One day, I read this prompt: âAfter years of âmy old friendâ, darkness is sick of being friendzoned.â and decided to write a short Snowbaz fic about it. Enjoy.
(English isnât my first language, Iâm sorry for possible mistakes.)
Sighing, you sit down on your bed and put your head in your hands. This day was probably the worst this week, even though itâs hard to tell because the whole week was fucking messed up anyway. University is keeping you up all night and fighting with your genius best friend who usually gets your back when you donât understand something in class didnât help. And now, youâre sitting in your dimly lit room, knowing you really should be studying for tomorrows classes but you just canât push yourself to do it. Itâs a disaster.
Suddenly, one corner of your room starts to go darker and darker, swallowing every streak of yellowish light coming from the lamp on your bedside table. You watch it spread over the walls and floor out of the corner of your eye, already sensing whatâs happening next. Youâve witnessed this enough times to know the process by heart. âHello darkness my old friend..â, you murmur sarcastically, already feeling the cold radiating from the corner.
âWhatâs going on with you?!â
Your head whips up at his sharp, demanding tone.
âBad week, bad day, yâknow.â
He looks right at you through black, lifeless holes in his face where his eyes are supposed to be. Skin grey like faded ashes, pitch black hair, swirling like smoke. His cheekbones are sharp as knives, as well as his jawline and collarbone. Heâs looking deadly handsome, leaning against your bookshelf with raised eyebrows. âYou look miserable.â, he spits out and you laugh, rubbing your eyes.
âI feel like it too.â
At this he snarls: âWhy do I even put up with you, you annoying crybaby?!â, and rolls his eyes. You grin, feeling slightly dizzy because of his scent. It works like a drug. Some go insane form it. âOh come on, I know you are enjoying my company. Or you wouldnât come back here so often.â
Heâs moved from the bookshelf to the middle of the room and the footsteps heâs leaving look like ink, black liquid on dark wood. âI come to every room, every night, you plonker.â, he says, sitting down next to you on the bed. Youâre shivering, but itâs enjoyable and exciting.
âBut not in person, darling.â, you coo, trailing your hands through his hair. He closes his eyes, exhaling, but leans away after a heartbeat. Your hands prickle, the cold piercing them like icy needles. Touching him always sends chills though your body, but the cold is addictive. Youâve been doing this a lot lately, all this fingertips-business. Hovering, hands gliding through hair or over thighs, almost but never fully touching. You donât even know why you are doing this, but you suspect that heâs enjoying this as much as you are, even though he looks troubled sometimes. But there seems to be a secret border, something that stops you both from going further, from going from doing to talking, from actually confessing. Suddenly, heâs standing, backing away, holding up his hands. âStop- justâŚstop.â His voice sounds like acid and the cloud around his body impossibly darkens.
âWhatâs the matter?â you ask, still smiling cowardly. Just his appearance has lighten up your day, which is funny because heâs the darkness himself. You stand up and take a step towards him, but he growls and it almost freezes you. âI-I canât take this anymore. Youâre always close to me, touching, mockingly whispering sweet nothings, doing things you donât mean. Surely you have found out how it tortures me but you do it anyway. I donât understand this, just because you donât feel this way doesnât mean you have to shove it down my throat!â
He stops, looking angry and terrified at the same time. Your jawâs basically dropped and youâre staring at him with wide eyes. He did it. The wall is broken. What used to be just friendship suddenly turned into something deeper, something more vulnerable. Every step could destroy it. âYou mean-â you start, voice sounding hoarse because your throat is as dry as a desert. He stares right back at you. âWhat?â
You swallow, take a step towards him, then another, until thereâs less than a foot space between the two of you. âSimon..â be breaths and it comes out more like a plea than a warning, so you decide to put him out of his misery. And you kiss him.
When his lips connect with yours, it feels like all warmth is sucked out of you. Everything goes dark and for a moment you feel like an empty well. But then he pushes back against you and you tilt your chin a bit and suddenly, your warmth is back and itâs not like heâs sucking it out of you anymore, but rather like itâs flowing through him, filling him, like you make him feel alive. He feels almost transparent under your hands.
Youâre kissing something that isnât really there. No. Heâs not transparent, he the darkness. Heâs not just the darkness, heâs a boy. Youâre kissing a boy. Youâre kissing the darkness and itâs incredible.
His bottom lip scrapes your teeth and you bite down on it, electing a groan form him that sounds like heaven. He feels like a black hole, constantly drawing you in. You pull away slowly and he locks eyes with you, his cold death-stare seeming softer than usually. âWhy did you do this?â, he whispers, voice like a blow of icy wind on your face. âBecause I wanted to.â
Your hand finds his and you squeeze it, looking down to watch as the smoke heâs giving off mixes with your skin. It makes it look like a silver shade of bronze. Itâs like heâs blurry at the edges, you never know where he starts and where he ends. For a couple of minutes, you just look at him, searching for emotions in his dark features. It seems like youâve unlocked a secret feature in him, his smile. Also, his colours have changed. Heâs not only black and grey, he consists of numerous shades of blue, grey, black and even purple now. Even the holes where his eyes are supposed to be seem to be twinkling. A question pops up in your head as he leans into you, resting his head on your shoulder.
âCan we be together? Even though youâre the darkness?â
He smiles, you can feel it on your collarbone. âWeâre going to find a way.â Youâre both silent for a second, before he adds: âI have a name, you know. An actual name. Iâm not supposed to tell anyone, but I feel like you should know it.â
You grip his hand tighter, whispering: âTell me.â Thereâs a pause, then he does.
You roll his name around in your mouth. It tastes like smoke and bitterness, it burns you and slices the sides of your oral cavity. When you say it out loud, he shivers violently and when he looks at you like you are made of light, itâs your turn to shiver.
Itâs all you can think of for the rest of the week.