Simon can barely breathe. The classroom feels too warm and stuffy. The air is clogged and tremoring around him. The atmosphere blurs and trembles with barely concealed power.
Simon closes his eyes and clenches his fists. He can’t go off here. He can’t. Not in the middle of class, in front of Penny and Agatha and Baz. Baz. Baz fucking Pitch. It’s the gits fault that Simon is about to go off in the first place. If bloody Baz hadn’t bloody teased him about his misunderstanding of the question Miss Possibelf had asked and if Baz hadn’t laughed at him, then maybe Simon wouldn’t be fighting back an explosion of his magic. He clenches his fists more tightly. Fucking Baz.
“Snow!” A sharp voice cuts through his bubble and he looks up, meeting Miss Possibelf’s gaze. “Outside. Quickly.”
Simon grits his teeth and stands, his entire body shaking with the strain. Then he runs. From Baz and the classroom and his fucking magic. He runs out into the fresh air, trying to gasp for breath. But even outside, the only thing he can taste is his magic, raw and powerful. He collapses to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his head in them. He needs to learn control. He needs to draw his magic back. But he can’t. He’s so angry.
“Snow?” A cautious voice prods.
Simon sniffs and looks up, his magic only growing wilder when he spots Baz crouched in front of him. Baz looks somewhat anxious. He’s kneeling before Simon, with his hands out stretched as though taming a wild beast. His eyes are wide and his facial muscles soft, for once, instead of drawn back in a sneer. Baz reaches out further and places a hand on Simon’s knee. The magic buzzes around them and Simon feels electric and on fire and as though he’s drowning.
“Baz,” he growls. “Go. Away.” Don’t go, he silently pleads. Baz’s hand feels nice against Simon’s knee. The touch is grounding him and igniting him all at once. He is on fire.
Baz swallows. Simon watches as his throat bobs. Simon blinks.
“Snow, you need to calm down. You need to control yourself.”
Simon’s breathing grows more laboured. “Can’t,” he gasps out. “Go away. Before I go off.”
He doesn’t know why he’s fighting it. He should just go off on Baz. See how he likes it then.
“Snow. Draw the magic back in.” Baz’s voice is so soft, Simon realises, staring at him. His voice is so soft and his skin is so cold.
Simon reaches out and grabs Baz’s other hand. The one that isn’t on his knee. Baz looks startled and his hand hangs limp in Simon’s for a few moments, before his fingers curl up and interlace with Simon’s warm ones. Their skin is so hot and so cold and Simon can’t breathe.
“I don’t know how,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to hold in the vast amount of power that is seeking to flow from his body and burst into the cold, afternoon air. His grip on Baz’s hand tightens and if Baz wasn’t a bloody vampire, it would probably hurt. But Simon can’t be bothered with Baz being a vampire right now. He knows it probably hurts Baz, touching him when Simon is wearing his cross. So Simon, with the small amount of sanity left inside of him, reaches up and tugs his cross free, throwing it dazedly away. Baz looks even more startled than when Simon took his hand.
“Snow,” Baz says.
Simon’s body shakes and trembles and he can’t hold his magic off much longer. He’s a flame that is about to burst into a raging fire and Baz is flammable and everything hurts.
“Snow,” Baz says again, more urgently.
His voice is like music, reaching down to Simon as he drowns below the surface. Simon opens his eyes and looks into Baz’s. He’s beautiful, Simon thinks. Baz is so fucking beautiful and Simon is on fire and Baz is here.
“Simon,” Baz says.
Then Simon leans forward and presses his lips to Baz’s.
Baz doesn’t move for a few moments. Snow is kissing him. Snow. Baz hadn’t meant to push Snow so far, but he had. He’d felt guilty. He’d wanted to help. (He’s always wanted to help.) So he’d gone after Snow. He’d never expected this.
Snow’s skin is burning against his own. He’s moving his lips slowly against Baz’s own and Baz doesn’t know what to do. (He’s never kissed anyone before. He’s only ever wanted Snow. It’s always been Snow.)
Snow’s magic burns around them and for a moment Baz worries he’ll catch alight and burst. He thinks he will. Snow is so hot and alive and they’re kissing. Snow is kissing him. Baz thinks he might die from happiness and heat and relief.
Simon doesn’t know why he did it. But kissing Baz feels right and his magic is fading and he doesn’t feel like a fucking a-bomb anymore. Baz is making small whining noises that make Simon shiver. He likes Baz like this. He likes kissing him. He likes touching him. His lips feel swollen and he wonders how long they’ve been snogging. He doesn’t think he ever wants to stop.
But then Baz pulls away. “Snow,” he chokes out and Baz’s voice is hoarse and his lips are swollen and wet and Simon wants him. He thinks he’s wanted him for ever.
“Simon,” Simon says. “You called me Simon before.”
Baz closes his eyes. “Simon,” he breathes out reverently.
Simon beams. It hurts. “Baz,” he whispers back.
Baz gasps and opens his eyes. He’s staring at Simon with an expression that looks so torn. So tortured.
“Baz,” Simon says again. He gently caresses Baz’s cheek and Baz whimpers. Simon sighs longingly. “Can I?” He whispers, his thumb running over Baz’s lips.
Baz nods. “Anything, Snow. You can have anything. Simon.”
Yes, Simon thinks. He likes this. He wants this. He needs this. So he leans in and kisses Baz again.