Sixth Year (Snowbaz)

19. Football and Wet Pavement

Simon

I'm back in the catacombs. Baz stares intently at me, my suit reflecting a prism of light onto his face in hexagons of rainbow. His eyes are the colour of wet pavement. I feel my dress shoes skim the stone floor. He has me pinned to the wall by the collar of my suit.

Wet pavement.

Slowly, I slide back down the wall. Baz's hands move from my collar to my face.

Cold. Ice cold like fresh snow.

Baz's dark eyes narrow, determining his next move. Wet pavement whispers, "it's all or nothing".

Then he kisses me. Soft and slow. But it's not ice this time, it's fire. It's the comfort of a burning fireplace. It's basking in sunlight.

So I kiss him back this time. And I'm filled with the warmth.

Snow.

Yes. That's it. I'm snow melting.

"Snow!"

I wake from my dream with a start, flying to sit up on the couch where I slept last night.

Baz stands above me, hands on hips, looking bothered by my existence already. Why did I just dream about that night in the catacombs? Why did I...

"You slept through breakfast. Get up you lazy oaf."

Charming. I can't believe I dreamt of kissing that domineering mouth of his. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is not warm at all. He's just pure ice and cold shoulders.

Apparently it's noon already. Baz feeds me two toasted ham and cheese sandwiches and I shovel them down happily. He keeps looking moodily out the kitchen window. It's rainy today. Everything in the garden is green and dewey.

"S'pose it's not great weather for a game of football," I say, trying to pull Baz from his sulk.

"S'pose," Baz replies, mocking my improperness "It doesn't matter what the weather's like, vampires can't get pneumonia."

"Shall we?"

"Do you really want to risk getting a potentially fatal lung infection?"

I shrug. Baz rolls his eyes.

***

Baz's mood lifts instantly. He swaps his turtle neck for a long-sleeved Manchester United shirt and puts on a pairs of skins and football shorts. I stay in my track pants and hoodie. The yard at the Pitch manor is enormous just like the rest of their house. It's gardens are lush and green and surrounded by woodlands. I'm pretty sure Baz's parents must keep game in there for him to feed on. He came back to his room late last night looking cold and wet.

There's no actual football pitch, just a huge expanse of grass with a homemade goal at one end. I wonder if Baz made it himself. It wouldn't surprise me he's such a nerd like that. In Third Year History he created a diorama of the Magick Institute of France out of bolster wood and clay. I would know, I sat in our room and watched him one up my boring essay on General Pierre Girard of the French/English Mage War of 1726. Baz gets pleasure from doing better than people. Which is likely the reason behind his professional outfit change.

Baz plays attack and I play as defence. Which is unideal, considering last time we were in this position he practically broke my nose. But that was also the night I finally outed him as a vampire and ensued manipulation, so the victory is somewhat subjective.

Baz is wearing one of those thin headbands again that pulls his long black hair of his eyes. It rests at the nape of his neck in layers of straight black inkiness. I'm dead jealous of Baz's hair. If I grew my hair out like that I'd have an afro. I don't like it getting too long, so I cut it off every Summer as soon as I can get my hands on some clippers.