#coc19

Mistress Pitch (or Nat, as she insists I call her) has introduced me to Lucy Salisbury. She’s Simon’s mum. Can you believe that? That poor boy orphaned by his father’s terrible ambition. I suppose he wouldn’t be who he is without Davy’s interfering. But then again, maybe Simon could have been born without all that power. Without all that pain. A regular boy. A normal life. 

I loved Simon Snow like a son; he never quite fit in, like me. I did what I could to help him all those years at Watford. But in the end he was alone on that horrible night, against Davy and the Humdrum. All by himself, Simon versus the world. Saved the day he did, but at what cost?

Lucy is like Simon, a bright beam of sunshine. A gem. She plays rugby here, I like to watch.

My thoughts are interrupted as Natasha and Lucy take my hands. “Come on Ebb!” Nat’s eyes are sparkling. She’s lighter now, almost childlike. She laughs more easily, smiles more freely. Entirely different from the stern headmistress she was when I knew her at Watford. “The ceremony is starting!” Nat is practically giddy. I let myself be pulled back to the White Chapel. I won’t think about the last time I was there.

Everybody knows the Veil lifts every twenty years so the dead can visit the living. What they don’t know is that the Veil thins annually, at the end of Watford’s school year, for the Leaver’s Ceremony and Ball. I suppose so the dead can catch a glimpse of the future.

Lucy and I flank Natasha as we watch her son give his speech, each of us holding her hand. Tears are streaming down her lovely face and she looks positively radiant. I give her hand a squeeze. Nat lets go to wipe her eyes as she turns to me. “He’s using parts of my leaver’s speech. My heart is so full right now, Ebb.”

At a comment from Basilton, Nat laughs, her eyes sparkling. “I do miss those sour cherry scones,” she says with a warm smile.

“Oh those were ace!” Whispers Lucy, eyes wide. “I would eat those with great slabs of butter. They were my absolute favorite.”

“Shhhh,” Nat admonishes with a playful smirk, gently poking Lucy in the ribs. “My baby is speaking.”

“Yes, Mistress Pitch,” smiles Lucy, rolling her eyes and making a zipping motion across her lips.

As the ceremony ends, Natasha points to the crowd and says to Lucy, “That one there, the one snorting like a lunatic, is my little sister, Fiona. Bit of an anarchist, but very much a softy under all that prickly exterior. She’s the strength of the family, the heart and soul.” Nat places her hand on Lucy’s arm. “She would never admit it. She’d say I was the smart one, the success. But I just played it safe. Fiona lives life fiercely, on her own terms. There’s power in that too, she just doesn’t see it. Basil’s life is fuller, richer, better for having her in it and not me.”

“Well that’s a bit depressing,” I snort, giving Nat a light shove.

“Seriously,” Nat retorts. “At that time, I was all about following the rules, keeping up appearances. I may very well have killed my son, knowing he’d been Turned.” She smoothes her long black hair, “it was the right thing to do. Pitches always do what must be done.”

I put my arm around Natasha’s neck, “Love, I’m so sorry. You’re a different person now. I know you’d never do that.”

Nat cocks her eyebrow at me, “Well, hindsight is twenty-twenty when you’re dead isn’t it?”

I bark a laugh, “Crowley, you’re morbid.”

“Ladies, I hate to go, but I have an appointment,” says Nat airily “Shall we meet up for the leavers ball?”

“What are you on about?” Lucy says quizzically. “There aren’t appointments this side of the Veil.”

“I’ve a meeting with my son,” responds Nat as she wanders away. “See you in a bit.”

***

“He’s here!” Lucy exclaims with wonder, her fingers touching her lips.

I rub my hand up in down her back. “He’s a lovely boy, Lucy, you should be so proud. Saved the world of Mages, he did.”

“So handsome, my sweet rosebud boy.” Her hand goes to her heart as tears glisten in her eyes. Lucy’s eyebrows go down, “Why does he have wings? And a tail?”

“I think it had something to do with the saving of the world of Mages,” Natasha appears, sliding an arm around Lucy’s waist. “It certainly gives him a bit of flair, doesn’t it?” Nat looks happy but a little tired.

“I’m not sure anyone else can see them,” Lucy observes.

“Basil does,” says Natasha. “He just wrapped Simon’s tail around his wrist. Are they friends now? I thought they were enemies?”

“Well,” I say, “They’ve certainly had their share of altercations over the years. But I’ve had my suspicions.”

“What do you mean?” Natasha tilts her head at me. Lucy looks curious.

“Those boys are obsessed with each other, far beyond any simple rivalry.” I raise my eyebrows and look between Nat and Lucy, cracking a wicked grin. “Blimey, you could cut the sexual tension between those two with a knife.”

Lucy widens her eyes and covers her ears in mock horror, “I can’t think of my baby and sex in the same sentence, Ebb. Gross.”

“Shut your mouth,” Nat says, trying to fix her grin into a scowl. “My boy is innocent and loves only his mother.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say, motioning at Simon and Baz. “Well, your innocent babies are currently snogging their faces off on the dance floor.”

“So, friends then,” Nat said, sliding her arms around my and Lucy’s waists, her lips pulled up in a warm smile.

We stay for a bit, watching the boys dance.

“If they get married, we could be sisters,” says Lucy, planting a kiss on Natasha’s cheek.

“We’re already sisters, us three” Natasha says. “Joined by our love for these wayward boys.” She pulls Lucy and me into a hug and places a kiss to each of our temples.

As it turns out, this was one of Ms. Rosemary’s better ideas, and he made sure to get her a lovely gift during Christmas as a thank you. Simon was exactly what Baz had needed in a best friend: at least as a six-year-old. He would split his scones with Baz secretly during English behind their books, and was killer at dodgeball: both feats that had earned him the title of Baz’s closest and most treasured friend. It was enough for now, and he became a constant in Baz’s childhood from then on. The days had blurred into sleepovers at Baz’s house and Simon watching movies while Baz read in the background, an easy comfort that had come from spending ample amounts of time together. 

* * * 

They were almost 11 now, and Baz couldn’t picture his life without Simon in it, the one thing that stayed constant even when everything else skittered away. 

“Baz,” Simon poked his shoulder with the end of his pencil, repeating the action until Baz sighed and looked up. 

“What is it? I’m trying to read,” he held up the book as evidence, but there was no true annoyance behind his words. 

“That girl won’t stop glaring at you. The one with the purple hair.” 

“Penelope Bunce,” Baz supplied immediately, his eyes drifting back to the book. 

“Yeah, her. Why is she glaring at you like that?” 

“Because I checked out the last copy of this book, and now she has to wait till I finish it to read it herself.” 

“Haven’t you read it already?” At Baz’s hum, he continues. “I think you should let her read it, Baz. Really.” 

“And why is that?” 

“It’s the right thing to do, Baz,” Simon explains. “It’s nice.” 

And Baz wants to argue, to say that he isn’t nice, that he never was and never will be. Almost as if Simon took all of the niceness he could’ve had, being nice enough for both of them. Baz wasn’t bitter, of course, he’d have given it to Simon willingly anyway. He’d give Simon anything, really, if he asked, but this was something that Baz refused to dwell on. Simon was his best friend, wasn’t it natural he’d feel this way? So he simply nodded and passed the book to Penelope Bunce, who smiled at Simon, and nodded at Baz appreciatively. And just like that, all because of Simon Snow, he had made another friend. 

* * * 

The fight came out of nowhere. Simon had been getting ready for his date with Agatha--his girlfriend of almost a year--and was holding up hangers to his chest to show Baz, who was trying not to react to any of them. It was a waste of time, anyway, all of them looked stunning on Simon, who’d grown up absolutely gorgeous. His hair, curly and untameable as a child had only worsened with time, and now it lay atop his head in messy golden loops that caught the light wherever he went. 

He held up a dark blue shirt, and Baz felt his breath catch. It brought out the darker blues in Simon’s trite blue eyes, creating a subtle shadow. Simon looked at him questioningly, and Baz almost said no, don’t wear that shirt, wear anything else. But Simon was his best friend, and what type of best friend would he be if he didn’t let Simon look his best for a date? 

Except Simon frowned, and accused Baz of trying to make him look terrible for the date, which had come out of nowhere and was clearly him lashing out about something entirely unrelated to the shirt. 

But Baz stubbornly took the bait, and they’d launched themselves into the first fight they’d had in years. Neither of them liked to fight; they were both too close to each other, and the arguments got more personal, the insults growing increasingly harsher. 

Baz had mentioned how much he despised Agatha without meaning to, and it had done nothing but further escalate the situation. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t be best friends, then. We don’t match anyway.” 

“Simon, you don’t mean that.” 

“Stop telling me what I do and don’t mean! I don’t think we fit anymore, Baz.” 

Baz caught the underlying statement, just leave. 

And so he did. 

*** 

They hadn’t spoken in months, and in that time Bunce had taken Simon’s side (of course) leaving Baz with his old friends Dev and Niall. Who had both, conveniently, decided to leave the library minutes before Bunce herself came strolling in, making her way to Baz’s table. 

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” 

Baz ignores the lead snapping off his pencil tip and continues writing, forcing his eyes to stay on the page and not wander up to where Bunce stands, undoubtedly with her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed to slits. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responds calmly, flipping the page. “Simon’s my friend and so I love him, sure.” 

He hears the chair scrape against the floor as Bunce sits down, grabbing the pencil out of his hand before he has a chance to stop her. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Isn’t that your problem, then?” 

“Baz,” she says sternly, and he finally meets her gaze. 

Suspicion dominates her look, but there’s a small ebb of something else fluttering within. It takes a moment for Baz to recognize it, and he softens his tone when he does. Concern. Small but enough for Baz to remember that he and Penny were friends once, a time before Simon Snow and before they’d become academic rivals. 

“What do you want me to say, Bunce? That I’m hopelessly in love with someone I used to call my best friend before I fucked that up and now I’m nothing more than one of his hundred admirers?” 

“You’re not,” Bunce lightly rests her hand against his as she gets up, adjusting her bag against her shoulder. “Just another admirer, that is. You’re his best friend, Baz, you always have been.” 

“That isn’t enough, is it? It’s too hard,” Baz confesses, tracing a pattern on the table. 

It was too hard, watching him fall deeper in love with Agatha and pretending like it didn’t bother him. In another world, maybe, there’s a Baz strong enough to repress his feelings enough to stay Simon’s best friend. But in this one, Simon’s eyes are a tad bit too blue and his smile a smidge too bright for Baz to look away. 

“You know what, Baz? Why don’t you try talking to him?” 

“I can’t.” And with that he shuffles his things together and drops them in his backpack, leaving before Bunce has the chance to get another word out. 

* * *

“Baz,” an achingly familiar voice calls his name, and Baz anticipates it before he feels it: Simon’s tell-tale pencil end against his arm. “Can I borrow a piece of paper?” 

Baz nods and turns around to hand it over, careful not to look at Simon. He doesn’t want to see the indifference on his face, the subtle hurt at Baz’s random distancing. But Simon clears his throat, and Baz, a constant disappointment to himself, meets his eyes. 

They’re carefully shielded, and Baz realized with a start that he could barely read them as well as he used to. Simon smiles at him slightly, whispering a soft ‘thank you’ as Baz nods again, before turning back around. 

It isn’t until close to the end of the class until he feels the tap of a pencil again, and a paper being passed to him. He opens it gingerly, tracing a fingertip over the messily written words. Less messy than usual, he notes, and he smiles at the thought of Simon trying to tame his handwriting. 

Can we talk? I have scones I’ve missed splitting with someone. 

There’s two boxes underneath, and it’s so utterly cute that Baz can’t help but tick “yes” and pass it back to Simon. And the smile on his face when he sees it, Baz thinks, is worth the heartbreak. 

***

He meets Simon on a bench in the park they used to frequent as children, and Simon waves the bag of scones in the air. 

Baz sits next to him, accepting half a scone and watching Simon push dirt around with the tip of his shoe. 

“You said you wanted to talk?” 

“Yeah, I did,” Simon admits, “Listen Baz, I didn’t mean anything I said that day. It was stupid of me and I shouldn’t have any of it.” 

Baz nods, repeating the apology. It falls flat even to his ears, and so it comes as no surprise when Simon frowns. 

“Baz? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, Simon.” 

“Why didn’t you like it when Agatha and I were together?” Simon asks suddenly, apparently having reached a conclusion. 

Why don’t you talk to him? 

Baz raises an eyebrow, and a sweet smile graces Simon’s face. 

“Say it,” Simon whispers. “Please.” 

And Baz looks at the boy in front of him, his constant throughout everything, and thinks of all the times they’d spent in this park together, never quite expecting it to turn out like this. 

“I love you, Simon,” he says softly, and Simon grins, pulling Baz to him. 

“Me too, Baz. I think I always have.” 

Simon leaned into the touch, but didn’t turn his head away from the stars. Even now, years after he’d stopped being the child enamored by the moon and its stars, the night sky pulled him away from his thoughts, even if only for a bit. In these moments he could forget about the Mage and Ebb, dismiss the mess strewn about his life and lose himself in the constellations and their stories. 

He remembered being seven, six, five, staring up at the same sky with a painful, hopeless knot in his chest, never feeling so unsure of what was going to strike his life next. And he looked up at the same, glittering stars now, and then focused on the hand rubbing small circles on the side of his neck. And wasn’t he ever so lucky, the stars seemed to say, winking at him with their tell-tale eyes, that he wasn’t that miserable little boy anymore? 

“You see that cluster of stars over there?” he pointed, and at Baz’s hum continued, “that’s the first constellation I learned. Isn’t it beautiful?” 

Baz nodded, “where are the others?” 

Simon smiled, before pulling on Baz’s hand, allowing him to sit comfortably beside Simon. The window was cool to the touch as he traced along it, naming constellations as he went. He felt his cheeks warm slightly when Baz traced a fingertip across the moles strewn on his face, his own constellations, Baz had said fondly. 

“You know, I always thought you were the Sun,” Baz said softly, letting his hand fall away from his face and intertwining his fingers with Simon’s instead. “Shining so bright and full of life.” 

And just for a second Simon looked away from his stars and at Baz instead. The moonlight had softened his face, casting a dewy glow on his skin. He was just as beautiful as the moon, Simon realized, the stars slightly reflected in his eyes as they flickered across Simon’s face and waited for his reaction. 

How could he ever have loved the Moon less? 

“And now?” he responded finally, moving away from the window and closer to where Baz sat, a blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. 

“Now I see you’re both.” 

“Both?” Simon echoed, and Baz nodded surely. 

“You’re the Sun with stars strewn about, a mixture of them both.” 

Simon smiled, and shifted until he was leaning on Baz’s chest, his head tucked under his chin. Baz was only ever this sappy when it was late or during special occasions, and Simon couldn’t help but think that this was both. 

“I never thought of it like that before,” Simon admitted, and felt Baz chuckle. 

“When do you think?” Baz teased, and Simon scoffed, too tired to think of a proper response. 

“Stellar response, Simon,” Baz whispered. 

“Stellar, is it?”