Tonight, Baz couldn't sleep.
It wasn't like the other sleepless nights. Seven years of them, off and on. Lying still and silent, listening to Simon breathe, snore, turn, mumble. Watching the fingers of moonlight move across their room, light up Simon's hair like gold and copper flame, watching them gently trace and shadow his arms and face and lips and the hollows under his closed eyes. Envying the moonlight.
Or not watching. Squeezing his eyes shut and facing the wall, pulling his knees up and willing himself to sleep, sleep already, don't be so creepy, for Crowley's sake. Burying his head under his pillow to block out the sound of Simon's sighing breaths, the sight of his hand curled near his mouth like a small child's. But he could always, always smell him – apple shampoo, sweat, warm skin, something like the pines of the Veiled Forest. (Yet another drawback to being a vampire – a sharper sense of smell, and one that didn't acclimate to whatever scent was in the room after a few minutes. The smell of baking bread from the kitchens didn't fade for Baz – and neither did the smell of his roommate.)
Sometimes he would fall asleep eventually. Sometimes he would leave. Pull on his dressing gown and flee, to that ridiculously ornate window seat in the boys' washroom, or downstairs to sit as close to the dying fire as he dared – or closer. He would stare out at the grounds, or into the embers, until his eyes were dry and drooping, until he was so tired that he would drag himself back to bed and collapse into unconsciousness for a few short hours. And then awaken, exhausted, and he would be more snarly and unpleasant with Simon (and everyone) the next day, and see that look of distaste, that curl of Simon's lip… there was no way to win. (There never had been, for him; it shouldn't bother him so much.)
Tonight, he was in his same narrow dorm bed, just as tired, so tired that his eyes were practically crossing. Up since early morning, all day, and most of the night, his muscles limp and drained. Exhausted in a way he had never been, not in seven years, not ever. But tonight was different.
Tonight, he wasn't here alone. Tonight, Simon was here, too.
Simonwas asleep now, of course. Curled on his side, his back pressed into Baz's front. Breathing slow and steady, with a slight whickering exhale that was as familiar as Baz's own breath, though this was the first time he had ever heard it from this close. Close enough to feel his heartbeat.
His arms were around Simon, one pillowing his head and neck, the other at his waist, and even in the moonlight, Simon's skin was almost golden next to his own. His skin tingled all over, and yet it was somehow soothing; Baz had never been so relaxed in his whole life. He tucked his chin and breathed into Simon's shoulder. He wanted more, wanted to trace his fingers along his shoulder blades, wanted to run his fingers through his hair again… but he was so tired, and Simon was tired… he didn't want to move, didn't want to wake him, couldn't dare it.
And anyway this, just this, his own bare chest against Simon's bare back… it was better, for now. Phenomenally, outrageously, bewilderingly better. Better than anything he had tried so hard, all these years, to prevent himself from imagining. Better than anything he had sometimes failed to prevent himself from imagining. Even, maybe, better than the things he didn't have to just imagine anymore.
If any of it was real. If he wasn't just dreaming it. Please, any gods there may be, please. Let it be real.
He couldn't possibly let himself sleep, not now, not tonight. He couldn't close his eyes, couldn't stop looking and listening, smelling, touching… he needed to notice. What if it was all a mistake, somehow? An enchantment? What if this was the only time…?
Baz couldn't swallow for a moment. He felt… like something was broken in his chest. Broken? Was that right? It was more like… a hatchling, quivering, vulnerable among shards of shell… but he had a feeling that if he poked at it, it would leap up, enormous, all fire and flaming wings, and he was much too tired to face that just now.
Meanwhile, his arm was dead asleep. He didn't want to wake Simon, was a little afraid to, but if he didn't shift it soon he might have to move or turn, and that was unthinkable. Gingerly, he tried to stretch his shoulder.
And Simon stirred. "Baz…?" His voice was wooly with sleep, soft and tangled. "Still here?"
"I'm here, Simon." He pressed his lips against the back of his neck. "Still here."
Simon grunted, nestling back against him further. He took Baz's hand and tucked it up under his chin. "Good," he mumbled, his breathing already slowing again. "Stay."
Baz put his nose into Simon's hair and breathed in his scent: apple, salt, pine. He let his eyes drift closed at last. "I'm here. I'll stay."