Chapter Text
Simon
This is my year.
I was never good enough before. But this year, I’m more than good—I’m determined.
Baz stares me down his nose. His offensive stance meets my defensive stance.
His half of the team has won the coin toss, but I’m going to win my way onto this team.
There’s only one thing standing in my way—a hateful vampire who’s hell-bent on making sure I don’t have an ounce of fun in my life. His grey eyes are shooting bullets into mine. A cocky, vicious smile is pulling at the corner of his left lip.
He thinks this is going to be easy. He thinks he can out-maneuver me before I can blink. His overconfidence is written into the quirk of his eyebrow.
He doesn’t know I spent the summer at the rec gym, doing nothing but training. He doesn’t know that I woke up at dawn every morning to run three miles. He doesn’t know that I’m a threat.
Good. I love to catch him unawares.
The whistle blows, and Baz is in motion.
But so am I.
I pretend to go left when Baz is going right.
Baz advances, trying to make his way down the field immediately, not bothering to pass to Niall or Dev. He never thinks he needs someone else—why bother with an assist when you’re the best player on the team?
So I strike.
I abandon my fake to scoop the ball out from out from him and kick it sideways to Gareth.
I hear Baz’s inhalation of breath, a mixture of shock and outrage. I don’t see his facial expression, but I imagine it’s a scowl. It’s not hard to picture—his eyebrows furrowed, that smirk wiped right off his face as he realises his plot has been amputated at the knees.
Gareth runs forward right away, dancing around Niall—he wasn’t expecting this play. The gobsmacked expression on his face tells me that he clearly expected Baz to dominate us and make his way to the goal before we had time to blink.
But I’m running around Baz’s team, halfway across their half of the field before they can find their bearings. Gareth kicks the ball to me, and I head towards the goalie.
The goalie has time to realise we’re on his side of the field. That’s made clear by his crouched stance.
But it’s also clear that’s he’s expecting an ameteur move from me. Something like my show of (lack of) skill I had back in fifth year, when I first tried out for Watford’s football team. Back when I wasn’t committed.
I aim for the right side of the net, and the goalie dives for it.
He’s too late. I hit the left side of the net.
My team cheers as Coach calls it as a goal.
I’m not looking at my team as they scream at the triumph. I’m looking at my roommate.
He’s still in the middle of the field, and he’s the picture of rage.
I smile, cocking my head the way he always does when I screw something up so spectacularly that there is no way to spin it.
Then I run to the middle of the field, ready to do it again.
________________________________
It wasn’t a perfect game. Baz wizened up after that first play. I showed him I wasn’t the same player at eighteen as I was at fifteen. Our teams ended up tied for points, and I’d never admit it to him, but that draw was the biggest victory of my life.
Especially given that as soon as I was walking off the field, smiling like I won the Cup, Coach clapped me on the shoulder.
“You’re on the team, son. We practice Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”
I looked to Baz as Coach spoke, and his storm cloud expression buoyed me on my walk to the locker room.
I’m going to spend my last year at Watford as a normal schoolboy. Or as normal as a Chosen One—with the power of a magical bomb, with a 12-year old evil version of myself roaming out there—can be.
I’m about to enter the double doors and meet my long-awaited shower, when Agatha calls my name.
I turn with a smile, which drops as soon as I see her face.
Her tone is solemn as she says, “we need to talk.”
Simon
Three years. Over in five minutes.
I use my sword to sloppily cut my palm to open the lock on my bedroom door, too angry to risk using magic. I stomp into the room and lay face down on my bed, and let out a frustrated groan into my pillow.
I was so nervous to see Agatha all summer, ever since I saw her holding hands with Baz in the Wavering Woods before the Humdrum summoned me—and Penny, since she was touching me.
I was angry the first week of summer break, spending all hours of the day fantasizing about re-breaking Baz Pitch’s nose.
I was sad the second week, tearing up every time I so much thought about Baz and Agatha. Thinking Baz and Agatha holding hands became thinking about Baz and Agatha laughing at the Club this summer. Which became an images of them kissing , which was so horrible and wrong and awful to think about that my skin would itch at the thought.
I just had to turn my brain off completely by the third week so I wouldn't go crazy.
I had to exercise the pain out.
I spent the rest of summer too sore to focus on anything other than my screaming muscles. I trained so hard for the football team that I threw up three separate times after three separate too-long training sessions.
By the end of the holidays, I felt strong. But I missed Watford and my magical life so much I wanted to forget the whole scene I’d spied on, and go back to my version of normal.
“Hi, Ags!” I said, smiling, ignoring the squirm of my stomach when I remembered Baz’s smug face when he noticed me watching him and Agatha. I went in for a kiss but she held me back by putting her hand on my chest.
“Simon!” She exclaimed, looking downwards in sudden distraction. “Crowley, are you okay!?”
I sighed. I forgot that my knees were skinned with blood. “Yeah, yeah.” I responded dismissively. “Football tryouts are just intense.”
“ That intense?” Agatha asked, in disbelief.
“Well, yeah.” I said, nonchalantly. “Baz was on the other side. I had to give it my all.”
Agatha huffed, and it annoyed me a bit. She’s not the one who had to go against a vampire. “Typical.” She muttered, kicking a rock on the ground with her eyes downcast.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, confused by her bitter tone.
“Simon.” She said, with her bad-news sigh. “I think we should break up.”
The world stopped turning for a minute. I thought I must have misheard her, or that she was joking—but the frown on her face told me otherwise.
“Why?” I demanded. “Is it because of Baz?”
“Not everything is because of Baz.” Agatha said with an eye roll, but her cheeks went pink.
“Are you going to be with him now?”
Agatha threw her hands up. “I don’t know. I just know I don’t want this.”
“Aggie, he’s evil !” I insisted.
“This isn’t about him. This is about me. I don’t want to be—be—” she does air quotes and says, “The Chosen One’s Girl. I just want to be me.”
“And you can’t be yourself with me?”
She looked sorry. I’ll give her that.
“Simon, I care about you so much. But we’re not happy. We haven’t been happy in a long time.”
“I’m happy!” It doesn't sound very convincing, considering how angrily I've yelled it.
Agatha just sighed, and said, “I’m sorry”, and walked away.
So now I’ve been dumped, all because of Basilton Pitch.
Baz
It's too difficult not to antagonize Simon Snow.
I tell myself every time I let him get to me to just ignore him. I've told myself for three summers now that it will do me no good to get any more of his attention. That it will hurt more if I engage. That pissing him off just so he'll talk to me is ludicrous. I've concluded that cutting myself off from him as completely as possible is the solution more times than I can count.
He's my roommate, but I don't have to speak to him, really, I tell myself, Just stop pretending to fancy his girlfriend, and teasing him in class, and staring at him across the dining hall, and fantasizing about him calling you darling, and—
Okay, it was a long list, but I thought if I just banned the entire subject of Simon Snow from my mind, it could be do-able.
I promised myself this summer that there was no way I was touching myself to Simon Snow. Okay, I broke it once or twice. Or three dozen times. But it was nowhere near as bad as the summer after fifth year, so I'm appreciating my improvement. Small miracles, and all. I thought that if I deprived myself of the sex-crazed thoughts, then all of my Simon-Snow-flavored thoughts would go away.
I never last more than an hour without thinking of Simon Snow.
If it wasn't erotic thoughts, it was unbearably sweet ones. The way he looks when he laughs unselfconsciously. The time I saw him swimming and splashing with Bunce in the river a hot spring day. The time he got an answer right in Magickal Politics, and his face was split in a grin so wide I thought it would break his face.
I did everything I could to not think of him naked, and he still popped into my head at least a dozen times a day.
And then he showed up to the pitch the first day back, before he even made his way up to our room. He proved that he can actually play football. By the end, I was even using my vampire strength a bit, and he still tied with me.
It was so sexy.
Crowley, I'm pathetic.
And now, he's in our room, and he's fucking crying, and I want to ask what's wrong.
I wouldn't even be here, usually. I usually come on Sunday nights—tomorrow—but I made Fiona drive me here early. I've been staying with her for two weeks, ever since Father thought it prudent to bring up potential girlfriends for me. He knows I'm gay. I told him over Christmas break in fifth year, but he still insists on me finding a future wife sometime this year.
Even so, I didn't say anything to him as he gushed about how lovely the Hawkes girl is last Saturday. I just politely stayed quiet, and I shot a look at Fiona that clearly told her to do the same. But once my Father mentioned the birth-giving hips the girl had, Fiona lost it.
'He's gay , Malcolm,' Fiona said, throwing her hands up in clear frustration, 'what the fuck does Baz care about birth-giving hips?'
I agreed with Fiona, and wanted to give a cool, unaffected single-raised eyebrow in defense. But since I had just fed before family dinner, my red cheeks had given my emotion away. I gave a blushing single-raised eyebrow raise nonetheless.
My father didn't look taken aback by Fiona's outburst. He was as composed as ever. It annoyed the fuck out of me. 'Surely his mother would have wanted him to produce heirs, Fiona-'
He should have known that any mention of my mother only served to make Fiona more mad.
'Don't you dare,' Fiona said through gritted teeth, 'use my sister to give you an excuse to insult Basil. Don't you dare. "
That's when Aunt Fi took me by the hand and dragged me out to her Aston Martin. She had to buy me a whole new wardrobe for the school year the next day, because she refused to take me back home to my Father. She just kept mumbling phrases like 'homophobic piece of shit' and 'backwards, outdated wanker' as we bought Burberry button-ups. I had to cancel a tennis session with Dev, because she wouldn’t even take me to the Club.
Now, I'm back at Watford and I thought the last couple of weeks would have set me straight on priorities, but I guess not.
He still insists on showing up everywhere. On the pitch, in our room. He still insists on being irresistible, whether he’s being fierce or absolutely pathetic.
I still want to go over to him, and stroke his bronze curls, and wipe the tears off his perfect face, and say 'I'll punch whoever made you feel this sad'. Though, as to not be a hypocrite, I'd probably have to punch myself a hundred times, given the number of times I've made Snow cry.
I'd do it, if it'd made him smile.
Maybe I could say something nice now. Flip the script. I could try to be friends with him this year, and then, maybe…?
“Are you trying to eat your pillow?” I blurt out, contemptuously, forgetting every one of my promises to myself.
Fuck. Or, I can keep on being a right prick.
Simon
A posh, velvet voice from behind me interrupts my crying session.
Speak of the devil , I think to myself mutinously. I quickly wipe my tears to see Baz leaning against the frame. I can't read his expression until he throws on his self-satisfied smirk as soon as I turn to him.
I didn’t expect him back today. He’s not usually back until the night before classes. He’s guaranteed a spot on the football team, on account of being their star player. He hasn’t shown up to tryouts since forth year.
It was a joy to see him absent from my disaster of my first tryout. That was embarrassing, and today’s performance was a meteoric improvement. I could’ve ended today in triumph, if it weren’t for this moment. I’m certainly not glad he’s seeing this .
Especially when he says, “Crowley, Snow, I know well as anyone how ravenous you are, but this is too far, even for you. You don’t want to spoil your dinner.”
I jump to my feet and he backs up against the wall, his wand dropping from his jumper sleeve into his hand cooly.
I want to punch him so badly. But I don’t particularly want to end up outside the Watford gates, so I punch the wall instead.
The pain startles a gasp out of me. I shake the plaster off my knuckles as I try to catch my breath.
I’m scowling, but he just laughs.
“Get well soon, Snow,” he sounds sarcastic as he casts the spell to fix my hand, but it works nonetheless. Talented git.
“You.” I snarl. “Stay away from Agatha.”
“Oh, Wellbelove is already here? Lovely,” he says with a mocking smirk, like he hasn’t seen her yet. Like he didn’t cause this. “We have so much to catch up on.”
"Stay away.”
"Sure, Snow. I won't approach her." Baz raises an eyebrow at me. "But I can't promise she won't approach me. "
I shove him up against the wall in retaliation. He doesn't see it coming, somehow, so I'm able to knock his wand out of his hand. I have my hands on either side of his smug face, and I lean it close, and say as menacing as possible, "Baz Pitch, so help me Gods.”
“You’d certainly need the Gods’ help, as hopeless as you are.”
“I will ruin you,” I growl at him, only inches from his face.
I think he's going to laugh it off like he usually does, but he doesn't. He gets an unusual look on his face—almost like he's nervous, or something. He takes a dramatic gulp, and I see his Adam's apple bounce in his long slender neck.
I notice then he has something sharp in his pocket, and I frown and look down to make sure it isn’t a weapon. But his pockets to his trousers are flat, like they’re empty, so what’s poking me in the stomach…?
And that’s when I realize—
Baz is hard.
Baz
I think I’m going to set myself on fire.
Simon Snow has just looked down, and realized that I have a hard-on.
I think I’m going to self combust. If the Gods are real, they are all laughing at me.
His face was confused, at first. Then, when he saw the bulge in my pants, his eyes got saucer-wide. Now he’s gaping at me with his mouth wide open—unfortunately, the look is so erotic I feel myself getting even harder.
Aleister Crowley, I hate myself.
I bite my lip to suppress a groan. He hasn’t backed away from me even an inch; he still has his hands on either side of my head, his body against mine. I logically know that I can throw him off with my vampire strength—but I’m in shock, my brain is off, I can’t think.
I can’t think of anything other than Simon Snow feels my hard on. Simon Snow knows I’m hard for him.
He was just looking so fit and passionate and it had been so long since I saw him. It’s got to do with the fact that I saw him on the pitch, kicking that ball around like he’s spent years training. Like he improved just to show me how impressive he is.
I would have felt this even if he didn’t show up like a titan this morning. Simon Snow impresses me when he so much as sneezes. Anyone with a sense for magical power can feel his strength.
When I made it my mission to not wank to thoughts of Snow, I didn’t anticipate it would leave me so starved for erotic thoughts of him that I’d get hard the moment he growled at me. Add those shorts, and it’s a given my body would react to his.
Why did he have to push his whole body against me? Why does crying make his eyes so much more blue?
I regret the deer I drained this morning, because I feel my cheeks heating up, and I know my pale skin must be approaching pink. I wish my body would have taken the blood from my erection rather than my wherever it took it from. It would have been nice not to be able to want him.
I try to blame his sweet-smelling blood. He’s got it all over his knees and elbows and palms. I made him work for the tie, if anything. I made him work for his spot on the team. I made him work for his ability to worm his way into the one place I had relief from him.
Snow’s face hardens, and I think he’s going to punch me.
Oh, fuck, oh, fuck. Should I kiss him before he kills me? Oh fuck, wait, if he kills me-- if he even punches me—he’ll be expelled from Watford.
“Anathema,” I choke out, but it’s no use, because he lunges towards me anyway, and I think he’s going to headbutt me, when—
His lips are on mine. Simon Snow is kissing me.
Simon
I think, at first, I might have made a mistake. Because Baz isn’t kissing me back. His lips are frozen against mine. Oh Crowley, he’s going to kill me , I’m fucked—
But then his mouth responds to mine, and it’s like we’re fighting. But this is a much better way to fight with him. It’s messy, all tongues and teeth and fighting for dominance. I don’t think Baz has ever done this before, so I struggle with him for the upper hand. He might be taller, but I know what I’m doing here, so I should take the lead.
Baz
Is this a good kiss?
I don’t know. I have nothing else to compare it to. It feels pretty good to me, but I don’t know if that’s just because it's Simon Snow who is kissing me.
Though I might be dead. I can't rule that one out. This feels an awful lot like heaven to me. I think I'd be okay with that.
It’s rough and wet and sloppy, but I’m kissing him back with everything I have. I hope Snow doesn’t notice I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.
He’s pulling at my hair— hard —and trying to set a pace. When he roughly bites on my bottom lip, I can’t help but moan into his open mouth. It feels so good that I let go of trying to gain control and let him take it. He can take anything he wants from me now.
Simon
Finally, something I can win at when it comes to Baz.
He's better than me at everything— at school, at magic. Hell, he's better with my own (ex)girlfriend than I am.
But I'm better at this. I just made Basilton Grimm-Pitch moan, and now he's involuntarily bucking his hips forward, and he's rock hard against me.
Fuck, if we keep doing this, I'm going to get hard, too.
I bite his lip one last time so I can hear him moan. And then I pull back. His pupils are blown so wide that his irises are practically black. His hair was slicked back before I kissed him, but it's mussed up now, wild and loose around his face.
He looks better this way. His pink lips have fallen open in shock. I've never seen him so undone.
I feel a bit undone, myself. My body is aching to meet his enthusiasm, despite all rational thought.
I need to end this.
I force the corners of my lips to curve upwards at him. My expression is unfamiliar on my face. Probably because it’s an imitation of his smirk.
Once he sees it, I lean in close to his ear. "Stay away from Agatha."
I bite his earlobe—hard enough to hurt. I'm close enough to him to feel his knees buckle. I pull away quickly, because I'm definitely hard now.
I don't want him notice though, because I might not have secured victory this afternoon, but in this moment, I've won.
I walk out of the room, leaving a shocked Basilton Pitch behind.
__________________________________________________________________________
By the time I get to the bottom of the stairs, I’m realizing I could have done literally anything else to diffuse that situation.
Is Baz gay? Am I gay?
No, I don’t think I am...
I’ve never fancied a bloke before. And that wasn’t a romantic kiss by any means. I mean, I couldn’t punch him, or beat him with words, so kissing him was the only comeback I really had in the room.
I could still punch him, later, if I want to. Outside our bedroom. There’s still room for violence here.
I consider sneaking off to the bathroom to fix the growing problem in my trousers, but my mind is too full of Baz, and I reckon thinking about Baz while I get myself off is definitely a step too far.
I start thinking of things I find disgusting— asparagus, vomit, merwolves —
Oh, fuck. Thinking of merwolves just has me thinking of Baz again.
I'm running out of Mumford Tower towards the Wavering Woods, calling the Sword of Mages to my hand to slash away all of my unwelcome thoughts.
I’m halfway down the maze of the Catacombs before I realise where I am.
Despite the grim scenery, my downstairs problem isn’t any less of a problem.
I look left, I look right. I’m completely alone.
My lust overtakes my shame as I shove my hands down my pants.
Baz
Shame overrules my bodily functions for a while.
But when my boner won’t go away, I decide to deal with my problem.
“Lock him up and throw away the key,” I say with my wand pointed at the door. I know it will hold until I unlock it, because Simon would never think to admit something he perceives as shameful before entering our room.
I say my next spell with my wand pointed under the bed. “A golden key can open any door.” My secret box shows itself.
I go straight for my vibrator and the lube.
I am a bit of a masochist, because I push two fingers into myself before I’m ready.
I imagine Simon bursting into our room, and finding me touching myself. I imagine him too horny to consider finishing to prep me, but rather shoving himself into me without forethought. I imagine a quick and dirty fuck.
I come more readily than I have all summer.
I’m still panting when I drag myself into our shower. I scrub all the evidence from my body like I’m clearing a crime scene.
When I walk back into our bedroom, its silent. Snow hasn’t come back to tell me how much he hates me. Snow hasn’t come back to shatter the fantasy version of himself—the version where he wants me.
So I crawl into bed with my hair still wet. I imagine myself having happy dreams, ones where my angst isn’t a factor and I’m worth saving and Simon loves me wholeheartedly.
I’m asleep before the door can swing open, and the cold chill of reality can smack me in the face.