It’s nights like these when Baz knows that Simon is missing his magic the most. Nights like these, when the city is asleep and everything is quiet, and they’re cuddled up on the couch, his wings folded awkwardly out of the way. Nights when he watches Baz magic his coffee warm, and Penny talking to Micah over the phone, and he can smell smoke from the cigarette Baz has just put out. The smell reminds all of them of Simon’s magic. Baz most of all, because he spent years letting it drive him crazy, but Simon too, because it reminds him of a part of him that’s missing.
When he’s in a bad mood, he’ll start griping at Baz, almost like old times, and when he goes to his room early and shuts the door, he can hear them talking in low voices. He knows they worry about him. He knows it breaks their hearts to see him like this, lost without the one thing that defined him for so long. Simon Snow, the World’s Greatest Mage.
But he’s found other things to define him now. He’s Simon Snow, part-dragon, Penny’s slovenly flatmate, Basilton’s terrible boyfriend, the one who single-handedly keeps the bakery across the street in business. He might not have magic anymore, but everything in his life is his by choice.
Sometimes he just wishes he could choose magic too.
Simon and Baz are on the couch now, their sides pressed together, hands linked between them. Simon’s tail curls across their feet. Simon’s watching the TV, but Baz is looking down, at their linked hands. He’s thinking about a night, many months ago, the first time they held hands like this (almost like this; Simon still thought Baz hated him), when he had shown Simon the stars. But it was Simon who had given him magic, and made him believe he might be alive after all.
You can have it. Baz. You know you can have it.
Simon had shared his magic with Baz. It’s the thought that keeps niggling at the back of his mind.
Simon’s gaze is still fixed on the screen, his brow furrowed, shoulders slumped. Baz grips his hand a little tighter, and calls up his magic. Light a match inside your heart. He can feel it flare up inside his chest. He clutches Simon’s hand, and thinks of passing the magic to him, just a tiny bit. He imagines letting the flame grow, passing down his hand, through his fingertips, to catch on Simon’s.
Simon bolts upright and snatches his hand away from Baz’s.
‘No, I felt that. What did you do?’ Simon is facing him now, blue eyes wide.
Baz takes Simon’s hand again. ‘I wanted to see if I could give you some of my magic.’
‘No.’ Simon pulls away again.
‘No? You don’t think I can? Or you don’t want me to?’
‘Both,’ Simon says, crossing his arms.
‘Why not? You lent me yours.’
‘No-one’s ever heard of mages sharing magic. It doesn’t work like that.’
‘But it did for us,’ Baz argues. The TV chatters on beside them, forgotten.
‘That’s because my magic was out of control.’ Simon looks away. ‘Different. It doesn’t work like that,’ he repeats.
‘We can try. You said you felt it.’
Baz reaches for him again, but Simon doesn’t uncross his arms.
‘I’m not as powerful as you were, so it won’t be much, but I want to try,’ Baz insists.
‘What if I take it?’ Simon says quietly. ‘What if it dilutes your magic?’
‘I don’t care. And it won’t, it never did for you.’
Simon’s tail is flicking against the couch. That means he’s agitated.
‘But it’s yours. I don’t want to…’ He trails off. He’s not sure why he’s hesitating, if there’s a possibility he could use magic again, even just once, just for a little while. It doesn’t feel right to be using someone else’s magic, even if it’s Baz – especially if it’s Baz. He had his chance, he had much more than his fair share of magic. He was never supposed to have it, and it makes sense that it’s gone now.
‘Simon, you gave me your magic when I needed it most, now it’s my turn. Okay?’ Baz doesn’t know how to say that it isn’t just his magic, because everything that’s his belongs to Simon as well. They’re sharing their lives together now. (He won’t say that either, because it’ll sound like he’s proposing. Someday, he plans to, but that won’t be for a long time.)
Simon bites his lip. ‘Okay.’ He holds out his hand, and Baz takes it.
Simon’s right, it isn’t supposed to work; mages can’t just share magic at will, not with each other, not with any Normal. But they’ve done this before, and Baz’s magic seems to recognise Simon.
Simon gasps as he feels the magic slowly sparking into his fingertips, crawling up his arm.
‘Can you cast something?’ Baz asks, his hand gripping Simon’s more tightly.
‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star…’ Simon whispers. The ceiling above them doesn’t change, like the whole room did when Baz cast the spell in their old room. Instead, a single shooting star floats up between them, zips around their heads once and flies towards the window. It crashes into the glass, sparking for a moment and then going out.
Baz laughs, and the spell seems to be broken. The unnatural light from the next room and the bluish glare from the TV seems brighter again.
‘That was beautiful,’ Baz says, smiling fondly at his boyfriend.
‘That was your magic,’ Simon answers, his gaze still lingering where the star fell.
‘No, Simon, that was you. If it was my magic, it wouldn’t have stumbled all over the place like that. It wouldn’t have crashed into the glass.’
Simon huffs, but he can’t deny it.
They move closer together on the couch. They don’t need to say it out loud to know they’re done for the night.
Simon rests his head on Baz’s shoulder. ‘Thankyou,’ he says quietly.
‘Anytime,’ Baz mumbles, letting his head drop. Simon’s curls tickle his cheek. ‘I mean it, Snow. Anytime, just ask. It’s all yours.’ His eyelids start to close. He’s tired, all of a sudden, so tired…
Simon can feel the change in Baz’s breathing as soon as he falls asleep. He doesn’t need to think about it for even a second before he knows he’ll never ask Baz to share his magic again. He doesn’t think it has diluted Baz’s magic, or permanently hurt him in any way, but it’s obviously drained him of all his energy. Simon lets his own eyes close, and his wings move to drape across his boyfriend’s back, curling around them both like a blanket. He still isn’t sure how to control those things most of the time, but sometimes they move where he wants them to go, in perfect harmony.
Simon doesn’t need magic, not really. Maybe he did, once, but he traded it for all of their lives, for this flat, for late nights on the couch like this and the boy wrapped up in his wings. It’s not always perfect, but it’s a happy ending in Simon’s mind, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
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