BAZ.

I came to breakfast early, before anyone else was up. On the nights when I can't sleep, I always seem to think about when I was a kid. Before all this really took hold. I can't really remember 'before this', but I know enough to know I was there. More alive than now, at least. It's as though I'm watching a TV screen of myself. When I was a kid, I used to have no trouble sleeping - I used to wake up every morning grinning; I'd crash out of bed and explore the incredible maze that was our house, there was always something interesting to find (even if I wasn't supposed to find it). I'd run in the garden and climb the forest and play by the lake, and I'd be stupidly, naively happy. I thought I was going to be OK, then. I thought I was controlling it. Everyone did.

Now, I wake up every morning (if I've ever even slept) and remind myself that control is not only an illusion, but a necessary illusion. I have to be in control, even if I think the effort it takes will kill me. I have to be in control, even though every bit of me, body and brain and whatever gaping hole was left when my soul was sucked out, all of that, has never felt less in control.

I used to count the mice I saw in the grass. Now I count my breaths, praying that if I get to 100 I won't have a panic attack. Praying that my own hands haven't tried to strangle me whilst I slept. Or worse - that I haven't tried to hurt Simon.

Aleister On High, if Snow knew he was my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night. If he knew I was trying so hard to hold on, for him.

If he knew, he'd be disgusted.

And I couldn't bear it.

SIMON

Baz hasn't disappeared. He's sat in Politickal Science after dinner, looking like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. And holding it up, prettily. Stupid bastard, he never looks bad, even when he's obviously nearly falling apart at the seams. He has one of those bodies that just go on forever, all pale and lithe and pointy limbs. His face would be handsome in a hurricane, and his eyes - they're fathoms deep. He gets this look, sometimes, like he wants to burn everything he sees. He uses it on me, a lot. Although, occasionally, his expression changes into something else - a flash of something, so fleeting I can't work it out. Almost as if it was accidental. I make sure my own face gives nothing away, because the last thing I want - the last thing I need - is for Baz to know how I feel about him. Where he is closed, I'm open, and it would take milliseconds for him see the truth etched all over my face.

The truth would disgust him.

And even if it didn't - even if, if we play along with some crazy fantasy of mine, the truth didn't make him want to attack me on the spot just to get rid of me - then what could happen anyway? He's Basilton Grimm-Pitch, for Crowleys sake. He's probably the heir to a small country and has had an arranged marriage with a Duchess since he was eight years old. What do I have to offer? What I am heir to, the Mage? That's right, Simon, excellent. You're the next of kin to his family's sworn enemy. They'll welcome you with open arms.

Whatever, none of it matters. Not logic, not common sense, not sheer bloody force of will. Regardless of the millions of reasons why it couldn't work, shouldn't work, wouldn't work - the only open arms I can think of, time and time again, are my roommates. My fantastic, tragic, fucked up, beautiful roommate. Who right now, is actually crossing the room towards towards me - what, whoah, why is everyone standing up, what have I missed - and holding a small piece of paper in his hand, looking simultaneously bored and slightly terrifying.

''You're my lab partner, Snow. Lucky you''.

What. What lab partner? Quickly assessing the situation, I gather that Professor Valium must have assigned us our project for the term, and also assigned us our partners. So of course he's my partner.

Fuck, this is the greatest thing that's ever happened.

Fuck, this is the worst thing that's ever happened.