Dreaming My Dreams With You

Baz

The last bit of tatty furniture has found its place, Bunce's posters adorn the walls, there are almost enough lamps to brighten every room, and Snow has just collapsed on the sofa next to me, scowling.

"Hungry, Snow?"

"I'm knackered, is what I am." His frown deepens, eyebrows coming together. His hair's matted with sweat, the curls drooping over his forehead. I'm tempted to reach for them, sink my fingers into the tangled mess.

But Snow's on a bluster, so I don't.

"I'm knackered and I'm hungry and I've done the lion's share of the work today, you lazy git."

I wave a hand in his general direction. "It's your flat. I wouldn't dream of interfering."

"I wouldn't call it interfering to carry a box or two up the stairs."

I knock my knee into his. "I helped carry the furniture." I slide closer to him. "No use resting on your laurels after saving the world, Snow. You're not getting the kind of cardio you did fighting off the dark creatures. All this exercise did you a world of good today."

"Fuck exercise."

His hand is resting on his thigh, palm up. I reach to take it, winding our fingers together. Simon doesn't run as hot as he used to, his skin only a bit warmer than mine now. I bump his shoulder. "Shall I order us some food? Would that atone for my deficiencies as a mover today?"

"It would be a right good start." He's pressed against my side now, knees to thighs to shoulders.

Bunce tramps into the room, tendrils of hair escaping her ponytail, empty boxes in her hands. She tosses them by the front door and sinks into the armchair across from us. She swivels until she's seated sideways in the chair, legs up on the arm, and looks around the room. "Came together nicely, I think."

Simon snorts. "No thanks to either of you," he grumbles.

"Oh, Simon, stop whinging. It's not like you were going to set up the kitchen or sort the books." She peers at him over her glasses. "You needed a bit of a workout."

Simon drops his head on the back of the sofa and groans. "Would the two of you stop harping about me needing exercise? It's not like I've suddenly become a couch potato."

Simon

I catch Baz and Penny exchanging a look when I make the couch potato comment.

I suppose they think that's exactly what I've become.

I know I haven't been as physically active in the last few months. It's not that easy with wings and a tail. I'd like to see them try.

Fuck, scratch that. Baz would make it look effortless, the tosser.

I manage alright most of the time, but the wings throw my balance off and make running an absolute disaster. They flare out and catch air drafts, which makes me feel like I'm dragging heavy weights behind me, and my blasted tail gets tangled in my legs half the time. I don't know how many times I've tripped over it right when I get myself to a steady running pace.

Penny tried to get me to go the gym in their neighborhood but I didn't really want to be around other people much. Not one for small talk or banter waiting for the barbells. Didn't want my wings to accidentally brush anyone and have them think I was feeling them up. Better to steer clear until I get my bearings with the damn things.

If I get my bearings with them. They're inconvenient at best and downright ridiculous at worst. I've talked to Dr. Wellbelove about them. Getting the wings and tail removed, I mean, but he's cautiously optimistic they may eventually fade away.

I wish I shared his optimism.

It's not like I really need the exercise anyway. I've actually lost weight since Christmas. My jeans are loose and I've had to buckle my belt tighter as a result. My face is thin when I look in the mirror.

I look like I always used to at the start of term. I suppose that's fitting, seeing as it's the start of a new term in a few days.

Uni. Maybe that'll help me settle in, get back to a routine.

Baz is tapping at his phone with one hand, ordering the curry likely, his other hand still holding onto mine.

Try as I might, I can't stay irritated with him.

He's been . . . he's been so concerned and attentive. Don't know what I'd have done without him all these months, honestly.

Oh, he still snarks at me, graces me with a sneer every so often, arching that eyebrow of his, but it's nothing like it used to be. There was an edge to it before and now it's softened, fond and wry rather than biting and sharp.

I'd miss it if he didn't, I think. We're not used to being soft with each other, even though we are now, more and more. It keeps me grounded when he gets snippy, reminds me that this is real. It would seem too much like an illusion, if I didn't have those familiar moments to steady me.

I wasn't lying before. I am knackered. Penny's been an absolute tyrant today, directing me about the flat—making sure I put the boxes in the right rooms, barking orders to shift the furniture around until she got it all where she liked it—something about feng shui, no idea what that is—bickering with Baz on where to put the posters and wall hangings.

It looks nice, if I say so myself. Everything in its place. Comfortably shabby but mostly comfortable.

I lean into Baz, letting my head drop onto his shoulder. He shifts a bit, dropping my hand in favor of wrapping an arm around my shoulders and I settle against him.

It's alright. This is alright.

Baz

It was a wrench to leave, but I didn't want to overstay my welcome on their first night in the flat. I fully intend to haunt the place, inflicting my presence on them at all hours of the day and night, but I felt I shouldn't play my hand too early. Let Simon and Bunce settle in a bit first.

Fiona's away—Prague or Copenhagen or Bratislava, I can't recall where—so the flat is dark and quiet when I get in.

Too quiet.

It was dreadful having the room to myself second term. The silence was echoing and hollow without Simon's presence. I missed the clatter of his footsteps on the stairs, the racket he would make in the mornings, the soft rhythm of his breathing at night.

I'd get snatches of it, those weekends I would impose myself on the Bunces. But the Bunce household is nothing if not chaotic and constantly reverberating with noise. I could hardly hear myself think.

Which was exactly what Simon needed. A place that wouldn't let him get too caught up in his own thoughts.

It was the right decision, choosing not to room together here in London. We need the space, the physical separation, as we navigate what comes next. Not enemies anymore, not roommates, not reluctant allies, but something so much more meaningful.

Not to say that we won't spend time together—I'll be damned if I don't allow myself to luxuriate in Simon's presence, after the drought these last months.

But we both need to find our footing in this new landscape. Neither of us needs the stress of living together while we're still trying to figure out how to be boyfriends.

I didn't want to leave tonight though. I didn't want to leave Simon alone in that bedroom.

I didn't want to face the emptiness of my own room again, not when he's just a few streets away, instead of miles distant.

I'm being ridiculous, of course. An absolute sap.

I can't expect him to invite me to spend the night at his flat. We may have spent nights together at Bunce's home, but we were sharing a room with Bunce. This would be different. We've not spent a night alone together since . . . well, since my fondest, most unrealistic dream came true.

I should get ready for bed but I end up dithering about the flat, washing some dishes, reorganizing the books on my shelf. I check the clock. I call Simon at this time every night, when we're apart, have for months.

I settle against my headboard and pull out my mobile.

He picks up on the second ring. "Hey."

"Hey."

"What're you doing?"

"Calling you."

"I know that, you prat."

"Just calling to wish you a good first night in your new flat, Snow."

"Thanks." I can hear him yawn through the speaker. "Looks better than I thought it would."

"You had my expert advice on the décor."

"That's about all the help I had from you, you wanker. You just sat on the sofa and drank your posh coffee and criticized where I put the furniture."

"No, that was Bunce with the furniture. I was trying to improve on the dreary aesthetics."

"Alright, alright. At least you bought me dinner."

"I've never seen you say no to a free meal, Simon."

We banter back and forth for a few more minutes, until he yawns again. "You're going to fall asleep on the line."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Or the last, I'm sure." I pause for a breath, my voice dropping. "Good night, Simon."

"Good night, Baz."

I'm restless, even after my call to him. I try my best to settle down but I'm tossing and turning, not able to empty my mind and let sleep come.

It's almost midnight when my mobile rings.

I can hear Simon's breath through the speaker and I can picture him in my head—hair tousled, lips parted, certified mouth breather that he is. "Are you in bed yet?" Simon's voice is soft, hesitant.

"No, not quite yet," I lie.

He doesn't say anything so I just listen to the sound of him breathing. It's so familiar, so many nights on the line with him, no words exchanged, just letting him know I was there so he could settle down to sleep.

"Are you alright, Simon?"

"Yeah." Then a pause before he speaks again. "No."

I sit up. "What's wrong?"

"It's just. Well." I can hear him rustle around and then he settles before speaking again. "It's so quiet in here. It's . . . well, it's just me, innit? And I'm not well used to that."

"Do you want me to stay on the line until you fall asleep? I can do that."

More rustling. "No. I don't think so."

A stab of disappointment goes through me at his words. It's one of the few things I could do for him when we were apart.

Simon interrupts my swirling thoughts. "I was wondering . . . wondering if you'd want to come back over, maybe?"

There's a sudden warmth flaring in my chest. I'm switching the light on, standing up in an instant. "Yes, yes, of course I can come back."

"I'd like that, Baz, I really would."

"I'll be right over."

I change into my clothes, slide my shoes on, grab my keys and wallet and am out the door in moments.

I'm pounding up the steps to his flat just minutes later, softly knocking on the door.

He opens it and I'm met with the sight of Simon, still in his shirt and jeans. "Hey."

I step in, fingers reaching out to clasp his hand. "You alright?"

He smiles and it's the sun breaking through clouds. "I am now."

"You want to watch television or something?"

Simon shakes his head.

"What's going on?"

"I told you. I just couldn't sleep. I wanted to hear your voice again, thought maybe I'd have you talk me to sleep, like you do. But it's different now. You're not miles away anymore. And I thought why have you keep me company on your mobile, when you can do it in person?"

Simon tilts his head, a small shy smile on his face. His cheeks flush and his eyebrows draw together. "Was that ok?"

I step closer to him, brush my fingers along his jawline. "More than ok."

He tilts his head up and his lips touch mine, soft, tentative, then stronger, pressing against my own.

I let my fingers tangle in his hair and kiss him back, breathing in the scent of him—soap and sweat and new mown grass.

He pulls back an instant later, stifling a yawn. I laugh. "Can't even keep awake long enough for a snog, Simon?"

He yawns again, unable to disguise it at all this time. "Sorry," he says, leaning into me, arms around my waist, head resting on my shoulder. "Tired."

Of course, he's tired. Bunce ran him ragged and then some. "We've all the time in the world for a good snog tomorrow, then. Let's get you to bed."

I tug him along the hallway to his room. Simon drops down on his bed and squints up at me. "What're you standing there for?"

I gingerly sit down on the edge of the mattress and he scoots over to make room. I raise an eyebrow. "Shall I tell you a bedtime story, then?"

"Knock it off and get in, Baz. I'm not about to let you go, now that I've got you here."

We're both still in our clothes but I'm not about to mention that. Not with Simon gazing up at me, eyes half-lidded, body slack in the bed.

I tuck myself under the blanket and shift closer to him. He's on his side, gazing at me, blinking slowly. He reaches out and brushes the hair off my face. "I missed you."

My voice is just a whisper. "I wasn't gone long."

"Long enough."

I shift even closer, my words a breath between us. "I missed you too."

I don't mean just tonight.

He burrows closer, burying his face in my chest. His wings flutter, rustling against the sheets. I run my hand slowly up and down his arm, strokes gentle and steady.

I think back to that first night, when he curled around me, holding me so gently, so carefully. All those months ago, back in my room in Hampshire.

All those times at Bunce's home.

It's been Simon protectively cradling me in his arms, even when he was at his worst. As if holding onto me grounded him, gave him an anchor.

I want to hold him that way, circle my arms around him, press my face into the back of his neck, curve my body to match his.

I've been thinking of something for a while now, thinking of a spell. I've tried it on some of Fiona's plants. On a pigeon in the park.

It's a bit chancy, not quite ironed out yet. But I think I can manage it.

It's all in the thinking.

Or rather more like Simon's way of doing things—not thinking.

Simon's breathing is evening out as my hand keeps running up and down his arm, his breaths slowing, mouth open, lashes resting on his cheeks. He shifts a moment later, onto his stomach, and I trace my fingers along the planes of his back, just below his folded wings.

I don't let myself think about his wings. I push the thought of them from my mind. I imagine my fingers running over smooth skin, imagine the tawny expanse of his back, smooth and freckled, skin even and taut over his muscles.

I slide my wand out of my back pocket and close my eyes, seeing him in my mind—skin unblemished, indentations where the powerful planes of muscle shift and bunch, warm to touch. I can see it. I can feel it.

"Out of sight, out of mind." I whisper the words, the magic rounding out every syllable. I keep my eyes closed, fingers still brushing against Simon's back. As long as I keep the image of his flawless skin in mind the spell should hold, render his wings temporarily incorporeal.

He shifts again—onto his side now, facing away from me-curling in on himself, just as he used to back at Watford.

I can't help the sigh that leaves my lips as I move closer, eyes still closed. I run my fingers along his back, up along his spine, splaying my hands out over his shoulder blades and finding only the softness of his shirt. I keep my mind focused only on him, only on the perfection that is Simon Snow.

My hands roam with no obstruction. I nestle closer, burying my face in his neck, pressing my chest against the expanse of his back. My legs tangle with his, my arm goes around him, and I keep the vision of his unblemished skin in my mind as my breaths slow and it all fades to black.

title from the song by The Cranberries