us are far more excited about Niall’s role as Narrator. It’s his first proper role since he was fourteen playing Peter Pan, and in all honesty I’m very happy Miss Possibelf is finally appreciating his talents. While Dev has never been the greatest actor (he’ll be the first to attest to that), anyone with half an eggshell for a brain knows Niall is excellent. (Possibly even better than me when it comes down to it.) So watching my extremely talented best friend get passed up in favor of more popular, loud, and downright annoying options over the years has been infuriating to say the least. It’s satisfying, if well overdue, to finally see him in a leading role.

Today is my first day back at Watford. The start of term is in a few days, and as usual Simon Snow is avoiding me. It’s a fun little game we play every year: How Long Will It Take For Simon To Open His Bloody Mouth And Never Shut It Again? If memory serves, his record is two weeks straight of blissful quiet at the beginning of fourth year. Perhaps he was so pent up after ignoring me for so long it was only inevitable he broke my nose later that same year.

Of course, rehearsal starts in a week and I doubt he’ll be able to completely ignore my existence when we’re scene partners. Then again, you never really know with Snow. Maybe he’ll spell himself into a turkey accidentally for a month, or perhaps he’ll stage a coup against the entirety of the theatre department simply so he won’t have to kiss me!

Simon Snow kissing me.

I nearly walk into a wall. 

The thought of Snow’s lips has been plaguing my every waking moment for months. Soft looking and teasingly pink, with a mole just below his right nostril. I shake my head. It’s a bloody stage kiss! Not a real kiss. Simon Snow would never really kiss me. It isn’t real. Of course, none of these rational arguments stop the beating of my heart in my chest, as I ascend the stairs of Mummers House. I’ve always wondered why I even have a heartbeat. It’s not pumping blood anywhere so what does my heart do other than screw up my life by falling in love with straight men?

I open the door of our room (actively ignoring the smell of Simon’s blood on the door) (eight years of studying magic and he can’t even get into his own bedroom), and I find Snow sprawled out on his bed.

Crowley, I should strangle him for being that gorgeous!

He’s just sitting there, scrolling on his phone, one leg up on the bed while the other dangles off the side. His (not attractive at all and extremely plain) blue eyes flicking across the screen as his lips mouth the words under his breath. 

Lips.

I shut the door behind me louder than is strictly necessary, and Snow snaps to attention. He stares at me defensively as though I’ve invaded his personal space, and I glare at him like he’s a complex math problem that I wish to solve and then immediately throw away. (And then dig out of the garbage and make out with.) (This metaphor is superfluous, but by Crowley all I can think about are those bloody lips!)

“Snow.”

“Baz.”

The ensuing silence is only interrupted by me setting down my bag and opening the window. Snow’s eyes remain on me the entire time, and I almost enjoy the slight prickle of discomfort that his gaze gives me. Maybe I’m finally getting over this numpty? One glance at his disgustingly gorgeous curls reminds me I’ve been in love with “this numpty” since I was eleven and seven years of pining is not going to end right when I finally have a chance to kiss him with no repercussions. 

Kiss.

Luckily before I can return to my endless cycle of obsessing over Simon’s lips the numpty decides to speak!

“Look… Baz. You know I hate this.” I grip the windowsill a fraction tighter. Of course he hates it. The very thought of kissing another man probably makes him want to vomit.

“You’ve made that painfully clear, Snow. I’ve been meaning to tell you: that read-through was extremely dispassionate. Truly one of your worst performances, and that’s saying a lot knowing your work.” I look at my nails nonchalantly. A thrill shoots up my spine at the annoyed huff he gives me in response. 

A much more terrifying chill runs down my spine when Simon places a hand on my shoulder from behind me. I flinch away instantly, and he pulls his hand back like I’ve burned him. It’s more likely the opposite; dead skin isn’t exactly warm.

“Sorry! Shit…” he looks at his hand like it acted of its own accord. “I just, I want us to… not kill each other while we play these roles, okay? I know we hate each other, but it might be nice if, at least for the show, we didn’t?” 

Snow looks at me like he wants me to explain his idea. My mind still hasn’t gotten over the fact that Simon Snow touched me in a non-threatening manner. I think absentmindedly that the last time he’d done that was when the crucible forced us to shake hands in first year. Then again he’s probably touched me gently at some other point I just can’t remember when. We’ve known each other so long he must have, right? Why then, is this touch throwing me for such a loop?

I have to do intimacy training with this man.

Magic, you’d think the room had a cold draft with the amount of shivering I’m doing. Luckily Snow doesn’t notice (but really does Snow notice anything?) (I’m convinced I could be kidnapped and he wouldn’t bat an eye.)

“Snow, I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but for once in your life could you just say it in plain English?” Snow flinches at that, and I’m sure I would care more if I had the patience to actually give two shits about how I make him feel. We’ve known each other since we were children, and he has not once given me the courtesy of speaking like a rational human being. 

“I want a truce. I don’t want to fight right now. As long as we’re playing… partners, I want us to get along.” He says the word like it’s poison on his lips. I’m sure the thought of dating me is the most disturbing thing he’s ever had to think about. I turn back to him and find him fidgeting with his curls. I pray he’s not wearing a wig during show because I suddenly imagine running my hands through his curls, and I almost choke.

“Fine. Shake on it.” I extend my hand to him, and he looks at me like I’m crazy. Like he’s not the one who suggested this rubbish idea in the first place. But he gets up off his bed and shakes my hand.

SIMON

Baz pulls out his wand and circles it around our hands. Of course he’s gotta make this a magical deal. Typical Baz bullshit. 

“An Englishman’s Word Is His Bond.” The air around him crackles with binding magic, “I, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, agree to the terms of committing no acts of aggression until our show closes.” He raises one of his black eyebrows at me and I clear my throat. 

“I, Simon Snow Salisbury, agree to the terms of committing no acts of aggression until our show closes.” 

He seals the spell with another effortless swish of his wand, and I wonder how long this will actually last. Will he sabotage me a week before the show just so I lose my voice? Or will he actually follow through, but make my life a living hell passive-aggressively when he knows I can’t fight back? I hope he just follows through, but it’s hard to trust him when he’s… well Baz.

He seems honest enough right now, but expecting Baz to follow through on his word is like expecting a fox to give you sound financial advice. (I’ve never understood that one car insurance agency that has a fox as its mascot. I mean foxes are famously unreliable, evil gits who fuck everyone over in every possible situation. You’d think an insurance agency would want to hide behind something a bit less on the nose.)

Baz pulls his hand away from mine and wipes it on his pant leg like he might catch some disease just from touching me. I weigh the pros and cons of decking him in the face and decide that I probably need to be able to speak for rehearsals. I think he knows what I’m thinking because he smirks before saying,

“Right then, I think I’ve interacted with enough filth to warrant a proper shower. Please try not to start the next apocalypse while I’m gone.” With that, he turns away, his black hair swishing behind him like silk as he does so. My glare burns a hole into the back of his head until he slams the bathroom door behind him. A couple minutes later I hear the thrum of water pattering onto porcelain. Without Baz to distract me my eyes rest on the hand that had agreed to this whole thing, and I wonder distantly if this is how it feels to make a deal with the devil.