A/N: Here's a quick one-shot of Snowbaz. (I couldn't resist, they're just SO CUTE.) Anyhow, hope you all enjoy, and please review!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters belong to Gemma T. Leslie. Or Rainbow Rowell ;)

Rating: T

Infallible Smiles and Overdue Declarations

I didn't really know how it started, to be perfectly honest. It was gradual, creeping up on me, until it reared its vicious head and bit me in the arse.

I woke in our flat one morning (our room was predictably messy, though it wasn't any of my things. Honestly. Snow was lucky I liked him so much; the boy was a complete slob), my arm slung over his peaceful body, inhaling his scent. Crowley, Snow smelled good. He used to smell perpetually burnt, tangy enough to burn the inside of my nose, but not in an altogether unpleasant way.

But now he smelled sweet. Not candy-shop-sweet, not sugar-cookie-sweet, not ice-cream-parlor-sweet, but freshly-mown-grass-sweet. Like leaves and spring, like life. (Was there ever a more intoxicating scent?) It was terribly unjust, I thought, that anyone could smell that bloody effing good all the time.

Snow was still asleep, but I leaned over and pressed a kiss to the mole on his neck. I liked to count his moles sometimes, trace constellations with my index finger. Kiss each one along the way. One. Kiss. Two. Kiss. Three. Kiss.

It was always so hard to stop once I got started kissing Simon Snow. Try as I might, I could never quite get enough.

I'd laid there that morning, playing with one of Snow's amber-coloured curls, when it hit me. Like a numpty kicking me in the groin (which I wished I didn't have quite so much experience with):

I am in love with Simon Snow.

It wasn't as if this was news, of course. I'd been in love with Snow since I was a horny fifteen-year-old. Probably longer, now that I thought about it.

But I'd never loved Simon Snow like this.

Not when I really knew him, knew him backwards and forward, from his cherry-coloured wings and forked tail to the mischievous glimmer he got in his eye just before he kissed me. I'd never even allowed myself to think about waking up to Snow, letting the lemony sunshine bathe us in dappled rays.

I abhorred sunshine, but somehow, when Simon Snow was around, I forgot to hate it.

Snow stirred, blinking his pale blue eyes open owlishly. I still didn't understand why I loved those eyes so much. (Why I loved Snow so much.) There wasn't anything extraordinary about them. They weren't particularly striking, or attention-grabbing.

But I swore—clichéd and melodramatic as it sounded—that the moment I looked into his eyes, I got lost in them. It was almost comforting, like it loosened something taut inside my chest.

(Aleister Crowley, I could be such a sissy.)

Simon smiled at me, as if he were reading my thoughts. He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. "Morning," he mumbled. His words were even more slurred and incoherent than usual in the mornings.

"Morning, love," I said, before I knew what I was saying, and then I wanted to clap my hand to my mouth murder-mystery-style.

Simon didn't seem to notice. He just smiled.

(That was another thing. I honestly didn't understand how Snow could smile so bloody often. It could be pouring shit and diarrhea from arse-shaped clouds, and Simon Snow would still be smiling gaily.)

(I never smiled. I sneered. Or, more likely, I frowned.)

As the days passed in a haze of kisses and too-hot sunshine, I found myself calling Snow "love" more times than I really ought. "Can you fetch my cup of coffee for me, love?" I'd say.

Or, when Simon was heading off the work, I'd say, "Goodbye, love."

Or, when he put on a particularly nice suit, the kind that made me want to pin him to the mattress (kinky bastard that I am), "You look wonderful, love." (Accompanied by what passed for my smile. Not quite a sneer.)

I never tired of living with him. Never. We fought and bickered like a pair of old biddies, but I never tired of him. I loved every imperfect detail about him: his moles, numbering far too many, his laughs, far too few, his kisses, never enough.

And so, one afternoon in winter, curled up on the too-small couch with Simon, sipping a too-sweet cup of coffee, I found myself studying every detail of his face, his rounded cheeks and curly hair, his slight smile, tipped up at the corners, and said, "I love you."

The blood in my veins froze. (Not that it ever really ran hot.) I watched him, alarmed, already tripping and stuttering like some blubbering idiot, like Simon trying to cast a spell, when he said…

When he said…

"I should hope so." Another infallible grin. "Considering how bloody much I love you." He leaned over and kissed my nose, tugged the tip down with his thumb and forefinger.

And then I couldn't stop saying it.

"I love you."

Kiss on the cheek.

"I love you."

Kiss on the neck.

"I love you."

Kiss on the lips.

"I love you."

And then there was no more time for talking, because I needed my lips for other pleasures.

I

let

go.

A/N: Hope you all liked it! Please review!