Baz

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

The sound of a pencil against paper breaks through my concentration. Again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I growl, frustrated. It's not as if I shouldn't be use to it. I've heard it for years now.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

It's not even Snow's most annoying habit. Not even in the top ten. Or twenty even. Snow is a terrible roommate, but this particular trait shouldn't even be mentioned as a negative.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

It's a quite normal sound in the grand scheme of things. Ordinary. Common. Mundane.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

But that never seems to matter.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Some days the noise grates on my ears like nails on a chalk board. Nothing I do can block it. There is no escaping it if I want to be in our room. And I refuse to be driven out of our room by such a unremarkable thing. Pathetic.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I will not leave our room simply because Snow is drawing. Again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Out of all the so called talents the Chosen One is suppose to have, this is the only one he actually has. He can barely make spells work. His magic doesn't obey him. He goes off like a bomb periodically. He can't talk without stuttering. His attention span isn't that long. He isn't very intelligent.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

But he has a talent for art. An actual skill. Not that he goes around showing off his drawings. But I am his roommate. And he leaves his notebook laying around occasionally. So I've seen them. Or, technically, sneaked a look. Sue me.

And Snow is good. No, not good. Snow is amazing. His portraits are spot on. His landscapes are gorgeous. Even his doodles show his skill. He has an entire notebook filled with various cartoons of random events. Teachers. Students. Things he made up.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

They've changed over the years. At first, they were relatively simple. He drew what he saw. Pages and pages of student life at Watford. But as he aged, they began to vary. Battles he fought. Challenges he faced. Dreams he has. Nightmares that haunt him.

They've taken a darker turn over the years. Fire and flames. Monsters. The Insidious Humdrum. Swords and magic. There is still Watford, still his friends and girlfriend. But while Snow tells everyone he doesn't think about things, that isn't exactly true. Not completely.

He may not think about them, but he draws them. He tells the paper what he will never admit to another soul. Not even Bunce. Snow may be able to stop his mind, but not his hand. His fingers betray him.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

So yes, I've essentially been reading Snow's dairy for years. Have I ever claimed to be good?

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I resist the urge to slam my book and yell at Snow to stop the infernal noise. It wouldn't do any good. He wouldn't stop. And why would he? Ordinary people don't find the sound of sketching to be annoying. It doesn't register to them, not really. Ordinary people don't have heightened senses. They aren't constantly blocking the little background noises out. It's automatic.

Ordinary people aren't bloody vampires.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

And sure, I've been a vampire since I was five. I'm use to most of the quirks that come with the condition. Except drinking blood. That's still a problem. But the increased strength? Yes. Perfect health? Definitely. Heightened senses? Technically.

The problem isn't that I'm not use to them. I can't remember a time without them. I am in control. That doesn't mean they don't cause issues sometimes. Sensory overload is a thing, even for a bloody vampire. Which is just my luck.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Snow is already suspicious enough of me as it is. I don't need to add to it. And admitting to this will definitely do that.

Plus Snow is the enemy. Even if this doesn't make him suspicious, I'm can't tell him this. What if he finds a way to use this against me? Or rather, what if Bunce does and Snow follows? Although even Snow may be smart enough to know how to use this against me. It isn't hard. Never admit weakness to the enemy.

No matter how much you may love him.

Especially if you are deeply in love with him. Love makes you stupid. Love makes you weak. I am weak enough around Snow as it is. He keeps filling my dreams, along with my nightmares. He follows me everywhere now and I can't even escape in sleep.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I am either going to kiss him or kill him.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Either would be so easy. They fill my thoughts constantly. It is a miracle I can get anything else done. My head is filled with Simon Snow. As if filling my life wasn't enough. I will go insane if I have to live like this for the rest of the year. The rest of the semester. Hell, the rest of the week is going to be a challenge at this point.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

That's it. Forget suspicion. If he doesn't leave now, I am going to kill him. "Will you stop that?" I snarl.

Snow looks up, startled. "What?" he asks, confused.

"Stop making so much bloody noise!" I order.

He frowns. "I'm just drawing," he snaps back.

"And it's distracting me," I inform him snidely.

"Stop being a bloody arse. There's no way I am distracting you. I haven't even looked at you all evening."

"Your very presence distracts me."

He bristles at that, but it is the truth. He takes it as an insult, but it's nothing but the truth. His very existence is enough to distract me. I can't block him out. It's like trying to block out the sun.

"Well your face isn't better," he shoots back.

I laugh. I laugh and laugh at that. Oh like he has a clue what I mean. As if he can ever understand. He is just a stupid boy with a stupid destiny and a stupid sword. As if he knows anything about want. Stupid, idiotic mess of a boy.

What can he know?

He glares at me annoyed. Angry. Hateful. It is as if he is trying to light me on fire with his glare. Go on Snow, try it. It shouldn't be hard. I'm flammable after all. Go on and put me out of my misery. It's going to happen one day, why not get it over with?

The air takes on a distinctive smell of smoke. Snow's magic crackles around him, emphasizing his anger. His glare intensifies. I smirk. I smirk and I smirk and I dare him.
"Go on Chosen One," I invite him, "do it. Go off on me. Do it."

Snow stands up and for a moment I think he really is going to do it. Simon Snow is going to kill me. It's finally going to end.

Good.

But then he makes a sharp turn and runs out of the room instead. The door slams behind him.

As he storms out, I drop my smirk. That works as well. Peace. But then I notice the notebook he left behind. The one I have never been able to look at. Snow keeps this one with him at all times. It's almost as if he doesn't trust me.

I can't resist the temptation and open it. The first page is of a pale boy with a willow peak and grey eyes. I flip through the book and page after page it is the same boy. There are various levels of skill, the beginning being simpler and the newer ones improving. But they are all of the same boy.

It's not until the first cartoon that I understand. Oh. Oh.

I feel like an idiot for not realizing it at first. And then I have trouble breathing at the implications. Oh Alister Crowley.

It's me. Snow has a notebook filled of drawings of me. I flip to the back pages and take a long look, memorizing it. Part of me feels stupid for doing this. But I can't help it. This is the first time I have seen myself since I was turned.

Yes, vampires are unable to see themselves in mirrors. Or photographs. You can imagine the difficulties this brings growing up.

Of course I have a good idea of what I look like. Fiona is willing to describe my appearance, even if she gets this look in her eyes when I ask. And I can look down easily enough. I can feel my face, my hair. But I haven't seen what I truly look like in years.

But here it is, in black and white.

It is a side profile and I look so bloody serious. My cheekbones are sharp. My hair frames my face. I turn to another page and here is another portrait. There is my willow peak. My dark grey eyes. My nose is too high on my face. And I am smirking. No real surprise there. Snow must be able to draw that expression in his sleep.

I know I smirk quite a bit. So what?

But the implications. For Snow to have a notebook dedicated just to me... And it is, I go to the beginning and look at page after page of me. From eleven till now. For Snow to draw these. This isn't the work of an enemy drawing his opponent. No. This is something much more.

Maybe I'll kiss him after all.