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BAZ
I hear him before I see him, before I smell him. For someone who says so little Snow is always so full of noise. He grunts the door open, thumps down onto his bed and lets out a sigh deeper than anyone would think possible. I could ignore him, I should ignore him, but he’s interrupted me now and with his dark funk clouding up half our room I’m not going to be able to concentrate on these Latin declensions. I poke the bear.
“Tough night, Snow?”
He glowers at me, saying nothing.
“Trouble in paradise?” His cheeks pinken, so it is Wellbelove that’s put him in this mood, interesting. “The fair maiden still won’t give it up for The Chosen One?” The blush of his cheeks turns a dark cerise and spreads across his face to the tips of his ears. Had this been an interrogation he’d’ve given me everything I need with plenty to spare.
“Crowley, Snow, just take care of it yourself.”
He stares at me in confusion (looking particularly confused, even for him), mouth agape, and mumbling a string of stuttering noises, “wha? huh? fnurl?” which I take to mean ‘whatever could you talking about Basilton?’ I mime the universal action for taking care of yourself, and almost immediately Snow’s hand is sliding down to his crotch. Fuck, he is not seriously going to do that here?
SIMON
What am I doing, he must have put a spell on me. Why else would I want to do this now, with him watching? With Him?
BAZ
It can’t be magic, take care of it yourself isn’t a spell. I can’t just force any old words to become magic, I don’t have the power to do that, no one has the power to do that. Well, maybe The Chosen One, but he doesn’t have the skill, composure or gumption to do it accurately.
I could stop him, I should stop him; one throwaway insult is all it would take, one cutting line, I have enough of them to spare.
I don’t. I’m deplorable.
He’s not stopping, his hand’s down the front of his boxers and his breathing’s quickened to a pant. His eyes are closed and I allow myself to stare a second longer than I should. The familiar pull below my own stomach validates my stare. I turn back to my textbook, at the tables of nouns and adjectives which are now floating around the page in a blur.
I’m not thinking about him, the only thing I am thinking is not to think about him. I’m not thinking about the constellation of moles on his back; I’m not thinking about his golden curls which never sit the same way two days running (every day they are their own unique mess and every day I want to run my fingers through them); I’m not thinking about it being his hand down my trousers and mine in his.
Our panting is getting faster, harder; I sneak another look and he’s glowing, glorious, and then - then - his eyes blink open and lock with mine.
SIMON
He turns his head away as soon as our eyes meet, but it was too late; those deep ocean grey eyes push me over the edge.
BAZ
I last only moments longer (it was only moments, but it was longer); he says nothing while I finish all over my hand. We sit in silence, my back to him, our heart rates and breathing slowing to normal. He’s the first to move, I hold my breath not knowing what he’s doing, until our bathroom door shuts and the bolt slams firmly into place.
I grab my wand and clean as a whistle the worst of the mess away. I change into my pyjamas and am in bed pretending to be asleep before Snow re-emerges from the bathroom. I hear him shuffle around, he switches off the light and, after more shuffling, there’s nothing but the gentle in-and-out of his mouth breathing. “Goodnight Baz.”
Goodnight Simon.