Their attackers had fled, and Baz scrambled to Simon's side, dropping to his knees among the leaves and mould of the forest floor.

Simon lay completely still, unnaturally still. He was always fidgeting, tapping a foot, pacing their room, running a hand through his hair – and however much Baz had always threatened to curse his feet into the floorboards just to get him to sit still for a minute, this was chilling.

Carefully, Baz touched Simon's shoulder. "Snow?" Was he injured? He shook him a little harder. "Simon?" He leaned close and listened. He could feel just the barest stirring of breath, the faintest trace of a heartbeat, the beats so far apart that if he didn't have vampire senses, he might have thought…

A living death spell? Baz had heard of these, but there were a dozen variations, and he couldn't think…. Not with Simon lying there, motionless, his skin cool and sickly pale in the fading light, eyes closed, no wide Simon grin—looking awful. Looking… dead. Baz could barely keep any composure at all. He squeezed Simon's hand (when had he taken his hand? yet there it was, held tight in the two of his own) and tried to fight back the panicked keening that threatened to escape from his throat.

"You're not dead," Baz whispered. "He's not, he's not, get a grip, Pitch." He didn't know who he was trying to talk to; he barely knew what he was saying. The silence, Simon's silence, was too awful to leave alone.

Baz shook himself. He could carry him to the fortress. Maybe. He was still a couple of inches taller than Simon, but Simon was a good twenty, maybe even thirty pounds of muscle heavier. Which might have been all right… but Baz knew perfectly well that total deadweight was different than Simon wounded and limping, or even than Simon unconscious. And Baz was exhausted. (And thirsty, still, but there was no time to think about that now.) He had hardly slept the night before, after Simon had interfered, had saved Agatha and brought him in from the forest. He had been up since dawn, and then this, yet another battle—he didn't know how Simon did it, all these years. It was so much more draining being the good guy, discovering and finding and inventing everything from scratch, rather than following along and merely undoing Simon's work….

And what would be waiting for them at the castle? The Mage? With a traitorous, lying Agatha by his side, and here, suspicious, blood-smeared, widow's-peaked Tyrannus Basilton Pitch carrying an apparently-dead Mage's Heir? He was past caring what it would look like as far as he was concerned – they would probably lock him up immediately, before they sent him off to the Coven – but what would they do with Simon? Would anyone else even see that he wasn't actually dead? Or would they be able to tell before Agatha finished the job? If it was even Agatha. Simon had been convinced that it wasn't really her, that there was a glamour involved… maybe he was right. (Though of course, of course he didn't want to believe that his girlfriend was evil. But Baz wasn't dwelling on that. Certainly not now.)

If he could just wake Simon up, they might be able to sneak back into the fortress, back to the safety of the dorm, and plan what to do next. Regroup. Get some sleep even. But he couldn't sneak with unconscious Simon over his shoulder. Ugh. His muscles might be exhausted, but his brain was desperate, scurrying. There had to be something, some way to wake him.

"Ah, Snow," Baz said, brushing at some mud on Simon's cool forehead, "why did you…? I could really use your help here. Living death curses. You'd be sure to point out all the most obvious solutions, all the ones that would never work. Process of elimination, you know." This wasn't really fair, but Baz didn't care—he was suddenly angry. What right did Simon have to jump in front of him like that? What right did he have to leave Baz to fix this mess alone? It was absurd. Obviously Simon was the hero, he himself was just… and after last night.

They hadn't even talked about last night, about what had happened, about how Simon had saved Baz from himself in the forest. (Saved possibly-evil Agatha too, but, well, no one was perfect, not even Simon Snow.) But now Simon knew, he knew for sure… and they hadn't said a word about it yet, but Simon had still asked for his help today, help from a vampire, a monster. They'd walked through the forest this afternoon like it was nothing, like it didn't make a difference, like it didn't make all the difference; like Simon didn't even care, even though he knew everything Baz had tried to hide all these years… well, everything but the most important thing, and Baz wasn't going to be the one to bring that up. Not ever. Not when it was so… impossible. Preposterous. Hopeless.

None of this is helpful, Baz told himself sternly. None of it was waking Simon. He had to try something, but he was afraid. Afraid he would make things worse. And there wasn't a lot of leeway for worse here. He put his fingers over Simon's mouth, feeling again for breath (it was still there, wasn't it? just faintly? it was, it had to be). He didn't even know exactly which spell he was trying to counteract. Living death, living death… there were many variations of this, a whole subset that involved apples, though manifestly not this one…. Baz stopped. Oh, Bill Butler and the Golden Dawn, I am such an idiot. The counter-spell was obvious. He shifted nervously, looking around, though of course no one was there. He looked at Simon's pale face. He had to at least try it.

Baz pulled out his wand and touched Simon's mouth with the tip. Quietly, he said, "True love's kiss." The wand end glowed briefly, and Baz waited, but nothing else happened. Baz closed his eyes. Not unexpected, but still. He leaned over, held his breath a moment, and then kissed Simon softly.

For just a moment there was nothing but the feel of Simon's lips (a little dry, a little cool) on his own. Then Baz felt Simon's breath, a deep gasp, and Baz sat up as fast as he could, dropping Simon's hand that was still in his own. Simon's eyes fluttered open, unfocused, and he said, "Baz?"

Baz could hardly breathe, he was suddenly gasping so hard, as if he'd been running, as if he would never be able to catch his breath again. Color was rushing back into Simon's face. It worked. He wanted to grab Simon, to bury his face in his chest, to sing with relief—but instead he merely steadied his breathing, cocked an eyebrow and said, "Well, Snow, you're quite the damsel in distress. All right, then?"

Simon pushed himself up on his elbows and shook his head, clearly disoriented. "Are we all right? We were fighting, and then…."

"And then you jumped in front of me like an idiot," said Baz, reprovingly, "and got hit by a curse, but I worked it out. And they're gone, and," he reached around Simon and pulled on his shoulders, getting him to his feet, "we had better get back into the fortress before they come back." They were both standing now, though Simon leaned a little against Baz's arm.

"A curse?" Simon said, one hand on his head. "I…." He trailed off, and looked at Baz with squinted eyes.

"You probably don't remember," Baz said, smoothly. "No need. Let's just get inside." Simon nodded, and they headed back, Simon a little unsteady on his feet, Baz watching him carefully, ready to catch him if he swayed.

###

Back in their room, Baz faced the wall, buttoning his striped pyjama shirt. He had taken the quickest shower of his life, hoping to be asleep before Simon returned to the room, but had forgotten to bring his pyjamas to the washroom with him. It had been at least thirty-six hours since he'd had a proper sleep, maybe longer—he was far too tired for math. Too tired for anything, really. He heard Simon come in behind him, heard the door shut, heard the creak of the mattress springs on Simon's bed. But neither of them spoke.

Good, Baz thought. No discussion. At least he shouldn't have any trouble falling sleep tonight, unlike so many other nights. There would be time for talking and planning and strategizing tomorrow morning. Or, if he was lucky, tomorrow afternoon.

But then: Simon's voice. "Baz. Are we going to talk about this?"

Baz gave an exaggerated yawn; maybe his dear roommate would take the hint. Probably too much to ask, though. "About what?"

"About how you saved my life tonight?"

Baz said airily, "Just one more thing you owe me, Snow. Though technically you probably saved my life first. But we can stick with 'you owe me.' I like a nice, unbalanced scale."

"I said," Simon's voice was slow and deliberate. "About how you saved my life tonight."

Baz froze. He slowly raised his eyes from his shirt-front to the glass of the window, where he could see Simon behind him, reflected at an angle. Simon was sitting on his bed, legs crossed, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose. He was already in his usual sleeping clothes, a white T-shirt and plaid shorts, and his face was a little ruddy from scrubbing, a fringe of hair damp across his forehead. His blue eyes were looking straight at Baz.

Baz shut his mouth which seemed to have dropped open when he wasn't noticing, and began stubbornly finishing his buttons again. "What about it?"

A hint of irritation crept into Simon's voice, which made Baz feel rather more comfortable. The natural order of things. "Baz. I remember. I was awake the whole time, I just couldn't move, or speak, or anything—"

Baz shuddered slightly. That was one of the worst, and trickiest, forms of the living death curse – eternal consciousness thrown in for a bit of extra horror. No wonder the words of the spell alone hadn't worked.

Simon was still speaking. "And when I came out of it, I was confused. But I remember now. I heard you, I…." He trailed off, but one hand went to his mouth, almost absently.

Baz shrugged and spoke in a carefully sardonic tone. "So? It worked, didn't it? Sorry if I disturbed your delicate sensibilities while I was busy saving your life. Feel free to forget about it and carry on."

Simon spoke very quietly. "True love, Baz? How long has this been—"

"It's just a spell, Snow," Baz shot at him, cutting him off. He couldn't talk about this, it would ruin everything. He looked around for his dressing gown – clearly he was going to have to retreat to the couches downstairs to get any sleep tonight. "It's just magic. The most common antidote to living death spells—"

"'The key to casting a spell,'" Simon said, as if reciting, "'is tapping into the power behind the words. Summoning their meaning.'"

Baz faltered, but then continued, snidely. "Oh, well done. At least you listened back in first year." There it was. He snatched up his dressing gown and turned to stalk out.

"Oh, no," said Simon, jumping up and stepping between him and the door. His fists were clenched. Typical. "It's not safe out there. And you're not getting out of this."

Baz rolled his eyes, and made to dart around him, but Simon stood stubbornly in his way. Even as tired as he was, in spite of his twanging nerves, Baz could certainly force his way past him. But – the Roommate's Anathema. And – he had always meant it when he said he would never hurt Simon.

So he turned and sat, heavily, on his own bed, tossing his robe to the side. Get it done, whatever it was Simon thought he needed to say, and then Baz could finally sleep. Then things could go back to normal, and he could pretend to his dying day that they had never had this conversation.

Simon took a few steps forward, still standing, and crossed his arms. "So," he said. "Tell me. How long have you felt this way? About… about me."

Baz squirmed. "I don't see how this is relevant to anything, Snow."

"I thought you hated me, Baz. I thought you wanted to kill me. And I never understood why." Baz winced. He flexed his fingers briefly to prevent himself from covering his face in despair, which would probably not contribute to the aura of aloofness he was trying to project here. "And now I find out… so how long have you felt like this?"

Baz stared at his hands for a minute, or longer. There were so many answers to that.

Since last night when you held me back in the woods, somehow, with just your eyes and voice; and then brought me back to the room when I was shaking almost too hard to stand, and put me to bed; and sat on the floor and stroked my head till I fell asleep, even if I did wake up again an hour later. And you were still right there, asleep on the floor, leaning against the bedpost, and I poked you and told you not to be a silly git and you crawled into your bed and I listened to you snore the rest of the night….

Since you told me last year that I'm not really evil – with that stupid grin on your face. And I—I believed you.

Since we started working together this year because you needed another ally against the Humdrum….

Since I had to lie here every damned night since sixth year, smelling you, craving blood but knowing it would never, ever, ever be yours, that I couldn't bear to hurt you, and I finally had to ask myself why not….

Since you started dating Agatha, and I was so jealous I could hardly see straight, even if I thought it was about her, at first….

Since they made us lab partners and I had to sit by you every week, six inches away, and how much I loved to see you blush when I teased you….

Since we fought the chimaera together third year, and I was terrified you would die, and it would be my fault….

Since I tried to shake your hand first year and you scowled so disapprovingly about that stupid cat, and I actually felt badly about it, for weeks….

"Since the first day," he said at last, unwillingly. "Since we met." He snuck a glance up at Simon. His eyes were wide, and Baz could practically see him thinking back, making connections. Simon's face was so easy to read sometimes, like a book he knew by heart.

"Baz, I never realized, I…."

But Baz shook his head, sharply. "I don't need your pity," he said, very stiff and formal. He was pleased that he managed to avoid snarling it. More dignified this way.

"I'm not…."

"Aleister almighty, Snow," Baz exclaimed, putting his hands over his face at last, pushing the heels into his eyes. "Maybe you're ready to stand here and talk about our feelings till dawn, but I for one am exhausted. Can't you give it a rest? I'm sorry, all right?"

"Are you?"

Baz peered up at him. He had shifted, and Simon's face was backlit by the overhead lamp now, hard to see clearly. In a flash of memory that was more like a punch in the gut, Baz suddenly felt he was back in the forest last night – his face pressed into Simon's warm stomach, breathing his scent of apple and pine, his trembling arms clinging around his waist, and the memory of Simon's hand, firm on the back of his neck, was so strong that Baz almost reached back now, expecting it to still be there. The light above them made Simon's hair glow golden, and outlined his jaw, the curve of his neck…. Nope, Baz told himself. He surely wasn't thinking that, he wasn't thinking any of this. I know, Simon had said last night. But he didn't really, he didn't know anything.

"You don't have to worry," Baz said at last, dropping his gaze to the floor. "It's not important, nothing's changed. It won't happen again."

He saw Simon's feet take a step closer. "Don't… don't say that."

Baz blinked. Then blinked again. Then looked up. "What?"

"Don't say that, any of that. It is important. And especially…." He almost whispered. "Don't say it won't happen again."

A long pause. "Snow, I'm tired. I don't think my ears are working right," Baz said. Though he didn't feel tired at the moment.

Simon took a final step and half-knelt, half-sat on the bed next to Baz, facing him. Close enough that Baz could feel the heat radiating off him. He wanted to close the gap between them immediately—or to shrink away into the corner. Impossible to decide which he wanted more, so he simply sat very still.

"I should have figured it all out earlier." Simon's voice was gentle, and apologetic. "When it got harder and harder to think about how I've been constantly putting you in danger. When I saw that I've been relying on you more and more, as if we're a… a pair of hands. When I realized, finally, what… what you are, and that I didn't care, that I trust you, that it doesn't matter.

"I should have said something today, after last night, but… I didn't know what you'd do." He smiled ruefully. "You're braver than me, Baz."

Not bloody likely, thought Baz, his lip curling. "I did think you were asleep tonight, unconscious, whatever. Not sure that counts as bravery."

"It is. It does." Simon slid his hand onto Baz's face, along his jawline. The touch felt like sinking into a hot bath. Baz's head was suddenly heavy, and he leaned it into Simon's hand.

"And I suppose you're the resident expert on bravery, oh Hero Snow." Baz grumbled the words, trying to pull himself together.

Simon blushed (those apple-red cheeks—Baz just wanted to bite them; metaphorically, of course, considering… well, maybe just a nibble) but said, "That's right, I am, so just accept it. And now," he leaned closer, "I'm going to be brave."

Baz flinched slightly, and Simon stopped, looking at him.

Did you really just say all that? Baz thought. Am I even awake? He had to start talking before he did something rash.

"Simon, are you—are you sure? You do know who you're talking to, here? This isn't just some twisted form of gratitude or chivalry or… or drunken sleep deprivation or some damnfool thing like that? Because if—if you really…" he swallowed hard, then hurried on, almost babbling, "kiss me, and then you regret it in five minutes or an hour or in the morning—well, let's be honest, I'd still say, do it. But I know I shouldn't, I know it might…" Destroy me, Baz thought, but could not say.

Simon's hand withdrew, and he looked down. Oh dear Crowley, did I just talk him out of it? thought Baz. What the bloody hell is the matter with me?

"I knew for sure last night," said Simon, still looking at his hands, twisting his fingers together till the knuckles whitened. Baz stared at his face, at his outrageous eyelashes against those cheeks. "Finally. Because when I ran out to the forest, I did want to help Agatha—but it was mostly for your sake. All I could think of was you, what I could say, how I could help stop you and protect you, how you would feel if I didn't… that I might lose you and that I… I couldn't stand that. I thought all this after you were finally asleep last night. I thought about it all day, but I didn't know what to say, I didn't know what you would say. I was afraid you would laugh, or just… not take me seriously—you're kind of good at that." He looked up suddenly, catching Baz's gray eyes with his vivid blue, and Baz couldn't look away.

"Baz, you're—you're my shadow now, or I'm yours, and I don't even care which it is." His voice caught with intensity, his eyes practically begging Baz to believe him. "I feel like you make my legs weak, like I'm going to fall—but… but you're also the hands on my shoulders. Holding me up."

Baz's breath stuttered in his throat, and he let his head fall back slightly, against the wall behind him. It was like hearing his own words from Simon's mouth, like he had plucked them right out of Baz's mind and heart and stomach. "That sounds like… like something I would say." He tried for a light tone, rather than utter shock and wonder, but he was failing, failing miserably. "How…?"

"I told you, Baz," Simon said gently, leaning towards him, closer, close enough that Baz could feel his breath, could feel their noses touch. "I know."

Baz closed his eyes. He couldn't move, not even to lift his head. This was a dream, a dream; he'd had this dream, and others, so many times he couldn't start to count… any second now his alarm clock would blare and he would curse it out, at length, with a vicious emphasis and variety that Simon had always commented on in a bewildered tone. Baz, of course, had never explained the reason to him.

But instead of the shock of the alarm, Baz felt Simon's lips against his, not cool and dry this time, but warm, and soft, and insistent.

All these years, whenever he was weak and failed to stop himself from imagining this—Simon kissing him (willingly, on purpose, happily even)—he had worried that he was idealizing too much, that the reality of it (however non-existent the possibility of that was) would suffer from the mental comparison, from too much advance hype. But now – he (or rather, one tiny, detached corner of his mind) was shocked to find that he couldn't even pause to make those comparisons. He was far too busy in the moment—busy with the rasp of stubble on Simon's chin and upper lip; with his warm breath; with the smell of him, so close, surrounding him; with his gentle lips, the merest bit hesitant. Simon's hand stole tentatively back up to his face, to his jaw, and Baz felt positively dizzy; he had to clutch at Simon's arms.

Easy. Keep it together, Pitch, he thought desperately. He didn't want to make an ass of himself, or, far more importantly, scare Simon off already. Don't be so damn needy. His whole life was, had always been, about restraint, and he wasn't sure he could change that. Or should. Even now.

Simon paused for a moment—their lips still barely brushing, sharing the same, slightly panting breath. Baz couldn't prevent the tiniest whimper from escaping his throat—an involuntary protest. Ancient gods, he thought. I am just so doomed. And he gave up, at last—pounced forward, threaded his fingers into Simon's hair, cupping the back of his head and neck with both hands, not a thought in his head as he curled in toward him and darted his tongue into his mouth. Simon's arms folded around him and pulled him closer, but then—

Then Simon snort-laughed, breaking off, ducking his head. "Sorry, I'm sorry, it's just…. You taste like mint Aeros, Baz. You found my stash again, didn't you? I thought I'd picked a good hiding place this time."

Baz felt his cheeks redden. "Well, you were in the bath a long time," he admitted, archly; Simon half-giggled, half-snorted, and Baz pressed on, gaining momentum, "and breaking curses really takes it out of me. Also, you'll have to do better than taping them to the back of your chest of drawers, I mean honestly, who do you think you're dealing with here?" Simon's shoulders shook with laughter as he leaned into Baz's chest. Baz's hand crept up to Simon's hair again; he was a bit flustered but grinning – anything that made Simon laugh like that, that sound of pure delight, was fine with him. Still…. "Hey, do you mind, Snow? I'm having a moment here."

Simon sat up, still laughing a little, but slid his warm hand around the back of Baz's neck and looked into his eyes. "Really? 'Snow'?"

Baz took a shuddery breath. "Simon," he said, softly.

"I'm having a moment, too, Baz," Simon said, leaning closer again. (That sound, his name in Simon's mouth—Baz could listen to that for the rest of the night, the week, eternity.) "I could stand to have a few moments…. But, you know," he said, drawing back a bit, suddenly, grinning, "if you're too tired…."

"Oh, ho ho—not tired now," Baz growled. He pulled him in and kissed that stupid, wonderful grin right off Simon's face.