He picks up the last sandwich and offers me half. I take it, and he moves the plate away, pulling his legs up closer. Then he says, “This is what people are talking about when they talk about make-up sex, isn’t it?”
I choke on my tea. “Not exactly.”
He laughs at me. “No, I mean … It’s like when you think you’re going to die—like, you’re sure you’re about to lose your head—and then, at the last minute, you don’t. The other guy bites it instead. And it feels like you cheated somehow—”
“Knowing you, you probably did cheat somehow.”
“—but you’re still alive, and everything feels so amazing and, like, urgent. Like, you can’t believe how lucky you are to breathe, and you just want to breathe all the air at once.”
“Most people,” I muse, “have more experience with make-up sex than with near beheadings.”
He laughs. “Well, I get it now. The whole concept.”
He’s holding his mug with both hands. I am, too.
I lean against his shoulder, looking down at my tea, attempting to appear casual. “It could always be like this.”
“I don’t think so,” Snow says. “This is ‘I nearly lost my head and then I didn’t’ euphoria.”
“Nah.” I brush the outside of my knuckles against his. “I can promise you ‘this’ on a regular basis. A hot shower and lukewarm tea? Ham sandwiches in bed? This is table stakes, Snow.”
He catches my fingers in his. “Baz…” His voice drops to a near whisper. “I don’t know what happens next.”
I shake my head. “Me neither.”
He pulls at my fingers. His eyebrows are down. Like he’s thinking hard, or trying not to. “I guess,” he says after a moment, “we just go along until I feel like running away. And then I stay and fight instead.”
“Who are you fighting in this scenario?”
“Myself, I suppose.”
I nod, in part to hide how discouraged I feel all of a sudden. It won’t help to say so.
“Baz?” Simon says eventually.
“Yeah.”
“Can we take a nap?”
“Oh.” I sit up, away from him. “I mean, yeah.”
“It’s just”—he looks apologetic—“I haven’t slept since … I don’t know, really.”
“Yeah, me neither.” I take his cup and reach for the plate. “You take the bed. Fiona won’t be surprised to see me on the sofa—”
“No. Baz.” He grabs my arm. “Stay.”
“But your wings…” Simon almost never lets me sleep next to him. He says it’s because he thrashes around. “I thought you didn’t want to impale me.”
He’s making an effort to smile. “I won’t toss much during a nap. Besides, you’re pretty hard to kill.”
I take a breath to think about it, but I don’t get much thinking or breathing done. “All right,” I say out loud. Then I say it a few more times to myself. Right. All right.
I set down our dishes and look around. I don’t have to close the shades—I keep them closed all day—but I turn off the lamp next to my bed, then stand up and pull back the duvet. Simon catches on and pushes it down, tucking his feet under. I slide in next to him, and tug it up over us. It’s strange to be under the covers like this. Him in joggers, me in jeans. It’s strange because we don’t do this. We never quite got to this stage. The boyfriends-being-boyfriends stage. Naps and cuddles and wearing each other’s clothes. Simon lies on his side, with his wings behind him, and pulls the duvet up under them as far as it will go.
“You need a special blanket with wing slots,” I say.
“Like a Snuggie for demons.”
“Or angels. Do your shoulders get cold?”
He shakes his head and stretches his right wing out, wrapping it snugly around us. It reminds me of Utah, of the back of Shepard’s truck.
“It’s only a few more days,” he says. “Then I can pull the covers up all the way. I’ll be able to wear normal clothes again—I’m gonna buy myself a leather jacket to celebrate.”
“Very cool,” I say. “You’ll look like Danny Zuko. Or a bad boy celebrity chef.”
“I know you’re making fun of me, but I am going to look really cool…” He shifts his wing back behind him and wraps his arm around me instead. I find a way to slide one arm under his neck. We’re breathing each other’s air. It’s a little claustrophobic.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks softly.
“No,” I whisper.
“Me neither.”
“But don’t move,” I say. “Not yet.”
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
* * *
I wake up, and my right arm is dead. No blood in it at all. I pull it out from under Simon, and roll over, shaking it out. My throat is on fire, I ignore it.
* * *
I wake up, and the room is blood red.
The sun is shining, and Simon’s wing is spread over my head.
* * *
I wake up, and the room is pink. The sun is setting. Simon’s wings are behind him, his arm is around me. He’s pulled me in tight, my back to his chest, our hips nested together. He’s breathing heavily on my neck. I can’t remember ever being this warm.
Sleep finger-walks up the back of my skull and pulls me under again.
* * *
I wake up, and it’s dark. Simon’s arm is around me. My back is against his chest. His breath is harsh and uneven on my neck. He’s awake.
“Simon?”
“Yeah.” His voice is rough.
“What time is it?”
“Don’t know,” he says into my hair. “Didn’t want to move.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the middle of the day.”
“Maybe not.” He tucks his hand under my ribs and pulls me even more snugly against him. He’s rubbing his face into the back of my head. “You smell so good, Baz…”
I close my eyes. I let him move me.
“So good,” he says, pushing my head forward. “I can’t get enough of it. I can’t swallow it. And it … it doesn’t help to hold my breath…”
He inhales again. Unsteadily. Then he’s biting my scalp, his mouth wide and wet in the hair above my neck. “So good…” I think he says. “So good.”
He bites right at my hairline. He’s found the scar there before, stretched and faded. “If it were me,” he rasps, “if I were you…”
He bites and bites.
“I’d drain you fuckin’ dry, Baz, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”
My fangs break though my gums—that happens, it’s all right, I try to suck them back. I try to turn, but Simon holds me fast against him.
I let him.
I lay my arm atop the arm he has wrapped around my stomach. He’s champing at my neck now, sucking. He knows he can suck hard; there isn’t enough blood in me to leave a mark. “I can’t get enough,” he says, hot behind my ear. “Baz, help me. Help me. I can’t get enough.”
“I’m right here,” I say.
“I know.” He bites hard on my ear, pulls at it. “It’s not enough.”
“Simon…” I press my head back into his face. He grinds his nose in my hair. “Simon, are you saying I’m not enough?”
“No.” He practically shouts it into my skull.
I push his arm away, forcing him to let me turn. I push him back onto his back, onto his wings; I push his head down with my chin. I hold his wrists above his shoulders. He’s still trying to bite at me.
“I’m right here,” I say.
“I know…” He’s growling.
“Tell me what you want.”
“I don’t know.” His tail coils like a steel cord around my leg.
I’m careful with my hips. Even as he’s mauling me. (Land mines. Permissions. Boyfriends being boyfriends, etc.)
“You smell so good,” he says, burrowing his face into the neck of my T-shirt. “I don’t know how to get enough, Baz—I don’t know how I’m supposed to get enough.”
I�
�m holding myself over him, my hands on his wrists, my knees bracketing his hips. He works his wings around us, pulling me closer. Then he latches on to my collarbone, right through my shirt. “You smell so good,” he says, his mouth full of me.
Simon Snow smells like my aunt’s shampoo. He smells like iodine still. Like ham. And butter. Like PG Tips.
He smells like sleep—sour breath and too-warm skin.
He smells like blood, always. His blood. Salt and milk and something burnt. (It used to be fire, now it’s ashes.)
He smells like sex.
I can’t help knowing this. Any of it. It’s in the air I’m somehow still breathing. But I don’t know what to do with it. What he wants me to do with it, what I’m allowed to do with it, what will help … What will lead to something strong enough to lean on between us.
I let him bite me. I let myself feel his teeth. I rub my face in the chaos of curls at the top of his head. “I’m right here, love, I’m yours.”
He growls, miserably, letting go of my collarbone, mashing his face into my chest again. “I don’t know how, Baz.”
“What, Simon.”
“To get enough.”
“You don’t have to get enough.” I push his wrists down. I pin his arms with my elbows. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His head falls back onto the pillow. I think he might be crying again. Maybe he wasn’t awake. Maybe this is all a bad dream for him.
My hair hangs in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, Snow.”
“Come here,” he says. His wings are winding tighter around me. I can see the spikes curling over my shoulders. My knees give out, and my hips fall on him.
“Are you awake?” I ask.
“I think so.”
“Are you crying?”
“Yeah. Baz … come here.”
“I’m here.”
“Come closer.”
“All right.” My elbows give out, too. I let go of his wrists, and he wraps his arms around my waist. Arms. Wings. Legs. Tail.
“Closer,” he says.
“I can’t.”
“Can.” He’s kissing my mouth with his teeth now, lips and tongue almost an afterthought.
I try to retract my fangs, but it’s hopeless, so I turn away and let him bite my face.
“Baz.” He’s biting my fangs through my cheek. “Baz…”
I’m awake. I’m thirsty. I’m dizzy. All the blood I have left has gone to my cock, and I’m running on fumes. On good manners and bad memories. “Simon,” I say, with my last measure of caution.
He’s all around me now. His heels are in my calves. His tail is around my ankle. I can feel the bones in his wings, like long fingers along my spine.
It isn’t enough.
“Simon,” I say, taking his head in my hands.
His skin is hot. So is mine. Under the blankets with him like this for hours, I could be mistaken for a living thing.
“Simon, Simon.”
He’s biting my neck, and I’m not biting his—but I am kissing him. I’m kissing his hair, his ear. I’m pulling up his shirt. “I love you,” I say. “I’m here.”
“Baz, I need—”
“Yes.”
“I can’t—” He’s pushing too hard to kiss. He’s holding too hard to touch.
I wrench my head back. “Simon, let me—”
He won’t let me pull away. His head is still in my neck. He’s panting. “Baz, I can’t—I need you.”
I’m kissing his cheek. My fangs are out, I can’t care. “Simon,” I slur, “my darling, my love…”
“I can’t … breathe,” he says. “It isn’t enough—It’s too much—I can’t—”
He’s crying. And clinging to me. Arms. Legs. Wings. Tail. All of him trembling.
I’m breathless, too, but in the wrong way now—the wind has changed. Hopefully it only just happened. Hopefully I didn’t misinterpret every moment of this moment.
“Simon,” I say, my hands in the back of his hair. “My darling. My love. It’s all right.”
“I can’t,” he sobs.
“I know,” I say, stroking him. “It’s all right. I’m here.”
“I can’t.”
“I’m here.”
“Baz…”
“I’m here, love.”
19
SIMON
It’s been a while since either of us said anything.
It’s been a while since I stopped blubbering.
As soon as I loosened my panic-hold on Baz, he pulled away from me a bit. But he’s still here. Lying quietly on one of my wings. Probably thinking about how much sex he could be having if he were with literally anyone other than me.
I mean, have a look at him—he’s the most fuckable person alive. Or otherwise.
I’m the problem. As is always true, in literally every situation. It’s me.
I’ve been here before. Wanting to crawl out of my skin and leave myself for dead after a miserable attempt to do more than kiss. What I’d normally do now is stand up and walk out of the room. Then Baz would leave the flat, not wanting to embarrass me further, nor to dwell on the fact that he’s stuck with me.
But he can’t leave—this is his flat. And if I leave, it would be in direct violation of the promise I made not to leave. Or not to give up. Or whatever.
Baz sighs. I know all his sighs; I lived with them for eight years. This one means: Simon Snow is a chronic pain in my neck.
“Do you want me to leave?” I ask. I’m on my back with my arms up, my elbows folded over my face.
“No.” Baz’s voice is quiet. “Are you going to?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“That’s something.”
I breathe out hard. “I want to, though. I kinda want to die when I think of having to face you again.”
Baz pulls my arms away from my face. “Here.” He’s hovering over me. “Get it over with.”
My eyes slide away from him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” he says.
“Because apologies don’t matter?”
“No—because you don’t have anything to be sorry for. Come on, Snow, look at me.”
I try. He looks tired. And sad. And embarrassed.
“I don’t mind this,” he says. “Any of it.”
“Oh my God, Baz—don’t lie to me! This isn’t what anyone wants to happen in bed.” I try to cover my face again, but his hand is on my cheek. He’s too close.
“I’m not lying! I don’t mind comforting you, Simon. Or holding you. I don’t mind giving you what you need, whatever it is you need. I prefer it to you pushing me away. Or ignoring me.”
I look up at him. “But you could date anyone you want. You could date everyone you want. And none of them would start bloody crying during foreplay.”
Baz shrugs. “You don’t always cry … Sometimes you go glassy-eyed and nonresponsive.”
My hands are twisted in my hair. “Fuck-ing a, I can’t believe you’re joking about this.” I try to roll away from him, but he’s all steel bands when he wants to be. He pins me down by the shoulders.
“Wait,” he says. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”
I close my eyes but stop trying to push him off.
“I want to be with you,” he says. “And this is where we are right now. And I truly don’t mind, Simon.”
I open my eyes. Baz is looking right down at me.
“You don’t want more?” I ask.
He shoves at my shoulders. “Of course I do. But not with just anyone. I want more with you, you twit.”
I try to sit up, away from him, and this time he lets me. “What if I can’t give you more?” I say. “What if this is my best-case scenario?”
Baz is dismissive. “I don’t believe that.” Then he goes still. He turns to me with one eyebrow raised. “Are you saying you don’t want more?”
“Are you barking? Of course I want more!”
He relaxes again. “Then I’m confident we’ll get there … som
eday, I don’t know, eventually. Honestly, Simon, this isn’t even our biggest problem.”
He shocks a laugh out of me with that. “What’s bigger?”
“The vampire thing, for one.” Baz looks so twisted up and peeved and, like, unimpressed with me. It makes me want to start inhaling his carbon dioxide again.
I can feel myself smiling at him. “That’s not a real problem…”
“It’s about to be.” He’s rubbing his jaw. He sighs. “If I leave to hunt, will you be here when I get back?”
I’m still smiling. “I’ll do you one better: I’ll come along.”
Baz frowns at his lap, picking at the knee of his jeans. His hair has dried fluffier than usual, and it’s falling over his eyes. “Simon…” he says, like I’ve said something unkind and tiresome.
I take his hand. “Baz, if you really don’t want me to be ashamed of what a complete and utter shambles I am, you can’t be ashamed of your thing either. You already know I don’t care—I’ve known you were a vampire since we were fifteen!”
He lifts his chin. “Yeah, and you tried to fucking Van Helsing me, Snow!”
“I never properly tried…”
He frowns. “Have you ever made an effort with me?”
I tug on his hand. “The takeaway here is—I truly don’t care that you’re a vampire.”
“Well, I care. It’s humiliating.”
“Baz, I hate to say this, but…” I’m grinning at him, and I can hardly believe it. Like, I really expected to be miserable for days after breaking down so completely. But somehow I’m still here, and he’s still here, and even though I still feel like a hopeless case, this thing between us doesn’t feel hopeless at all.
Plus, as soon as Baz is unhappy, that’s all I can think about. I’m crazy about all his little fretful faces, and I also want to be the thing that chases them away. I think I might be willing to make him miserable just for the thrill of making it better. That’s fucked up, isn’t it?
I dip my head to find his eyes.
“I just want to be with you,” I say. “And this is where we are now. I’m a broken-down mess, and you’re a rat-drinking monster.”
* * *
Any Way the Wind Blows Page 9