#he wants to be baz's feast he wants to be baz's home he wants he wants he wants

[luxken]

blah blah blah for simon love and safety are intrinsically tied to food blah blah blah simon gorges himself because he never knows when his last meal is going to be blah blah blah simon wants baz to feed on him because he wants to provide for baz and show that he loves him in a way he can’t with words blah blah blah “i'll give him everything he wants”

[snowkatze]

Are you in the mood?

Genre: angst Word Count: 1647 Warnings: kinda graphic imagery (in a metaphor), depressive thoughts Summary: Baz is tired of doing what’s expected.

_________________ Sadness had made itself a home in Baz' chest. It had hollowed out the space just beneath his rip-cage and settled there. It was there to stay – was growing violet flowers next to his heart, was playing music in the middle of the night. Sadness was the worst kind of subtenant. Sometimes, Baz became more aware to its presence. Days like these, when memory was more real than the present, it felt like sadness was trying to climb out, cutting of his air, making it hard to swallow. Sadness had been a subtenant for a very long time – and he hadn't let it go out – but sometimes he remembered the time before it had moved in. The anniversary of her death was one of these days.

Baz was down in the catacombs, because where else would he go, and his head was spinning. He wasn't drunk, didn't want to be, because he knew that sadness was a resident and not easily dismissed. He let a flame dance between his fingers and thought about all the things he could set on fire down here. There were the skulls, the bones, the metal on the walls, the pieces of wood on the floor, but it was damp in here. Most flammable was, of course, the vampire, but Baz tried not to think about that. (Baz couldn't help thinking about that. Sadness down there was ordering pizza, making cocktails and putting together an angry playlist of Metallica songs – ready to throw a fucking party.)

When he heard the footsteps, his instinct was to get up and saunter onwards without leaving a trace, but then he took a moment of inward reflection and discovered that actually, he really didn't care enough. Not tonight, anyway.

Hadn't he been on the run long enough? This was the way the world turned, of course. In the end, justice would catch up to him anyway. At least that's the way it was supposed to go. So he stayed put as the footsteps grew louder, didn't even bother to put on a mocking smile. He was sick of playing the game. Just for a bit, he allowed himself indulging the impossibility of leaving the game without giving up, without losing it. (It, the game, or it, his mind – same difference.)

When Simon Snow stepped into the room, Baz didn't lift his head and smirk. He didn't make a cutting remark. He didn't scoff and cross his arms. He didn't walk over and touched him, either. He didn't card his fingers through Simon's curls. He didn't dip his head and lean in for a kiss. But Simon Snow didn't spit in his face and punch him, so. You win some, you lose some.

Baz saw an angry expression, or more precisely, the angry expression on Simon's face, the one he always wore when he found Baz in the catacombs. Oh great, he thought, here we go again. Usually, he'd make up some bullshit excuse, something like taking a midnight walk or following a cat. Something he'd make up something that hit a little too close to home, like, hey, I'm visiting my dead mom. Sometimes he made a sarcastic comment that Simon took entirely serious, like, just looking for a good spot to put your skull. Still trying to work out the intricate technicalities of hiding in plain sight.

Suddenly, when Simon took one step further, his shadow shifted. The tall candles in front of the burning torch cast huge shadows above Simon's head. They started to look like giant horns. The sword that Simon had lifted near his head cast a shadow like a sizzling demon tongue. It looked like a monster's shadow. Despite himself, a shiver went down Baz' spine.

“Oh. Well,” he sighed, seemingly unbothered. “If it isn't Simon Snow. The Chosen One. Saviour of the World of Mages. Did you come to save me?”

Baz softly bit his lip, something dark flickering through his eyes.

“No... So what are you in the mood for today?” he finished.

“What are you doing here?” Simon snarled back.

“Sucking the blood of the most pure and innocent rats, what else?” Baz deadpanned, careful to make himself sound sarcastic.

He gave his own shadow a glance. Just a harmless boy's shadow. Talk about role-reversal.

“I know you're up to something,” Simon says, eyes narrowed.

“Right. I'm up to no good.”

I don't think he even knows how much of a cliché he's being.

“And this is the part where I say 'The only thing I'm up to is planning how to make your life miserable for the next three years' and you'll say something like 'Oh Baz, you're such a horrible person'. Is that it? Is that what you're in the mood for? 'How could you, Baz?', is that the one? 'I'm watching you', that's a good one.”

“Stop trying to distract me. I'll -”

“- figure out your devious plan?” Baz asked tiredly. Simon stared at him, stunned. “Yeah. The script's getting predictable.”

Simon scooted closer. He was clearly irritated, going by the frown on his face. Baz' gaze fell on Simon's shadow again. He could see how the monster would attack him. Already had attacked him. Simon Snow ripped him open, like his knuckles when he punched the walls in the catacombs. And it all came falling out – the truth – the pain – every part of him that was broken – which was – every part of him. Simon Snow didn't need to be a monster to bust him open. The opposite, in fact. He just needed to smile his sunshine smile, radiate the energy of a Golden Retriever, and it was over for Baz.

What are you gonna do with the pieces, Simon Snow, once you've picked me apart?

“Why don't we skip the pleasantries?” Baz drawled. “Get to the good part right away. You in the mood for a fight? Is that what you want?”

There was a dangerous, nearly mad gleam in his eyes. His thoughts kept going in spirals – the things he should do intertwining with the things he wanted to do. He was too worn out to keep them separated.

Baz expected Simon to get riled up and throw an insult at him, because usually it was so easy, but instead Simon's face softened and he asked: “Baz... What's going on?”

Somehow, that was worse. Of course it was. Those were the weapons Simon Snow fought with; kind words and soft smiles. The bugger didn't even know it.

Baz' eyes flickered away and he huffed out a breath at the audacity of it.“I'm tired, Snow. What else is new?”

“It's 2 am.”

“Damn right it is.”

Snow seemed unsure how to act. He tried to approach Baz with the same care you would dismantle a bomb with.

“Are you in the mood for a feast, then? There's gotta be some... dead rats... lying around here somewhere. Or are you in the mood to strike?”

Baz nodded to the sword.

“Today you might be in for a lucky shot.”

He broke into a manic fit of giggles. Pain broke through the confused expression on Simon's face. He walked closer, wanting to reach out, not knowing what to do with his hands. Slowly, he lowered himself next to Baz.

“What are you talking about?” he whispered, shock evident in his voice. He let the sword disappear, surprised that he was even still holding it.

What are you gonna do, Simon Snow, once you've pulled out my heart? Are you in the mood for a casserole dish? How about you put it on a skewer?

Sadness in the basement started blasting “Honey I'm Good” from the speakers. Then it began smashing the furniture with a baseball bat, making a riot. Baz felt tears well up in his eyes and he squeezed them shut. He couldn't stop thinking about it. He didn't kick Snow that day. He didn't step up to dance with him. He didn't put his hand on his lower back. He didn't hurt him. He didn't touch him. Sadness grabbed a ladder in his heart, knocked on the door, wanted out - then – suddenly – something touched his shoulder – he flinched back and opened his eyes. Snow was looming over him, his eyes wide in concern. Baz let out a barely audible gasp. A soothing touch – this was how Simon Snow fought. Baz felt mortally wounded. He swallowed hard.

“Come on, Snow. Why don't you go for the kill?” Baz said with a raspy voice.

There was real fear in his eyes, he was certain that Simon could see it. But the same fear seemed to be in Simon's eyes. He leaned closer. Baz was unable to move. With a light touch, Simon pushed a curl behind Baz' ear. Then he went for the kill – the kiss.

This was how Simon Snow won an argument. Baz lightly pulled at Simon's hair, we should be fighting. Simon softly moved his thumb across Baz' chin, let's just do this instead. Simon leaned back slightly, leaving his head near Baz'. Baz let out a shuddering breath. His eyes skimmed over Simon's face, trying to find something there, whether he was a boy or a monster. But it was just Simon Snow.

“Why are you doing this?” Baz breathed, scared of the answer.

“I don't know,” Simon replied, appearing stunned. “I think that's just... what I'm in the mood for. Is that okay?”

He put his hand on Baz'.

“Can we do that?”

He was just Simon Snow, and he shot Baz a tentative smile. That was all it took. Baz could only nod and turn his hand over, gripping Simon's tightly, finding something akin to hope in his eyes.

Sadness, he thought. You're fucking evicted.

[diningpageantry]

Honor The Name

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909690/chapters/38860574

Chapter 12/16 of Love You All, Die For This

Word Count: 1674

Chapter Summary: Oliver’s coming home

Tags: @fight-surrender

BAZ

The past few months have felt more like a blur than an actual, viable space and time.

The visits to the house, the background checks, the childproofing, the visits to Oliver. All of it.

Snow’s taking it surprisingly well; despite obviously being anxious over the confirmation, he’s a tad more cheerful than he’s been for the past year or so. I’ve found him, on multiple occasions, spread out in our office once I get home with piles of homeschooling, his tail slowly swaying behind him to the music playing on the Bluetooth speakers. He’ll just look up on those days with such a big smile, telling me what he’s planning on teaching as he glues pictures to large note cards, information on it on the back.

Some days, I join him, wrapped around him from behind as he works almost robotically. He’s all warm and calming, his wings almost creating a blanket around him as he works.

Most days are dedicated to fixing up the bedroom now. Snow got Oliver to talk about a month back, managing out a few words on occasion, like what his favorite colour is, to which he said “Orange.”

The walls of his room are now an orange-creamsicle colour with a white trim.

Simon, thankfully, let me get all the furniture, setting up comfortable blankets around his twin bed and a full toybox. Fiona kindly donated a few rocks that she said are toys. I did not put those in the box.

It feels nearly unreal. The stuffed bear on his bed, the closet and dresser filled with clothes, the tiny dress shoes and wall paintings and the hugs he gives Simon as we leave. It’s surreal; it’s somehow heartbreaking and spirit-rising simultaneously.

He hasn’t quite warmed to me, though. I try to remind myself that he’s skittish and the only reason he’s warmed to Simon so well is because he’s an automatically sweet, comforting person, yet at times I can’t help but think that it’s something wrong with me. Granted, I’m not the kindest person to be around, but I think back to Malcolm and my upbringing. All of those strict stares and no hugs but all handshakes. Proper dinner seating. Everything has its place, and every order is as such for a reason. Man marries woman. Have children. Honor the family name.

Sometimes I look at Simon, Simon Snow Pitch, and I remind myself that I am honoring the name.

When we decided that we’re giving Oliver the singular last name ‘Pitch’, I became sure that I’m truly honoring the family name, blood or not.

Now comes the time to take him home, to let him sink into our lives as abruptly as he came into it.

Snow anxiously shifts every few moments of the car ride, mind running through what he’s to say, what he’s to do. I want to remind him that there’s no right or wrong way he’ll greet Oliver into our lives fully (at last), but then again, I feel myself questioning how well I’ll greet him. If I offer him a hug, will he take it? I refuse to outstretch a hand; he’s not even four. He’s a child, not a businessman.

Instead, I just comfort Snow with the squeeze of my hand and the rub of my thumb against his wrist. I hear his sigh and I catch his head turn towards in the corner of my eye. “Are you ready for this?” He asks, voice careful as ever. I’m not entirely sure he’s asking me this, rather than himself.

“I’d like to think I am,” I state back, voice leveled. “We’ve spent months preparing, after all.” I pause, trying to find comfort in what I’m saying. Part of me is envious of Snow’s ability to be so close so easily to Oliver; I get choked up every time they hug because he’s so close already, but I’m afraid he’ll never be close to me. I remind myself, though, that even the best of people need reassurance. “He already loves you, Simon. He talks to you, he smiles at you. You’re his dad, love; you can already tell it on his face. You’ve got this.”

He stays silent for a minute, his gaze trailing down to our joint hands as he gives mine a reassuring squeeze. “He’ll warm up to you too,” he says back.

I swallow audibly, barely managing a nod in response. Will he, though?

We stay quiet until we arrive, wordlessly unbuckling seat belts as Snow grabs the manilla file out of the car door, holding it close to him as we step inside.

We’re greeted by our caseworker, Oliver, and a staff member in the lobby as we step inside. There’s a single suitcase of Oliver’s belongings, as well as a box held by the staffer (I can already feel the wand inside; it’s old, old magic). They all turn their heads once the bell aboves us dings and Oliver grins, waving to Snow gleefully. In return, Snow rushes from my side to greet Oliver, offering his arms to pick him up. He nods, and he’s scooped up into Snow’s arms.

I stand awkwardly, nodding to the adults without moving a step. Our caseworker nods back as she stands, her briefcase at her side. “Shall we step back for the finalized paperwork? All of it’s been approved, we just need signatures now.”

“Of course,” I respond, waving a hand briefly to directly them back, all four of us following her lead as Simon coos and speaks with Oliver joyously. It nearly makes all of the waiting feel like a blink of an eye; we’re here now.

We all take seats at a table, the papers going back and forth between Snow and I for signing until it’s all finally done, the last bit of ink touching the documents and officially settling that Oliver is now our’s.

Simon grins and offers his hand out to Oliver, who lays his palm down against his. “Are you ready to come home, Ollie?”

The child--our child--nods, grinning and keeping his palm pressed to Snow’s hand. The staffer offers his bags over to me silently, to which I take with a mutter of a “thank you”. As Snow and Oliver start out, I speak to the case worker briefly about her first settling visit in six weeks and wish her a nice day before whisking off to the car. I listen to Snow’s chatter as he buckles Oliver into his car seat while I load the boot, closing it without a slam and taking my seat in the front.

The car ride home is music-less, but Snow’s hand against my knee calms me enough as we ride, taking the long trip back to the house.

By the time we’re there, it’s late afternoon and Oliver’s dozed off in the back seat.

I don’t dare to get him.

Snow does instead, carefully unbuckling him and holding him against his front, magically keeping him asleep I grab his bags before unlocking the front door.

Snow’s feet are heavy against the stairs, the muffled thumps echoing down the halls of our usually empty house.

It isn’t empty anymore, though. We’re a family now. Or, at least, legally. I’m a father now; I have a child’s seat in my Mercedes and we have childproofing on low cabinets. I’m listed as a parent, a guardian, a caretaker for a child that barely even looks at me. Despite all that, though, now I stand as a father, leaned against my kitchen’s island and trying to take a deep breath as it all hits me at once.

I love him. I truly do. I don’t know how I’ll ever show it without fearing that I’m too cold to be a parent, but the way he smiles and felt comfortable enough to sleep around us makes my chest swell and eyes sting. He’s ours; he’s home, and I’ll do anything in my fucking power to make sure that he’s safe for the rest of his life. He’ll get whatever he wants whenever he wants it; I’ll fight a fucking pack of merwolves if they even snarl at him.

He’s my son.

I say it out loud.

“He’s my son,” I say into the empty air around me. It echos very slightly from the tiled kitchen, bouncing back to me. He’s my son. I break into a smile, feeling myself choke up as I hold the countertop tighter. He is; he’s my son. I repeat it, saying it over and over to nobody but myself. “He’s my son, he’s my son, he’s my son--”

“He’s our son,” Simon says, leaning against the stairway with a grin. I snap my head to see him and respond with a faint smile back. He steps closer, wiping my eyes and pressing a kiss to my cheek. I lean into it. “He’s our son, and he’s home.”

I nod against him, my smile breaking wider as I shamelessly sniffle. “Yes, he is.” I straighten up my composure, recollecting myself. “I should make dinner, he’ll be hungry when he gets up.”

“Don’t overdo it, love. We won’t need a feast; we have stuff for a roast and some potatoes. That’ll be good, especially since it’s nippy out.” His lips rest against my cheek again, breath tickling my skin. He’s on his tiptoes to reach me.

“I won’t; I’ll keep it simple.” My arm hooks around his waist, dragging him in front of me as I firmly place a kiss to his lips. He takes it, staying for a second and humming against me before pulling back and kissing my jaw, setting his feet flat on the ground.

He breaks away after a long moment, staring up at me with glassy eyes as he grins from ear to ear. “We’re a family now. The family we wanted,” he says quietly. This time, I’m sure he’s talking to himself, but it makes me nod and press my nose into his curls, inhaling slowly.

“Yes, yes we are.”

[liiacsuns]

Carry On Countdown, DAY 8.

​Day 8, DEC 2: Hogwarts AU

     There were horses. If you could call these creatures horses. They had wings, skeletal bodies and looked like a mix between a bat, a horse and a reptile. And they were in front of the carriage that were to take the students to the castle, ready to pull it. 

     Simon was sure he had never seen something like that before. The carriage were always moving by themselves, everybody knew it. 

"Penny!! Do you see that?!" he exclaimed, grabbing his best friend's arm, pointing to the creatures.

"What Simon?" she sighed. "

The horses!"

"Horses? What horses? Simon, have you tried creating potions again?" 

"What? No! Mom forbid me. But not the point Penny! Do you not see the horses? They're pulling the carriages!"

"Simon that's not funny.." she said, starting to sound frustrated. 

"But-"

"Come on, let's go, they're gonna leave without us." she interrupted him, pulling him with her into one of the carriages.

     He didn't say anything else about the creatures he saw, even though they were still there. He knew he wasn't hallucinating, he hadn't eaten anything strange and he hadn't touched his potion kit over the summer. 

     Penelope was talking, as always, telling him about her summer, asking questions about his. He didn't want to talk about his summer, because it wasn't a good summer. Not at all. And Penny knew that, so she didn't ask more and just continued talking about school, about the year that was starting, and Simon let his thoughts wander. When she was talking about school, and learning and spells she was unstopable. Such a Ravenclaw, he thought with a smile. 

     The feast, as always, was awesome. He and Penny split up when entering the Great Hall, reuniting with their housemates. Penny sat with some Ravenclaw she knew from the year before, while Simon came to sit beside Gareth at the Hufflepuff table. Baz was sitting near them, alone, as usual, with that same arrogant look on his face. 

     Baz was a pureblood prick, arrogant and full of himself, who hated Simon for no apparent reason. They were sharing a room (obviously they had to end up together) and it made things really tense. Up until this point, still nobody understood why Baz had been put into Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin. It was strange, really, but no mistakes were ever made in the sorting, so everyone went with it, wondering when the revelation as to why he was put in this house would happen. 

     The next morning, Simon had almost forgotten what happened with the horses and the carriages. Until Baz came to him and ruined everything. They were the only two left in the dorm, everyone having already left to breakfast. 

"They're called Thestrals." Baz said suddenly, looking at Simon without his usual smirk.

"What are you talking about?"

"The creatures you saw yesterday, pulling the carriages. They're called Thestrals."

"How do you know?"

"I read Snow, unlike you."

"Not that. How do you know I saw them?" Simon asked, trying to keep a straight face. He didn't know if he was annoyed or happy to know that he hadn't invented them.

"I heard you tell Bunce about it. You weren't exactly discreet about it." he answered with a shrug.

"So they're real?"

"Of course they are." he said, before leaving the room, not sparing Simon a glance. 

     Baz wasn't in the Great Hall when he came down, and they didn't sit close in any classes. Simon had to wait until lunch to finally ask all the questions he had. He didn't lose any time, and sat in front of Baz not caring at all about the stares he earned in the process.

"Why am the only one to see them? And why now? It's the first time.."

"You're not the only one, I see them too. Some other students do too. A girl from Gryffindor, and twins from Slytherin. Maybe others, I don't really know." the other boy answered after a sigh of what seemed like annoyance. 

"It still doesn't explain why only some of us see them."

"You can see them only if you've witness death. It's not something that happens to everyone.."

"Oh. Wow." he didn't expect that, at all. "That's morbid."

"It is. But that's how it works. You don't see them until you see someone die." he answered with a small shrug.

"So that's why I've never seen them before.." Simon said with a sad smile. 

"Yeah.. You weren't having hallucinations. And you should listen to Bunce and stop experimenting with potions. You'll end up killing yourself and the whole school in the process."

"I did it once okay! I'm not that dumb." he mumbled

"Good, I kinda have plans for my future, dying now because you acted like an idiot isn't part of it."

"And here I thought you could be nice.."

"I can be, it doesn't mean I want to."

"You don't have to be mean either. You could always ignore me, without hating me and provoking me," Simon said slowly.

"But that wouldn't be as fun, would it?" he teased with a playful smirk, before returning to his meal. 

     Simon wanted to answer, but someone next to him started talking to him, and before he knew it he was engrossed in a conversation with a few fellow Hufflepuff, and Baz was gone. That night, after dinner, when he and Penny met up to study in the library, the first thing she did was ask him why he sat with the dark haired boy at lunch. And he didn't really know why, but he didn't tell her the truth. He wanted to keep this discussion a secret, a thing between him and Baz. It was weird, he knew it, Penny was his best friend since they were eleven, and Baz was some prick who'd always hated him. But still, he didn't want to tell Penny about the Thestrals. She'd want to learn everything she could about them, and he just wanted to keep it his thing. So he lied about some thing about a discussion they had in the dorms and asked her to help him with something in his homework, to change the subject as fast as he could. It worked, obviously. Helping him was one of Penny's favorite thing to do. 

     When he got back to his dorm, right before curfew, everyone was in the room. They were all sleeping, except Baz, of course, who was in his bed, reading. Simon almost talked to him, but dropped it and changed into his pajamas, going to sleep immediately. 

     The school year started, the weeks passed, and nothing changed from the years before. Nothing happened with Baz, and Simon was a bit disappointed, although he didn't exactly know why. After their talk on the first morning after they came back, he thought something would happen, but it didn't. Except the fact that Baz was ignoring him instead of throwing hexes and insults at him. Which was a start, he had to admit. But he was starting to realize that it wasn't enough for him.

     Until one night, in the middle of december. He woke up in the middle of the night, sweating, his heart beating way too fast, breathing hard, almost screaming. He'd just had a nightmare, and apparently had woken up someone by the way his mattress shifted under the weight of someone sitting beside him. He felt a hand stroking his back slowly, and almost jumped when he opened his eyes and was met by the sight of Baz, hair tousled, looking slightly worried. He didn't say anything, too shaken to do anything but sit there and try to steady his breath. 

"It's okay Snow, it was just a nightmare. You're safe, nothing can happen here," Baz said softly, voice low, to avoid waking the others up. 

"It wasn't a nightmare," Simon whispered after a few minutes.

"Yes it was. Maybe it didn't seem like it, but it was."

"It wasn't Baz.. What... What I saw. It happened before, I didn't make that up, I just relived everything."

"Exactly. You relived it, it wasn't real, not this time. You're safe, and nothing happened."

"I know that. But it's just- It's so hard, to see it happen again, it's just... Horrible."

"I know Simon, I know."

"Why do you see the Thestrals?" Simon asked slowly, not expecting the other to answer.

"When I was 5, my mom died in front of me. Things happened, we were attacked, and she died protecting me. I've always seen them, since the first time we took the carriages. I thought everyone did at first, but when I realized they didn't I spent months in the library searching about it.."

"That's awful.." Simon said softly, putting a hand on Baz's knee, stroking it slowly as he continued his story.

"You kinda get used to it as time pass. I mean, it's still awful, but after a bit the pain becomes more subtle.."

"Really? Does it take long? I'm tired of the pain..." Simon admitted.

"Depends. It took really long for me.. But it was my mom.. Yours is still alive."

"Yeah, fortunately. I've never known my dad, so I'm glad my mom's still there.."

"You're lucky.." Baz whispered.

"I know.. I can't imagine what you've been through.."

"You don't have to, you know."

"I know," Simon answered, and they both stayed quiet for a while. "It was my godmother, Ebb. She was an auror."

"What happened?"

"She was on a mission, and it went bad.. And she died..." he explained, his voice cracking in the middle.

"You saw it happen?"

"Not the mission, but yeah, mom and I were there when she died... We were close, she was often at home, and she kinda helped mom raise me..."

"And you're having nightmares only now?" he asked, a bit surprised.

"No.. It's been a long time, but they aren't always that violent I guess... It's just that... Christmas break is coming, and it'll be the first time I'll come home to my mom only... Ebb was always there with her to pick me up from the platform... And just thinking about the fact that she won't be there well..."

"It's hard." Baz finished for him.

"Yeah. How do you do it, how do you deal with it?"

"I don't. Christmas is always hard. The first year, my dad forgot about it, it was awful."

"Wow... Is that why you're such a dick?" he asked without thinking.

"I guess... My family isn't exactly the friendly-cuddly type, we don't show affection, only my mom did. So I'm not used to that."

"But that's not just that. You close yourself off everyone. I've never seen you be friend with anyone, for six years."

"It's easier to be alone than to be hurt. If you don't have anyone, it's impossible to lose people."

"It's sad though." Simon said, his hand slowly moving on Baz's knee.

"I'm not exactly the happiest person alive Snow."

"I like it better when you call me Simon. And I like you better now."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I prefer when you're acting like you're acting right now. I kinda wish we'd started doing it sooner."

"Why?"

"Because you're great, and you're actually not that much of a douche when you let down your walls," he explained softly, taking Baz's hand in his, intertwining their fingers. "I'm not a really good friend you know. I don't know why Penny's still sticking with me. But I kinda want to be your friend now. You could use some company, I don't think books are that great at keeping a conversation," he said with a laugh.

"I think I would like that," Baz answered with a small smile, looking straight at him. 

"Good."

THREE MINUTES LEFT! But I did it! It’s unbetaed, but @blackintheskies helped me a lot with it, half of the plot was her idea, so thanks for that, you’re amazing! I’ll probably do a second part, maybe more I don’t really know, but I really like what I’ve written yet and I have more ideas left, so we’ll see! Hope you enjoyed!!

[dfroza]

A blank page is seen

in Today’s reading of chapter [8] of the ancient writing of Isaiah:

Then God told me, “Get a big sheet of paper and write in indelible ink, ‘This belongs to Maher-shalal-hash-baz (Spoil-Speeds-Plunder-Hurries).’”

I got two honest men, Uriah the priest and Zechariah son of Jeberekiah, to witness the document. Then I went home to my wife, the prophetess. She conceived and gave birth to a son.

God told me, “Name him Maher-shalal-hash-baz. Before that baby says ‘Daddy’ or ‘Mamma’ the king of Assyria will have plundered the wealth of Damascus and the riches of Samaria.”

God spoke to me again, saying:

“Because this people has turned its back

on the gently flowing stream of Shiloah

And gotten all excited over Rezin

and the son of Remaliah,

I’m stepping in and facing them with

the wild floodwaters of the Euphrates,

The king of Assyria and all his fanfare,

a river in flood, bursting its banks,

Pouring into Judah, sweeping everything before it,

water up to your necks,

A huge wingspan of a raging river,

O Immanuel, spreading across your land.”

But face the facts, all you oppressors, and then wring your hands.

Listen, all of you, far and near.

Prepare for the worst and wring your hands.

Yes, prepare for the worst and wring your hands!

Plan and plot all you want—nothing will come of it.

All your talk is mere talk, empty words,

Because when all is said and done,

the last word is Immanuel—God-With-Us.

[A Boulder Blocking Your Way]

God spoke strongly to me, grabbed me with both hands and warned me not to go along with this people. He said:

“Don’t be like this people,

always afraid somebody is plotting against them.

Don’t fear what they fear.

Don’t take on their worries.

If you’re going to worry,

worry about The Holy. Fear God-of-the-Angel-Armies.

The Holy can be either a Hiding Place

or a Boulder blocking your way,

The Rock standing in the willful way

of both houses of Israel,

A barbed-wire Fence preventing trespass

to the citizens of Jerusalem.

Many of them are going to run into that Rock

and get their bones broken,

Get tangled up in that barbed wire

and not get free of it.”

Gather up the testimony,

preserve the teaching for my followers,

While I wait for God as long as he remains in hiding,

while I wait and hope for him.

I stand my ground and hope,

I and the children God gave me as signs to Israel,

Warning signs and hope signs from God-of-the-Angel-Armies,

who makes his home in Mount Zion.

When people tell you, “Try out the fortunetellers.

Consult the spiritualists.

Why not tap into the spirit-world,

get in touch with the dead?”

Tell them, “No, we’re going to study the Scriptures.”

People who try the other ways get nowhere—a dead end!

Frustrated and famished,

they try one thing after another.

When nothing works out they get angry,

cursing first this god and then that one,

Looking this way and that,

up, down, and sideways—and seeing nothing,

A blank wall, an empty hole.

They end up in the dark with nothing.

The Scroll of Isaiah, Chapter 8 (The Message)

and Today’s paired chapter with this from the ancient Letter of First Corinthians:

[The Mystery of Sex]

I also received a report of scandalous sex within your church family, a kind that wouldn’t be tolerated even outside the church: One of your men is sleeping with his stepmother. And you’re so above it all that it doesn’t even faze you! Shouldn’t this break your hearts? Shouldn’t it bring you to your knees in tears? Shouldn’t this person and his conduct be confronted and dealt with?

I’ll tell you what I would do. Even though I’m not there in person, consider me right there with you, because I can fully see what’s going on. I’m telling you that this is wrong. You must not simply look the other way and hope it goes away on its own. Bring it out in the open and deal with it in the authority of Jesus our Master. Assemble the community—I’ll be present in spirit with you and our Master Jesus will be present in power. Hold this man’s conduct up to public scrutiny. Let him defend it if he can! But if he can’t, then out with him! It will be totally devastating to him, of course, and embarrassing to you. But better devastation and embarrassment than damnation. You want him on his feet and forgiven before the Master on the Day of Judgment.

Your flip and callous arrogance in these things bothers me. You pass it off as a small thing, but it’s anything but that. Yeast, too, is a “small thing,” but it works its way through a whole batch of bread dough pretty fast. So get rid of this “yeast.” Our true identity is flat and plain, not puffed up with the wrong kind of ingredient. The Messiah, our Passover Lamb, has already been sacrificed for the Passover meal, and we are the Unraised Bread part of the Feast. So let’s live out our part in the Feast, not as raised bread swollen with the yeast of evil, but as flat bread—simple, genuine, unpretentious.

I wrote you in my earlier letter that you shouldn’t make yourselves at home among the sexually promiscuous. I didn’t mean that you should have nothing at all to do with outsiders of that sort. Or with crooks, whether blue- or white-collar. Or with spiritual phonies, for that matter. You’d have to leave the world entirely to do that! But I am saying that you shouldn’t act as if everything is just fine when a friend who claims to be a Christian is promiscuous or crooked, is flip with God or rude to friends, gets drunk or becomes greedy and predatory. You can’t just go along with this, treating it as acceptable behavior. I’m not responsible for what the outsiders do, but don’t we have some responsibility for those within our community of believers? God decides on the outsiders, but we need to decide when our brothers and sisters are out of line and, if necessary, clean house.

The Letter of First Corinthians, Chapter 5 (The Message)

and this chapter certainly ties in with chapter 6 from tomorrow’s reading on the True nature of “Oneness” created by the sexual bond in Love:

And how dare you take each other to court! When you think you have been wronged, does it make any sense to go before a court that knows nothing of God’s ways instead of a family of Christians? The day is coming when the world is going to stand before a jury made up of followers of Jesus. If someday you are going to rule on the world’s fate, wouldn’t it be a good idea to practice on some of these smaller cases? Why, we’re even going to judge angels! So why not these everyday affairs? As these disagreements and wrongs surface, why would you ever entrust them to the judgment of people you don’t trust in any other way?

I say this as bluntly as I can to wake you up to the stupidity of what you’re doing. Is it possible that there isn’t one levelheaded person among you who can make fair decisions when disagreements and disputes come up? I don’t believe it. And here you are taking each other to court before people who don’t even believe in God! How can they render justice if they don’t believe in the God of justice?

These court cases are an ugly blot on your community. Wouldn’t it be far better to just take it, to let yourselves be wronged and forget it? All you’re doing is providing fuel for more wrong, more injustice, bringing more hurt to the people of your own spiritual family.

Don’t you realize that this is not the way to live? Unjust people who don’t care about God will not be joining in his kingdom. Those who use and abuse each other, use and abuse sex, use and abuse the earth and everything in it, don’t qualify as citizens in God’s kingdom. A number of you know from experience what I’m talking about, for not so long ago you were on that list. Since then, you’ve been cleaned up and given a fresh start by Jesus, our Master, our Messiah, and by our God present in us, the Spirit.

Just because something is technically legal doesn’t mean that it’s spiritually appropriate. If I went around doing whatever I thought I could get by with, I’d be a slave to my whims.

You know the old saying, “First you eat to live, and then you live to eat”? Well, it may be true that the body is only a temporary thing, but that’s no excuse for stuffing your body with food, or indulging it with sex. Since the Master honors you with a body, honor him with your body!

God honored the Master’s body by raising it from the grave. He’ll treat yours with the same resurrection power. Until that time, remember that your bodies are created with the same dignity as the Master’s body. You wouldn’t take the Master’s body off to a whorehouse, would you? I should hope not.

There’s more to sex than mere skin on skin. Sex is as much spiritual mystery as physical fact. As written in Scripture, “The two become one.” Since we want to become spiritually one with the Master, we must not pursue the kind of sex that avoids commitment and intimacy, leaving us more lonely than ever—the kind of sex that can never “become one.” There is a sense in which sexual sins are different from all others. In sexual sin we violate the sacredness of our own bodies, these bodies that were made for God-given and God-modeled love, for “becoming one” with another. Or didn’t you realize that your body is a sacred place, the place of the Holy Spirit? Don’t you see that you can’t live however you please, squandering what God paid such a high price for? The physical part of you is not some piece of property belonging to the spiritual part of you. God owns the whole works. So let people see God in and through your body.

The Letter of First Corinthians, Chapter 6 (The Message)

my reading from the Scriptures for may 30, day 72 of Spring as a mirroring of the alphabetic number 72 of the word “marriage” as well as being day 150 of the year to conclude the book of Psalms:

[carry-on-kissing-snowbaz]

Beauty and the Beast (3)

Sorry this chapter is late! I hope you enjoy :) Previous chapters are listed here: 1 2

Simon

Simon dragged his cloak tighter around himself. It was incredibly cold in the cell, the open window letting in snow and chilly air. Simon wasn’t sure he was going to last very long in this cold without his magic. 

He wondered why the castle was cursed the way it was. The magic hanging over the wells felt sticky, making for an overwhelmingly claustrophobic sensation. Whoever had cast the spell had to have been powerful. Simon was regarded by many as one of the most powerful magicians to have lived and even he couldn’t access his magic here. 

Escape did not seem like a possibility. The walls were too high to jump from. Plus, Simon wasn’t sure where he would go if he did manage to escape. Back to the father who had abandoned him here? Back to the village that seemed to be moving on quite easily without him? He wasn’t sure there was anything worth going back to in that place. Still, anything was better than a cold prison cell. 

He heard strange shuffling noises coming from the stairwell. The sound of two people bickering was soon audible. After a minute or so the two voices were close enough that Simon could make out what they were saying.

“Niall I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“You heard him Dev, he said to go ahead and give him a better room.”

Simon sat up.

“Hello?” He called out.

“Ah yes, hello! My name is Niall.”

Simon froze as the candelabra he’d seen in the entrance when he’d first walked into the castle strolled over to the cell bars and bowed in front of him. A second or so later the clock he’d seen before strutted over and glared at the candelabra. Simon wondered if the cold had finally gotten to his head.

“Um, my name is Simon,” He said weakly.

The one called Dev frowned at him.

“Yes we know that already.”

Niall, the candelabra, turned to smack the clock with one of his burning candles.

“Don’t be rude! He’s our guest after all.”

Simon shook his head in confusion.

“I’m sorry, but I think I need a bit of an explanation. This castle has talking household items?  And since when did I become a guest?”

Niall glanced at Dev uncomfortably.

“Well, the curse, it uh, made all the people living in the castle into household items. And I suppose you are still technically a prisoner but to us you’re a guest.” Niall said.

“How lucky for you,” Simon grumbled.

“Hey,” Dev began angrily, “Did you not hear the part about us being cursed? Nobody here has it easy.”

Simon pursed his lips.

“I suppose not.”

Niall unlocked the door and gestured towards the stairs.

“Let’s not exhaust our friend, Dev. Why don’t you follow me this way to your new room Simon?”

Simon stood and followed the two out of the dungeon and into the main stairway of the castle. He wasn’t sure why he was being given a room here. It seemed stupid, really, to give a prisoner a tour of the castle. He supposed the beast had enough confidence in his own abilities to stop Simon so as to allow this. 

“Baz has allowed you to roam the castle as you wish,” Niall said.

“Baz?” Simon asked.

“That is the name of the man you met earlier today,” Dev said. 

“Oh.”

It shouldn't have surprised Simon that Baz would have a name. In fact, Simon felt a bit like an ass for not having inquired about it sooner. 

“So I can go wherever I’d like?” Simon asked.

“Yes, except for the West Wing.” Dev said.

Simon watched as Niall kicked Dev in what was meant to be a subtle gesture. Dev’s clock face screwed up in panic before he settled back into his normal facial expression. Niall laughed nervously.

“He means that the West Wing is unavailable. It’s far too damaged to be safe for anyone now. You’d likely fall through a hole the second you got there.”

Simon didn’t have to be a genius to know that they were lying to him. He filed that observation for later, knowing he’d be exploring a lot more than just the West Wing. He planned to escape by sundown.

They stopped outside of a door that looked much like the other hundred or so they had already passed. Niall ushered him inside of a room that was bigger than his house at home. The bed alone seemed to be the size of a room, all deep red bedding and dark wood posts. The wallpaper was a deep green with silver emblems that swirled as if they were alive. There was a large armoire to one side of the room and a sitting area on the other. A large window showed a view of the frozen gardens outside. It was a rather disorienting sight. 

Simon swallowed loudly.

“This is…ornate.”

Niall smiled, taking Simon’s tone as an expression of satisfaction.

“Baz wanted us to give you the best room in the palace.”

“I’m sure,” Simon murmured as he looked for an escape route in the room. 

“Well,” Dev said, “I think we’ve bothered you enough for now. Dinner will be served in one hour. Please be ready to be escorted downstairs at that time.”

Simon paused. He knew he needed to find a way out of this strange castle but the idea of food was tempting. He’d been given only dry bread and old cheese the night before. He imagined Baz was the type to have fancy courses served, living in a castle and all that. Simon found himself weighing his options. He could always escape in the morning, with a full stomach. In fact, that would probably be the smarter thing to do, who knew how long the journey back to civilization might take.

“All right,” Simon said.

Dev and Niall left him alone in the room.  Simon watched them go and then sighed in relief as the door closed behind them. He was exhausted and the warm bed was incredibly inviting. He’d make sure to only close his eyes for a few minutes so as to not be late for dinner. Baz struck him as being of the punctual sort. 

After what felt like a minute he felt someone tap his shoulder. He sat up and found the armoire standing over him. He jumped back a bit and then reminded himself that, for this castle, looming furniture was the norm. 

“Oh, sorry to scare you sir. My name is Gareth.”

Simon nodded.

“Um, yeah. I’m Simon.”

Gareth backed up to his corner of the room. 

“I just thought I should wake you for dinner, it’s starting in a few minutes.”

Simon looked out the window and saw that it was dark outside. He couldn’t believe he’d slept for an hour already. 

“Oh, thank you.”

He stood and looked at the large mirror. He was still wearing his clothes from the village. A simple tunic fastened by a belt over dirty pants. He felt that his outfit would probably not go over too well at dinner. 

“I have some clothing available for you if you’d like, sir.”

Simon turned and saw that Gareth had opened up his cabinet doors. Inside hung various outfits that were far too over the top for Simon’s comfort. He wanted to eat but not that badly.

“Thank you but I think I’ll go down like this.”

Gareth shrugged and then settled.

There was a knock at the door. 

“Come in,” Simon said.

A tray pushed into the room with a teapot on it. The teapot glanced at him and rolled its eyes.

“Merlin, couldn’t you have at least tried to look presentable?” 

“Excuse me?” Simon said.

“My name is Penny. I’ll be escorting you to dinner. Don’t worry, I’ll get your tea later when you’re eating.”

Simon nodded.

“I’m Simon.”

She studied him for a moment, a small smile forming on her face.

“Yes, we all know your name. Trust me.”

He frowned at that and followed her out of the room. After a long period of walking down corridors and stairways, they finally reached the main dining area. A long table was set with only two dinner plates, one on each end of the table. Simon sat at the one closest to the door and spread his napkin on his lap. 

In truth, he didn’t really want to share a meal with Baz. But food had always been a weakness of his and he knew he’d regret it if he didn’t try the food here at least once before he left. He could put up with Baz’s rude behavior for one evening if it meant eating a feast.

A minute or so later he heard footsteps down the hall, human ones. He swallowed nervously as the doors to the dining hall opened behind him. Baz entered the room and strolled to his seat on the other end of the table. 

His black hair had been brushed and smoothed back. Instead of the ragged clothes he’d been wearing when Simon had first met him, he was wearing a suit of deep green with silver embellishments, reminding Simon of the wallpaper in his room. With his fangs hidden, he looked almost normal.

“Simon,” Baz acknowledged, fangs making their appearance. 

“Baz,” Simon replied.

He wasn’t sure where they would go from here but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be pleasant.

[tebbyclinic11]

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Every Friday morning, Bon Appétit senior editor Alex Beggs shares weekly highlights from the BA office, from awesome new recipes to office drama to restaurant recs, with some weird (food!) stuff she saw on the internet thrown in. It gets better: If you sign up for our newsletter, you’ll get this letter before everyone else.

Cook mushrooms like steak

“‘Tis the season!” I declared, pulling a long-forgotten basket from a drawer in my desk. “PEPPERMINT BARK?” screeched Basically editor Amiel Stanek, rushing around the corner to see what it was. Sorry, Amiel. It was the Halloween-candy sized stash of Emergen-C packets I still have from my very official taste-test. Everyone’s been sniffling and sneezing, so it was time to hit the powder.

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It’s also the season for butter-basted mushrooms In the farmers’ market equivalent of a late-night ASOS shopping spree, I spent way too much money on some impulse mushrooms. The most expensive, hen of the woods aka maitake, are also the most delicious, in my humble opinion. The ONLY recipe I go to now is this one, where you treat the mushrooms like steak, basting them with rosemary (or thyme) browned butter until they’re tender, crispy, and divine.

Photo by Emma Fishman

Where is everybody?

The office was eerily quiet. Last weekend, a handful of BA staffers were in Portland for Feast, and here’s what my eyes and ears on the ground reported back. Editor in chief Adam Rapoport, who was caught drinking prosecco on ice, told deputy editor Julia Kramer that all staff were required to run the Healthyish 5k-ish, “And he made me run alongside him, making small talk, the *entire time,” she said. There was a field trip to a dispensary that looked like a Parisian jewelry store, where one editor picked up some CBD bath salts for his wife. At dinner at Kachka, herring under a fur coat and too many vodka shots were had. Brad was recognized by strangers everywhere he went (“I have so many friends here!” he told associate editor Christina Chaey). People transported via electric scooters. Amiel wore a lilac suit. The Turkey and the Wolf team brought their own McDonald’s plateware and a 12-pack of Pabst. I guess you just had to be there!

Farewell, restaurant

New York readers might have heard that Café Loup closed this week for alleged tax evasion, which is a pretty gangster way to go for an old school spot like that, so I accept this news with a grief and understanding. A few semesters ago, I took a continuing education writing workshop at the New School (never stop learning!), and every Friday after class, I’d meet a friend there for an icy martini—and sidecar—with fries. Everything else on the menu was terrible. It would be 6 p.m., the place mostly empty, and the maitre’d would look at me with disgust and say there were no tables. And then he’d relent, fine, a little spot near the bar, if you must. (I guess I didn’t look enough like Christopher Hitchens.) So farewell, Loup! May you rest in peace in restaurant heaven, where I imagine Florent lives on, 24/7 in our hearts.

Twizzle de doo

Watch Claire make gourmet Twizzlers here!

The way the Christmas cookie crumbles

Despite the lack of peppermint bark tins, we did have three weeks of Christmas cookie testing at the end of the summer. During those three weeks, we filmed a handful of videos–like Molly Baz’s scallops—and in the background, Chris Morocco has his headphones in, blasting the electronica band Timecop1983. “I really needed to go to a different place,” Chris told me about the struggle to think holly-jolly when it’s 90 degrees out. “I needed ambient soundwaves, no singing, none of Brad’s Neil Young, which honestly is how I feel year-’round, but that’s another thing.” I’ll let the Neil Young comment slide. “I thought he was listening to some dorky dad music,” Molly said, “but it’s like, the vibiest music ever.” This was Chris’ first year on Christmas cookie duty for the magazine, which is a big deal in our neck of the woods. “He did a fine job,” said Brad “not really a cookie guy” Leone. “The linzer sandwich thing was dynamite. With a cup of coffee, Beggs, forgettaboutit.” I’m a fan of Chris’ sparkly snickerdoodle 2.0—just wait til you see it (December issue!).

Tara Donne

Unnecessary food feud of the week

All this cookie talk, and a meeting on the theme of the word “crunchy,” got people arguing about what’s better: a soft and chewy chocolate chip cookie, or a crispy one? Video editor Misa Spencer is team Soft ‘n’ Chewy: “I never understood why people liked crispy packaged cookies—they make my mouth dry and sad,” she told me, adding that her mom, apparently a canonized saint, would time her batches of chocolate chip cookies so that they’d come out of the oven right before Misa got home from school. “Crispy cookies belong in icebox cakes and cookie cereal,” said contributor and big ol’ softie Sarah Jampel. Christina Chaey posted an image of Pepperidge Farm’s Sausalito cookies, her favorite of the chewy variety, to which Chris replied: “stop posting things just to upset me.” Others felt a truly perfect cookie is both crispy on the exterior, but soft within. (That answer is a cop-out). But I agree with digital director Carey Polis: “Sometimes you have cookie emergencies and that’s when Tate’s is really there for you.”

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[beselten-pitch]

Mutually Assured Destruction

Alternate last year at Watford fic, written by the previous owner of simon-and-basilton

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine / Chapter Ten / Chapter Eleven / Chapter Twelve / Chapter Thirteen / Chapter Fourteen / Chapter Fifteen / Chapter Sixteen / Chapter Seventeen / Chapter Eighteen / Chapter Nineteen/ Epilogue

Chapter Fourteen

There are some words that people don’t like to say aloud. Maybe it’s because some words sound too real out loud. Too tangible. Too permanent. As though, if they’re just a half-thought idea, they won’t be quite as hard to carry.

“Betrayal” is one of those words.

“Heartbreak” is another.

Baz Pitch had left Watford. Once, he had thought he would never leave. Once, he had fallen in love. But now, but now, but now.

Betrayal.

Simon Snow had an empty room at Watford. Once, he had thought he would do anything to get rid of his roommate. Then, he had fallen in love.

But now there was a letter written in tilting, tumbling, falling-down-the-stairs cursive, clumsier than usual.

But now there was an empty bed with sheets that no longer smelled like wood and oranges and midnight make-out sessions.

Heartbreak.

Simon and Baz didn’t say the words out loud. Instead, they wore them, layering letters carefully on their skin. Invisibly inked tattoos.

They wore their words differently.

Baz wore betrayal with anger. He woke up in the mornings in an unfamiliar house, a house that was not Mummers and was not the Pitch mansion. It was a new place, a place he had never been before, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like the reason he’d had to move there even more.

When he got up, he moved like his bones were matches, striking them and striking them and fire. He drew violin bow over strings, chin tilted, eyes closed—he played like he was burning.

His voice scraped, tectonic plates shaking into motion, earthquakes on fault lines. Sulfuric smiles and magma in his veins—he was always two seconds from boiling over.

Anyone who saw him knew it, the same way they knew their name or their own reflection: Baz Pitch was angry. That was the way he wore the word “betrayal”. Anger, his finest attire. Anger, which fit him better than his nicest suit jacket.

He was good at being angry.

It was better, this way, perhaps.

It was better for the Pitches, at least, because they could use this. They could work with this. An angry Baz was a Baz that could be manipulated. A Baz that would do what they wanted.

A Baz that would kill Simon Snow, if given the chance.

He wore it well. Betrayal. He wore it red and hot and enraged.

Heartbreak did not fit Simon quite as well.

He was built from brighter things than the dense yellow-gray smog of heartbreak. Simon was a glowing, glittering creature. The sea under sunlight. It seemed that he’d been built without the capacity for something as dark as this.

He wore heartbreak with sadness.

There weren’t tears, or theatrics. But his smiles were bruised, purpling—more fragile than they should’ve been. His laugh was not quite so loud, his smile was not quite so electric.

When people saw him, they had the strange urge to drag him out into the sunlight, or perhaps find a power cord and plug him in. He looked like his battery was running low. Tired. Feet dragging. In need of charging.

It didn’t look good on him.

Really, he was made of brighter things. Heartbreak tarnished all his metal edges, dulled the serrated bite of his grin.

No one liked to look at him for so long. They glanced at this new, duller Chosen One and they let their eyes slide away. It was uncomfortable to look at an oxymoron in motion. Cheeks so used to holding a smile, and yet they held nothing but a thin line. Eyes so used to twinkling, and yet they just stared.

Simon and Baz wore their words differently, but some things were the same.

That is to say, neither of them were happy.

 *

PENNY

Most of the time, there’s not a definitive moment that you can point at and say, “That is the moment when literally everything went to shit.”

Usually, the process of having literally everything go to shit takes time. It’s a gradual sort of thing, a catastrophe that happens in stages rather than all at once. Like plants growing—it’s best illustrated in time lapse. Here’s a series of photographs taken once a day for three months showing the exact sequence of events leading to everything going to shit.

Occasionally, however, there is a singular second when you can look around and say with a certain degree of certainty, “Yes. This is the moment.”

The moment Simon had stumbled into his room to find it empty and a single yellow Post-It note suck to his pillow, that was one of those moments. When Simon peeled the paper from fabric, flattened its curling edges, and read it.

She didn’t need to see the words to understand what it meant.

The cracks running across Simon’s face were enough. Like porcelain, shattering. She could feel the pop-crack-snapping of something breaking in a way that wouldn’t be fixed, not easily. Something that magic or duct tape or superglue didn’t stand a chance in putting back together.

It had been a week since she’d taken the note from Simon’s fingers, read it once, and then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the trashcan.

I cannot fucking believe this, Snow. To think I said I loved you.

That was all.

 *

SIMON

Penny hadn’t stopped looking at him with suspicion. The same eyes that heralded disaster, that suggested she knew something that she wasn’t telling him. She eyed him sideways, sometimes, like she was making sure he wasn’t going to make any sudden movements.

But her painful, calamitous gaze had been tempered with a fair dose of pity, now. Pity and concern. The sort of sickeningly sweet heartfelt concern that made him feel like he was lying in a hospital bed surrounded by flowers and gift baskets overflowing with mini-muffins. Like he was a patient.

He wasn’t sure which was worse.

It was understandable, of course. Her careful worrying.

Baz…

Simon didn’t know what to think about Baz. He’d tried being angry, but he was so used to being angry at Baz. It was like trying on clothes that you’d worn constantly but had since become too large to fit into.

He had outgrown being angry at Baz.

There were so many more emotions now, things too big and unnamable for him to explain it. Memories of thumbprints on thighs and lips on lips and fingers tangled in hair.

Things even bigger than that.

Anger was no longer sufficient.

So he moped and felt sorry for himself, because he didn’t know what else to do. He was new to having his heart broken.

He ached, and he ached, and he was full of thoughts of Baz and thoughts of going off at Baz’s house and thoughts of the Mage, who had yet to reappear since Simon’s last ‘task’, and a million other thoughts. Thoughts upon thoughts. Bushels of them.

For someone who tried his best to avoid thinking about hard things, it was too much. You couldn’t expect to swing from thinking about nothing to everything without being overwhelmed by it all.

 *

BAZ

He woke up simmering.

Even lying still in this unfamiliar bed, not thinking, not being actively angry, he simmered. He popped and sparked and spat smoke at the sky.

It only escalated from there.

He found it so easy to go from simmering to boiling to blowing up the entire fucking world.

Anger was easy.

He heaved himself awake, heaved his feet over the side of the bed, and took great heaving steps to his wardrobe. He was heavy, that is. Weighed down with thoughts of Simon.

Simon; cheeks like roses, lips like fortune cookies

Simon; his laughter a feast, the only thing Baz craved more than blood

Simon; a lion glowing gold

He was angry.

Because there were all these beautiful things, gorgeous heavenly heavy things, and then there were facts.

Fact. The Pitch Mansion was empty of people and magic and life.

Fact. The hole that had swallowed Baz’s childhood home had arrived just after the Mage did.

Fact. Simon had helped the Mage. He’d helped the Humdrum.

These were the things that were true.

Simon, with his face an oil painting of warm colors and promises; Simon, with his cheeks and lips and freckles; Simon the lion—

He could so easily have been a lie.

Kisses, cascades of them, all lies. Lies upon lies.

Baz was angry, because no matter how many facts he listed, there was always that thrum in his ribcage. The desperate beatings of a flightless bird.

His stupid fucking heart.

Stop it. He thought, hard. Stop it, Crowley, don’t you remember?

He lied.

He lied, dammit.

But still, his heart, the damned fool. Still in love.

So, he raged. He simmered.

He was going to kill Simon Snow. It was easier than this, it had to be.

No you won’t.

You can’t.

Baz liked to think that he could do whatever he damn well pleased, regardless of what his heart said.

That, however, was doubtful.

 *

PENNY

The research was conclusive.

Simon Snow and the Insidious Humdrum were linked, if not the same thing.

She wasn’t sure what to do about the whole matter. Did Simon know? Was he faking it, this whole Chosen One act? Was he willingly stripping places of their magic?

Maybe he was a villain.

Maybe he had tricked them all.

She thought this, but said nothing. Logic told her not to say anything because, if Simon did happen to be a villain, he’d probably just kill her if he discovered that she knew.

But she didn’t stay quiet because of logic.

Despite it all, she didn’t want to believe Simon knew.

It could’ve been a charade, maybe. Maybe. But Penny had keen eyes and keener instincts, an intuition that never lied, and she didn’t think that Simon Snow was a villain.

He was just a boy.

So she said nothing, for a bit. Because she didn’t like the idea of ruining him with this sort of news. The irreversible kind of news.

He’d already had too much of that kind of news recently.

But she researched, and the correlation was clear. Simon going off and a hole appearing.

It made her sick, just a little.

 *

DAVY

He liked being called the Mage. It was better than some long official title. Because, although all of them were mages, only he got to capitalize the ‘M’. He liked the capital ‘M’. It made him feel important.

Things that made him feel important were his favorite.

Something else that made him feel important was Simon Snow. He liked being the Mage, because that meant Simon was the Mage’s Heir. Which meant that when people looked at Simon they saw him.

(And not because of any particular family resemblance. He’d gotten all of Lucy’s genes. It was better that way, he supposed.)

He liked having people look at Simon, the most powerful mage, and having them see him hidden in Simon’s shadow. Simon Snow was a weapon, and he was the one that held it.

He was the one who had pulled the sword from the stone. He was the one who knew all the nuclear launch codes.

With that kind of weapon, how could he lose?

How could the Old Families hope to win?

He’d already taken the Pitches’ magic. He’d killed the Pitch boy’s cousin in that blasted fire. It was only a matter of time, really.

It had become so easy.

Send his heir somewhere on a ‘mission’. Conjure up a beast to fight him, something that would push him to the edge. Have him go off.

And then, voila. A hole.

It didn’t matter that the Humdrum happened to destroy a few things that the Mage hadn’t intended to target now and then. It was war, and what war didn’t have casualties?

He stroked his beard, which he always kept nicely trimmed, because it made him feel important. He surrounded himself with his Men, with their uniforms and their obedient nods, because it made him feel important.

But he controlled Simon, and by extension, he controlled the Humdrum.

And that didn’t just make him feel important.

That made him the most important mage of them all.

The Mage.

How fitting.