It was the day before Simon Snow's 19th birthday, a Sunday, and, ironically, London had been hit by unusually warm temperatures, even for June. Gentle, balmy breezes greeted those on their way to and from work, and the city lay, bathing in the sunlight as though seduced by it.

In Covent Garden, a young man took off his black jacket, pretending he hadn't seen the stares of a few passing girls. He was standing in front of a shop window, apparently inspecting something he saw within. To any stranger, he would have seemed to be debating whether or not the price was too hefty, or simply wishing that he could have whatever it was he was looking at. However, if anyone he knew had been there (and he had checked to ensure that they wouldn't be), they would have dismissed both these ideas at once, well aware that the sole heir to the lines of both Grimm and Pitch would not have to worry about finances, particularly as he kept up his already-generous allowance with a part-time job.

What Baz was really looking at was the cut of one the sweaters on display, wondering if it could be adjusted to accommodate a rather large pair of wings. (Wingspan around 10 feet in total, not including the small claws at the end of each. They'd measured.) He knew that the colour was right – a grass green he'd always wanted to see on Snow – and the threads weren't too thick either, a perfect summer holiday jumper. But it was proving quite hard to predict whether or not the sweater would be loose enough around Snow's shoulders. Baz really didn't want to have to see his boyfriend's face after another sweater came back from the tailor looking askew.

"It just needs to be worn a bit more," he'd said the first time, not quite managing to hide the hint of disappointment in his eyes in the mirror. That particular sweater had only been worn in the company of himself and Penny, Baz had noticed. The second one had worked better, and the third one had hidden Simon's wings even more effectively than they'd expected. It was all in where the fabric fell, which meant that choosing the right sweater was more important than correctly adjusting it.

"Crowley, Snow, no bloody pressure then," muttered Baz, eventually deciding to risk it, and walking towards the shop door.

Penny was already in when Baz opened the front door (he couldn't see her, but he could hear her radio on in the kitchen – she liked to listen to loud music whenever she was cooking, usually with powerful lyrics).

He slipped his shoes off, and went into the living room, going straight to the second drawer down in the dresser where he knew they kept the wrapping paper and cards. Penny had eventually decided to reserve a drawer for them, because Simon loved to give everyone presents and cards even if he didn't know them particularly well – sentimental idiot, Baz smirked to himself, picking out a vintage brown paper to wrap the sweater in.

The smell of slowly baking scones was filling the air, and the volume of "Killer Queen" was turned down a few notches, so he decided it was safe to venture into the kitchen at last.

"Have you got it?" asked Penelope as soon as he got into the doorway. She had tied her (now bright pink) hair up with a tea-towel, having had nothing else to hand, and it wobbled precariously as she cleared up the various bowls and spoons on the counter.

"Finally, yes," answered Baz. "It seems that it was the last one of that sort in the shop, so I had to ask nicely to get it from the display."

"So you basically purchased your boyfriend's future-favourite sweater by flirting, rather than by currency. Sounds entirely plausible," Penny looked up from the spoon she was scrubbing at and, faux-innocent, batted her eyelids, "Was the cashier male or female, Basilton?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? And why would you say it's his future-favourite, as if I haven't got enough pressure on me to act like a sap today?" He leant against the counter opposite her, folding his arms and scowling, but Penny just laughed.

"You're such a faker, Basilton Grimm-Pitch."

Baz raised a single dark eyebrow.

"You are! You flirt with girls to get your boyfriend the last sweater in the shop, you get home earlier than you need to, to make preparations for his birthday the next day, you even-" she adjusted her glasses and squinted a little at him, "Yes, you did, didn't you! You got your hair all nice and trimmed for him!"

"Had I any blood to blush with-"

"Oh puh-lease, Baz. Drop the snark, and just admit that you're about the sappiest of saps ever to sap when it comes to Simon Snow. Speaking of whom," Penelope added, checking her watch after blowing flour off the tiny clock-face, "We'd better finish this up before he gets back!"

Simon Snow, The Ex-Chosen One, The Ex-Mage's Heir, The Ex-Hope for All the Magickal World, was stuck on the tube. It was five in the afternoon, and he had been making his way home after spending most of the day going to and from various job interviews.

Simon was, of course, just finishing up his first year at university, after having eventually decided to study architecture and design. He'd tested out an English Language course first, thinking it might fit best after the magickal focus on languages, before soon remembering how much he had struggled with it at Watford and realising that it wasn't going to get any easier. Penny had suggested a more creative course after together they had stared at his lecture 'notes', which had consisted of two sentences, several interesting squiggles, a half-finished sketch of Watford, and a particularly detailed picture of Baz' left eye.

But by now Simon was enjoying himself, happy that he'd finally found something he was good at and interested in, rather than simply 'chosen' for. For his one of his final assessed pieces, he'd created a 3D model of what he imagined the top of the London skyline to look like in 50 years time, and was commended in particular for his accuracy from such a difficult perspective (though of course, the examiners wouldn't have known that Simon had sketched many of the designs for the model whilst actually airborne).

However, now that the term was over, he'd been frantically searching for a summer job, and today he'd had to go to two interviews, both for temp jobs in restaurants. Baz had joked that "any full plates carried by Snow won't stay full for long", but Simon wasn't worried. In fact he was quite excited to get stuck into a new experience, and his mind was buzzing with happy questions about who he would meet and what he'd do – the interview in the Italian restaurant had seemed to go particularly well – when a voice came through on the muffled train tannoy:

"Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you that there will be a short delay, as there's been a signal failure at..."

The hush in the hot train carriage began to be filled with quiet groans and sighs, and several people checked their watches and shook their heads.

Simon shifted a little in his jacket. His wings were much harder to spot on a moving train. Of course, Penny always spelled them before he left the house, but all the same, he couldn't hide their shape under his clothes most of the time, and much preferred to stand by the door or the wall of any tube carriage than where he was now, crammed into the small standing area between the rows of seats.

No one will notice, he told himself, no one will notice if you just act naturally.

But that made him feel like he was a character in Scooby Doo, contorted into some ridiculous pose in an attempt to blend in.

Simon could feel himself starting to sweat. He always found it too hot on the tube – he found most places too hot anyway – but now he was making himself nervous too.

Think about something cold. Think about ice, about a breeze, a nice cool drink... anything except the fucking gigantic demon wings on your back that are probably being outlined by sweat right now and might as well have a small signpost stuck to them saying "I'm with Cupid". ...Cupid? Because I can fly? ...No? (These last questions were a response to the raised eyebrow of an imaginary Baz.)

All that Simon could hope for was that no one was looking too hard at him. It's alright, he thought anxiously, no one really looks at anyone on the tube. And yet he couldn't shake off the feeling that someone was already watching him.

Slowly and carefully, he looked at each passenger directly in front of him to see if he'd catch them in the act. Most of the commuters were either napping or reading, or playing Candy Crush on their smartphones. (Simon watched in the window's reflection of a young man's game as he got a new high score.) There were a few shoppers coming back from Regent Street or somewhere, gossiping quietly about make-ups and break-ups, and whether or not they should have spent as much money as they actually had done. Nope, none of them had acknowledged him.

...And still he felt watched.

It must have been coming from behind him. Of course it was; his wings were on his back after all. (The imaginary Baz raised a second sharp eyebrow.)

Was it an enemy? Someone from the Old Families, maybe? A magickal person who'd recognised him and wanted revenge for the holes created by the Humdrum? Or perhaps it was a Normal, Simon's mind raced on, a Normal who'd seen too many fantasy movies the day before and was developing conspiracy theories about magickal creatures but only needed the final piece of solid evidence to slot into their research before they decided to go on a vendetta against all unknown entities, blow up the world and kill them all. Or maybe it was even someone he knew!

He pretended he had an itch on his neck, and sort of shifted around a bit, turning on the balls of his feet until he faced the other way. (In retrospect Simon decided that he probably could have found another method of turning around that looked less like a failed belly-dance, but it had seemed sensible at the time, and besides, you see weird people on the tube.)

Once again he began to look over the people on this side of the carriage. No immediate suspects until... yes! Simon glared in triumph at the spy. Oh, it was perfectly innocent-seeming to stare at him with those big eyes from inside the buggy, but he knew what was really going on in that baby's head. It was even holding a stuffed red and green dragon toy! With red wings!

Ha! thought Simon, smugly. Caught in the act!

Eventually, the train carriage began to move once more, chuntering slowly along the tracks, accompanied by the gratified sighs of tired passengers. Simon continued to stare fiercely at the undersized agent, who sucked on her dummy without blinking, until he suddenly looked up to see the agent's rather disturbed and very Normal-looking mother also watching him...Oh.

"Simon! And you hadn't realised all that time?" Penny had her head in her hands. The three of them were sat on the living room floor, just after a midnight birthday tea by candlelight (Baz had asked Cook Pritchard to send over his recipe for sour cherry scones).

"Well no, I-"

"Really, Snow, you'd think you'd be able to tell Normal from Magickal after seventeen years of being both at once," remarked Baz, coolly, before catching Simon's eye and breaking into a low chuckle.

"Please tell me it was your stop that was next," said Penny, "Please tell me that you didn't stare awkwardly at the kid's mum for the next half an hour." He blushed. "Simon! Oh god, I'm going to bed before you make me wince any more than you already have, my cheeks are killing me."

"I'm sorry Pen, please stay up for a bit-" Simon reached out his hand as Penny got up from the carpet and stretched. "No more embarrassing stories; that was literally it, I promise."

"It's OK, Simon..." She yawned, then said, "I have to work tomorrow anyway, I need some sleep. Besides," she winked, "I'm sure you guys want some private time."

As her footsteps retreated into her bedroom, and Simon heard her light switch on, then off again a few minutes later, he felt Baz untangle their fingers and stand up.

"You're going to bed too? But I thought-" he began.

"I realised, Simon," interrupted Baz, quietly, "That there's something we haven't tried yet, but I really think that now would be the best time..." In the light of only a few candles, his pale skin had been turned to gold, and the fall of his dark hair sent shadows cascading across his face. Simon loved it whenever Baz used his first name. He stepped a little closer to him, tilting his head up just a fraction, to look into those grey twilit pools he knew so well, but they were black now, night eyes.

"What is it?" he whispered. They were inches apart; surely Baz could hear his quickening heartbeat. Carefully, he started to undo the buttons on Simon's shirt. Simon reached up his mouth for a kiss at first, but Baz pulled away a little, shaking his head; they were doing something else.

Once the shirt was hung on a chair, Baz finally took Simon's hand once more, and led him over to the French windows, drawing back one of the curtains just a little. Outside, it seemed to be just past dusk – the summer solstice was getting closer, and the sky was deep blue rather than winter black.

Simon didn't guess what Baz wanted when he opened the door to the garden and stepped out into the night. He didn't realise what it was when Baz softly called for him to "come on, Snow". He still had no idea, even when Baz' hand wrapped around his own once more, and squeezed just a little.

"Up, up and away!"

Flying with Simon Snow. That's what he was doing, right now. The boy he loved was beside him, and they were floating, invisible, over London, at one in the morning on a summer night.

Baz could hardly believe it himself. How was it that sometimes, in the strangest of places, he was suddenly back in that first moment, falling in love with Simon all over again? How had it happened that Simon, sweet, hot-tempered, beautiful Simon Snow, had fallen in love with him too?

The black curling outline of the Thames glittered below them, reflecting the twinkle of streetlights. It was still so warm outside; Baz smiled as he felt the air moving past his neck, and blowing up his sleeves. He was floating, arms outstretched, almost as though he'd dived into the wind and the current had carried him along. Simon, on the other hand, had his arms pinned to his sides, letting his wings do the work. And, just like that, he's so graceful. I can't believe I hadn't thought of this before.

The sky was almost cloudless, and the stars were out-enforced. (Baz had thought about especially asking one of his magickal colleagues, a young man who specialised in weather control and cloud formations, to perform a quick-but-expensive 'Rain, rain, go away!' over this part of the Thames tonight, but after checking the forecast almost obsessively for the past month, he'd decided against it.)

Simon pointed downwards. Just ahead of them, a little to the left, was the turquoise dome of St Paul's Cathedral, lit up for the night. He looked up at Baz, tipping his head – Shall we? Baz couldn't help grinning back. Such an architecture student.

The spire at the top of the dome was larger than it seemed. There was a small plinth just below the real spike, so there they landed, Baz a little less steadily than Simon, (though he'd never have admitted it).

They stayed there in silence for some time, Baz leaning against the spike, Simon standing the edge, wings not quite furled. Then:

"You've come here before, haven't you?"

"Yes. To draw."

"I can see why. I don't know how we hadn't thought of it already."

"I think..." He stepped back from the edge, turned around, "I think that now is...the best time to...to be the first time."

The starlight seemed nestled in his hair. Baz looked up at the silvered blonde curls and blue eyes he'd imagined so many times that he could see them with his eyes shut.

"Happy birthday, Snow. You made it this far." But his voice caught on the last word, the sarcasm faded away. He looked down, remembering how close to not making it Simon had come, not so long ago. "Sorry, I didn't mean-"

"It's OK, Baz," Simon said gently, kneeling down in front of him and brushing his cheek with his fingers, "We both made it, right?"

Their lips met, but just for a moment. They spoke softly, faces close.

"You're such an idiot, Snow."

"I know."

"You could have –"

"I know, I remember."

"I never-"

"Baz. I love you."

Any listener would not have heard the reply. It would have been masked by the faintest whisper of wind, the sigh of the river below them, the echo of London at night all around them. But Simon heard it. It made him smile.

They kissed again, harder, Baz holding the back of Simon's neck, and Simon gently pushing him back against the spire. Baz' fingers brushed, feather-light, over Simon's bare chest, and his other hand brought those desperate, yet tender lips down to his neck.

"You know," he said, tangling his fingers into Simon's hair as he kissed his jaw-line, "Rooftops look dreadful from this angle."

He felt Simon smile into his skin, and he wanted to imprint it right there, just above his collarbone. "I suppose they didn't expect us to be here to see them."

Who would have expected us to be here? Baz thought, musing over how many different senses of the word 'unexpected' the two of them could portray. He kissed Simon's curls, then his forehead, then his mouth again, and again. "God, Simon..." And again.