It wasn't that Baz didn't notice things. He had always been plenty observant, thank you very much.

Maybe it was just that Baz's life suffered from a sad lack of mortal peril before Simon. He didn't notice anything very weird until after the first hare incident, at Christmas break, sixth year. Till after he and Simon killed the Moon Rabbit.

He shouldn't really have been able to hold on to the beast—the way it thrashed about, the blood-slick fur—vampire strength or no, it was a little incredible. Especially as he had been far from full strength at the time. But desperation and adrenaline (and bloodlust) could account for a lot.

And after they killed the Rabbit, he rather immediately had other things to think about.

#

It wasn't Baz's fault. Simon was the one who'd been grabbing at him all night—Simon pulling on him in the boat (grabbing his cloak, shoving in so close that Baz had to shudder and slip back onto the dock right that second before he leaned the wrong way, nearer to those intense blue eyes, before he pulled Simon even closer—and got decked in the process, no doubt); Simon taking his arm when the rabbit first fell out of the mural on the ceiling; Simon holding his hand in that faery-damned nursery, for Crowley's sake.

All Baz had done was fall asleep on the floor for a few minutes; he'd been tired, exhausted, practically starving after weeks without a decent drink, and though sleep didn't really solve the problem, he couldn't help it. And when he woke up, just a little later… Simon's hand was in his, alive and so warm and wrapped around his chilly fingers, and Simon was asleep, too.

This was certainly an accident, he told himself, very firmly, and only let himself count to ten before withdrawing his hand from Simon's. (If he counted a little slowly… no one needed to know that.)

It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault, a few minutes later, that he'd had to resort to vampire strength to stop that horror of a rabbit. True, at least he got a solid meal out of it, finally, but then he had to stand and turn and face Simon. A Simon who finally knew the truth.

When he turned around, covered with blood, dripping with blood, sated with blood, and threw the Sword of Mages at Simon's feet… he didn't really know what to expect. Shock. Horror. Accusation. Definitely some kind of righteous indignation. Possibly an attack. On second thought, he probably shouldn't have given Simon back the sword… it had been a reflex. A stupid, suicidal reflex, he scolded himself. But Baz felt so much better now, after finally getting to drink. Warm and strong, and all his senses tingling. I can hold him off, he thought.

Not that that would help in the long run.

Simon picked up the sword slowly, and wiped the gore off it.

Baz didn't know what to do. Fight back? Run away? Try to talk him into… what? He couldn't hurt Simon… he wouldn't.

That's ridiculous, he snapped at himself. You'll do what you have to.

He didn't know what to do.

It wasn't his fault that all Simon said was, "You all right?"

Baz couldn't speak. Not a word. He could barely lick his lips and nod.

"Good," said Simon, so sincerely; and he might just as well have punched Baz in the stomach—he couldn't breathe through the shock, shock so profound that he could think of nothing that could've forced him to move.

Nothing except for fire.

Obligingly, the dead rabbit burst into flames just behind him, and so he had to move and they had to deal with the rest of that mess.

And then Simon kept acting so… normal. Suggesting showers and breakfast and generally behaving as if he did things like this all the time: Eating bread and apples on the kitchen floor, sitting right next to Baz. Fighting monsters together, like allies. Watching his roommate reveal himself to be a monster.

Casually asking questions about that. Calm, concerned questions. And offering help. Like he cared. Like they were friends. Like they hadn't spent the last five and a half years tormenting one another incessantly, one way or another. Like Simon hadn't hated him since the moment they'd met.

"I don't hate this," Simon replied to that last part. "What you're doing—denying your most powerful urges, just to protect other people. It's more heroic than anything I've ever done."

This was nonsense, of course, from start to finish. Baz wasn't trying to protect anyone, except himself and his family. (And Simon, a stray thought whispered. Shut up, he told it.) But Baz didn't disabuse him of the notion. It sounded like… like….

Like he didn't think Baz was just a monster.

It wasn't Baz's fault that Simon had to go and offer to help him. Had to go and kiss him.

And Baz was tired from being up all night, but he didn't bother with disbelief or denial. There was no way that this was anything other than pure reality—Simon leaning into him with soft lips and scratchy jaw, the taste of cheese and apples in their mouths, his warm breath against Baz's cheek. So real that it was sharp, painful almost. Baz leaned in and sighed.

He felt like nothing in his whole life had ever been as real as this.

Then they heard footsteps on the other side of the kitchens, near the east doors, and they broke apart. Baz thought for one terrified moment that Simon would look horrified or disgusted. But instead Simon only grinned slightly, grabbed Baz's arm, and scrambled up, staying ducked down below the metal-topped prep islands. They managed to sneak out without Cook or any of her minions catching them. (Which was a really good thing, since Cook could hold a grudge forever, and there was a certain incident with a wand and a microwave that Baz knew she wasn't forgetting any time soon….)

And they managed to sneak back up to their dorm room, where Simon immediately proceeded to kiss him again, almost before they were through the door. This time no one walked in to interrupt.

A couple of hours and a nap and a ridiculous amount of snogging later, Baz lay on his bed, sun falling across his face, thinking idly of how they should probably get up, the Christmas Day feast and all. And how it all sounded like a terrible idea, if it meant Simon had to move out of his arms.

"But…." Simon lifted his head from Baz's chest and spoke suddenly, as if it had never occurred to him before, "you breathe."

"Ever observant," Baz said, but his eyes were closed and his voice was completely without edge.

"But—" Simon blinked, and splayed a hand out over the bare skin, right over Baz's heart. "And you have a heartbeat."

Baz could see where this was going now, but he was too lazy to do anything but nod. And listen to it, to his heartbeat, against Simon's warm palm. (Enjoy it while you can, the back of his brain was telling him. Any minute now they'd start fighting again, or Simon would remember Agatha, or how much Baz despised the Mage, or… or something. It was always something.)

"So… vampires aren't undead?"

Baz gave a gusty, dramatic sigh. "Too many horror films, Snow," he said, but he kept his tone only mildly bitchy, because Simon had grown up gandry—in the non-magical world, surrounded by non-magicians—and so it wasn't entirely his fault.

"You said you'd let me help you."

"I did," Baz had to admit.

"So—I need to know things, then."

Baz shifted, restlessly. "If you'd just listen in class…."

"Well, I thought I'd get it from the source. Original research," Simon said lightly, resting his chin on Baz's sternum. It poked, Baz squirmed; Simon raised up and moved a hand underneath as padding, still looking up into Baz's face.

It wasn't as if Baz had been raised with vampires or anything. Much of what he knew, he'd gotten from the same books as anyone else. And he didn't particularly want to talk about it; didn't even know how, to be honest—he had never discussed this with anyone. But he took a breath, and stared at the ceiling, and tried anyway.

"They're not undead. They're just… a type of magical creature. They… I'm not like a zombie, or a ghost. I breathe, I have a heartbeat, I grow. Get taller, all that. I'm not stuck as a four-year-old forever, thank Crowley." Simon was watching him, and trailing his free hand up and down Baz's ribs, lightly. It was rather distracting.

"I'm colder than normal," he continued. "I'm… strong. And fast. I heal quickly." His voice was getting softer and softer, and he closed his eyes. "I need to… to drink every few weeks at least, or I start 'looking like hell,' as you so eloquently put it earlier."

He felt Simon nod his head, then felt fingers touch his forehead, the drying sweat there, and then his lips. "I don't think you're cold."

You are clearly already biased, Baz thought, and shivered a little at the notion. Really? Already?

"And as for blood," Simon said, and his voice didn't stutter or hesitate over the word; Baz opened his eyes and looked at him, and saw a gleam in his eye, "want to help me hunt some more rabbits?"

Baz stared at him for a long moment, then flipped them over and kissed him as hard as he could, Simon laughing and protesting into his mouth.

It wasn't Baz's fault that Simon had to go and change everything. But Baz would be double-damned if he wasn't going to hold onto that change for as long as he could.

Even if it made his chest feel strange inside—unbearably soft, absolutely malleable.

When Baz was very small, he used to watch Nanny Trillian knit: the flicker of her needles, how one long string of wool became a sweater or a sock, a scarf or a shawl. His favorite part was when she made a mistake, or decided to redo part of a project. She would slide the needles out and then let him pull on the yarn, which would run back and forth down the fabric in a fascinating and strangely satisfying way, making a soft thup-thup-thup sound, unraveling so quickly into a pile of easily-tangled wool. And then slowly knit back up, rewoven into something new.

Inside, all down his core, he felt like that yarn, unraveling. And it was terrifying. But he decided to let it happen anyway.

And that was his fault.