Chapter Text
BAZ
“Tell me what it was like for you?”
I sneer, my face contorted in a way I know makes me look unpleasant. I hate doing this. I hate being here. But father insisted. “You’re going to need to be more specific. A lot has happened.” I keep my voice even, my words sharp.
She pauses, likely trying to determine just how much work I am going to be. Finally, she gives me a small smile. “Why don’t we try the beginning?”
Oh, I think. It’s going to be like this.
I sigh. “What beginning? Isn't your job to deal in specifics? To help me find the specifics of all this —” I gesture dramatically for the hell of it —"bullshit."
“Basil." She says.
There is unspoken meaning in how she says my name.
It is a warning.
An offering.
Understanding.
I remind myself that she is only trying to help. That Snow would be pleased in that quiet way of his if he knew I was here. He doesn’t. This is a trial. A test. I don’t like quitting things, but I’m prepared to quit therapy.
“I don’t want to talk about this." I say.
It is my own warning, offering, understanding.
She nods. “It can be difficult to feel comfortable —"
“It isn’t that.” I interrupt. “Not completely. I just already know what you are going to say, and I don’t agree with it, it doesn’t help. I know it doesn’t help.”
“What am I going to say, Basil?”
“How hard it must have been for me. How brave I am.”
“You don’t agree with either of those things?”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “I didn't do anything— I basically stood there and watched while my boyfriend lost his fucking magic. So, no. I don’t agree that I’m brave or that it was hard for me.”
My voice has gone too loud in such a quiet space. It's how I feel most of the time now. Too loud in the quietness of Snow. In the way he withdraws, in the way he looks at his hands like he's expecting to feel something else; and I know what it is he is expecting to feel.
She flinches a little uncomfortably in her chair. I sit back, trying to look less aggressive. It's a talent of mine; looking aggressive, threatening, intimidating as fuck according to Snow. She tilts her head, and I can hear her heart beating faster than normal, can see the hesitant way she adjusts her legs.
“How about you just tell me about Simon then?” She asks, quietly, as though she isn't sure this is the right approach.
Her hesitation doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in her ability to fix whatever the fuck needs fixing inside me.
“Ha." I cross my arms and exhale loudly. "No, thanks.”
She gives me a sad smile. “I'm serious, Basil. Most people find it helpful to talk about someone else who was close to them when a tragedy happens. Someone who may understand what they feel, someone they can project their feelings through. So, tell me about Simon."
I don't try to hide my frustration. I've had this conversation with father, with Fiona, with just about everyone. “But that’s just it, isn’t it? I will never understand how he feels. How am I supposed to reasonably say ‘yeah, that was hard’ when I still have my magic? Simon lost the most important thing in our world.”
“It’s not the —”
“It is,” I snap. “Mages have killed themselves after running dry. You know that, right? I know you know that.”
She hesitates again, her expression indicating I've said several things that need to be unpacked. She settles with, “But Simon didn’t.”
"Obviously not." I shake my head at her. "Seriously, how hard is it to get your job?”
“Basil.”
My mother would have hated her too.
“Fine,” I snort. “Where shall I start?”
“How about when you first met.” She tries to smile encouragingly, but it comes out more as a grimace. I can tell I am starting to test her patience. I resist the urge to tell her that perhaps the issue is her ability to do her job and not my inability to cooperate. I hardly doubt I am the most difficult person she has ever had sit on her couch.
“Okay, but remember that whatever I say, it's because you asked.”
She fake smiles more.
I smirk back.
Asking me to talk about Snow is like opening the floodgates to hell. I glance at the clock; forty-five minutes. Good luck getting the gates closed again.
I take a deep breath. “The first time we met, I felt him before I saw him.”
She nods, because this is normal. This is how it is for everyone. You always feel a mage before you see them. Magic can do that; it can pull you, whisper to you, make you feel alive, even if you aren’t. Even a modestly powerful magician can make you feel intoxicated.
"But, Simon's magic was..."
And this is where it gets tricky. Because Snow's magic was an oil spill in the ocean set aflame; the sun bursting, followed by the ocean drowning, your entire world shrinking to a single, consuming thing; him. I clear my throat, realizing I can't bloody well say all that to her.
"His magic was more.”
“Addicting?” She offers.
I narrow my eyes. I don’t know how much she knows about Snow, too much, probably. I never cared for the mages who would trail after him like a dog with a scent. His magic was addicting, but I still don’t like to hear someone else saying so.
“Something like that.”
“And how do you think Simon felt around you?”
“Me specifically? Or you as in the generic you?”
She laughs softly. “You, Basil, specifically.”
I blink a few times. This is a new question. "I wouldn't know. I always assumed he hated me, never thought to ask for clarification." I answer honestly.
“Okay, and the generic you? How do you think Simon felt around other mages?”
I still don't know if Snow ever noticed how all of us would gravitate to him, even me (especially me). The Chosen One — bronze hair, strong and sturdy stature, easy smile — destined for a part, designed to fill it so well, so effortlessly.
Only it wasn't effortless for him.
Snow adored magic like no one else, he deserved it like no one else.
I clench my fingers into the fabric of my pants, dropping my gaze. "He was more than just his magic, you know?"
"Was he?" She asks.
It's not a vicious comment, it's a curious one. Still, I bristle.
"There is a lot more to Simon than most people bother with. People used him for his magic, and then they tossed the rest of him aside like he was worthless. There is a lot to be found in trash deemed worthless.”
She raises an eyebrow at me and I almost feel a fondness for her.
Almost.
"Yeah, yeah, bad metaphor. He's not trash, he's... some other poetic bullshit that sounds better than trash. You get my point though."
"I do."
She waits for me to steer the conversation, to decide where to go next. I lean forward, and she simply folds her hands in her lap. I make a calculated guess on how much I can share. There is a risk, albeit small, that she might be pro-Mage, but this isn't something I can share with Snow.
(That's a lie.)
(This isn't something I have the guts to share with Snow.)
I feel my skin start to crawl, my throat thick. "The Mage saw him like that." I say, lips dry as I stare her down.
"Like what?"
I exhale.
"Parts and pieces to be used. Worthless without magic."
“Ah, but Simon is more than his magic.”
I give a small grin, exhaling heavily, thrilled with the hotness pulsing through my veins. It's been too long since I've been able to speak so freely of the Mage.
"I bet you before he died he couldn’t tell you a single fucking thing about Simon beyond how much power he was harbouring; he probably had it measured out in magical units.”
“But Simon saw him as a mentor, did he not?”
“Snow is an idiot.”
She tilts her head.
“I mean that fondly. He’s too trusting. He doesn’t have parents. The Mage swooped in and promised Snow magic, family, friends… that’s like heroin for a kid in an orphanage. It’s not Snow’s fault.”
“And I’m guessing you don’t think Simon should have seen the Mage as a mentor?”
“Would you want your children to worship a power hungry murderer?” I snap.
She blushes.
“He gave Snow a bloody sword when he was eleven. Let that sink in. He gave a child a sword. A child with unpredictable magic. Snow couldn’t focus it at first, he almost blew up the school twice in first year. It was a problem, all the teachers would whisper about it, about how Snow was more liability than magic. The Mage’s solution was to give him a sword so he could still march him into all of his battles. So he could still use him.”
“Have you ever discussed this with Simon?”
I laugh. “Did you miss the part where I said he worshipped him? The Mage is persona non grata in our relationship. He was a bully, a murderer, a tyrant. Snow knows this. But he was also Snow’s only father figure. Can you imagine learning the person you saw as your father killed your boyfriend’s mother, killed your goat hoarder, tried to kill your boyfriend, tried to kill your ex-girlfriend, tried to kill you.”
“Basil,” she interjects softly. I can feel my cheeks flushing. I shouldn’t have fed before coming. “I want to discuss the Mage, and I think you do too. However, maybe, if you’re okay with it, we can come back to him. I think for now, for a first session while we get comfortable and used to each other, we should focus on you more.”
“I don’t want to talk about me.”
“Okay. Simon, then. We can circle back to Simon. Maybe we can focus on the good stuff for now? Ease into this. How does that sound?”
I sigh and pull at my hair as hard as I can.
This isn't where the good stuff starts, not really.
“I hated Simon." I say, words clipped, heart guilty.
"You thought you hated him?" She clarifies.
"No," I correct. "I really fucking hated him at first.”
I can tell she wasn’t expecting this, but she keeps her expression neutral.
“You can ask me why.” I say.
She laughs softly again. “Okay, why did you hate Simon?”
“Because he was the Chosen One, and I thought it was unfair.” Which is the understatement of the century. “I wasn’t exactly pleasant to Snow our first few years as roommates.”
“Why did you think it was unfair that he was the Chosen One?”
I trace a pattern onto my thigh; count the beats of my pulse for thirty seconds. “He was rubbish with magic. He had it, an abundance of it, but he didn’t seem to know what to do with it. He couldn’t cast spells. He couldn’t even speak properly. He didn’t know anything about the World of Mages. He didn’t even know his parents, his magical pedigree.”
I swallow.
“There is a thing I used to think I’m not entirely proud of.” I whisper.
“We all have thoughts we aren’t proud of. It’s important to recognize these thoughts. It is a good thing that you can recognize them.”
“I thought it was a waste, him being the Chosen One. I thought he was a waste.”
“Our first impressions can often be clouded in judgement and biases from outside influences. We can learn to recognize our internal biases though, we can catch ourselves, call ourselves out on why we might think this way.”
“I don’t think that anymore.” I clarify, my voice lowering. “He’s not a waste. Even then… I knew better, even if I couldn’t admit it.”
Because eleven-year-old Snow was persistent, a quiet curiosity in him that I secretly admired. He was brave, he was funny, he was annoyingly kind to his friends. He was someone who tried too hard and was frustrated too easily. He laughed too loudly and too often— and usually with his mouth full. He ate like a starved dog. He hid Aero bars in our room that he would eat when he was studying, or after a nightmare.
Snow has always had nightmares, something I don’t think most people know. At eleven I didn’t understand what the Chosen One could possibly have nightmares about either. Now I think it should be obvious to most people what an eleven-year-old orphan under the guidance of the Mage might have to fear.
I stop for a minute, allow myself to catch my breath, to unclench my hand.
"Do you think maybe you were angry? Not necessarily that you hated Simon?” She asks.
I shake my head. “Maybe. He was the Mage's heir, the person I grew up being told to hate, but he wasn't just that. The same way I'm not just the Pitch heir. He was real. A real person, with real feelings and real thoughts. I wasn’t prepared for that. No one prepared me for that.”
“Which was unfair.” She says.
I see the connection she is trying to make.
“Maybe I was angry. Everything about him and his situation pissed me off."
"Did that make being his roommate difficult?”
I try to laugh, but it gets stuck in my throat. "Being Snow’s roommate was hell."
"How so?”
This time I really do laugh. “Because generally being forced to share a space with the person you’ve been told to hate while coming to terms with your sexuality and realizing the way you stare at your roommate is not because you hate him isn't an agreeable experience.”
She taps her pen against her cheek. “This happened in your first year?”
“In a way. Our entire first year as roommates I thought Snow might kill me. Not the other way around. I was sure he would set the room on fire, and that would be it. He really couldn’t control his magic. I didn’t have much time to unpack what I was actually feeling because I was so focused on the relief I felt each morning when I woke up and the room wasn’t in flames. But then it was summer, and I went home for break."
"And then you went home?" She repeats.
"It was an awakening summer."
"In what way?"
"I realized I'm gay."
She nods.
"And that I missed Snow.”
She nods again.
“And that he was unreasonably cute.”
She gives me a small smile.
“And that I would have to spend the next six years with him.”
I crack my knuckles.
“I was a bit obsessed in second year.” I say dismissively. “Snow still has no idea.”
I was aggressively and embarrassingly fanatical about Snow that year, I could have written a bloody book about him. I could have written poetry about the way a room would feel different when he was in it, the warmth I would feel in my stomach, the way I found myself searching for his scent. The secret worry I would feel when I couldn’t smell him, when I noticed he hadn’t been in our room for days.
I look at the oil painting on the wall behind her head.
"I used my family as an excuse for it." I say.
"For being obsessed?" She asks.
I nod. "And for hating him.”
“Even though you thought he was cute.” She says lightly.
“Especially because I thought he was cute. It was one more reason to hate him. It was brilliant, really. I told myself I was simply keeping my enemy close, learning all I could so I could make my family proud and destroy the Mage’s heir. And learning all I could just happened to involve objective staring and objectively noticing that Snow is cute.”
"So perhaps you hated the idea of Simon more than you actually hated Simon?”
"I hated how he could make me feel, which in hindsight I realize wasn’t his fault or a good reason to hate him. Neither was hating him because he was unapologetic for being himself, whereas I spent almost every day apologizing for being me. Every day for me was meticulously planned; I don’t have the luxury to be careless with my condition.”
“Which is unfair.”
Ah, that theme is back.
‘Yes.” I agree. “But, the biggest injustice of all was that Simon Snow was alive, and I couldn’t go a single bloody day without being reminded.”
"That sounds exhausting."
I laugh. "Crowley, it was. Because as I was busy hating him, he somehow wormed his way into my brain…I couldn’t stop thinking about him. It only got worse as we got older.”
“Were you friends as you got older?”
I snort. “Not even close. It was too dangerous; to be friends with him when I was so conflicted on how I was feeling. Not to mention, my family still hated him, still thought I should be plotting against him.”
“Why would it have been dangerous? Excluding the issue of your family’s feelings.”
I know she knows I’m a vampire, but I still hesitate. “I was worried I would kill him.” She doesn’t react, which I’m very thankful for. “It was confusing and exhausting trying to keep up with my own thoughts. And then he started following me, trying to prove my… condition." I clear my throat. “And I didn’t know if I wanted to kiss him or kill him.”
“That would have been a lot to handle all at once. A lot of confusion and uncertainty.”
“Neither of which I enjoy.”
“So were you confused about what you felt about Simon or just how he made you feel?”
“Both. Well, for a time. And then it was just me hopelessly in love with my roommate while also battling the urge to kill him for coming too close, for always smelling like blood and magic and boy.” I don’t quite like how she is looking at me so I add. “This was me at fifteen, when my raging hormones were literally raging hormones — it was different for me. More difficult, more intense. Snow didn’t make it any easier. But, it’s not like that anymore… and I never lost control, not in that way.”
She smiles. “I know, Basil. You don’t need to worry about that with me.”
I feel a pressure lift from my chest.
"Okay, so that was fifteen. Then things changed?"
I start to shrug, then stop myself. It's one of Snow's habits I seem to have picked up. "Yeah, by our last year we had stopped trying to kill each other. Although I would argue I had stopped seriously trying years before he did."
"That's it?"
"That's it." This is the part I really don't want to talk about. I can feel my throat closing, so I try to make a joke. "It was all very poetic and epic. The stuff of teen romance movies.”
"What happened to Simon last year?” She asks gently.
"You should ask him." I deflect.
"I'm asking you."
I sigh, the words stale in my mouth. "He lost everything.”
"How do you mean?”
I glare at her. "That's a very stupid question. He lost his magic— you know this — therefore he lost everything.”
"I'm just trying to understand, Basil. Can you describe what it was like?”
I look away from her. "It was like a light went out of him when he lost it.”
"And now?”
"He's still warm."
"Sorry?"
"I was surprised. I thought his skin might feel different. Turns out constantly overheating is all Simon, magic or not. I almost flinched the first time he touched me after. It was like his magic was still there for me, like nothing had changed, not really. But of course it has, because he can’t feel it anymore. He's numb— he experiences the nothingness, the absolute mundane that we all feared with the Humdrum every single day.”
And it is fucking tragic.
I don’t know how he does it. Because the buzz at your fingers as you call for your magic, familiar and comforting, as sure as your ability to blink, that is everything in our world. Everything. It is how you find out where you belong.
"And how do you feel about him losing his magic?”
"I don't have a right to feel anything," I tell her. Because I don't. This is Simon's loss, not mine.
"You always have a right to feel something.”
"Not about this.”
"Okay, let’s rephrase. How do you feel about Simon now?”
I give her a strange look; she can't possibly be suggesting I would feel any different for him. "I'm still hopelessly in love with him.” I say through clenched teeth.
Which I suppose isn’t entirely true, because hopelessly implies a level of despair, and Snow is my boyfriend now. So it can’t all be hopeless.
“You know he gave up his entire identity, didn't even flinch at the possibility of dying in the process. And he gave it up for people like me, like you. No one else would do that. So, yeah. Of course I still bloody love him. Magic or not. He’s still Simon.”
I stop talking, counting my pulse again. My voice feels raw, and I feel like I have just exposed something vulnerable.
The pity she is trying to hide on her face makes me angrier than it should. It makes me feel how Simon must every time I look at him. Her voice catches in her throat. “Basil, I think Simon is very lucky to have you. You obviously provide a lot of strength for him.”
I stand up quickly, looking down, trying to brush off the imaginary lint from my pants. “I have somewhere I need to be."
I leave the room without saying another word, without looking back.
What a waste of fucking money.