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“To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.”
-- “Auguries of Innocence”
William Blake
BAZ
Before our disaster holiday to America, I only spent the night at Simon Snow’s flat a handful of times. None of them had gone how I expected. I’d tried to have realistic expectations, or so I’d thought, but eventually it reached the point where all the unspoken problems with our crumbling relationship hung too heavy over our heads, and we gave up trying altogether.
The first time I spend the night after America doesn’t happen until the end of everything. After we’re back home and we’d gone back to Watford, and Simon finally faced the demons of his past. He’s got his magic back--or, at least, the magic that was meant to be his--and I think that did more for his mental state than anything anyone could ever do or say. Simon Snow was meant to be a mage, and he would always be doomed to live a half-life if he wasn’t.
If he never got his magic back, or even if he never got past everything that happened over Christmas our last year at Watford, I would still love him. I love him forever and unconditionally. But it’s so much better to love him when he isn’t hurting. I don’t love him less when he is, but now we’ve finally reached a point where looking at him doesn’t leave me heartbroken and helpless.
Simon stopped seeing his therapist during his first year at uni. He told Bunce and I this after we got back from America. I hadn’t known for sure, but I had suspected. I’d suspected, but I didn’t say anything to him because I was afraid of losing him. And he didn’t say anything to me about how much he was struggling, because he was afraid of losing me.
What a pair of idiots we were. Bunce was furious with the both of us once she found out, and coerced both Simon and I into setting up a session. I agreed this time--I would have agreed to far worse if it meant that he was getting help.
I suppose that speaking candidly to someone about the Mage and my mother’s murder is a relief sometimes, even if I still can’t say anything about my vampirism. But what I like far more is the way therapy is benefitting Simon. He didn’t have closure, before, when it came to the Mage and the Humdrum, and I think he needed to get it before he could even start to heal. But the Chosen One rose to the occasion once again and saved himself this time, so now his sessions with his therapist are doing wonders.
Me sleeping over was still a big step. We were both thinking of the nights where we’d try to do something simple, like cuddle on the sofa and watch telly, but the weight of everything neither of us would say hung in the air like a dark cloud. I didn’t know if we’d ever be able to forget them.
But yesterday, Penelope went to visit her family. She insisted that I stay the night with Snow instead. I wanted to be cross at her, because Simon is past the point of needing constant supervision, but something in his face made me say yes.
It was the same mixture of hope and fear that hasn’t been far away ever since he started getting better. Every time Simon has a good day, it’s like a breath of fresh air. Every time he has a bad one, I think of how often I almost lost everything, and it hurts just as much as it did the very first time.
But yesterday was a good day. We put on a movie, but Simon didn’t stop kissing me long enough for either of us to watch it. It reminded me of the September when he and Bunce first moved into this flat, when everything was new and hopeful and I still couldn’t believe my luck.
I still can’t, even now. But we’ve struggled through the fallout side-by-side and stayed together. I know his vulnerabilities and he knows mine, and that doesn’t paralyse me the way it would have a year ago.
Last night, I fell asleep with Simon Snow’s arms around me and the sound of his soft breaths in my ear.
This morning, I wake up alone. At first, I’m cold and confused, and then I panic a little bit no matter how much I try not to.
I know I’m being dramatic. I know he’s fine. He’s probably just in the loo. But I still have to take slow, practised breaths before my brain stops replaying images of the two times I saw him lying on the ground and thought he was dead.
Yesterday was the happiest I’ve been in a long time. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.
When I leave Snow’s bedroom to find him, I purposely walk slow enough that my legs don’t wobble.
As soon as I step out of the bedroom, though, all my panic melts away.
From the direction of the kitchen, I can hear music playing quietly. Almost as loud is Simon singing along. I fall against the wall and close my eyes, letting the sound wash over me. His singing voice is actually quite good, and he sounds carefree and just as happy as he was yesterday.
He’s had more than two good days in a row before, obviously. But something about this feels different.
Maybe it isn’t because of me. It might be--I hope it is--but even if not, it hardly matters. Because it’s me he’s choosing to share it with. I’m the one who gets to wake up with him and we can eat breakfast together and even the most mundane things feel special if I do them with him.
That’s something that I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to. It’s already been over a year since we got together. Our relationship so far has been nothing like I expected, but I’m still not.
After a stop in the loo, I round the corner to the kitchen. Snow is standing in front of the stove, his back to me. He’s holding a bowl in his hands and there’s the smell of bacon sizzling. In addition to the singing, he’s dancing in place a little.
I imagine walking up to him and wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. Holding him to me whilst he cooks breakfast for the two of us. Dropping a kiss to his shoulder. If I want to, I can. And I probably will. But up until about two years ago, this is something that I never thought I’d get with anyone, least of all someone I love as much as him.
Now we could start every day like this, if we want. I love him so much, and I have for years. Before now, he was trying to work through so much that it wasn’t fair of me to expect for him to feel the same. He doesn’t love me back, I don’t think. But he put himself into my hands yesterday, the same way I put myself into his. And it resulted in this--in him as happy as I’ve ever seen him.
Simon may not love me back yet, but I think that with last night and this morning, we may finally be on the right path.
I’d wait for forever so long as I knew I’d get him at the end of it. I might even without knowing--I’d done it for three years without so much as a shadow of a chance. But I don’t have to. Because he trusts me with this. With him.
My chest is warm and I can’t quite keep the smile off my face when I finally walk up to Simon. He jumps a little bit when I wrap my arms around his waist, but he doesn’t look away from the pan in front of him. In addition to the bacon, there’s now two round, fluffy pancakes.
Back when he and Bunce first moved into this flat, he could hardly make tea the Normal way. When he started going back to therapy, his therapist suggested that he try cooking as a way to manage anxiety. He took to it like I’ve never seen him take to anything. It was the first step in his recovery, I think, and it’s still one of his favourite activities.
“Good morning,” I say, dropping a kiss to his bare shoulder. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama trousers and an apron, and the gorgeous tawny skin of his back is on full display.
Simon hums and tilts his head back for a kiss. When my lips touch his, a wave of warmth radiates through my entire body.
“Good morning, Baz,” he pulls away just enough to whisper. I can feel his smile against my mouth.
I’ve never told him I love him, because our relationship hasn’t been ready for it. Right now, I have to duck my head and press my lips against a mole on his shoulder because he looks so beautiful that if I don’t, I might accidentally say it.
“It smells wonderful,” I say instead.
Simon hums and lifts a pancake out of the pan with his spatula. There’s a plate with a few others on it beside the stove, and he places it on the top of the stack. “Was gonna surprise you. We could eat breakfast in bed.”
I snort and say, “Just because you have a horrific grasp on personal cleanliness, Snow, doesn’t mean that the rest of us do,” but I’m smiling as I do.
Simon turns his head halfway and gives me the smile that never fails to take my breath away. “Just wait--I’ll get you to appreciate it someday yet.”
It feels like someone’s wrapped a fist around my heart and is squeezing, with how happy I am. It’s why I can’t stop myself before I say, “Sure, love.”
It’s comical, almost, how fast both of us freeze.
I’ve called him love before. Twice, exactly. The first was at Watford and the second was at the NowNext headquarters in California, but both of them were when I thought he was going to die without me ever telling him how much better he makes my life. But this is the first time I’ve said it where he was actually able to hear me.
Snow isn’t as thick as I ridiculed him for being during our Watford years. There’s no way he won’t interpret that other than the way I meant it. And he doesn’t love me and he isn’t ready for me to say it yet. This could ruin all the progress that we managed to make with me staying over. Or even all the progress we’ve made ever.
I don’t stammer my way through streams of nothing when I’m nervous the way that Snow does. I’ve always prided myself on having more control over my emotions than that. But maybe we’re at the point where his bad habits are rubbing off on me, or maybe it’s just because it’s him, and he always makes me break the rules I have for myself. Whatever the reason, I’m horrified to find myself rambling, and even more horrified when I realise that I can’t make myself stop.
“Shit. I’m--shit. Snow--Simon, I’m… I didn’t… I mean, I don’t--it’s…”
“Baz.” It’s a relief when Snow cuts me off, but his voice is a little bit amused and far too calm for how fast I can feel my heart beating in my chest. I realise that my grip around his waist has tightened to the point that it’s probably hurting him (vampire strength), and consciously force myself to relax.
Still, I can’t quite rid myself of the mental images of him slamming the door in my face and everything that makes my life worth living slipping through my fingers. I try to keep the desperation out of my voice as I speak again, but I’m sure it doesn’t work. “Simon, I didn’t mean to--”
I fall silent as he presses his pointer finger against my lips. I’m so surprised that I don’t try to speak again when he hesitantly moves it away a couple of seconds later.
Still in the circle of my arms, Simon reaches forward and flicks off the burner. Then, he turns around and faces me, draping his arms over my shoulders. The look on his face is serious. I bunch my hands in the fabric of his apron and avert my gaze.
By the time he places a finger under my chin and forces my eyes back to his, I’m on the verge of tears.
Of course, he notices. His ordinary blue eyes widen, and he looks so lovely that it takes my breath away. I want to close my eyes, but I can’t. I drink him in as much as I can, in case it’s the last time.
I can’t stop every worst-case scenario from flashing across my eyes. Logically, I know that he wouldn’t break up with me for this, even if just because he’s too noble to do so. But I’ve spent years fighting for him, and we’ve been through hell and back several times. I’d do it all over again for him in a heartbeat, but what’s the point if he doesn’t even want me to?
“Oh, Baz,” Simon whispers. I have to bite down on my lip to keep a sob from escaping. “Baz, ssh, darling, it’s okay.”
He reaches up to kiss me on the cheek and my heart stutters in my chest.
“Wh-what did you say?”
It comes out positively strangled.
For a moment, he looks confused. Then something in his face softens and he brushes his thumb across my cheek. He’s brushing away the tears I hadn’t even known were there, and it’s so gentle that it only makes me cry more.
“I said, it’s okay. Don’t cry, darling.”
This time, I can’t hold back the sob. My heart pounds up in my throat as I drop my head to his shoulder.
Darling. Simon Snow just called me darling. I called him love and not only did he not panic and pull away, but he kissed me and wiped away my tears and called me darling.
For the second time this morning, I almost confess my love for him. It’s only by the lingering fear that I manage not to. For the span of several minutes, I can do nothing but cling to him and breathe into his shoulder and try to freeze the way his voice sounds when he calls me darling in my brain forever.
From the very first time I ever woke up by his side, after he kissed me in the forest at my family’s manor, I’d imagined a world where he cared for me enough to use endearment terms. That maybe one day, I’d be lucky enough to wake up to his kisses and a “Good morning, darling”. But even then, I’d never believed it would actually happen. That there was anything I could do that would make me good enough to deserve Simon Snow.
Even now, I’m not sure if I believe it.
“Simon,” I breathe, my head still on his shoulder. (Because I hate myself too much to not give him an out.) “Why did you call me…?”
He runs a hand through my hair and I melt against him. Or maybe I’m swooning. (Every moment I manage to keep myself from swooning over Simon Snow is the greatest demonstration of self-restraint I’ve ever shown.)
“Because I wanted to,” he whispers.
My breath catches, but I don’t dare lift my head. I can’t look at him, because he’s perfect and this is perfect, and if I look at him, I won’t be able to stop myself from saying “I love you”.
When I hear the words, my first thought is that they came from me. That I couldn’t stop myself from saying them out loud. Immediately, I close my eyes and tighten my arms around his waist in panic, because even though he was fine with me implying it, there’s a difference between implying it and saying it full-on and like I expect him to say it back.
It isn’t until several heartbeats of silence pass and Simon asks, “Baz…?” with a tremble of fear in his voice that I realise that I wasn’t the one who had spoken.
My head snaps up so fast that I almost collide with his jaw. Not that I would have cared in the slightest if I had.
Because “Baz, I love you,” is what he said.
I’ve been dreaming about this moment for literal years. But now that it’s finally here, instead of saying it back, I can do nothing but stare at him and try to freeze the way those words sound in my brain forever.
I called Simon Snow love. And then he called me darling and told me that he loves me.
I’ve never been happier to be alive than I am in this moment. I’d stopped crying, I think, but there’s absolutely no chance of being able to hold back the tears now.
I’m in love with him. I’ve been in love with him for years, and I will be for the rest of my life. And he loves me back.
If I’d thought I was living a charmed life when he kissed me in the forest outside my family’s manor, then this is transcendent. Breathtaking. More perfect than I ever could have imagined.
When we were still at Watford, I’d imagined myself telling him that I love him in the last few seconds before he killed me, but I never deluded myself enough to believe that he would feel the same. Even once we started dating, it took several months of floating in a hazy disbelief before I could imagine him ever saying the words back if I told him one day. But when I let myself imagine scenarios like that, it was still some dramatic reveal. After he’d dramatically saved my life, maybe, the way he still wants to even though he’s no longer the Chosen One of the World of Mages. Or else, after we’d worked out all our problems and at the end of a wonderfully romantic evening where I’d swept him off of his feet.
I’d never imagined it happening anything like this. Hugging, in our pyjamas in the kitchen of Snow and Bunce’s flat, and after I’d been crying because I was afraid he was going to break up with me. My hair is an absolute mess from sleeping, our breakfast is getting cold, and Simon’s shoulder is damp from my tears.
I can’t imagine anything more perfect.
I don’t know how long it takes before I calm down enough to be able to look up. I’m beaming before I even turn to Simon, but when I do, my heart instantly plummets.
Because he doesn’t look happy. His head is turned away from me, but what I can see of his face is deathly pale under his moles. His eyes are ringed with red, but it looks different from the way mine do. And his hands--wrapped around my back--are trembling.
It’s a monumental effort, getting myself to speak again. Even still, my voice comes out far more frantic than I meant. “Simon, love, what’s--?”
Still not looking, he cuts me off before I have the chance to finish. “I’m sorry, Baz. I-I didn’t… could we just forget that I said anything?”
I’m about to question him again when I notice that he’s crying. And that, unlike in my case, it doesn’t seem to be from happiness. His arms slowly drop from my back and he tries to step away, but I wrap an arm around his waist and gently cup his cheek to bring his eyes to mine.
My chest feels tight when I finally get a look at the expression on his face. Miserable and scared. I panic, for a moment, wondering if maybe he regrets saying what he did. That maybe he didn’t actually mean it.
And then he speaks.
“You don’t have to say it back… if-if you don’t want to. I just… wanted you to know.”
Staring at him in bewilderment, I take a moment to run through the course of our conversation. Then, I let out a noise that even I’m not sure is a laugh or a sob.
Because I didn’t say it back. Just stayed quiet and cried into his shoulder like a bloody moron.
I can feel Simon’s chest heave against mine as he huffs. He makes a valiant effort to get away again, but I hold him fast. “Baz--”
I cut him off, this time.
The surprised little squeak that he lets out as I kiss him makes my heart skip a beat. I try to pour everything I want to say into him through our lips. I don’t know if he understands it, but he kisses me back desperately.
I’m the one to pull back first, a while later, and rest my forehead against Simon’s as we both catch our breath. His eyes are still closed and he’s the one holding on tight to me, this time. I take a moment to trace the constellations of his moles with my eyes.
“I love you, Simon Snow,” I whisper against his lips.
His eyes fly open. The openness of them sends warmth spreading through my chest as I continue speaking.
“Of course I love you, you numpty. I’ve loved you since we were fifteen, Simon, and I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”
I watch the way his eyes cloud over with tears, and then he sniffles and is shoving our mouths back together. His lips taste like salt, and it’s even better than it always is. Because now I’m not just kissing the boy with whom I’m in love. Now, I’m kissing the boy with whom I’m in love, who now knows it and loves me back.
Immediately after pulling back, Snow says, still panting, “Wait, Baz, since we were fifteen? That was years ago! And you definitely hated me when we were fifteen.”
I give him a dry look and deadpan, “I assure you, Snow, that I didn’t. I was there, you know,” but I’m not sure if I completely manage to hide the giddiness swelling in my chest.
Judging by Snow’s (terrible) smirk, the answer is no. I’ve never cared less.
Simon beams at me, and I can feel the edges of my mouth twitching up. But my reputation has suffered enough this morning already--instead of letting myself grin as widely as I want to, I bend back down and hide it by kissing my wonderful boyfriend.
But because I’m a constant disappointment to myself, I can’t stop myself from whispering, “I love you,” again as I pull back.
Simon smiles and pulls me back down for another kiss when he hears it, so I suppose I’m not too disappointed.
Especially when he responds with his own, “I love you.”
Like the way I’ve never truly let myself, I now imagine the scenario wherein this all goes exactly the way I want. Being able to wake up next to Simon Snow for the rest of my life, more days than not. Him kissing me awake (since he likes to wake up obnoxiously early), and my boyfriend saying “I love you” being the very first words I hear. My boyfriend, whom I thought I would never get to have.
It’s approaching half nine now, and Simon and I are still standing in our pyjamas in the kitchen. Luckily, he had the foresight to turn off the stove, but the wonderful breakfast he made for us is sitting on the counter getting cold. I couldn’t care less, and if he doesn’t mention it, I won’t.
Instead, neither of us can bring ourselves to pull back for longer than it takes to breathe. Every time we pull away, either him or me whispers, “I love you” with more than a little bit of awe in our voices.
It’s better than my fantasies. It’s real and it’s actually, finally happening, and I might cry if I hadn’t been doing so already.
I don’t remember how, but eventually, we end up on the floor, me with my legs extended and Simon sitting in my lap. His weight is a warm and reassuring presence and I have to lean up to kiss him now, not down, and he seems far too pleased with himself for it. Normally, I’d respond with some snarky comment, but this moment still feels too fragile to shatter.
Each time Simon Snow tells me that he loves me, my heart gets a little bit closer to exploding. It reminds me of the night in our eighth year when he shared his magic with me, the overwhelming rush of euphoria and of power.
He doesn’t have that sort of magic anymore, but the power is the same. With Simon Snow by my side, I know I’ll always be ready to face anything.