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.