Pancakes for Lunch (Snowbaz Drabble)
This is the first fic I've ever published!!!! (Actually first anything I've ever put online that I actually sort of like) It's fluffy and hurriedly written cause I wanted it done for today!!! I hope you like it!!! Because I love you lot!! Best fandom ever!! ❤️❤️❤️ BAZ Falling asleep on Simon and Penny’s couch was not the original plan, nor was waking up there the next morning to the sound of Simon softly swearing at the kettle. I groan, roll over, and fall ungracefully off the couch and onto the floor. “Fuck.” Simon sniggers from the kitchen, and I scowl in his general direction. “What time is it?” I demand. “Half past nine. Penny’s already left, if you want the shower.” I slump into the bathroom, stopping in Simons room to find a hoodie of mine he’d stolen (it’s far too big for him, the sleeves hang about two inches past the ends of his fingertips.) and a tee-shirt (his, but he’d never notice it was gone.) I feel much better after a hot shower, and dress in my jeans and Simons shirt, wandering out into the kitchen. (It smelt of scones, how predictable.) “Coffee?” I ask, making my way over to the kettle for hot water. “Have you boiled the water yet, Chosen One?” “Shut up.” Simon grumbles. “Is that my shirt?” “You noticed?” I squint at him, surprised. “I always notice when you steal my clothes. I just pretend not to because I-“ He breaks off, looking embarrassed. “You what?” I smirk, taking a mug down from the shelf. “Nothing.” “What?” “Nothing.” “Lies, Snow-“ “Simon.” He interrupts. “Snow. I know you were going to say something, you can’t just break off in the middle of a sentence like that.” I smirk down at him, enjoying the flush on his cheeks. His tail lashes (it does that when he’s embarrassed, or angry, or turned on, the latter of which I find most amusing.) I snatch it out of the air and pull it, gently, just enough to let him know I want him to come closer, to let me rest my chin on his head. He does (he always does) a bit reluctantly, but enough that I can get a hand under his ribcage and tickle him slightly, holding his shoulder with my other hand. Simon yelps and squirms out of my grasp, running away into the living room. I rush after him, face splitting into a smile. After a ridiculous chase full of shouting and laughter and launched couch cushions, I corner him, tackling him and knocking him into the couch. “If you wanted to cuddle, you could have just asked.” Simon says, brushing a piece of hair away from my face. I’m balanced over him, propped up on knees and elbows. “Snow, I don’t cuddle.” Cuddle is an awful word. It’s tastes like cotton and feather beds on your tongue, and it doesn’t roll, it just sits there like a mouthful of fluff. “Snuggle?” I shake my head. “Huggle.” “That’s not a word.” Simon shrugs. “It should be.” I grin, and Simon stares up at me, face relaxing, lips hanging open. Crowley I’m so in love with this boy. SIMON Baz’s eyes are like clouds today, cool and dark, hinting at rain. His hair is loose (I like his hair loose, all waves and silk around his face) and a piece of it tickles my forehead. I reach up, pulling him down on top of me and kissing him soundly, holding the back of his neck with one hand and tracing the lines of his shoulder blades with the other. He sighs into my mouth. “You say you don’t cuddle.” I tease, lips against his jaw as he snuggles closer to me. “I don’t.” He gasps, trying to hold himself up with one elbow. Finally, he give up, flipping us over so I’m resting on top of him, head in the crook of his neck. I never expected the smell of cedar and bergamot to become something so comforting. Baz runs his long, elegant fingers through my hair languidly. “Do you have any plans today?” He murmurs. “I was going to meet Penny for lunch.” “Not anymore you’re not.” Baz orders, trailing his fingers down my ribcage. “I-“ “Simon.” Baz whines, and my heart melts into a puddle. He knows I can’t refuse him when he says my name like that. “Please?” He tips my chin up and kisses me hungrily. I suppose lunch isn’t really that big of deal. Baz does let me get up eventually. I’m hungry, my stomach is rumbling. I’ve gained a lot of weight since leaving Watford, but I like to cook, so I’m no eating unhealthily at least. (If it were up to Baz we’d eat take-out or nothing at all. I never knew he hated cooking so much until now) (There’s a lot of things about him I didn’t know until now.) I don’t remember what it feels like to be skinny like I was in foster care. Baz says I’m better now, all soft and cuddly. (Actually, it was more along the lines of: “you’re eating so many scones, you’re starting to look like one.” But he kissed and cuddled me after, so I know he likes it.) I feel better, though, like I’ll never be hungry like that again. Baz is lying on the couch, lips almost pink, but the rest of him looks carved out of marble. (Or maybe moon rock? Something luminescent but pale.) I’m going to make some pancakes (who cares if it’s almost noon? Pancakes are for all hours of the day- and night.) but the mix is on the top shelf of the cupboard. I hate it when Baz cleans the house. Penny always leaves the top shelf practically empty (she can’t reach either) but Baz puts stuff up there just to bug me. “Baz!” I yell. “What is it?” He stretches languidly on the couch. “I- come here.” I hate this. I hate admitting I need his help. “Why?” He almost whines. “Just- I need- come here!” Baz huffs, starts to stand, and falls back on the couch with a grunt. “I don’t want to.” “Please, Bazzy?” Baz scowls and mimes vomiting. “Only if you promise never to call me ‘Bazzy’ ever again.” I stare at him with wide eyes. He slumps over, dropping a kiss on my forehead. “What do you need?” “The pancake mix.” I mumble, and Baz bursts out laughing. “I’m short ok?” I snap angrily. Baz just continues to snicker, but he hands me the box anyways. “You making pancakes for lunch?” “Pancakes are for any time of day.” I insist. Baz watches me while I make them, following my every movement with cool grey eyes. I used to hate it when he did that- when we were at Watford, I mean. I used to hate a lot of things he did. I’m glad I don’t have to anymore; I like this better than fighting, too. BAZ Snow makes pancakes, then eats them. And then he’s still hungry, so he makes more. I have three (They’re big and round and fluffy, delicious, but so filling) and then I watch him, laughing a little at the expression of disappointment that crosses his face when he realizes they’re all gone. I start to wash up, (that’s always my job, seeing as how I never cook.) and it’s Simon’s turn to watch me. I can feel his gaze, warm on my back as I wash the plates. Simon is a bit of a paradox, really. His name is Snow, but he looks like sunshine. I think about what Agatha told me she said to him when they broke up (we talk quite a bit now, mostly joking over how she broke up with him wanting to date me, but then I ended up dating him. Oh, irony.) about not wanting to be his future, his prize after he beat all the bosses. She wanted to be his right now. I don’t mind being his future, really (and I’m sure I am. He was talking about where we were going to live after we finish school and whether or not we could have a cat just the other day). I don’t mind being his future because I’ve already been his past, and (judging by the way he’s looking at me) I’m pretty sure I’m his right now, as well. He’s certainly my right now. He’s always been my right now. The centre of my universe, my paradoxical sun. Mine. SIMON I can tell that Baz is thinking about something, hard. He sucks on his fangs when he thinks. I watch him doing it, and wonder if we’d be here, now, like this, if he didn’t have them. (If he weren’t a vampire, I mean.) If the Watford Tragedy never happened, and Basilton Grimm-Pitch was still human, would we be here? Would we be in love like this? He’d look different, for sure, I read somewhere that insufficient blood flow to the eyes can cause the irises to change or loose their colour. (He has a million weather forecasts in his eyes: rain, snow, gale winds, thunderstorms, cloudy with a chance of rain, hail, snow, sun.) He’d have red gold skin instead of the marble/moonlight thing. Would I still love him? I decide right away that I would. I’d love him no matter what skin he’s in.
