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multicoloured plasters, hidden rooms and paintings from before

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I drag myself towards the tall gates. Of course, there's fucking gates, why wouldn't there be? I'm going to have to climb them, aren't I? I look around to see if there's anything that could give me a boost up, a tree or something would be ideal but with how much I weigh, a fucking rose  bush would help.


I could probably fit in between the metal bars; the children's home almost forgot to feed me this summer and the Mage certainly didn't give me any food before giving me this mission. Not that that's very surprising; he's never really cared for me when I've finished a mission. He'd give me a lecture on how the injuries I have got could be avoided and that he'd be "very disappointed" in me.

A trail of blood follows my path towards this place. It's the only place that I can think of where I won't be shouted at for how injured I am. Though I will be shouted at, most likely, for other reasons.

Penny's family don't like me enough to heal me — even if Penny argued with them. I've put their daughter in (way too many) dangerous situations. I can't blame them,  I certainly wouldn't trust anyone who put my child in danger multiple times.

Agatha's family like me all too  much, they'd be eager to heal and get to know their daughter's future husband — I hate that it's almost expected of you to marry (if you're in a relationship) straight out of Watford. Her father calls me son , it's the only time I've ever been called that. Her mother dreams (or dreamt, now actually) about what our wedding would look like. I feel sorry that it was Agatha who had to tell them we'd broken up.

It's raining heavily, it has been for the past four hours. The clothes I'm wearing are soaked. I'm soaked to the bone. I'm clearly shaking. The Mage would tell me to get used to it, that this is a small hurdle to jump over in the grand scheme of things. He's done it before.

I get to the door after slipping through the gates. Even with me being as thin as I am, it was a tight squeeze. I knock on the door, there's no doorbell like a normal house. It makes the place look more pretentious than it already is. No one answers. Everyone's probably asleep, it is  late. Hopefully he's  awake, if his father opens the door; I'm screwed. I look at the windows on the second floor, all the curtains are closed and no light is coming through.

I knock again, this time waiting longer. More blood is seeping out of my wounds. My wrist aches, I think I might have punched someone or something at some point but I don't remember it. My knuckles are slowly bruising, by tomorrow morning, they'll be fully bruised and aching.

I hear leaves moving. I tense, my right hand becomes a fist while my left is ready to summon the Sword of Mages. It's not windy at all, no one should be outside — including myself. (I technically shouldn't be here, the Mage would kill me.)

Fuck .

I'm scared.

I knock once more quickly, hoping that someone will answer. I look to my left, nothing, no one's there. I look to my right, nothing, no one's there but it doesn't calm me down. If anything, it makes me more cautious.




Whoever is knocking on the door at this time better have a fucking glamorous excuse as to why I'm being woken up and my father or mother aren't. The person knocks twice more before I get to the door, the second knock drastically more desperate and frantic than the other. I can smell who it is before I get to the door; only one person smells like smoke and greenwood in a campfire. Why is he here? If he's injured then why isn't he at Bunce's or Wellbelove's?

I open the door to see Simon "Chosen One" fucking "love of my life" Snow. Something is off about him. There's something wrong with him and it pains me that I don't know what it is. His eyes are glazed over, unfocused and skittish. Was he drugged ? His scent is off, only slightly, but still, it's noticeable.

But, most importantly, why the fuck is he here ?

I glance up and down his body. He's nicely built, I've known that forever but seeing it up close — or closer than I would have at Watford — it's different. His golden curls are matted, more so than usual, and I can see blood spattered around his face and neck. I almost want to lick his face (because I'm disturbed, ask anyone.) His jacket is ripped and covered in blood. I can see his freckled skin through it (which is also covered in blood.)

There are scratches all over his hands and face. What was  he fighting this  time to get him this injured? There's no doubt that there'll be more underneath his clothes. The idea of taking off Snow's clothes would normally be saved for a later fantasy but all I can think of is why he's here. The worst wound that's visible to me is his shoulder wound, it's bleeding heavily and I'm not medically trained enough (or at all for that matter) to deal with anything more than a scratch — unlike Dr. Wellbelove who has an actual PhD in medicine.

He's shaking rather visibly, it's not majorly cold. The rain, pouring down rapidly, must have affected him more than he's willing to let on. He's mumbling something unintelligibly. He's always muttering to himself but this is different; his tone of voice (usually when mumbling it is in anger or frustration) is rapid and frightened.

His body sways slightly, I want to reach out and take him to the main fireplace and warm him up. His mouth breather intakes more oxygen than I think he'd need before he speaks and falls into my arms unconscious.




"...didn't know where else to go..." And everything goes black.




He falls into my arms with absolutely no grace whatsoever. What in Chomsky's name happened to Snow? He's freezing, wet and unconscious in my arms. As much as I like that last bit, my brain is too overwhelmed with questions to thing about how the love of my fucking life is in my arms.

I can't take him upstairs, it'd wake up Acantha (waking up Daphne at the same time) but there's nowhere I can take him downstairs that wouldn't seem suspicious. I sigh, isn't the summer holidays the time where I can get a break  from Snow's adventures?

I try to drag him, my hands under his armpits, before realising that I need to close the door behind me. I lay him on the ground, as gently as I can with him like a ragdoll in my arms. Closing the door behind me, I think of how to get Snow somewhere that won't alarm anyone.

I think about taking him to my room, it'd be difficult as he's a complete deadweight but it should be possible. I set out towards my bedroom with Snow in tow before remembering that my father had a hidden room made when I was seven or eight or us to hide away when I had nightmares of fire trying to kill me. (Often Fiona would find us sleeping on the couch with blankets in front of the fireplace.) It should be easy to find, I remember that it was near the entrance of the house.

I leave Snow leaning up against a wall to search for the hidden key — I remember it being in a wall, high enough that I couldn't reach it at that age and Father easily could. When I've found it, it not  taking very long, I go back to where I left Snow.

There's the tiniest puddle of blood surrounding his hands on the ground, I'll need to get the twin's plasters; they're the only plasters that we have a substantial amount of due to their clumsiness and curiosity of harmful nature. If I could perform any healing spells, I would. It'd be better than the excuses I'll have to make when Daphne next realises that we've run out of plasters.

That's going to be a challenge; she's basically omnipresent.

I walk to where I remember the entrance of the hidden room is, it's behind a tapestry of my mother's family tree, and open the door. After not being used for so long, the door is stiff. A human would struggle a lot with opening the door. Whereas I, with my being undead, struggled only slightly.

Opening the door brings back all the memories of my Father guiding me here and telling me not to tell Fiona about it. (Needless to say, I ended up blurting it out to her at age ten.) Do I want to show Snow this side of me? Of my family?

With the door open, and the tapestry temporarily moved away, I go back  to pick up Simon. I drag him towards the door, before picking him up bridal style to take him down the stairs into the hidden room.  His feet knock against the wall a couple of times. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't wake up. I remind myself, once he's on the sofa, to go back up and clean the blood. Against the dark mahogany flooring, it's not overly noticeable but with Daphne's near perfect eyesight, she'll definitely notice and question it. An Out, out, damned spot should do it.




I wake up on the most comfortable sofa I have ever laid on, it's not surprising that he has a couch this comfortable in his house. (It's more of a manor than a house.) I open my eyes slightly to see Baz frowning with his hair pulled back (hopefully in a little bun, he'd be stunning with one), there's a couple strands hanging out in front of his face. I want to push them backwards and cup his face.

He's not paying attention to me. Instead he's got these multicoloured plasters in his hand and next to my left hand is a large pile of plaster wrappers. Why does he have bright coloured plasters? I tilt my head to the left slightly, enough that I can see my arm well but not enough for him to notice that I'm awake and covering every finger — except my little finger — is a plaster or two. Was I injured that  much?

I wonder how many he's used on me. And where. My wrist is covered in them. From the pile of wrappers, I'd say a good twenty or so plasters have been used. I wiggle my fingers slightly, to see how far I can move my hand and fingers. (Not very much.) Baz notices this and leans backwards, so he can sit cross-legged on the floor.

"Snow, why are you here?" He speaks bluntly, looking at me. I open my eyes fully to look around the room. There's a fireplace in the wall to my left, warming the room.

"Why do you have multicoloured plasters?" I counter, actually curious for his answer.

"I have accident prone sisters. Now answer my question."

"This is the only place where I wouldn't get shouted at. Penny's family, Agatha's family and The Mage would all shout at me. Though for different reasons," this causes him to raise one of his perfectly straight eyebrows at me. He looks hot like that.




Why must I be so gone for an idiot? Of all people, he decided that coming to me with a father who detests his adoptive father instead of going to one of his friends where there's a chance (quite a low chance, mind you) of getting shouted at. Why me?

Snow tries to sit up. He fails miserably. He tries a couple more times before giving up and looking around the room. His blue eyes look first at the walls, where there are family paintings from when I was the age of five to eleven. He stops at the oldest family painting in the room (from before the fire) and his mouth opens.

"Baz... You were a tanned child?" The moron speaks slowly, he's clearly confused. "What happened?" I want to simultaneously punch and kiss his face. I'm in love with an idiot.

"Can't you read? The portrait was painted when I was five," I take a deep breath, if this conversation is about to go where I think it will; I'll need a lot of strength.

"What happened when you were five?" I give him the most straight face that I can pull off. I really hope he understands what I'm trying to say, I don't actually want to say it out loud. I try to convey a 'are you stupid?' look with my eyes. He's not getting it. He gets this face when he's struggling on Latin homework all the time when we're in the dorm.

"Snow, what year was it when we were both five?" Hopefully that should trigger his brain to function. He takes a second or two, to figure it out.

"2002." Crowley, he's thick. Surely he'd paid enough attention in Magickal History to know what happened? We spent multiple hours going over what happened and how that's affected both my family and the World of Mages.

"Yes. Well done. Now what tragedy happened in 2002?" Merlin and Morgana, why do I finally understand what Bunce has gone through these past six years?

"Um, wasn't there a fire or something similar that year? Or was there a vampire attack?" I want to envelope him in a hug and nod my head in the crook of his neck. He's trying to be cautious about what he's saying, it really fucking warms my slow beating heart.

"Yes. To both of those. I was there. My mother — the Headmistress — died that day," I hate to be so blunt about it; I lost a mother that day, almost everyone else lost a Headmistress, I had more of an emotional attachment to her. His eyes fall slightly, he's pitying me. I hate it.

"Wait a minute. Didn't you say that you had sisters?" I sigh, I want to laugh. Clearly the word "remarrying" isn't a part of his vocabulary. I'm not surprised at all at that. The edges of his lips downturn, morphing his sad smile into a confused frown.

"My father remarried." His eyes widen, making his face look more youthful, more innocent than I've ever seen him.

"Oh," I'll never stop saying this: I'm in love with an idiot. "Where am I? This room isn't what I expected from your big-ass manor."

"This is a room that only a select few know about, Snow, and now you are a part of that exclusive group." I try my best to withhold the sarcasm but it's basically written in my DNA to be sarcastic. (Obviously from my mother's side, my father doesn't even know the meaning of sarcasm.)

"My father commissioned some workers to build this room. It's hidden by a tapestry in the hallway, my sisters wouldn't even know where to look for the entrance or the key." Snow smiles a wide grin with his teeth visible. He looks younger like that, when he's truly happy. It's not very often that I see him like this so close — it's the first time actually, all the rest were from far away, quick glances.

He tries to sit up again, only this time, he succeeds, causing his already wide smile to widen further. The fire tans his skin, giving it a darker golden hue. I've never seen him tanned (he's always been a light gold — the lightest shade of gold that is almost white) and I know that it'll reappear in the future. (Only in my dreams and fantasies, though.) I look away when I realise that he's looking at me looking at him.




His face is glowing. The light from the fire is almost reflecting off his skin, tanning it to what I thought it'd look like if he wasn't Turned. (Which is pretty close to the reddish brown of his skin in the portrait on the wall.) Christ, he'd be hot. No, he is  hot. His hair is a shade of black which I can't describe. (I've heard some call it pitch black — which I find hilarious.) When the light hits just right, Baz's eyes are the warmest I've ever seen them.

A wound on my shoulder reopens, causing Baz to almost give himself whiplash with how quick his head turns. His lips, I want to feel them against mine so badly — they'd probably feel softer than a cloud, curl. He notices the reopening of the cut before I do. I want to puke just thinking about my blood and how much of it there is.

Creature blood doesn't affect me that much anymore; I've had to kill too many on the Mage's missions for it to make me feel anything less than sad for the loss of life. My own blood, however? I want to fucking puke up what little food I have in my stomach right back up.

He reaches for his wand before hesitating. "What," I tilt my head, "why'd you hesitate?"

"As good as I am at magic, I can't for the life of me cast healing spells. I usually don't need them and if I do, I go to Daphne who excels at any healing and household spells." Baz speaks, guilt lacing his voice. Of course, the graceful tosser compliments himself while admitting one of his few flaws.

My hand instinctively reaches over to lay on Baz's arm. He doesn't move away which is a good sign. Trying to push my magic into someone else is difficult to explain.

To Penny, it hurt like a lightning strike — or what she'd imagine one to feel like — and I don't want to hurt Baz more than I already have before. It's like a stiff gate — or at least that's what I imagine when doing this. You just have to put more force into the push to open it. Once it's open, it's easy to close. That's what I imagine my magic is like. Not like the fire that Baz describes it as.


He gasps at the feel of my magic. I'm staring into his eyes when they look up at me. They're slightly shiny, almost distant too. Both his perfectly straight eyebrows are raised in shock. "Simon... I feel like I can cast a sonnet." His voice is quiet but powerful. I tip back my head and laugh. Of course he's the only fucking one who can handle my magic pouring into them. Why does that not surprise me? It's one of the only times he's called me by my name, and not my last name, so I'm a little distracted by it when he speaks.

"That's enough." Baz speaks again, his voice harsher than I've heard it in a while. It makes me lift my head to look at him. He says it again and I stop my flowing magic, hoping that there's still enough of it for him to heal my wounds — which are still bleeding.

"Time heals all wounds."  He cast with his ivory wand, his voice powerful. His magic burns but not in a way that's painful; it almost tingles and feels like a warm hug. But hotter. I don't need to look at the skin where the wound was to know it's healed. I can feel  that it's healed. Baz's eyes widen when he looks at the wound before turning distant again.

I pull back my magic from him and I can physically see the difference from when he had my magic helping him out; he's less flushed and looks a lot more tired. "So, it's healed?" I can feel a smile coming onto my face as I speak. He rolls his distractingly gorgeous eyes.

"You bloody full well know it's healed, Snow. Since when have you been able to pour your magic into someone?" His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, I don't see this a lot — him being confused, that is — he always knows the answer to every question any of our teachers have asked him. He turns to look at me, so I turn my head away feigning curiosity at one of the many paintings on the walls.




He's not looking at me anymore, sadly. Asking that question cited a reaction that I did not expect; he started blushing and stuttering. "Glad to see you're still a bumbling buffoon, Snow." That stops the stuttering. He glares at me, it doesn't affect me anymore — after how many times he's glared at me, you could say that I'm immune to it.

"I've been able to pour magic into people for a while. The first time I tried it was in fifth year with Penny. It did not  end well," he looks guiltily at his hands.

"I won't ask further, but do know that I am curious. You've piqued my curiosity," his face, the glorious thing it is, goes back to its paler form. Seeing him blush always makes me think about how he got my half of magic. Of my soul without even realising it. I can't help myself and I try to catch his eyes with mine. I have to raise my head — I'm still sitting on the floor like a child in an assembly.

My head, for the entirety of our conversation, was raised upwards to see him. Hanging my head down to look at my lap, I can feel my neck aching terribly. You'd think that being a vampire is so cool; being able to see in the dark, not getting ill or having allergies. But no, you still need to drink water, eat some form of human food and do everything a human does to survive.

I reach to massage the back of my neck, hoping that it'll loosen the muscles there and stop the aching, at the same time Snow reaches for the same place. What is he doing? I lift my head when his too warm hand touches my ever cold skin. He doesn't recoil in shock of how my skin is colder than snow.




I lean down slowly, time slowing down. Baz's head is raised towards me slightly. His eyes are brighter than I've ever seen them. His mouth is open slightly, he'd call it a mouth breather.

I want to kiss him.

Since when have I  wanted that? Since when has he  wanted that? From the way his breathing speeds up, I feel like it's been a long time coming.

The floor doesn't look too comfortable and he's sitting cross-legged, I can't imagine why when he could be sitting on my lap. (The only place worthy enough for someone like him.)

My lips touch his, gently at first, causing him to gasp. Then I slowly put more force and energy into it. It's nothing like when I kissed Agatha, it's colder. Though it's cold, the room around us is burning hot, like fire and his magic. His body doesn't move, other than his head tilting up. Is it his first kiss? How in Morgana's name is this his first  kiss? I'd have thought that he'd have kissed a bunch of girls but then, from his reaction, that isn't who he's attracted to, is it?

He's a little sloppy; too much tongue and his nose bumps into mine once or twice, but it's cute. He's cute.

Baz reaches to grab my hair, as much as I want him to (among other things), I lean back to rest my back against the back of the sofa. Baz's lips are tinted pink, only slightly, but it's enough to be visible. I can't believe that I  did that. Me. Simon Snow. The only orphan in the World of Mages and that world's Chosen One.




We part from the too short kiss. My first kiss was with Simon "Chosen One" fucking "love of my life" Snow. Aleister Crowley, I'm living a charmed life. We kiss again, this one longer and more impatient than the first. He's still on the sofa, only he's leaning down to kiss me. (I hadn't moved from the floor since he woke up.)

I slowly start to stand up, while still kissing him. My hands rake through his curls, getting tangled in them. There's still a lot of blood matting his beautiful hair which I hadn't been able to get out without potentially waking him up or getting the sofa rather wet. His hands rest at my sides, pulling me in with urgent tugs at my shirt, causing it to come out from where I tucked it into my trousers.

There's no room on the sofa (it was a small but overly comfortable sofa that Father saw no need of replacing), so I sit in the next best seat: his lap. He shuffles forwards a tad, for me to rest my legs on his and to wrap my lower legs behind him in the space he'd left open. He smiles against my lips when I sit down.

He's doing this nice thing with his chin. Moving it up and down Tilting his head up and down. Was this what his kisses with Agatha were like? Did she teach him this? Whatever the answer is, I've got to send the girl flowers.

His hands gravitate towards my hair, pulling it out its bun (which was already slightly messed up due to my pillows.) He tugs ever so slightly on a couple of strands, pulling a whine from me. I'd be embarrassed if it had been the first sound he'd pulled out from me.

The kiss lasts longer than the first, but it's not too long before Simon has to breathe, causing me to sigh  against his lips. His hair is more disheveled than it's ever been. I like it like that. His lips are much redder than I've ever seen them, secretly I'm ecstatic that I'm the one who caused it.

I duck my head, resting it on his shoulder. With the little blood in my system, I'm not blushing (if I were fully human or had fed last night instead of the absolute nightmare that is Simon Snow, I would be flushing scarlet.)

"Snow— Simon, what are we?" Don't be a idiot now Snow, for the love of Morgana, don't say something stupid. He tilts his head like a puppy. Merlin, I just want to kiss him forever.

I tilt my head towards him, he looks up at me. I don't want to move out of his lap, he's way too comfortable for someone so skinny. "Gay, I suppose."

Crowley, of all fucking things to say. However, he isn't wrong. I shake my head a little, messing up my already tousled hair, chuckling to myself. "You idiot," I point at myself and then him. "I meant what are we, boyfriends, roommates who kiss every so often or..." I trail off, letting him fill in the blank.

He looks away for a second, his face still cherry red, before looking back at me. He hand rises to touch my cheek — he's caressing my cheek, I really am  living a charmed life. "Boyfriends." He says with conviction. I can tell that he's also speaking as if it's a question — I can recognise that voice easily after hearing it many times over the years as his roommate and classmate.

I'm probably smiling like a fool. (I don't care.) (If he brings it up in the future, I will deny this with my entire being.) All I can do is nod my head against his shoulder before placing a quick kiss over his neck in a mole that I've wanted to kiss since we were fifteen. (I'm afraid I might bite.)




We spend the next hour or so kissing, with me trying to pull out new sounds from Baz every so often. At one point, I lean away so that our lips are almost touching but aren't and he whines (not realising that he'd whined), trying to get more kisses. It is the cutest sound that I've ever gotten out of him (not that I've gotten loads of cute sounds out of him before, there were more angry grunts than anything else.) If he had the ability to blush, he would be red and he would look majestic.

I pull  away, not wanting to but I remembered that my clothes were covered in blood and needed to be changed. "Baz, love, I need to change out of these clothes, they're filthy." His eyes, the lovely shade of grey that they are, almost melt at the pet name. I've got  to remember that if it gets him to look at me like that. When he realises what I've said, he rolls his eyes in the typical Baz fashion before getting off my lap.

"For once, Snow, you're not wrong. You could do with a whole new wardrobe by the looks of your casual wear at Watford." I blush lightly, it's not my fault that the Mage (even though he is  legally my adopted father) never brought me new clothes. It was always the children's homes job to find second hand clothes from other children or charity shops. In the past couple of years, the clothes have gotten better (though not by much.)

"We'll need to know who's where in the manor before even thinking about leaving this room. Any one of the young ones could be around the corner from the entrance, we need to be stealthy." He grabs his wand, which was laid next to us on the right armrest and casts Show me, show me  (a spell that I have never heard of before.)

The effect of the spell reminds me of those Star Wars  holograms when they hold a High Council meeting where the image of Yoda or someone is static-y. It shows all the floors — including the attic which has the one room. He points with his index finger to where we are and where we need to be. I hadn't realised that we were underground until he pointed out two blue dots close together.

"It's going to be difficult with so many people in the house at once." I speak, voicing my thoughts out loud. Baz smirks and turns to me and says,

"Surely Snow, in all your time at Watford, you've snuck out at least one time? I've lost count of how many times I did in first year." My face must have some look of shock as he laughs almost a second later. His laugh is deep and beautiful and much prettier than Agatha's. He covers his mouth as he laughs, just like he does when he eats (I guess it's a habit at this point.)

"You really haven't? Seriously? In first year alone, I went to the old nursery too many times that I lost count." His face schools into the calm and serious face that I'm used to seeing at school. It throws me off guard, I've gotten so used to seeing him smiling in the past hour or so that I hate his cold face even more than I already did (which was quite a lot.)

The old nursery? Surely that's not really at Watford, I overheard Penny and Agatha talking about it once. "The old nursery?" I don't want to ask but I know if I don't know, it won't come up in a conversation again.

"Yes. It's where all the children of the staff would go during the day. I went there as my mother was the headmistress of the school when I was born."




Getting to my room was a hassle which I hope to never attempt in the near future. Evading Vera, my father, Daphne, Mordelia and the troublesome twins was a challenge that I never want to face again. Luckily, my room is near the hidden room. (The hidden room's stairs are located underneath the staircase opposite my room), making it fairly easy to get up onto the first floor.

The first floor presented the challenge. It was early morning when I deemed Snow fit enough to walk up to my room. The only people that should be up would be my father, Vera and potentially Daphne. My father and Daphne's room is on the other side of the floor, making it logical for them both to use the other set of stairs. Vera's room, however, is on the ground floor.

Walking up the stairs, I could feel Snow's eyes on my back.




His arse looks so fucking good in those jeans.

It's all I can think about when we're walking up the elegant stairs which definitely do not have creepy gargoyles carved into the banister.

He's all I can think about — not that I wasn't like this before, there was a reason that Penny started the "only 15% of our conversations can be about Baz" quota.

I didn't notice them before now — I was too busy focusing on how not to bleed out — but holy mother of Merlin does he look hot.

Baz's room is across from the top of the stairs and I can already tell that it's posher than anything I've seen yet. His door has an arch over it, for Crowley's sake, what could be posher than that?

Down the corridor, we both hear a door opening, so we quickly walk to his door, with him opening it and letting me in quickly, before entering the room himself.

The room itself was very Baz; it had a dark burgundy carpet covering a pale wood floor. The walls are dark and he has windows taking up two walls, giving the room natural lighting. There is no chipping paint or broken furniture like there have been at almost all of the children's homes I've been to. If anything, the furniture looks all too new, too showcase-y.

His bed is huge.  Like four times the size of the beds at Watford. It reminds me of the beds from Harry Potter, old and wooden with curtains older than your parents. Around the edge are more  gargoyles. Who needs that many of the creepy fuckers in their house? His bedsheets are a light blue, almost snow white with how light they are. His duvet cover is a blue-grey, it's the lightest thing in the room.

There's a door leading out onto a balcony bit on the left wall. Would he call it a balcony, or is there some fancy posh name for it? I mean, he calls a garage, a carriage house. I look out the window to see more, but the balcony is empty; no chairs or anything are on it.

As I'm looking around, I can feel his eyes following my every move. He opens the door for a second to poke his head out of it and the smell of freshly baked bread wafts through the air. I start to head towards it before Baz reaches out, hand on my stomach to stop me. I forget that I'm not at a children's home where it's almost always a first come, first serve deal with good food.

There's a hatch in the ceiling, in the furthest corner away from the door, with a cord that dangles high enough that his younger siblings probably can't reach it. He pulls the cord and a ladder falls down. From what I can see — which isn't that much from where I'm standing, it has his wardrobe and calm study area. Of course, the bastard has an upstairs to his room. Should I be calling him a tosser if we're dating?

He bows and gestures for me to climb up first. Baz is smirking while he bows, telling me that he's plotting something in his favour. As I climb up, I can actively feel his eyes looking at my arse. I guess it's payback from earlier?

The room upstairs is exactly what I'd expect to see; on my left and right, the walls are covered in books. A ladder is propped up against the wall behind the opening and opposite me is another wall with an arched door. The books reach all the way to the top of the ceiling, right where (by the looks of it) the roof is.

The room smells like old books, not badly and in a way that's calming. From the titles that I can see, there are advanced textbooks and Normal story books. I wonder if he's read all of them and how many times.

Baz climbs up behind me, lighting the candles with Make a wish . He makes it look so easy. He makes everything  look so easy.

To my left is another worn sofa, similar to the one in the hidden room, only this time it's a dark brown colour — unlike the light beige colour of the one in the hidden room. It has a bookmarked book resting on an armrest. There are no light switches in this room, only unlit candles on the walls.

Next to the sofa is a modern mini fridge. It's the newest thing in the room. On top of it are a few empty glasses waiting to be used.

The door leads to a wardrobe with a bathroom connected to it on the right. There's sections for each item of clothing. On one wall is literally only ties and shoes. How many shoes does one man need?




Before tackling the disaster  that he calls clothing, his hair needs to be washed. (And maybe cut.) There's dried blood matting his beautiful golden curls. I will  save those curls, no matter what. I lead him towards my private bathroom that only I have access to (as the entrance is the ladder in my room.)

He's staring at everything from the walls (which are chiseled quartz) to the decorative flora. (Which he strokes a couple with the delicacy of as if it were a newly born baby.)  His eyes are wide with fascination, a look that I've only seen once; in our first year of school and we were learning the basics which I had learnt aged five.

I want to capture this moment forever.

(If only there was a spell for that; a spell which conjures a camera to remember special moments like these. I should research that later.)

The furthest wall from the door holds my shower bath. He audibly gasps at the sight of it. I guess in a children's home it's one or the other.

"Snow, before even attempting  to rectify the mistake that is your outfit, we need to get that blood out of your hair before it ruins  your curls," I speak, "do you want to wash your own hair or do you need my assistance like my youngest sister Acantha?"

He blushes ruby red. "I, I can wash my own hair. Just show me how to work this thing," He gestures to the shower bath with a wave of his hand. "Though, if you're offering…" He trails off with hints of a small smile on his face. So he did  catch my little longing to touch his hair more.

"Come on them, Snow. We don't have all day," I say, teasing him slightly as I walk towards the shower bath. I grab everything that I need (good quality shampoo and conditioner that should help his damaged curls not die out from not being cared for.)

He leans over the edge of the shower, not bothering to take off his t-shirt. (A shame, really.) He looks at me quickly, while I reach for the showerhead, smiling once before turning his head back.

While wetting his hair, I try not to touch any of the blood. (Vampire. Remember?) It's difficult as I have to move parts of his hair to get to the blood.

Once his hair is wetter than he was when he arrived, I grab my shampoo bottle. As soon as I open it, the idiot smiles. "Same scent as back at school?" If he could raise a single eyebrow, which I know he can't, he would be doing so right now. And fuck  would he look hot.

"Yes, Snow. This is my bathroom, if you wanted a different scent you could just ask," I say. He shakes his head, getting water everywhere like a dog.




Holy fuck are his hands soft. I expected them to be dry and kind of weird. (I don't know why, maybe because he's a pyro.) But they aren't. They're softer than anything I've ever felt — which isn't that difficult as the beds at the children's homes aren't the most comfortable thing.

He's massaging the shampoo into my hair with his hands. I'm definitely  going to need him to do this again at some point.

He stops suddenly and I can't help but to frown. No one's done it before — Agatha surely didn't and Penny doesn't really do physical affection. I don't look at him in the few seconds between his hands moving out of my hair and the water turning on.

He does the same with conditioner. My eyes fall shut at the feeling of his hands. But like before, it ends all too quickly and I'm left leaning over the edge alone. It isn't long before he comes back, this time with the fluffiest looking towel I have ever seen.

"Your hair has gotten rather long since school finished for the year. Did you forget to buzz it like you usually do?" Baz asks me as I'm towel drying my hair.

"Not exactly. The Mage wanted me to do something on the last day of term and I didn't have enough time to buzz it. I also wasn't allowed to at the children's home; the youngest children liked to play with my hair and braid it, so, I just didn't."

"Do you want to trim it? I can get everything you need to do so from downstairs," Baz asks. He's calmer than usual. Maybe because of the hair washing?

"No. Thanks though. I'd rather just keep it at this length and cut it during the school year. Less hassle that way." He nods, maybe in agreement, before gesturing to the open door with his hand.

He follows me through and immediately walks towards where the shirts and t-shirts are. Why am I not surprised that they're in order of lightest to darkest? He grabs a couple of t-shirts and holds one towards me, with a look of wonder on his face.




His clothes, as nice as they are on him (they're not actually that nice or good looking) are fucked. There are more rips and stains (from both blood and food by the looks of it) than clean areas. It would be nice to see him in my clothes rather than to see him in the items he calls clothes (some, like that t-shirt, are starting to become threadbare.) Surely the Mage could spend some  money on him to buy new clothes, Watford always  has enough to spare at the end of each year, couldn't he just take some of that money and buy Snow some new clothes?

I offer Snow (I should really start calling him Simon in my head, we are  together after all, but the name Snow fits him in indescribable ways) an olivaceous t-shirt to wear and he goes to the bathroom to change. What I would give up to see what is happening in the bathroom. (He probably has more moles and freckles on his stomach and back.)

I rarely wore it before it didn't fit me so it's basically brand new. He comes strolling out the bathroom with the jacket over his shoulder and the threadbare t-shirt in his left hand. The length is perfect. His shoulders stretch the shirt somewhat and it hugs his upper arms nicely.  It never looked that  good when I wore it. He stretches slightly and the shirt lifts to reveal some of his stomach. (Which does have more moles.)

There's a small cluster of them sitting just nicely above the hem of his low-hanging, ruined jeans. It reminds me of the constellation Cassiopeia. Above those moles are a few freckles and scars dotted around his waist. Small scars flow under his jeans, at his sides, overlapping each other. Some look newer than others.

Did he? If so, when? Was it before we went to Watford? Or was it after? I want to ask him so many questions but I know, from overhearing Bunce's avid questioning during mealtime, that he'll sink into himself and avoid answering.

I turn around, not wanting him to see me staring at his body. I put the other t-shirts back in order (one was a similar colour to the one he's wearing, I had a hunch that he would look stunning in olive green.) I store the image of his scars at the back of my brain, ready to ask at a later date.The other t-shirts were an array of blues and maroons, colours that I weren't sure if they would suit him or not.

The jeans I pass to him, he cuffs a few times, I am taller than him after all.  Darker than his eyes but not as dark as they could be, they fit him well. Unlike the first pair which were form-fitting (to my body), they'd fitted rather abysmally. I snorted when he came out of my ensuite, shuffling out the door and I endeavoured to hold in my laugh but it was more difficult than when I pretended to 'hate' him.

He laughs along with me before gesturing for me to pass him a different pair, blushing profusely. I burn the image of him in my jeans into my retinas before I reluctantly pass him a different pair.

Seeing him in my clothes is a fantasy that I never thought would see the light of day. It's one of those fantasies that is rarely thought of but sincerely cherished and now, to actually see it in the flesh, it is doing wonders for my head and heart. He is definitely not  returning those clothes.

While he's putting on the jeans, I look for socks and shoes that will fit him. I have plenty of socks that will fit him, but it's the shoes that I'm more concerned about; we're different sizes (him being a size smaller) and I only have shoes my size up here.

I rummage around for the oldest pair of good shoes that I own (a pair of black Doc Martens that were clearly a gift from Fiona.) They should fit him well enough.

He walks out the ensuite confidently, the jeans fit well enough to show off the muscles in his legs, smirking as he does. He's rolled the short sleeves up ever so slightly and Merlin , does he look hot. I haven't seen him this confident in a long time; before he was quite quiet (due to presumably a failed mission given to him from the dick himself.) My mouth goes dry as he pushes his hand through his bouncing curls. I can't stop myself before letting out a small gasp — which makes him smirk more. I compose myself quickly.

 "I do have to give it to you, Snow, you clean up extremely well," he looks way  too good. He smiles and the hand that's empty reaches up and scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly. I've noticed, over the years of being his roommate, that that is his go to response when complimented.

I pass him the shoes and socks, imagining the whole outfit put together and, once I've finished swooning , he's crouching down to tie the laces. How does he make crouching look so hot ? His arm muscles flex as he does so. When he notices that I am watching him (and more specifically, his arms) he flexes them more. My breath hitches. This is definitely  going to become a regular appearance, that's for sure. Even if it means buying him almost the exact same outfit multiple times.

He stands up and, eight snakes and a fucking  dragon, is he hot. I can't move (as much as I want to so I can kiss him) without feeling like my knees will collapse. My face must express my thoughts as he's tilting his head and smirking. (I feel like he's trying to imitate me with the smirk.)

"Uhhh Baz? You alright there?" He asks, clearly confused about my reaction. I can answer him but my voice doesn't seem to want to cooperate with my brain. My mouth is still open. He's never seen me like this; I did my best to only  rant about how hot he looked to Dev and Niall — this happened a lot over the years and they've surely gotten sick of hearing the same thing repeatedly.

I nod once, causing him to smile. He swings his jacket (the only clothing item of his that isn't nearing its end) over his shoulder like before and I can't help myself from walking around him in a circle, a hand lightly trailing his shoulders. He cowers slightly into himself as I do this.

Once back to where I was originally standing, with my hands by my sides, I kiss his cheek (there's a mole there that I've always wanted to kiss.) "Simon," I exhale lightly, "you look stunning. I demand that you keep these clothes."

"Oh, okay." His face erupts into becoming a tomato. His nose scrunches a little, it's unnaturally cute on him.