“Crowley, Snow, let me focus, please .”
Simon Snow has the attention span of a fruit fly. And yes, that was incredibly clear while we were at Watford together, with his inability to sit still to study or to pay attention for more than a few minutes at a time in classes. Unfortunately for me, it’s gotten worse since then.
I like to study at Simon and Penelope’s flat, partly because Simon doesn’t like to leave and partly because they always have really great snacks (that’s more for Simon’s benefit than anyone else’s, but I like to take advantage of it sometimes). Plus, if I sit in the living room while reading my textbooks, Simon will inevitably lie on top of me and curl his tail around my leg. Sometimes he falls asleep there, his curls splayed across my neck, and arms tucked underneath my shirt, snoring softly into my skin.
That usually makes it all worth it.
Today it’s absolutely not worth it. Simon has had three cold brews and he’s bouncing off of the walls. My stupid boyfriend won’t stop occupying the majority of my brain, which really should be full of French verb conjugations.
“I’m just asking a question, Baz!” Simon defends himself, running his fingers along the outside of my thigh. I refuse to flinch away, even if I’m a little ticklish there (and he knows it). He’s lying on his stomach with his face pressed into my upper thigh, wings lazily spread out across the top of the sofa.
“One that you know I don’t have the answer to,” I insist, tapping my pen against the edge of my notebook.
“You’re the one person I know who might have the answer.”
“You’re best friends with the biggest know-it-all in the world.”
“Don’t talk about Penny like that.” He’s still smiling a bit so I know he’s not really offended.
I sigh and uncap my pen, doodling on the edge of my paper. “I don’t know how caffeine affects magic use, Snow, I’ve never noticed a change. I’m also dead so that probably skews the results.”
Simon momentarily forgets to bother me about his idiotic question. “You’re not dead.”
I roll my eyes a little bit. “Right.” My state of being, set somewhere between life and death, is the thing Simon and I argue about the most, even when we’re discussing something else, clearly. I’d like to believe that I know more than him on the matter because it’s happening to me and not to him, but he says that I’m biased.
“You’re not,” he insists, shifting off of his stomach so he can kneel on the couch next to me.
“We’ve had this argument before,” I remind him, finishing up my little doodle of a certain dragon boy in the corner of my paper.
“I know we have and I’m right every time.”
“I’m the dead vampire, Snow, I know more than you.”
Simon and I are both equally terrible at ending arguments or conceding to the other person, so I know I should take one for the team and step down, but this argument comes second nature to me at this point.
“You’re biased to think that because it’s been ingrained in you for your whole life.”
“By people who are generally pretty smart and know what they’re talking about.”
Simon opens his mouth to respond but I lean forward and kiss him to make him shut the hell up. “Hey, can we not argue about this right now?”
Simon looks like he wants to argue more. (He kind of looks like that all the time). He holds onto his thoughts though and lies back down, dropping his head onto my thigh again. I reach over to run my fingers through his hair softly as I turn my attention back to my notebook, trying to focus on my work.
Of course, Simon doesn’t let that happen. He turns his head to press in the crease of my hip, seemingly just breathing me in. It feels nice and pleasantly un-distracting until he pushes up my shirt a little bit to kiss my hip.
I shove at his head a little bit. “Snow,” I warn. “I’m studying.”
“Study later,” he demands, leaning his head up to look at me.
“You should be studying, too, idiot.”
“I don’t have a test until next week.”
“Well, I have one tomorrow. Please let me work?”
“You’re a wet blanket.”
“ No, I’m a good student.”
“Certainly not a well-rounded one,” he grumbles. “You know, most people in Uni go out to parties sometimes and pay attention to their boyfriends.”
I roll my eyes.
Simon sits up and kisses me on the forehead before going to the kitchen. I hear him knocking around (his wings have that effect) and I try to tune it out.
“Hey, Baz?” Simon calls out.
I sigh angrily and drop my pen, pressing my hands against my notebook in frustration. “You know, nobody bothered me this much when I was in a coffin for two months.”
Simon is silent.
I feel a little bad, but a least I have some peace. Finally.
I realize I’ve been adding hearts around my previous doodle for the past five minutes since Simon has gone completely quiet. I set my notebook down on the coffee table (I’m not gonna get any work done anyway) and turn around. Simon’s sitting on the edge of the counter, his feet dangling in the air, with his hands stuck in a bag of rolls.
I smile softly.
“Hey,” I say, standing up and walking around the couch so I can get to the counter and press myself between Simon’s legs. He moves the bag out of his lap so I can press right up against him. His tail curves around the back of my thigh.
“Hey.” Simon’s mouth is full of bread, but I kiss him quickly anyway.
“Are you alright?” I ask, pressing my hands against the outside of his thighs.
Simon nods his head, finishing his roll and swallowing harshly. “Yeah. Sorry for bothering you.”
I kiss his forehead. “It’s okay. I’d much rather discuss the nuances of magic being affected by coffee with you than study conjugated verbs.”
Simon smiles and hums. “Speak French to me, darling.”
I press my mouth against his, softly placing my hands up his hips so I can kiss him harder. He responds immediately and intensely, slinging his arms over my shoulders. I don’t know whose mouth opens first or whose tongue initiates, but we’re snogging easily, Simon pulling away every once in a while to take in a shaky breath.
I pull back, moving my hands back down to hold the tops of his thighs. “Sorry I’m not fluent yet,” I breathe, grinning.
“You seem pretty fluent to me,” Simon laughs (maybe my favorite sound ever). “Have I ever mentioned how hot it is that you’re learning French?”
“You could stand to mention it more.”
“It would be hotter if you ever spoke some to me.”
I roll my eyes and lean forward to breathe into his ear, “ Va te faire foutre.”
“What does that mean?” he asks, tugging his head back a bit.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Simon’s eyes widen, processing before he laughs loudly and slaps my shoulder. “Eat my ass, Baz.”
“Later,” I promise, smirking.
Simon smiles, pressing his forehead against mine.
“What were you going to say to me earlier?” I ask, referencing when I’d cut him off for bothering me too much.
Simon blushes. “Was just gonna say I love you.”
I spend the rest of the night being spooned by Simon fucking Snow. He holds onto me so fiercely that I feel like my ribs might crack and honestly, I’m okay with that. I would personally crack every single one of my ribs for this boy. We fall asleep on the couch together, my French homework completely forgotten, discussing the possible connection between performance enhancement drugs with magic (Simon said it was a natural progression of our conversation about caffeine).
I pass my test the next day with flying colors. And Simon’s right, I could probably get away with less studying.