A/N: Well, this was supposed to be a one-shot and then it grew. Also, talking someone out of suicide is not a great basis for a romantic relationship. I say this from experience. But I wanted to see if Simon and Baz could make it work, anyway.

BAZ

It's been three weeks since the night Snow and I found each other at the tower. Our beds are still pushed together. Most nights, one or both of us has a nightmare, and we both wake up, and we hold each other until we can fall back asleep. I don't think Snow has told Bunce everything—I'm not sure she'd ever let him out of her sight if he had—but after a few days she stopped looking confused when Snow and I walked into breakfast together every morning, so I'm under the impression he told her something.

I never want to let him out of my sight again. It hurts like a dagger through the heart that he ever felt bad enough to want to die, and even worse to know that I contributed to his sense of worthlessness. I am living now purely out of a desire to take care of him. And yet little bits of goodness seem to be creeping into my life as well, since I decided to live. We have our first snowfall of the year, and rather than merely cursing the cold, I notice the beauty of the white blanket over the grounds. Cook Pritchard summons me to the kitchen for bread pudding after a tough exam in History. Snow smiles five days after The Night while eating lunch with Penny. Four days later, he outright laughs.

I don't dare hope that he's really getting better. If I didn't notice any warning signs before The Night, why would I be so arrogant as to assume I'd notice them now? Moments like the one when he laughed give me tiny shreds of hope, but I don't dare believe in them. I'm not sure if I'm getting better either. I think I might be, a little. I have felt happy a couple times in the past three weeks, briefly, and that's more than could be said about the entire five months before that. Even my siblings couldn't cheer me up while I was stuck in my father's house last summer, and Merlin knows being kidnapped by numpties and trapped in a coffin was no picnic either. I think I still want to die, at least most days, but knowing that my life is tied to Simon's—however inexplicable that is—suffices to stop me from actually attempting suicide again, at least for now.

We haven't talked about my love confession, or the fact that he kissed me. I don't know if we ever will. I'm fairly certain I'd rather not. He always wants to play the hero; show him anything broken and his urge is to fix it. That's all it meant. He just wants to fix me, because that's his nature. His words echo in my head—I've always loved to look at you, even though I'm just starting to accept what that might mean—especially when we're in bed and he's sleeping in my arms. But he hasn't mentioned anything about that since, and so neither have I. He deserves space, and the right to forget anything about anything about The Night that he wants to forget or disown.

Finally, three weeks to the day since The Night, just as we're getting into bed, Simon takes a deep breath and says, "You lied to me, didn't you?"

I look at him carefully and school my voice into gentleness, not the bored drawl that comes so naturally to me. "Every time I said you were worthless, or hopeless, or unworthy. Yes, Simon, those were all lies and I'm sorry."

"No, I mean, that night. At the tower. When you—" Oh Merlin, he's tearing up. He looks down, his lower lip quivering. "When you said you loved me."

"What?" His tears plus the dagger-like hurt of what he just said combine to make me choke up, too. "Simon, I could never."

"But you—" He sobs, and I put my arms around him and pull him in close. "But you—you haven't said—said anything about it since that—that night and I—I—I—" He seems to run out of words and burrows closer into my chest.

"Do you want me to say anything about it?" My voice manages not to break until the last word.

Simon just cries for a little bit before saying, "Well, you don't—don't love me any—anymore, so it doesn't matter."

"What gave you that idea?"

Simon pulls back, and I let him go, much though I want to keep holding him. He scoots backward onto his own bed and my heart breaks even more than it already had. Clearly this conversation isn't going where I hoped for a minute that it would. "You know how pathetic I am," he whispers. "How could anyone love me now? After everything? I know you care, Baz, but love?"

I restrain myself from wiping away his tears, from kissing his face, from brushing his curls off of his forehead. "Simon, I swear to you that I love you in your entirety. The happy parts and the sad parts and everything in between. And I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. I know you're straight and you'll never love me back and it's okay. You've proven to me that you care and that's so much more than I ever thought I could ask for."

Simon fidgets with the sheets. "I'm not straight, Baz."

My eyes just about pop out of my head. "What?"

"I've known since I was . . . what, eleven? Twelve? It was my first or second summer after Watford and I was in another of those terrible care homes. One of the boys saw me watching another boy get changed and realized what was going on even before I did. He beat me up and called me terrible names. So I decided not to tell anyone that I liked boys. I mean, I knew I liked girls, too, and I already sort of had a crush on Agatha, and when I worked up the nerve to ask her out in fifth year and she said yes I thought it could just be easy. I'd marry Agatha and that would be that and I'd never have to come out to anyone. But she broke up with me and I found myself staring at you and thinking about how gorgeous you are and . . ."

"Simon. Please don't do this to me."

"Do what? Like you?"

"Get my hopes up." Now I'm the one fidgeting.

"God, Baz, you think I would do that?"

"What are you doing, Simon?"

"I'm telling you I like you. I'm asking if I can kiss you. I'm asking if you still like me too."

"Like you?" I reply, because I can't handle the enormity of what he seems to be saying to me. "Oh, Simon, we are so far beyond that point. If you really want to kiss me, by all means, go ahead."

He makes no move toward me, and I deflate. He says, "Baz, I need you to be honest with me. Are you only doing this because you don't want me to die?"

I hazard a finger against his cheek, stroking down to his jawline. "I've had a crush on you practically since we met. I've wanted to kiss you since fifth year. I've loved you for over two years now. No, I'm not making this up to try to talk you out of suicide. And I hope I'm a good enough person that I wouldn't want you to die even if I weren't in love with you."

"You have tried to kill me," Simon points out dubiously.

I sigh, wincing internally. Why did past me have to be such a bully? "I thought one of us had to kill the other in the end. And there was a time when I didn't want to be the one to die."

Now Simon reaches out, tentatively, and strokes my cheek. "You shouldn't be. I'm the failure."

I stare him down. "You're the hero. I'm a vampire."

"You'd be a better hero, if you gave it a try. You're so much better than I am at everything. You'd be great at it."

I shake my head. "Not in the slightest. I'm not noble like you. I'm not friendly. You care about people, Snow; I've never mastered that."

"You care about me . . . right?" His voice quivers.

"Of course, Simon. But that's different. I'm in love with you." It's getting harder and harder not to call him darling.

"So you wouldn't care about me if you weren't in love with me?" He's staring at the bedspread.

"I can't imagine a world in which I wasn't in love with you, so I don't think I can answer that."

He looks up at me with something like wonder in his eyes. "You mean that?"

I want to kiss him. I want to kiss his lips and his face and every one of his fingers. "Yes."

His hands are on my face, and then my eyes flutter shut as his lips connect with mine. Unlike last time, I don't feel guilty, or like I've conned him into anything, and so I let myself enjoy it. This is what I'm choosing to consider my real first kiss. And it's amazing. Everything I've ever read or heard about fireworks is ringing true. His lips are warm and soft and greedy against mine, and he seems to be drinking me in. His tongue is in my mouth, but it's just the right amount of hesitant; he's certainly not shoving anything down my throat. It's far gentler and sweeter than I'd ever imagined kissing someone as impulsive as Simon Snow would be.

It's an eternity and no time at all until he pulls back. Before I can say anything—before I can even really process that he just kissed me and now it's over—he whispers, "Wow."

"Oh?" I whisper back. Not my most inspired response, but my brain is still coming back online.

"You're good at that, Baz. Do you do it often?" Simon asks, sitting back a little. I can't read his face.

"Only in dreams," I reply.

Now I can read his face: relief. Before he can say anything, I say, "Don't worry, darling, you've never had competition."

"You just called me 'darling,'" he says slowly.

I look down and fight the urge to hide my face. "Sorry."

Simon takes my hand. "Don't apologize. It's sweet."

I raise his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles slowly. He shivers. I can't help but grin. Then I turn serious again. "What do you want, Simon?"

"Huh?"

"You said you like me. What do you want? Are we boyfriends now? Friends with benefits? Can I kiss you again? What about tomorrow? Are you going to tell Bunce? Are we going to tell people in general?"

Simon's hand twists in mine, but he doesn't try to get me to let go, so I don't. "I'm a terrible boyfriend."

"On what planet?" I retort.

"No, really, I am," Simon insists. "Never once in three years of dating Agatha did it feel like I was getting things right. I never said the right things or asked the right questions or did what she wanted me to do."

"I think she expected you to be someone you're not," I reply. "I know you, Simon. I'm pretty sure I know you better than Agatha. I know you're not always good with words and I don't care. I don't need you to be someone you're not. I just need you to be you."

"You don't mean that."

"But I do."

"But communication is so important in relationships. If I can't do that—"

I cut him off. "Simon. We both know I can understand what you mean even without words, most of the time."

"But what about the times you can't?"

I look at our entwined fingers. "If you're serious about wanting this, we'll figure it out. Together. And if you don't—"

"No, I do. I want this. I just—you deserve better."

I use the hand that isn't holding Simon's to caress his cheek. "There's no one better than you."

"Except for literally everyone. I'm hopeless, remember?"

"Simon. Darling. I never meant that."

"It doesn't matter. You were right."

"No I wasn't. You may not be good at academic magic, but you're amazing at protecting people and caring about them and coming closer than anyone else has to saving the damn world."

"Not close enough," he mutters.

"You've still got time," I reply. "And you've got me on your side, now."

His eyes go wide. "Really?"

"Yeah, of course. What, you really thought after all of this I'd fight you?"

"It was hard to imagine that changing."

"Well, it's changed. No matter what happens between us now, even if you decide you hate me, I promise not to fight you."

Simon squeezes my hand. "Thanks, Baz."

"So, what do you want? Do you want to date? Was the kiss a one-time thing?"

"A one-time . . . Baz, no. I don't do that. I wouldn't do that to you. Yes, I want to date you. I just—I'm not eager to come out. I'm sorry; I know that's selfish."

I kiss his temple, gently. "That's not selfish at all, darling. It's okay. I'm only out to my family, anyway."

"Not even to Dev and Niall?"

"Nope."

"Oh. Okay. Would you mind dating, like, quietly? Keeping the affection to our room and just telling Penny and maybe Dev and Niall if you feel like it?"

I brush his curls off his forehead. "Of course I wouldn't mind, darling. Merlin, I can't even believe you're interested in dating me. Are you sure you're not just doing this to keep me alive?"

He leans forward and kisses my cheek. "I'm sure. I like you. I want to date you. It does help that you cared enough about me to take care of me that night on the tower, and for the last three weeks, but this isn't about taking care of you."

I try to keep my thoughts straight. (Ha.) They're starting to go rather fuzzy with sheer happiness, but I can't let them, not yet. "Okay, so we're dating. That's good. That's bloody wonderful. What do you want that to mean, while we're in our room? Kissing? More than kissing?"

Simon frowns, but I'm pretty sure he's just thinking, not upset. "I think just kissing for now. What do you want?"

"Anything you're comfortable with, I think," I reply. "I'm fairly certain we're going to run up against your limits a lot sooner than we run up against mine, but I'll let you know if we are approaching mine."

Simon nods. "Okay. Good to know. Thanks."

"Why are you thanking me?"

"Because you're trying to let us have a healthy relationship. With communication and consent and stuff."

"Did you not have that with Agatha?" Suddenly I'm worried about him in an entirely different way than I have been for the last three weeks.

Simon sighs. "No, we did, more or less. I don't know. We didn't get a lot of time alone together. It's not like anything horrible happened. We just didn't have a lot of occasions to develop habits, good, bad, or otherwise."

I nod. "Okay. That's—well, not good, but not as bad as it could be."

"Definitely."

"I want to make this good," I say.

Simon caresses my face. "So do I. You deserve that."

I can't help but duck my head. "You think that?"

He kisses my forehead. "Of course."

I kiss his lips.

It's awhile before we get to sleep.