Baz
Sometimes, Baz still dreams about being trapped in that coffin.
Everything is dark, and every breath tastes like pine wood and there are splinters under his nails. He claws and pounds against the lid, screams until his throat is raw, until old blood fills his mouth and he chokes on it.
What he remembers most in the dream is the stifling walls—the confining pressure of them. Baz's elbows brush against the box.
In his dreams, no one comes to rescue him. He screams and screams, his magic flares like wildfire, and then the entire coffin is burning and Baz is burning with it. Strangely though, it is not the flames that terrify him. Baz and fire are old, intimate friends. It's the smoke.
He can't breathe.
He can't breathe.
He. Can't. Breathe.
"Baz!"
Simon Snow.
"Baz, you're dreaming! Baz wake up!"
Simon Snow is alive.
and so am I.
"Baz!"
Baz wakes up.
The sheets are torn and tangled around his legs—Simon's tail is snaked around Baz's left ankle, as if he's keeping Baz pinned in place.
"Baz?" Simon's voice is soft, steady. He brushes the hair back from Baz's forehead; his fingers burn against Baz's cool skin. "Baz, do you know where you are?"
Baz looks around the room. The bed is a wreck—he must have been really thrashing in his sleep. It's still dark outside—silver moonlight filters through the windows in brilliant beams. Bast remembers when he had Snow had risen above the stars—all that raw power running through him…
"Baz?"
Finally, finally, Baz's breathing has slowed to a normal rhythm. He turns to look at Simon.
Snow's not wearing a shirt, and his wings are stretched out behind his back, as dark as blood. Baz is hungry, he always is, after these nightmares, and Simon's throat is white and long and beautifully exposed. Baz can almost feel Snow's pulse from here. He swallows hard.
"You alright?" Simon asks, gently. He raises a hand, as if he wants to touch Baz's cheek, but thinks better of it. Baz wants to kiss him.
Baz wants to bite him.
"Yeah," he says. The word sounds off, mangled and getting caught in his teeth. He swallows bile and old blood and reaches for Snow's hand. Tangling their fingers together until Simon's touch is all he feels.
Simon wraps an arm around Baz's shoulder and pulls him close. Resting his head against Snow's warm chest, Baz closes his eyes and focuses on the sound of his heartbeat, the pull of his lungs.
Simon Snow is alive, and so am I.
Nightmares are not new. They've both had them for years. Snow used to scream in his sleep a few nights a week. Now, though, everything is different. They have each other.
Baz is still trying to figure out exactly what this is, and he knows that Snow is even more confused.
"What did you dream?" Snow asks finally. He's resting his head against Baz's; Baz can feel the vibrations of his throat as he speaks. It's a bit like having a bizarre cat on his head. A comforting, attractive cat.
Baz shifts, tilting his head up to press a kiss to the hollow of Simon's throat. He grimaces. "The coffin."
Simon looks down at him. HIs eyes are wide and blue and worried. "Baz, I think you should-"
"I don't need to talk to anyone, Snow. I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Simon groans, tilting his head back in exasperation. His throat is exposed. Baz watches Snow's pulse. "You barely sleep-"
"I'm a vampire," Baz scoffs, tearing his eyes away from Snow's neck and looking back down at their joined hands.
"You still need to sleep."
"I do sleep, Snow. I've been sleeping for hours."
"You've been screaming for hours."
Baz does not want to talk about this anymore. He wants to kiss Simon. He wants to bite him. He wants to sleep for years and never wake up. "Enough," he says, infusing the word with magic. "Please."
A shiver ripples down Snow's spine—his wings actually tremble. Baz knows how he feels about magic, how its absence still stings. "Alright," he says quietly. "Fine."
Maybe Baz should feel a flash of guilt, remorse, something. He should.
He doesn't.
He's to hungry, to tired.
"You should hunt," Simon says. Of course he understands. "If you want to sleep a few more hours. You're too restless right now."
Baz looks up at him. Raw, brave, beautiful Simon Snow.
Always right, the twat.
Sighing, Baz reaches up, cupping Snow's flushed cheek in his palm. "Thank you," he says, "I mean that."
"I know you do," Simon smirks. "Now, go on. I'll wait up."
Baz doubts it. Simon's eyes are rimmed red. The bags under his eyes are a bruised, purple, his cheeks hollow and sharp in the shadows. He's clearly exhausted. Sliding his finger under Snow's chin, Baz tilts the other boy's head up and kisses him. Snow tastes like salt and smoke, even though its been weeks since his magic left.
Snow's breaths are hot against Baz's lips, and when Baz glances down, Simon's eyes are open and watching him. The bluest blue. "What was that for?"
"I'm worried about you," Baz admits, running a finger down Snow's cheek. "I know I'm not the only one with nightmares."
A quiet laugh. Its choked and false and it stings. Simon looks away. "We've had nightmares for years, Baz."
They have, but not like this. They've never been hurt like this. Especially Snow. Sighing, Baz jumps off their bed and shrugs on a coat. "I'll be back soon."
Simon doesn't say anything. His tail hangs over the side of the bed, and as he shifts onto his side, his wings fold against his back. Lingering in the doorway, Baz watches him breathe for a few seconds. His fangs ache in his mouth, his stomach is empty and screaming, and his heat is still beating a little too fast. He goes back to what he knows:
Blue eyes.
Brown curls.
Simon Snow.
"Sweet Dreams," Baz whispers. He's not sure if that's a proper spell. He hopes it works.
Simon deserves it.
Simon
Baz comes back a few hours later.
Simon hears him, although the vampire is trying to be quiet. Vaz is full of blood and humming with magic and the floor boards squeak under his feet. The mattress sags as Baz settles back down on their bed. Simon half opens his eyes and stares at his boyfriend's (Merlin, that word still does not sound right) profile. In the darkness Simon can just make out minute details—the slope of Baz's shoulders, the hook of his nose, the bright slate-gray of his eyes.
"You awake?" his voice is soft, almost teasing.
Simon shrugs, reaching out with a hand, groping in the dark for Baz. The vampire laughs quietly and the mattress squeaks again as he settles down, resting his head against Simon's chest. He's warm, flushed with fresh blood. His hair is slightly damp under Simon's fingers. He smells like pine.
"So you ate?" it seems like the normal thing to ask.
A soft scoff. "Shut up and go to sleep, Snow."
"I've been sleeping." Simon protests. He wants to run his fingers through Baz's hair for hours. He wants to hold him and feel his breaths. He wants proof that Baz is here. That Baz is his. That they are both alive.
Well, kind of alive.
"Did you have good dreams?" Baz's fingers are dancing along Simon's arm. it's very distracting.
"Mmm," Simon doesn't remember his dreams. Unless their nightmares. Its comforable, laying in the dark, in silence, Baz in his arms. Its more comfortable and familiar than anything he can remember.
"Sleep," Baz makes the word a command, and Simon feels the magic, heavy and warm. It licks up his body like fire. Sleep tugs at his mind, blurring his vision.
The last thing he sees is Baz's smile.