Of course, they couldn't keep it to themselves forever.
The last day of winter hols, Baz and Simon discovered that the sigil on the drawbridge turned out to summon a huge, rabbit-shaped water demon. They did finally manage to kill it, but not before its death throes flung Baz into the moat. The good news was that this washed off most of the blood (pale blue blood, with an aftertaste almost like salt-water taffy), and the merwolves left him alone for some reason.
He dragged himself halfway up the shore in time to see the water rabbit's body dissolve, oozing down into the slushy ground, and leaving behind something small and made of stone—a tiny bowl? Simon snatched it up and tried to help Baz clamber the rest of the way out of the moat, but tripped in the process and fell right on top of Baz, on the edge of the bank.
"Snow, if you could kindly refrain from trying to crush me to death…" Baz began, breathlessly, but Simon was laughing, and pulling Baz to his feet, and then tugging him closer by his algae-stained tie, and Baz quit complaining.
"I thought you said swimming in the moat was a bad idea?" Simon leaned closer, face tipped up, grinning. The tie was still wrapped around his hand. Baz, dripping wet and stinking with chilly, stagnant moat water, opened his mouth to answer, but another voice did it for him.
"It is a bad idea. A terrible idea. How are you not eaten right now?"
It was Penelope Bunce, gaping at them, her cat-eye glasses glinting in the afternoon light. Penelope and—dammit—Agatha, too; both standing there in long, dark school coats, staring, next to a couple of suitcases. They must've come back early, on the bus from the village. And now…. Baz wondered how long they'd been standing there, how much they'd seen.
"First of all, what was that? Second of all, what was that?" Agatha gestured first to the ground where the rabbit had dissolved, and then to the two of them, still standing rather close together. Simon stuck his muddy hands in his pockets but did not otherwise move; it was Baz who stepped (he wouldn't say flinched) a little away.
"It was an aqualapine," said Penelope, because she never could resist answering a question. "But what was it doing here? They're not even from this plane—" She looked at Simon, looked at Baz, looked at Simon and Baz, and did not answer the second question.
Baz almost wanted to laugh. Penelope already knew, did she? Or at least suspected. Well, he couldn't deny that she was clever. She had always been far and away his most serious competition when it came to marks.
But Agatha clearly wasn't stupid either, looking between the two of them, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her hand was clutching at the little shoulder bag she always carried—the one that held her magic mirror. As if she was tempted to draw it.
Baz looked steadily at her, and his wand hand twitched.
But Agatha nodded, once, then took the telescoping handle of her suitcase and pulled it after her, quickly, past them and over the drawbridge. Her blonde hair blew out behind her like a curtain of sunlight.
"Agatha," Simon began, and concern and affection were woven so densely in his voice that Baz's stomach dropped right out of his body, but she didn't stop or turn, just continued through the archway, into the fortress.
They all watched her go, and then Penelope looked at the boys, and after Agatha again. She sighed, scratched at her head (her red hair was done up in long braids wound around it), and took hold of her own suitcase. She looked at Simon and Baz and jabbed a finger in the air at them. "We will be talking about that aqualapine," she informed them, and then headed off after her roommate.
Baz flexed his hands, willing them to relax. Simon heaved out a long breath, and Baz glanced at him. He looked so relieved—glad that nobody got cursed, most likely. Baz thought they could probably keep it that way. Now that break was over.
He had thought… he'd thought he'd have at least one more day, though.
He felt—as though his skin ached, but it wasn't as if he'd been injured, in spite of the water-demon. His throat hurt suddenly, felt thick and raw, but he swallowed it down, and figured he could at least finish all this with his dignity intact.
"Well," he said, and was pleased to find that his voice was reasonably steady, "that's that, then. It's been…." But he couldn't finish that sentence, or look Simon in the eye, so he turned towards the Veiled Forest, stuffed his fists into his pockets, and started walking.
For a moment he thought Simon would actually be sensible and leave him alone, for once, in all the time since they'd met, just leave me alone, don't let's talk about it, just let me go sit in my tree and try to breathe, for Crowley's sake, but it was too much to ask, apparently, and after a few seconds there were footsteps rushing up behind him. Simon was protesting; Baz's ears were pounding and he didn't really hear properly. He wanted to cut Simon off, but his throat was hurting again and he couldn't quite speak, so he just kept walking, towards his oak, his favorite, a few yards inside the edge of the forest, perfect for climbing, with the most wonderful wide branches and crooks for sitting in. (He'd found it his first month at Watford, and he visited it regularly. No one knew about it—except Simon, now. He'd shown it to him the day after Christmas. Like a gift. Should have known better.)
They were at the tree-line when Simon grabbed his upper arm, and Baz rounded on him, snarling. "What do you want, Snow?"
Simon narrowed his eyes at him. "What is wrong with you?" Baz could feel his face twitch slightly (where would you like to start the list?), but Simon didn't seem to notice. "Bill Butler Yeats, Baz, you're soaking wet, it's cold out here, where on earth are you going?"
Now that Simon mentioned it… Baz realized he was shaking all over, no doubt from the chill of the water. Wet jumpers, even wool, could only do so much. He felt profoundly stupid, which only irritated him further. "Don't trouble yourself, Snow, there's no need to pretend you care anymore. Trot on back to the dorms and see your friends, there's a good chap." Chap? And now he was babbling like some ancient school novel. Why couldn't he just shut up?
"What are you on about?" Simon looked completely bewildered, and if Baz sighed any harder he'd end up light-headed.
"Just," and Baz kept his voice as neutral as he could manage, "now that your girlfriend's back, you should go and greet her properly."
For one long moment, Simon gaped at him. Then he said, "Baz—she's not my girlfriend."
"What?" Baz's teeth were starting to chatter a little, and he wrapped his arms around himself. He felt as if he were trying to stop from shaking apart. Which was irrational. It's not that cold, he told himself.
Simon eyed him, grabbed his elbow and dragged him over to the foot of a tree—my tree, thought Baz, looking up—and pulled out his wand, muttering. In a moment he had summoned a pile of wood, and was frowning, trying to light it.
"Oh, let me," Baz groused, shoving him over a little, and lighting it himself; Simon would either take so long about it that Baz would freeze to death first, or burn down the whole forest in the attempt. You could never tell which with Simon.
The heat felt good on his stiff-cold hands and face, and Baz crouched, crowding closer to the fire than was probably strictly wise. He stared at the heart of it, at the glowing red beading across the bark, and did not look up, even when Simon said, "She's not."
Simon waited, then said, "Agatha. She's not my girlfriend. I mean, she's my friend, and she's a girl, but…."
Baz rolled his eyes, and turned to warm his back a little. "Oh, come off it, Snow." (Baz might refer to him as Simon in his mind now, but he never forgot to call him Snow aloud.) "Everyone knows about the two of you."
"There's nothing to know—"
Baz scoffed. "What about the ball last year? And you spend every waking minute with the two of them…."
"Yet you're not accusing me of dating Penelope?" Simon sounded amused.
Baz waved a hand dismissively. "She's far too clever for you, Snow."
"Well." Simon clearly couldn't argue. "But still. We're not."
Baz turned around again, glared at him with narrowed eyes.
"We've never even been on a date, Baz," Simon told him, insistently. (Neither have we, popped into Baz's head. Unless you count hare slaying. But if that sort of thing counted, well, then Simon had probably been on dozens of dates with Agatha, and with Penelope too, for that matter.) "And we've never," here Simon blushed, "kissed or anything. We're not dating."
"Does she know that?"
Simon didn't answer for a moment. Then he raised his eyebrows and blinked at Baz. "Are you jealous?" Baz sneered. "You are," Simon said, but his tone was more wondering than mocking.
"Shut it, Snow."
"You are," said Simon, firmly. "But… I thought you knew. What, did you think I was cheating on her all this time?"
He sounded indignant, and Baz resisted the urge to rake his fingers down his own face. Well, I tried not to think about it at all, you idiot, he thought. It was one thing to be a temporary stand-in, a short-term ally, a convenient snog, and quite another to dwell on the fact….
"'All this time' being a week and a half," was all Baz muttered aloud.
"Still," said Simon. "If you didn't care before… did you care before?" Baz clenched his jaw, refusing to answer on the grounds that he was absolutely not going to talk about his own patheticness: that part of him couldn't have cared less, that as far as Simon was concerned, he'd take whatever he could get, for as long as he could get it; but he didn't have to admit it. Simon waited, but then finally said, slowly, "If you didn't care before, what's the big concern now?"
Baz turned his head and stared in disbelief. "Are you… are you really asking me, 'why now?' Because the hols are over, you brainless prat. Everyone else will be back tomorrow. And I thought… and your friends hate me, and mine hate you, and how is any of this possibly going to end well?"
"They don't hate you."
Baz looked at him skeptically.
"Only because you've always hated me," Simon said.
Without thinking, Baz said, "I don't hate you."
Simon grinned, wide, as if Baz had given the game away somehow.
Baz felt his cheeks burning, but pretended it was from the fire. "It doesn't matter," he said. "They'll help you with the rabbits now. You don't need me anymore."
Simon's grin fell. "Do you not want to help?"
"I—I didn't say that," said Baz, finally. He stared at the flames, where the wood popped and spit. "I just…." He swallowed hard, and kept his eyes on the fire, avoiding Simon's.
"Just what?"
Baz put his forehead onto his pulled up knees. "I just don't know if I can give everything up," he said, his voice a little muffled. "Even for you."
"What do you mean, give everything up?"
"Just… my friends. And my father—Crowley, if he hears about this… I don't know if I can…." Why is my life is such a disaster, he thought. He looked up suddenly and fairly snarled, "And if you think that makes me a coward or a bloody weakling or something, Snow, you can get stuffed, you can just go f—"
"Baz." Simon reached over and grabbed the sleeve of Baz's jumper, and shook him slightly. Baz looked down at Simon's fist, clenched around the damp, dark green wool. He realized that he was almost panting and tried to take a few deep breaths. I used to sneer and drawl at him when I got angry, he thought, unwillingly. When did that change?
"I don't want you to give up your friends," said Simon, carefully. "Why would I want that?"
The burning wood crackled. Baz forgot that he was avoiding Simon's eyes, and stared.
He had never thought that… this, whatever this was, whatever they had, if it was anything… well, he'd never thought it would exist at all. He certainly hadn't thought that it could exist outside the bubble of winter break, protected by the isolation, by getting to just be alone, without people around, watching all the time. Saying, you're a Pitch, and he's the Mage's Heir, and what do you think you're doing? Even the people who knew him. Especially the people who knew him. The weight of what they thought they knew about him—sometimes it was like stones, around his neck, piled on his chest, crushing the breath out of him, burying him where no one could reach.
Simon just looked back, blue eyes clear and puzzled, gnawing slightly on his lower lip. "I mean," he said, hesitantly, "I can't say as I'm very fond of Malcolm."
Baz said nothing, but couldn't contain a wince. Malcolm Madder had been a bully ever since they were children, and he'd only gotten more vicious of late. He'd never been the most willing follower, either, and when this came out….
"Sorry," Simon said. "I really don't… Dev and Niall and Alan all seem all right. And anyway it's not… they're your friends. It's not up to me who you talk to, who you… tell things." He frowned. "I'm not going to force you to… to anything, Baz. And we don't have to let anybody know anything right now. If you don't want to."
"Too late." Baz jerked his head back toward the fortress, the drawbridge.
"It's just Penny and Agatha. They're my friends. They won't tell anyone anything if… if you don't want them to."
Baz took a deep breath, and ran a hand through his still wet hair, pushing it away from his face. "Maybe. Depending on how much they disapprove, I'd say."
"I'm not saying they'll be happy at first…."
Baz snorted. "Agatha certainly didn't look very happy."
"I'll talk to her." Simon shrugged. "I mean, nothing's certain, but I imagine they'll all probably get over it. Eventually."
I don't understand you, Baz thought. How he could just shrug, as if it were light, the weight of all those people staring, the stones around his neck? I don't know if I'll ever understand you.
Finally, Baz said, with a weak attempt at casualness, "I think Dev fancies Agatha."
Simon laughed. "Doesn't everyone?"
Again, Baz responded without thinking. "Not me."
"Not me, either," said Simon, with a funny sort of half-smile.
They sat in silence for another minute. The heat was making Baz's clothes stink with the moat water, a fetid, marshy smell, and they stuck to his skin unpleasantly. He stood and waved his wand, extinguishing the fire. It was time to go back to the dorm, and see if by some miracle his green-and-blue-mucked shirt could be salvaged.
They walked back, rather close together, their shoulders bumping every other step or so. Simon's pinky brushed the back of Baz's hand a couple of times.
"I do still need you, Baz," Simon said when they were almost to the drawbridge, so softly that it was almost a whisper.
Baz heard it, though, and said nothing, but he couldn't stop his breath from hitching in his chest. Crowley, he thought, gritting his teeth. Crowley, Hennings, Yeats and Gunne, I am so doomed.
