I'm not sure what it is exactly that sets me off.
Sets me off differently than usual. Usually, sets me off means smoke. Rippling, wavering air like the earth is burning up hot, even though it's just me. Usually it suffocates everyone around me, chokes them with their own magic.
Now I'm the one suffocating, but there's no magic in the air. It's just me.
I'm not sure what it is exactly that sets me off.
It's probably the Mage. Probably him telling me about another mission, about another quest. (That's how he talks. Like I'm a character in a fucking D&D game.) Probably him talking about me to my face, like I'm not the only one in the room. Probably him saying "Think about it, Simon," all gentle and sweet, like he didn't basically just tell me he wants to take everything I love away, and I didn't just tell him no.
I'm not sure what it is exactly that sets me off.
Could be that I'm tripping and stumbling on my way back to Mummers. It's little, but it's frustrating, and is definitely adding more to the bucket that is my patience. Which is so close to overflowing.
The rocks on the ground fly up as my shoes kick them, throwing dust and dirt into the air. Some of it comes in with me when I enter the building. I shut the door behind myself, maybe a little too hard. (One of these days I'm going to slam it too hard and the building's going to collapse.)
I'm not sure what it is exactly that sets me off.
I stumble on the stairs too, can't quite get my footing. I have to catch myself with a hand on the edge of a step, and it hurts, shooting up through my wrist and pressing into the skin of my palm, but not enough to force me to breathe.
I pause there, bent over the stairs, holding myself up, and shut my eyes, before forcing myself upright and going all the way to our room.
I throw the door open and shut it behind myself, trying my damnest to breathebreathebreathebreathebreathe but it's not working. My hands clutch as the strap of my back like it's holding me together, my back presses to the door, my eyes closed again like maybe that'll help.
"What's your problem?"
I startle, letting out "Oh, Jesus," my eyes flying open, and I see Baz sitting at his desk, watching me with a look on his face. I can't tell exactly what it is. His lips aren't curled, he's not smiling. So not happy (though rarely is he ever), not disgusted. His eyebrows are furrowed, he's looking me up and down. But the heat isn't there, so not angry. Scared? Apprehensive?
Worried.
"I didn't know you were here," I exhale, leaning back against the door and shutting my eyes. I try to relax, but I can't. I can't.
I half-expect him to leave, but he just asks me again.
"What's your problem?"
"I don't..." know.
I cover my face, scared that tears are going to start rolling down my cheeks, because that happens when I'm frustrated sometimes, and then I wind my fingers in my hair, tugging like it'll pull this feeling out of me.
"...Snow?"
He does sound worried, his voice gentle and soft. It's weird. He should be loving this. He should be leaving me to die like this.
My muscles strain like they're trying to escape the air around me.
"I don't know what's..." I gasp. "I don't..."
I push myself off the door, letting my hands fly in the air, flapping the air away from me the way they always want to when I'm scared. Which, currently, I am.
"Snow—"
"I can't breathe," I gasp, finally saying what I'm feeling. I look around the room, my eyes darting from corner to corner, wall to wall, ceiling to floor, corner to wall to ceiling to wall to corner to floor to ceiling to
"Yes, you can," his voice says, and I wishwishwish I could feel as calm as he sounds. "You can. There's nothing stopping you but your brain."
I look at him, and he's standing slowly, like a predator approaching its prey.
"I— I can't."
"Yes you can," he says again, nodding. "You're okay, take a deep breath."
He's so gentle.
I turn away, my hands coming to a stop and tangling in my hair again, pulling as I hunch over, pulling and pulling and pulling until it hurts. I'm definitely hyperventilating now. And I don't know how to stop. I squeeze my eyes shut.
"Snow, I'm going to touch you, okay?"
I whine, because please, please, please, because I want him to wrap his arms around me and hold me tight until the air can enter my lungs correctly, until my heart slows down, because I can't say yes.
"Not to hurt you," he says, misunderstanding. "I'm just gonna take your bag, okay?"
"Baz, I'm— I can't breathe," I choke out, standing up straight and releasing my hair. My hands go to the air immediately, shaking and flapping as my eyes search the room aimlessly.
"I know," he says softly. "You're okay."
He reaches for my bag, slowly, looking to my eyes. My gaze latches onto his. His eyes look soft right now. His eyebrows raise and he nods, but I can't make myself nod back. He pulls the strap over my head, stepping closer and leaning in to guide it over my ears and face (My eyes squeeze shut when I see the bag come close), and when it's off, he drops it by the door.
"Alright?" he says gently. I make a noise.
Something touches my shoulder, and I don't know what it is at first, but it's gentle, and firm, and familiar, and I lean into it, wanting more. My hands fall from the air, gripping the hem of my shirt tightly.
"Snow, come on."
The pressure on my shoulder changes, and I let it pull me across the room. I crack my eyes open and see our beds.
I collapse onto the closest just as he asks if I want to sit. I'm still breathing quickly, still shaking and trembling like the air above a bonfire, like the air when I go off. I'm hitting myself, gasping. Gasping. Gasping. There's a soft monotonous noise somewhere in the room. I think it might be me.
I think I'm on Baz's bed. It smells like him, like bergamot and sandalwood and something that's just Baz. Just Baz. The smell breezes across my face when he crouches in front of me, locking eyes with me. Unwavering.
"Snow, you need to breathe," he says firmly.
"I— I can't."
"Yes, you can, I know, just— Snow, look at me," he says, because I've looked away again, around and across the room. I look back at him. His eyes look shiny. "Copy me."
He takes a long, slow inhale, his eyes still on mine. I look away again, down to watch his chest rise and fall. I try to do the same, but my air gets caught in me, strangles me from the inside.
"Again, come on. Blow my hair."
I try again.
It doesn't work.
"You can do better than that, Snow, go again."
I look away from his chest and into his eyes this time. They still look gentle. Intense. They're all I see.
His hands rise and rest on my knees. They tap, softly. I keep my eyes on him, trying to breathe.
"All the way out," he says, still tapping, and I exhale completely, until there's nothing left. "There you go."
I breathe more. His hands keep tapping, slow and firm and gentle and steady.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
And his eyes stay on mine. It's different than usual, this eye contact. It's usually filled with malice. Furrowed brows, flared nostrils, curled lips.
The sun shines in his eyes now. Shards of his irises seem to glow.
"I'm sorry," I say when I have enough air too. He shakes his head, and his face changes, and he looks so sad that my eyes fill with tears. Fuck.
"You're okay," he says gently. "You're safe."
I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. My hands move from the hem of my shirt, where they're still knotted in the fabric, to his hands. He stops tapping, but I need it, so I squeeze his hands.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
I take another breath, gasping for it.
"Snow, look at me."
I do.
"Simon," he says softly, tilting his head to look into my eyes. The sun is shining down on him, tangling in his hair and his eyelashes. He looks beautiful. "You're safe, okay? You're alright."
I breathe deeply, sighing. And I crumble.
He's close enough that I can drop my head against his, so I do. He lets me. I take another breathe and stop squeezing his hands. But I don't let go.
He doesn't either.
His hands twist in mine until our fingers are latched together, and his thumbs run over my hands. I focus on it, ignoring every single other sensation in my body except the soft pressure moving over and between my knuckles, so gently it feels like a dream.
"Okay?" he asks quietly. I lift my head, nodding.
"I don't know what happened," I say, even though he probably knows that.
"It was a panic attack," he says. "There's not always a... clear cause.
"How did you know what to do?" I asks curiously. He's so close. I don't move away. I don't want to.
"I've had my fair share."
Jesus. I think my heart breaks.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
He shakes his head dismissively.
"They get easier with practice."
"I don't want practice."
This makes him laugh. His laugh makes me feel better.
"I don't think I've ever appreciated breathing so much," I say after another deep breath. He hums, his mouth curves into a soft, subtle smile. Like the Mona Lisa. His thumbs brush over my skin. It's nice. I wonder if he likes it as much as I do.
"How do you feel?" he asks softly.
"Tired," I breathe.
"Your adrenaline spiked when you panicked," he says. His eyes fall away from mine, to our hands. "It's dropping. You should rest. Take a nap or something. Drink some water."
I make a noise instead is actually responding, because I don't want him to let go of me yet. I close my eyes, feeling and feeling and feeling him touch me.
I squeeze his hands when they loosen, and he moves on the floor.
"Why—" I swallow. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because..." He looks into my eyes, unblinking. Intense. "No one can see us in here." He pauses, his eyes flicking between mine. "And no one will ever believe you."
I scoff.
He's right, of course. No one would. I'm having trouble believing it.
"Let me get you some water," he says, squeezing my hands before releasing them and standing. I let him go.
I watch him walk around his bed, leaning down and reaching between it and the wall. He pulls out a plastic water bottle. (Probably where he keeps those blasted salt and vinegar crisps, too.)
When he hands the bottle to me, I can't stop myself. I take it and toss it aside (it lands on the bed), and grab his hand, pulling myself up and wrapping my arms around his neck. I hear his breath hitch in his throat, and half expect him to shove me away.
"What are you doing?" he breathes as he touches me. His hands dance over my waist, not holding me.
"No one can see us," I whisper. "And no one will ever believe you."
His hands slide around me, pressing into the small of my back, and I step closer. His arms wrap around me, and I think I might cry again. It's so good.
Neither of us say anything, so I hide my face in his neck. He's cool to the touch. (It reminds that he's (most likely) a vampire, and I worry for a second about my cross. But it's next to my bed, forgotten this morning. Maybe I don't need it anymore.)
I press closer after a little bit, stepping into him, tightening my arms. I could stay here. Fall asleep here.
"Snow," he says quietly, running his fingertips over my waist. It sends chills across my skin. (The fingertips, but I suppose his voice too. It's so close.) I hum. "You need to drink water. And go to bed."
"It's only like five thirty," I say, mumbling into his neck.
"You need to rest."
I groan and let go of him, feeling his eyes on me. I look back for a second, but then I feel like I'm burning.
"I'm going out," he says as I step past him and fall onto my bed, onto my stomach. I wish he'd stay. (Just in the room would be fine. But in my arms would be finer.) "Do you want me to find Bunce for you?"
I almost smile into my pillow, humming. Thoughtful of him.
"Yeah, actually." I furrow my brow, looking over my shoulder to him. "But—"
"I know she can get in here herself," he says, making his way to the door. "I don't care so long as she stays out of my bed. Drink the water."
I make another noise.
I hear the door shut behind him, and I smile again.
I drink the water before I can fall asleep. All of it. At once. I didn't realise how thirsty I was. The bottle crinkles and bends as I drink it all, and then I set it on my bedside table, next to my necklace. I look at the necklace.
I pick it up by the chain, let the cross dangle in the air, watching it. Just behind it is Baz's bed.
Then I put it in the drawer and shut it.
- - -
I wake up to someone saying my name softly.
I lift my head, looking over my shoulder to see Penny coming in, shutting the door behind herself. I roll onto my back.
"Are you okay?" she asks, and I can hear the concern in her voice. Baz must have told her.
"Mm-hmm."
I hold out my arms and she places her bag on the floor next to my bed before crawling over the blankets.
"What happened?" she asks, kneeling next to me. I let my arms fall onto the mattress by my sides, extended like wings. I shrug and shake my head.
"Okay," she murmurs, and then she falls on top of me, chest to chest, heart to heart, and her legs tangle with mine. I wrap my arms around her and roll over again onto our sides as her arms slide around my neck. She sighs pleasantly, running her fingers through my hair and scratching softly at my scalp.
"Are you okay?" she asks again. I nod into her neck. "Baz said you had a panic attack." I nod again. She's quiet for a little bit. "You know I love you, right?"
I nod again, and she can probably feel me smiling against the skin of her neck. I tighten my arms around her waist.
I love you too.
I think she gets it, because she hums lightly.
She moves after a little bit, adjusting her shirt (the uniform button down; she undoes the top few buttons), and then wraps a leg around my hips, laying her face against me.
I fall asleep with my face in her hair and her glasses poking into my chest.