Archive of Our Own ^beta

Simon Snow is not a quiet person. He doesn’t know how to be quiet.

He moves with brute force, carelessly, bumping into anything and everything, knocking whatever object is close enough to the edge of the table onto the floor in a loud thud. He stomps and stamps and crashes, and he’s the definition of gracelessness.

Still, he generally gets by well enough during the day. Without me sleeping, or even in our room, he moves quietly enough to not alert the entire Mummers of his presence. (Unless he’s about to go off, but that has more to do with his mood than his general state of existence.)

(It’s further proof that he was placed on this earth purely to annoy me.)

I guess, after 7 years, and with light streaming into our room, he’s capable of navigating the small space well enough.

Which is why it is both surprising and highly concerning that I can hear him slamming into surfaces even before I reach the landing in front of our room.

I’m by the door in a second.

(He’s not the only one who’s suspicious of the other: I wouldn’t put it past him to currently be tearing through my drawers, while I’m supposed to be at football practice. I can imagine him well enough, throwing my papers and books and clothes all over the place, trying to find something I’m ‘plotting’, making a mess of our room and a general nuisance of himself.)

When I throw the door open, I have to stop myself from gawking.

I was right.

The room is a mess, and Snow is making a general nuisance of himself, but instead of my schoolwork littering the floor, it’s his bedding.

And Snow himself is standing in the middle of the mess.

His blanket is scrunched up by the foot of his bed, his old covers and sheets are mixed in with his dirty laundry, and his pillow is lying by his feet; I think he’s already managed to pull the new sheet over his mattress, and the duvet itself is smoothed out atop of it, at least in part.

What. The. Fuck.

Then, “Snow, what the fuck?”

He twists his torso around to face me, getting even more tangled up in his covers.

Because instead of acting like a normal person, and making his bed properly—or using “you’ve made your bed!” like the mage his is—he’s pulled the duvet cover over himself, his hands outstretched above his head, gripping the corners. He’s standing inside it, making it look like the cover is standing up and floating freely right next to his bed.

(I’d assume that’s what’s happening, if I wouldn’t be able to see the heels of his shoes peeking out from under the white fabric.)

He stays still for a second, then shuffles his feet until the whole of his body is facing my general direction, dropping his hands to his side. (From the way the fabric bundles, I can see he’s still clutching at the corners.)

“Well?” I ask again, tapping my foot impatiently, “care to explain what you’re doing?”

The material rustles as he shrugs. “‘M making my bed.”

It is Big Laundry Day—or what, in an uncharacteristic display of communication, Simon and I decided would be the day we change and wash our sheets—, so as weirdly as he is behaving, I don’t doubt his answer; though, it really doesn’t do much to lessen my confusion. (I’ve already changed my covers, but like the mage that I am, I stripped the dirty ones from my bed, leaving them in a neat pile by the door, and spelled the new ones on. (I had just climbed out of bed, and Snow was already out of the room, probably stuffing his fifth scone into his mouth.))

When I don’t reply, he adds, “you aren’t supposed to be back yet.”

I raise my eyebrow at him even though it doesn’t have the same effect when he can’t actually see me doing it. “It’s raining.”

He turns his face towards the window—which, for once, is closed—, as if trying to check for himself, to make sure I’m not lying.

“Oh.”

We stand in silence just staring at each other—or, more precisely, him staring at the inside of his cover, and me staring at the outside of it—before I break the silence again.

(Patience is virtue, they say, but I don’t know who they are, and I’m not virtuous anyway—I’m also definitely not patient.)

“And why are you making your bed looking like a ghost?”

He grins at that—at me—then.

(Considering the fact that his face is obscured, there is absolutely no way to explain why I know that he’s grinning at me, but I do know, with absolute certainty. Simon Snow is standing in the middle of our room, his duvet cover draped over his head, grinning at me devilishly.)

(Generally, I only use devilishly to describe him if it’s followed by the word ‘handsome’, but I’m not too mad about this usage either.)

“Baaaaaz,” he’s dragging the vowel of my name, and if I had any doubt in my mind about his grinning, it’s swept away by the teasing lilt in his voice.

(Again: what. The. Fuck.)

“Baaaaaz,” he repeats in exactly the same voice, carefully moving his foot to kick the pillow aside.

He’s making grabby hands at me, the fabric getting scrunched up and released with the movement, and I’m struck dumb.

I have no idea what’s happening, and this time, I can’t stop myself from gawking.

He’s shuffling closer to me, and I shift sideways, away from his grasp, finally pushing the door closed.

“Baaaaz, don’t run away from me, I’m a friendly ghost! I just want to give you a hug!”

I press myself to the wall, holding my breath, incapable of deciding whether I’m more terrified or amused.

He looks absolutely ridiculous, and he’s acting absolutely ridiculous, but my heart is also beating ridiculously fast at these developments, and I have no idea what’s happening, or if I want it to continue forever or stop right now.

Simon’s nearly crowding up against me, but thanks to his rather bad sense of direction while blind, he’s facing my shoulder rather than me, and I duck under his arms as he starts waving them up and down in a wave-like motion.

I manage to move along the wall without making a single sound, but I doubt it matters much from the way he’s rustling with the sheet. I’m fairly certain he must be drowning in the sound as it shifts around his ears.

I watch from a few paces away as he runs his hands over the wall, and I can tell he’s tilted his head down, probably trying to spot my feet.

“Don’t run away, Bazzy, I just want to give you a hug!”

“Bazzy?!” I ask, aghast at the nickname of my nickname and the way my voice rises in pitch, making it sound like I just squeaked. I would strangle anyone else who dared call me that—I would strangle Snow for calling me that under any other circumstance—but he’s currently too adorable for me to actually gather the wherewithal to be mad at him. (It would also be rather hard to locate his neck.)

“Bazzy boy, Bazzy boy, Baaaazy boy,” he singsongs, moving more and more confidently towards me, until he’s effectively chasing me in circles around the room.

We’re both laughing as I duck and shift away from his clutches, calling each other’s names as if we’re primary school children playing Marco Polo with our best mate.

I leap over his discarded piles, and he comes to a momentary halt, stepping around it to try and get to me.

(He’s so far managed to avoid seriously injuring himself, if we discount him running face first into the side of his wardrobe, and I’m glad for it. (The impact didn’t phase him for even a second, and it made me think about how used to hitting his head he really must be.))

But while he might be the one more used to bashing and being bashed from all the monsters he’s fought, I'm still the one with a better strategic thinking.

(We would be an unstoppable force, if we were to ever fight next to, not against each other.)

I’m behind him before his back foot even leaves the ground, crouching, my head by his hip, safe from his reach. I wait until he’s stepped over the pile, until he’s standing roughly a foot away from the edge of his bed, before hooking my hands around his waist, leaping up and pushing him over.

He yelps as we land on his bed, bouncing up slightly before I press him down into the mattress with my weight.

He’s flailing around, trying to free himself, but all he manages to do is wrap himself up in the cover even more, until he’s made himself into a human cocoon, arms bent into his chest.

“Na na na na na na na na, ghostbusters!” I shout triumphantly after we stop laughing and once I catch my breath, throwing my hands up in the air in victory when I’m confident my hips will keep him in place.

He dissolves into laughter at that again, though, and it’s a struggle to understand what he’s trying to say. “Yo– you– you uncul– you uncultured gi– git! That’s Batman!”

I scowl down at him. “What?”

“‘Na na na na na na na na’”, he repeats, in tune, “is Batman, n– not Ghostbusters.”

I scoff indignantly. “Is not!” (Both movies resulted in a couple of popular spells—apparently superheroes and whatever the ghostbusters are are popular with Normals—, but I refuse to believe that I mixed the two up. I might be slightly confused by this sudden friendliness, and I might be more than slightly flustered at our proximity, but I refuse to believe that I mixed anything up. I don’t do mix-ups.)

“Is too!”

“Is not!”

He wriggles under me slightly, and I brace myself.

(We haven’t been this close for years, not since our last physical fight back in fifth year, but that closeness was different anyway. Now, like this, with the old, starchy material between us, I can pretend I have this, even if just for a couple of minutes. I want to have this friendly banter with a giggling, teasing Simon, but I’m not going to fight him as he comes to his senses and decides to properly try and push me off.)

(I’m not fighting him.)

(I’m bracing myself.)

He doesn’t throw me off though, just repositions himself until he’s lying on his back, then calms down straight away.

Crowley and Merlin and Morgana and Jesus fuck, I’m straddling Simon.

On his bed.

(I’m more than more than slightly flustered.)

“Baz,” he’s saying now, “Batman is ‘na na na na na na na na na Batman!’ and Ghostbusters is ‘who you gonna call, Ghostbusters!’” He chants them both along to their theme song’s melody, trying to do jazz hands at the end of each phrase, and it’s the most stupidly endearing thing I have witnessed.

I have to admit that he’s probably right.

(Apparently I do do mix-ups.)

(If it gets him laughing like this, though, carefree and loud and so bloody Simon, I’ll do mix-ups until the day I die. I’ll renounce my ability to be right about anything if it means I get to hear him happy.)

I can't well let him know that, though, so I grumble something unintelligible in response as he stills himself.

“Baz?”

I hum.

“I like this better.”

I’m not sure what comes over me, but I lean down closer to him, until my crossed arms are pressing down on his clavicles.

(Maybe it’s just because there is something physically between us, replacing them, but I let my walls drop. No pretense, no inhibitions.)

My mouth is right by his ear. For a second, I let myself imagine leaning just a little closer, whispering sweet little nothings at him, making all the promises I want to, telling him for the first time in my life the things I actually think.

(Alright. Some inhibitions.)

Instead, I just reply, “and what exactly is this, Snow?”

“This,” he says, as if that clarifies anything.

And maybe it does, because I let out a tiny sigh, my voice dropping. “Me, too.”

(And maybe I can have this, for just a little longer. For longer than just a few minutes. Because he likes this better.)

(I’m going to let myself have this.)

(It’s too late now, anyway. He’s given me a taste, and I’m addicted. Always have been, always will be.)

This time, I know he’s grinning up at me because I can see it, from the way the fabric tightens and pulls along his face, and I’m overcome with such intense emotion, it threatens to crush me.

“Hey Baz?”

“Yes?” I’m not supposed to sound this breathless.

(I wish he didn’t have this effect on me.)

(I wish I had this effect on him.)

“You’re squishing me and I kind of can’t breathe…”

Fuck.

(This is not what I meant.)

I push myself up and clamber off him, narrowly avoiding kneeing him. He stands up carefully, managing to not fall onto his face in the process, and untangles himself from the mess. He grunts, satisfied, the cover held in place by his hands above his head in perfect imitation of the position he was in just a few minutes ago.

He turns himself towards me and wiggles his hands. For a second I think he’s going to try chasing me again, but he just asks me to help him with the duvet.

“How?” For once, I’m really not trying to be difficult. “You still haven’t really told me what you’re doing.”

“Just give me the corners and watch magic happen.”

“You—,” I start, incredulous. “You do know you can do actual magic, right?”

“Duh!” There is unadulterated glee in his voice as he makes grabby hands at me again.

I grab the corners on the shorter side and lift them towards him, before changing my mind and gathering the opposite corner into one of my hands. When I give him the duvet, it’s basically half folded into a misshapen triangular—pentagonal?—clump, but he just thanks me, cheerful and ignorant as ever, and starts worming his way out of his cloth prison.

My breath catches at the sight of him—what’s new?—and I’m being crushed by that feeling again. (I love this bubbly mess of a boy so fucking much it hurts.) I wouldn’t be able to slip my mask of indifference on even if I tried to—even if I wanted to.

Simon Snow is always stunning, but standing in front of me, sweaty, with disheveled hair and rosy cheeks and an untucked shirt riding up his side—I’ve seen him shirtless countless times, yet somehow this moment seems so much more intimate than any of those times—, the brightest grin on his face, he’s the definition of a dream.

(I resist the urge to pinch myself, just to make sure I’m not dreaming.) (This is so much better than anything my depraved mind could conjure up.)

He finishes shaking out the cover, now the right way out, a frown forming on his face.

This time, I do school my expression into a look of angelic innocence, meeting his eyes when he looks up at me, brow furrowed in confusion. “Problem?”

He stares at me for a second longer before letting out the most lovely of laughs, and I suddenly believe that I am watching magic happen.

(He might be the most powerful mage to ever live, but Simon Snow would be magic even as a Normal.)

The duvet comes flying at me and I let out a quiet “oomph” as it hits me in the chest.

Snow retrieves the now unfurled bundle from the floor, still laughing, and tugs the cover off again. He turns it inside out, stepping towards me. “Now, now, Baz.” He clicks his tongue in disapproval, “that wasn’t very nice of you.”

He’s smirking at me, and I smirk back. “Oh, I know, Snow.”

“Oh, and do you know what I know?” He pauses for effect, wiggling his eyebrows and looking as if he knows exactly how ridiculous he looks—it does nothing to detract from his smugness. (I am just grateful he doesn’t know what he’s doing to me. He’s too full of himself as it is.)

“I know,” he repeats, “that you’re going to pay for this.”

I don’t even have time to react before he pulls the cover over my head, trapping me under it, and I’m immediately embarrassed by the yelp I let escape.

He sounds absolutely delighted at the sound, giggles turning into a breathless stream of laughter when I squeal at his fingers poking into my belly. He starts jabbing at me faster, from both sides, brutal and cruel and unrelenting, evidently overjoyed at the fact that I’m ticklish.

(I wish I could see his face. Damn this fabric.)

I try to twist my body away from his reach and when that proves useless, I throw my hands out to the side. I wrap them around his hips—again. Crowley, I’m living a charmed life—and let myself fall backwards, onto my bed this time, pulling him on top of me.

He starts squirming under my touch far too soon and I try curling into myself before he can restart his assault, but I accidentally just end up pulling him closer to me. He pulls his hands free from under mine with ease, but instead of jabbing at me, he places an arm gently next to my head, resting the other onto my chest.

My heart is threatening to start beating again.

I tense up when I feel him relax, his head laid down into the crook of my neck, his nose burying itself into my cheek.

It was stuffy under this sheet before, but now it’s just plain hot. Everything is so hot.

(Simon is laying atop of me, and it’s so hot, and I’ve never hated anything as much as I currently hate this useless piece of fabric.)

(Damn it to hell and back seven times over.)

I let myself soften into him, wrapping my arms around him tighter again, wishing that he’d just hurry up and melt into me, that we’d hurry up and melt into each other, so that he would never have to leave my side.

(So that he would never want to leave me.)

“Baz?”

His voice is nothing more than a quiet sigh; a breath.

“Simon,” I breathe back, and I feel the curve of his smile on my neck, and I can’t help but smile in response.

He fits into my shirt, pulling me closer to him, and I let myself believe that maybe he doesn’t want me to leave him, either.

But then he starts pulling away, and my smile drops at the newfound urgency in his voice. There’s something akin to desperation tinting his words. “Baz, get up. You’re supposed to be making my bed.”

It takes me a second to understand what it is he’s talking about.

I try my best to not be disappointed—I knew this would end; whatever this was, was already thousands of times more than I thought I’d be allowed to have—but I don’t manage to suppress the twist of my stomach or the clawing of my throat.

Snow slips out from my arms, crawling off me, and I have to consciously stop myself from rolling over and into myself.

(He might have seen me without my mask on, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of witnessing my sad little pity party.)

He doesn’t give himself the satisfaction of it either, because he’s grabbing my hands and pulling me up to my feet without giving me the time to react—again. He’s thrusting the corners of his duvet into my hands with an impatient, “here, hold,” and tugging the bottom of the cover up my back and over my head, adjusting it into place roughly.

I guess it really was desperation in his voice.

(I don’t know what changed, but I wish he wasn’t so desperate to get away from me.)

He’s even more flushed than he was before.

He’s even more lovely than he was before and I’m even more breathless by his sight, even more in love; I’m even more crushed.

(My chest is squeezing in on itself again, and the only thing I can think is how much more enjoyable that feeling was when it was being caused by the weight of Simon against me.)

I can’t even bring myself to sneer at him, as he stands there gaping at me. I refuse to let myself lose my last shred of dignity, though, so I bring a hand up to my hair instead, half to hide the fact that it’s shaking and half to tame the mess the covers surely made from it.

My movement seems to spur Simon on, and he’s on me in a second, surging forward, crowding me until the backs of my knees hit the bed frame. He pushes my hand away, his burying in my hair in its place, nudging my head down to his until our foreheads rest against each other, his other hand coming to rest so much more gently on my cheek.

If I thought he left me breathless before, I’m not sure how to describe what he’s doing to me now.

My eyes flutter shut as his breath flitters across my lips, and I feel rather than hear him say, “I really fucking want to kiss you.”

I really fucking want to kiss you, too.

(I really fucking want you to kiss me, too.)

(Kiss me, Merlin, please kiss me.)

I tilt my head just so, just slightly, and his lips are right there, so bloody close, nearly on mine, and he’s so close and it’s so very hot and I want to kiss him and he wants to kiss me and I’m going to kiss him and he’s going to kiss me and—

“May I kiss you?”

I’m the one who surges forward this time, pulling him down.

・・・

We’re tangled up in my sheets, pressed as close together as physically possible. My hands are curled around his waist and his are splayed under me, on my back, under my neck, holding himself to me tightly.

I pull away from his lips to catch my breath, looking up as he smiles gently down at me, and fuck. He touches his nose to mine, then lays a kiss onto it. He kisses my cheeks, my forehead and temples and my eyelids, before kissing along my jaw and under my ear, down to the hollow of my neck, across my shoulders to my shoulder blades, then down again to my collarbones, leaving the gentlest of kisses on the centre of my chest, right above my heart.

I can feel his smile against my skin with his every move, and I never felt warmer—

—or happier—

—or more in love.