breathing in the sun

II. Simon

I don't know what's going on, but I'm definitely not complaining.

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is being soft with me.

And I'm being soft with him.

And he's letting me.

He lets me step close, and he doesn't even look worried, or nervous, or suspicious the way he used to. ("Used to" meaning like... a few weeks ago. Which feels like a long time ago, even longer than it usually feels for me.) (I don't have a very good concept of time. I learned to read clocks pretty quickly after I started attending Watford.)

He lets me hold his hand the day that we walk to our room together. (Which was completely unintentional, us walking together. We make eye contact outside, awkwardly, and he holds the door open for me, glancing behind himself to me, and I look at his hand holding the door. I'd never realised how nice his hands are until we started...this.) He looks at our hands when I touch him (I wonder if he thinks the same as me), and then as he looks forward again, his fingers curl around mine, and his thumb brush across my knuckles, and fuck. I want to do that all the time.

I let go of his hand as soon as we get upstairs, squeezing it for just a second before stepping away, and just as I'm letting go I see his hand trail after mine, lifting in the air. I almost take it again, but it falls before I can.

Another day, he calls me across the room and pulls at my hand until I'm wrapping my arms around him, and then he's leaning against me, against my stomach and chest, and I'm running my fingers through his hair, which is something I never realised I wanted to do until all of this, but now I can't imagine not doing it. It's so soft.

So is he. I manage to look at his face before he tilts his head toward me, and I've never seen him like this before. His eyes are closed, and he looks like he could be asleep if it weren't for the way his fingers are brushing over my forearm, and the way he nods when I ask if he's okay. I ask it quietly. I guess it's in case he is asleep. (I would stay here if he falls asleep, holding him. For as long as he needs.) (I wonder what it would be like to sleep next to him, if he'd let me hold him like this in bed. I think it would be nice to fall asleep with my hands in his hair. And his arms around me.)

His head is placed right on my sternum, in the center of my rib cage. I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat. I also wonder if he can smell my blood, if that's a thing vampires do. (He hasn't said he's a vampire. But he doesn't really have to.)

It feels almost natural. We just drift toward each other, almost absentmindedly, almost habitually, like we've done it for years.

Even in classes we share, as we pass each other in the corridors, our fingers brush, and it makes my whole arm light up. One day he runs a finger across my back as he passes me while I sit in the dining hall, and it causes me to shiver, my whole body shaking violently as the chill that follows his fingers spreads throughout me, and I know he sees it, because a minute later he flashes me a grin across the hall as he stands in line. Which, of course, sends another chill through me.

And then, of course, it's all I can think about, that fucking smile, even as I'm sitting here with Penny lounging across my legs, her head hanging off my bed as she reads aloud from our Ancient Magicks textbook.

"Many young magicians became dedicated to the involvement of ancient dance forms in spell movements," she reads, and I lay my head against the headboard, my hands rubbing the hem of her skirt. Fuck, that smile. "The impact of said spells was strengthened with the movements, particularly when the magicians had a personal connection to the dance forms."

He looked almost gleeful. His smile is so much more beautiful when it's not consumed by malice.

"Many magicians learned more about their own culture, heritage, and ancestry in order to fortify their magic. Do you think I could do that?"