#ler!baz

SIMON

Baz has been acting off lately. I can't quite put my finger on what it is. He seems distracted. More like how I act. I'm always thinking of something else, not able to stay focused on one thing for long. He's like that, but trying to act like he isn't.

We're doing something odd today. We're in bed at sunset. It's hardly sunset, as a matter of fact. The sun isn't seeping orange and red into the flat yet. Penelope took us out on a hike today. It tuckered the both of us out. Baz drained a buck when we got home.

I'm laying perpendicular to Baz (or is it parallel? composite? I could never remember mathematics), my legs resting over his stomach. He's reading and I'm playing a puzzle app on my phone.

BAZ

Now's the time, Baz. Just do it, don't think.

His socked feet are right in front of me. There's only been a handful of times we've sat in this position, half of them being my lower half resting on Simon's sturdier upper half. It's now or never.

I stare at his feet for too long, zoning out and forgetting that I was left staring at them, so it definitely looked like I have a fetish for feet. Which I don't. Focus, Basilton.

I take a finger-- no, two fingers. I scratch quickly at his heel. His leg jerks, foot being pulled back.

"What?" he asks me, as if I hadn't been plotting this for weeks. As if I just did it to get his attention.

"Something on the bottom of your sock, love."

Simon went right back to his head hanging upside down off the side of the bed, phone held out in front of his eyes.

Well, that proved one thing. He's ticklish.

He places his ankles right back where they originally were, crossed, atop my stomach. I try again, this time on his arch. I apply more pressure.

"Bahaz!" Simon shakes his foot out, "Is that how you start a foot massage?"

"Would you like a foot massage?"

"No. Not if it's going to tickle like that."

My cheeks heat up. Damn that buck. I'm rosier than I usually am.

"You're ticklish?" I ask, coolly. I barely stuttered.

"I wouldn't try it," he's back to looking at his phone again, "Penny did once and I nearly broke her elbow or something. She wouldn't stop talking about it for days."

"So you're very ticklish, then."

"Don't," this is the first time Snow seems to tense up.

There's a moment of quiet between us. A tense quiet. I lunge for his ankles and he shoots up into a sitting position. I scratch at his arch with four fingers now and he screams.

"Baz!" Simon whines a bit and he somehow yanks his legs free, not without losing one of his socks in my grip.

SIMON

He's grinning at me. No. Sneering.

I still hate when he does that. Reminds me of back when I wanted to throttle him. Sometimes I still do.

"Baz," I warn. His whole posture changes into a predator's, like he's the lion and I'm his fresh zebra. The new stance sends a shiver down my spine, with his shoulders hunched and all, ready to pounce.

"Baz... Baz, Baz, Baz..." I say over and over again because he's smiling at me, and then I start to smile, too, "Bahaz!" I try once more, but his name is all that's coming out, and now I'm giggling. I'm nervous. He did this to me.

BAZ

He's already giggling and I haven't even laid a hand on him.

"Yes, Snow?" I respond to his many calls of my name before I lurch forward, sending my whole body crashing on top of his and trying to pin him. I dig my fingers into his sides and don't stop for as long as I can maintain contact through his squirming.

"Gehehet off!" he's already crumbling, words being broken up with short laughs.

I slide my fingertips to his stomach and scratch there; Snow bucks. It gets even better when my cold fingers make contact with his warm skin beneath the shirt he's wearing. He yelps like I've never heard him yelp (like he's burnt his finger, but he's also 11-years-old again), and he dissolves into loud, beautiful laughter.

"St-Stohohop! Baz! I'm going to end you!"

"Isn't that how we always said it would end? Snuffing each other out? I'm perfectly happy that it's now going to end in my favor. You should've told me you were this easy to defeat earlier on, Snow."

"Shut up!" he cackles, legs kicking wildly behind me, as my body is thrown over his torso. Now I have both my hands buried into his sides, squeezing and squeezing. I get curious, my cheeks still burning with blood, and I lean down to his neck and... (no, I don't bite) I start nibbling. Snow loses it.

His whole face scrunches up, as I watch when I pull my head back. His smile is huge and bright. And the laughs bubble up from his stomach, releasing softer into the air like he sucked a little of the joy from it before releasing to keep for himself.

"Dohon't do that!"

"I thought you love my kisses."

"Not tha-HAAT!"

He shrieks again, hands too slow to stop my face from moving in. I nibble and even lick a few times, careful not to touch him with my fangs.

Did I mention that my hands are still tickling at his sides and ribs while I'm nibbling? Oh yes, I've waited so long for this sound. I wasn't going to make it come out lightly.

I blow a raspberry and that's when Snow's laughter catches and turns all hiccuppy. The noises are infecting me, starting to make me giggle. I shift, and my face now descends towards his stomach, which is bared after I rucked the shirt up.

SIMON

"TYRANNUS BASILTON G-GRIMM FUCKING PITCH-- OR WHATEVER YOUR LONG STUPID ARSEHOLE NAME IS--"

He's laughing at me. I keep laughing even without him tickling me.

"I swehehear I'm going to fucking kill you and your whole family if you do that dohown thehere--" I'm hiccuping. Crowley, how embarrassing.

BAZ

He's got me. I can hardly breathe from laughter. I keel over into him or he into me, but soon we're a laughing pile together on top of the mussed up sheets on the bed.

I make a loud snort and that reels us both back in again, laughing til we're red in the face and til my cheeks hurt.

Simon is giggling away, taking deep breaths to try and calm himself, but he just keeps on giggling. I'm able to sit up a little more and Snow's head is in my lap. He's beaming and looking up at me through squinted, teary eyes.

"That was fun," I say, and I don't think it's the brightest or smartest thing to say. But I say it.

"I love you," Snow's smile is still wide, like he's drunk from it. There's a moment where I feel like I've died again, color drained from me.

It doesn't seem to bother him, that he's said that. For the first time. I run my fingers through his reddish curls once, letting them tangle in the locks towards the back of his head. I hunch myself down so I can kiss him.

"I've wanted to hear that for so long," I whisper.

"That I love you? You haven't figured it out by now?"

Snow had a plethora of moles and freckles scattered across his tawny skin. They spotted across his chest and back, trailed down his arms, dotted up his neck. One time, in fifth year, I accidentally saw Snow in just his boxers and learned that the moles were not only contained to his upper body. The sight did nothing to help my frustration that year.

Many of my more innocent fantasies involved kissing every single one of those marks, every one I could find. Tracing them with my lips and tongue and teeth as Snow sighed beneath me. It used to piss me off beyond belief. Now, with the fantasy in full reach, it just left me yearning. It’s not like I could just tell Snow, “Hey, I want you to take off your shirt so I can kiss all your freckles.”

It took an agonizingly long time for my dreams to come to life, with how slow we wound up taking things in our relationship. It probably had something to do with the beginning of our relationship being in the midst of so many traumatic events and needing to heal from them. Either way, it took far too long before Simon was shirtless in front of me where I was free to touch.

Which is where we are now.

Simon’s shirt is off and mine is halfway unbuttoned. He’s kissing me and my hands trail up his back, massaging into the base of his wings with my fingers to make him sigh and groan. We probably aren’t moving past kissing tonight, but that’s fine by me. As long as I get to kiss Simon, I’m happy.

Which is horribly sappy. I would never say that out loud.

Simon pulls back for air and I immediately go for his neck. There’s a specific mole there that I treat like a target, and Simon grins almost every time I kiss it. Then I trail my lips down to a freckle on his collarbone. Then on his left pectoral.

I glance up at him before going any lower. While kissing every mole has always been a thought in my mind, it may not be a thought in Simon’s. I wouldn’t want to do anything he’s not happy with. Simon, however, is staring down at me with hooded eyes, his lips parted and his cheeks rosy.

He makes no move to stop me.

Simon

Baz is moving like a man on a mission. He targeted that one mole again, and I thought he’d be back on my lips immediately after, but then he kissed another one, and another one. It seemed like he had a plan, and who was I to get in the way of that?

Baz pushes me back onto the bed, and my wings flap on instinct to help balance us and slow our descent. Baz winds up on top of me, leering down at me, and it’s a view I’m not used to. Usually I’m the one above him on all fours, pressing him into the carpet or mattress, making him lean up to capture my lips.

It makes me feel wanted.

I’m feeling rather wanted now, too, as Baz lowers his lips to a freckle right in the center of my sternum. He doesn’t break eye contact the whole time, and I can feel my ears and cheeks going red. I reach a hand down to run through his hair and he goes a little bit pink too.

I wonder if it’s because he’s not blushing that much, or if it’s because he needs to feed soon.

And then Baz’s lips touch down to a mole at the top of my stomach and every thought leaves my mind. Every thought except for the words oh shit.

I had somehow forgotten that I was ticklish.

My stomach flinches without my permission and Baz jerks back. Watching me, he slowly, almost hesitantly, leans back down to press a kiss on another mark on my stomach, just a couple inches to the right of that one. My stomach flinches again. This time I can’t help my sharp intake of breath.

“Simon?” Baz asks.

And it’s embarrassing to admit, especially to someone like Baz. The only person who knows me better than him is probably Penny, and that’s just because Baz was my enemy for so long. Ticklishness is definitely something you don’t want your enemy knowing. I’m not sure it’s something I want my boyfriend knowing, either.

Baz was absolutely the type to take advantage of such a weakness.

Not that I would necessarily mind that. But that was absolutely something I wouldn’t be admitting to Baz. I at least owed Baz the “ticklish” explanation, though.

“I’m just a little ticklish s’all,” I mumble. “It’s no big deal.”

A slow grin spreads over Baz’s face. “A little ticklish?” He asks.

I wish I could say that I immediately regretted my decision. Instead, Baz’s clear plotting sends a thrill of butterflies through my belly. 

I knew he was the type to take advantage.

Baz

Something about the look on Snow’s face tells me that he’s far more than a little ticklish. That, and how much his stomach jumped when I barely even pressed my lips to it. No stomach that’s just a little ticklish jumps that much at being touched.

I am absolutely taking advantage of this.

The thing is, Snow doesn’t quite look like he minds. In fact, I’d say he looks rather giddy. I decide to spare him the embarrassment of calling him out on it for now. I’ll save that for later. The great secret of Simon Snow liking tickling. I wonder how red he’ll turn when I finally tell him I know.

With the mystery of the jumping stomach resolved, my lips find their way back onto Simon’s skin. There’s a whole smattering of marks across his stomach and sides, ripe for the kissing. Simon’s already giggling by the third one, and it’s getting difficult to purse my lips for a kiss around my grin. I keep going, though. Nothing’s going to keep me from kissing every single one of these freckles.

I’m feeling a bit evil, tonight. When Simon tosses his head back with a particularly high-pitched giggle, I bring my hands up to spider against his sides. Simon’s laughter jumps and I chuckle into his skin. He squirms at my breath.

“Having fun?” I ask.

Simon doesn’t answer. At least, not verbally. I think the blush coming up to stain his cheeks is answer enough.

He squeals when I start kissing freckles again, his hands tangling in my hair. He doesn’t push me away, though, which only strengthens my belief that he loves this. I don’t mind. I love it, too. Who wouldn’t love getting to turn their boyfriend into a pile of mushy grins and laughter?

I do eventually get through all the freckles on the front of Simon’s torso, even as he howls and cackles beneath me. I’m having too much fun to stop now, though. I start the circuit again, kissing every mole within reach. And again, and again, and again.

Simon is wheezing below me by the time I’m finished. He’s pushing weakly at my head and arms. I pull back with a chuckle, choosing to instead rest my chin on his chest and peer up at him. He’s panting. Still giggling, even. He’s red-faced and teary-eyed and the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.

I trace patterns in his moles as he calms down, the touch just barely enough to keep him giggling. He doesn’t protest. He kisses my forehead through his giggles.

“Having fun?” I ask again.

“Don’t be so smug,” Snow replies, kissing my forehead again. It’s answer enough.

It had hurt, but I had spent nearly half my lifetime hurting for Snow. I could do it a little while longer. And my patience paid off. Snow healed, albeit slowly. He started letting us -- me and Bunce, he had even shut her out after everything -- back in. I was able to see him more often, sneaking away from Watford for the weekends. I was allowed to place my hand in the middle of his back, on his neck, his stomach, his sides, his legs.

But there were two things I could never touch (or maybe it was three, if you counted them as separate limbs), that no one could ever touch, and frankly, I couldn’t find it in myself to blame Snow for that. His wings and his tail were a delicate matter. A harsh reminder. I teased him about them once and he didn’t speak to me for three weeks. I’ve learned my lesson now, I won’t tease him about them until he’s ready.

We’re curled up on the hood of my car, now, the echoing heat of the previously-running engine keeping us warm in the chilly early-spring night. Well, keeping Snow warm. Vampires don’t need to keep warm like humans do. We’re already so cold. 

I’ve got my arms wrapped around him -- in the middle of his back, carefully placed in the space between where the bases of his wings end and where his tail sprouts from his tailbone -- and he’s got his head on my chest and we’re staring up at the sky. I don’t think either of us has said anything since we got situated on the hood, but I don’t mind, and I doubt Simon does either.

Instead I sigh -- it ruffles his curls, makes them tickle my nose, but I don’t mind -- and pull him even closer.

                              Simon

I don’t think Baz knows he’s doing it. He’s got his hands between my wings and my tail -- and that’s something I’ve really appreciated these past months, Baz doesn’t push like Penny does, he doesn’t even ask when I’m going to let him touch them -- but they’re brushing up and down. I think it's a subconscious movement, because his fingers keep bumping against the base of my wings and he isn’t even reacting. Normally, he gives them a much wider berth.

I’m trying to hold still. I don’t want to break the moment, it’s peaceful and calm and quiet and everything we haven’t been able to have in a very long time, but it feels weird and it’s hard not to squirm. If I squirm, though, Baz will pull back. And he’ll ask questions. And maybe he won’t want to hold me again because he’ll be afraid of touching my wings -- not that Baz is afraid of much of anything.

But the thing is, maybe Baz isn’t afraid. Maybe he thinks my wings and tail are as weird and inconvenient as I do. Maybe he’s disgusted by them, and that’s why he’s never pushed to touch them like Penny has. Maybe he’s just being nice by staying with me as I mope around with these mutations sprouting from me.

No, that doesn’t make sense. Baz isn’t nice.

But what does make sense about our relationship?

                              Baz

Snow’s been slowly tensing up for minutes now. I can’t tell if he’s upset about something or just uncomfortable, and it’s infinitely harder to tell without being able to see his face. I wish I could sweep my hands up and down his back to let him know that it’s okay, but I’m not allowed to touch his wings and I’m not going to push.

Not like Bunce. I saw him shout at her the other week. Her curiosity is going to get her in trouble someday -- as if it already hasn’t.

But the thought does draw my attention to my hands, and I realize that they’re already moving. I don’t know how long they’ve been moving for. And I freeze when my fingertips brush against the base of Snow’s wings.

That’s why Simon’s been so tense.

Simon flinches when I freeze, and I try to calculate how big of a mistake I just made. I pull my hands away like I’ve been burned and Simon flinches again, this time pulling back from me.

I never apologize -- Pitches don’t apologize -- but for Simon I just might.

For Simon, I just might do a lot of things.

Simon’s bottom lip is drawn between his teeth when I’m able to finally get a glimpse of his face. He looks nervous and upset and confused, and I’m not sure what to do with that combination. Before all of this, I might’ve pushed. Tried to make him cry, upset him in every way possible because it was the only thing I knew how to do aside from love him.

I’m trying to learn how to do new things now, though.

“Simon,” I start, and he meets my eyes at the use of his first name. “I--”

But he doesn’t let me finish. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and blurts out his words like they’re vomit. Simon’s never been good with words, and that hadn’t changed in the months that they’d been dating.

“You-can-touch-them-if-you-want-to,” he says, and his words run and slur together like alphabet soup. I can barely understand him.

I stare at him, to make sure he really means it. To make sure he doesn’t feel like me or Bunce have pressured him into it, that he’s really giving me permission. Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have cared. But once upon a time, Simon didn’t love me back, and I wouldn’t go back to that time for anything.

“Unless--unless you don’t want to,” Simon tacks on, and I know what I have to do.

Instead of answering him, I slowly raise up a hand. Simon’s wings twitch and fan out, but they’re trembling like they want nothing more to squeeze back shut against his back. I move a little faster so they don’t do that before I get there.

His wings feel exactly like I expected them to. Warm and leathery. They don’t hum with magic like I expected them to, but that makes sense, because Simon’s magic is gone now. He’s never going to hum again, and I’m okay with that.

I still don’t know if he is.

Either way, he’s still my Simon.

His wings twitch more at my touch, my fingertips dragging across them. Simon makes an odd face in response, all scrunchy and kind of confused.

“All right, Simon?” I say, and it comes out softer than I meant it to.

Simon doesn’t acknowledge that. He nods. “It feels weird.”

I tilt my head. “Weird how? Weird bad?”

Simon shakes his head. “Just weird.”

I roll my eyes and make my touch a little firmer. As I continue to trail my hand across the wing, the angle gets awkward, and my touch becomes more fingernails than fingertips. Simon’s eyes bulge wide out of his head and he squeals. For the second time that night, I rip my hand away as though I’ve been burned.

“Simon?” I ask.

But Simon’s not listening to me. His eyes are locked on the wing I was touching, wide and nervous. I can’t tell if I hurt him. It’s frustrating. I don’t want to hurt him, anymore. 

                              Simon

This is absolutely unfair. I’d managed to hide it from Baz all these years. Penelope knew -- then again, Penny knew everything, it seemed -- and Agatha suspected, but Baz never knew.

His former mortal enemy, Simon Snow, is horribly, unbearably, stupidly ticklish. (And he maybe didn’t mind it as much as he would pretend to).

And of all the things to reveal that secret, it had to be my wings. Because it wasn’t enough that the rest of me was ticklish enough that a stray poke would send me rocketing into the ceiling, my magical wings were ticklish enough that Baz’s fingertips almost sent me flying away.

“Simon,” Baz says, and something tells me it isn’t the first time he’s said it. “Are you all right?”

And I want to deflect. I want to say it felt weird, or it hurt, or literally anything but the truth, but I can’t. Because Baz’s eyes are filled with guilt -- and I’ve gotten better at that lately, reading Baz’s emotions in his eyes when he refuses to show what he’s feeling on his face -- and I know he’s beating himself up over it. He probably thinks he actually hurt me.

“Fine,” I say, then I start stammering. I finally manage to force out, “Just tickled s’all.” I immediately regret it.

Baz looks like the cat who caught the canary.

                              Baz

Ticklish.

Simon Snow is fucking ticklish, and I never had any clue.

It makes sense why I didn’t, we were enemies after all, and that wasn’t exactly the kind of weakness you want your enemy to know. I don’t know if I would’ve used it against Snow if I had known, though. It was a rather intimate thing to do, and I had been in the business of touching him as little as possible unless it was a punch. Touching him could be quite painful, back when I was hopelessly in love with him.

It’s not quite so hopeless anymore.

I can hardly move fast enough in my excitement to know more. My hand instinctively goes for his wing, seeing as that’s what I’d been touching when I found out, but I stop just short of touching it. I’m not sure if touching it is still allowed.

Simon’s wing twitches into my touch. Based on the way Snow’s eyes go wide, I’d say that action wasn’t entirely under his control. Seems the wings have a bit of a mind of their own, or maybe they acted off of Snow’s subconscious impulses.

But I don’t care either way. Bunce could solve that mystery, she’s the one who likes to do that sort of thing.

All I care about is exploring this new world Snow’s opened up to me.

I trail my nails across Simon’s wing again and it twitches violently as he squeals again. I wiggle my nails with a little more purpose against the leathery skin and Simon breaks into actual giggles. A hand flies up to cover his mouth and I reach out and grab it with my free one, interlacing our fingers.

“None of that,” I say. “I want to hear you.”

“Baz!” Simon squeals, but I ignore him.

I decide that wiggling my fingers around aimlessly is going to get me nowhere. No, I need to seek out the real sensitive spots. I try to pull back the hand I’m holding Simon’s with, but he squeezes it tight in his grip. He’s probably realized what I plan to do with it. He always was good at sensing when I was plotting (though I suppose it’s not that hard when the answer is all the time).

It doesn’t matter though, because I can do what I want just as well with one hand. Simon doesn’t seem to realize he has a second hand fully capable of stopping me. It’s flailing around uselessly, and it’s disgustingly adorable.

Simon’s giggling gets louder and more frantic as I spider my nails up his wing, moving towards the base of it at his back. I can’t help the grin that comes to my lips, I just hope it doesn’t look as soppy and lovesick as I feel. Not that Simon would notice, his eyes are too scrunched up with laughter. His nose, too.

Once again: disgustingly adorable. It makes me sick.

Simon’s laughing deep from his belly, now, not just giggling anymore. It’s still getting worse the higher I go, so I don’t change directions. He actually wails in laughter when I get to the inside curve of his wing (it’s almost like an armpit, but for wings. Wingpit?), squirming so frantically that he collapses back into my chest. I can’t help but laugh with him.

I’ve heard Simon laugh before, but it’s gotten rarer and rarer as the years have passed. I haven’t heard it at all since the incident with the Mage and Ebb and the Humdrum, and it’s a refreshing sound. It’s like when you’re parched and you’re finally given a cold glass of water. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until hearing it again.

                              Simon

Baz’s fingers are driving me mad. The touch is so light and teasing, it’s making my skin crawl. There are goosebumps all up and down my arms, and they’re not from the cold. I wish he would move to a different spot, or make his touch firmer, or something. It’s torture. The best kind 

I can barely breathe through my laughter, with the new sweet spot he’s found, and my stomach aches with the force of it. It’s invigorating. I didn’t realize how long it had been since I laughed until Baz forced it out of me. Not that I really minded.

I feel like I’m flying.

He’s laughing with me now, too, and it only makes me laugh harder. It’s not his usual sneering, cocky laugh that he always used to give me back in school, back before our truce. It’s more like the laugh he gave me when he was drunk -- or drunk on my magic -- light and bubbly and a little bit rough, like it’s out of practice.

Maybe I should tickle him back sometime. Get it back into practice.

But that’s the last coherent thought that I’m able to have before Baz’s fingers find a sweet spot inside the sweet spot. I’m lost to my cackling, the only thing on my mind being Baz’s tickling fingers. I wonder if it’ll drive me mad.

                              Baz

Snow’s laugh used to make me want to throttle him. Or at least punch him. It was just another reminder of what I couldn’t have, what I would never be able to have. Because Snow was my enemy and he was dating Wellbelove and we were going to kill each other someday.

Now, his laugh just makes me want to kiss him. It did that before, too, but I always buried it beneath the urge to beat on him. I’m allowed to kiss, now, though, and so the urge to punch him is gone. 

I feel like I’m floating.

And I really want to kiss him.

But he’s probably bound to run out of air, and I think it might be a little difficult to kiss his open, laughing mouth (even as much as the idea of swallowing his laughter into my own lungs is enticing), so I pull away. Simon goes boneless against me, panting and giggling, his wing still twitching from my lingering phantom touch. They furl up protectively against his back, and I get the urge to kiss them, too.

Maybe later.

For the time being, I satisfy myself with pressing my lips against Simon’s own, now that his breath has somewhat returned. Simon wastes no time in kissing me back, still with far more finesse than I can manage. I’m learning, though, and I’m clearly making progress based on the heady little noises he makes into my mouth.

I don’t need alcohol to feel drunk, or even Simon’s former magic coursing through me. I could get intoxicated on Simon alone. Not that I’d ever let him know that, he’d use it against me every chance he’d get. And I’d let him.

We spend the rest of our evening kissing under the stars, long after the hood of the car has gone cold under us. Simon’s wings wrap around us like a blanket, warm and smooth, and we keep kissing. The stars twinkle above them, painting beautiful shadows across Simon’s face. I trace them with my lips.

I have to be back at Watford in the morning. Simon has to be back at the Bunce’s before they notice he snuck out with me (though I imagine Penelope herself likely already knows). The world outside the little bubble we’ve created here continues to turn round, but we don’t have to rejoin it just yet.