A/N - For karakurakid's birthday today! Happy birthday, my brain twin, I am so very glad you were born.

Also, this fic would never have been written without excessive shouty headcanoning with karakurakid, so she gets credit for that as well. Sorry to make you help make your own gift? :)

It was the hottest day at the Watford School of Magicks in a good fifty years or more, and Simon Snow was wishing that he could make his name a reality.

But by two o'clock, Simon and Baz had given up trying to cool down using magic. Baz seemed to have also given up complaining about the papers and books strewn all over the dorm room—evidence of the reason they had given up trying to cool down using magic. (Simon had tried blow me away with what he had to admit were probably predictably disastrous results. But Baz had been able to stop the mini-tornado before it got entirely out of hand.)

But apparently that didn't mean he was done complaining generally.

"It's not even June yet," Baz whined. They were lying on their beds in room 913. Simon had propped the recalcitrant window open with his wand, in spite of Baz's disapproving scowl and mutters about wand abuse—not that it was helping. There wasn't a hint of breeze to be felt.

Simon grunted, and sat up enough to turn his pillow over. The other side of the cotton wasn't cool, but at least it was dry. For now.

The heat was almost a presence around them, pressing in on his skin, stifling and thick. He tried lying as still as possible, but that just made him twitch where he could feel sweat trickling down his temple, behind his knees, beading up on the back of his neck. The sensation made him squirm, made him wish he could peel off every layer of clothing and probably a few of skin, anything to make the crawling weight of it lessen.

Finally Simon said, "That's it," heaved himself off his bed, and started to undo the buttons on his shirt.

"What are you doing?" Baz paused in fanning himself with a green exercise book and stared at him like he'd lost his mind. Which was ridiculous. Baz was even still wearing his tie, for Crowley's sake, what was wrong with him?

Simon didn't reply, just finished with the buttons, and peeled the shirt away from his shoulders and back, tossing it in the general direction of the hamper.

Baz sounded indignant, and also glad to have something new to grouse about. "This isn't a strip club, Snow. Show a little decorum."

"Come off it, Baz." Simon flopped back down on his bed, and the air from the movement cooled a little of his sweat. "It's bloody hot in here."

"How fortunate that I have you to point these things out for me," Baz said. "I wouldn't have noticed."

Simon turned his head and tried a smirk. "You're lucky I'm keeping my trousers on."

The reddening of Baz's cheeks might have been solely from the heat. Or it might not.

Simon was fairly sure it wasn't. They'd been doing this flirty banter thing most of the year, now that it wasn't just a fragile truce between them anymore. Now that they were, if he dared to think it, friends even.

Some moments it all felt… nearly inevitable. Just a matter of time before they both managed to "get your crap together," as Agatha so bluntly put it, before Simon would finally, finally get to kiss him, his prickly, gorgeous, aggravating roommate.

Just the thought made his stomach twist, made his skin prickle. Get to kiss Baz, and hold his hand, and put his arms around him whenever he wanted, and he really had to stop there before his fantasies, domestic and otherwise, ran away with him.

Just now Baz eyed him briefly. "Does the egregious nudity really help with the heat?"

Simon sighed, closing his eyes against the weight of Baz's gaze. "Not much," he had to admit. He thought about adding, you're definitely not helping either, but didn't.

Baz snorted. "Another smashing plan by the Mage's Heir. How do we ever get anything done with you as our fearless leader, Snow?"

Other moments, Simon despaired. It was less the insult (hardly barbed at all anymore), or his insistence on calling Simon by his surname, and more the way Baz seemed to relish pointing out their roles, sooner or later in a conversation. Simon's role. "Mage's Heir." "Savior-to-(Probably)-Be." "Fearless leader" and "prophecy boy" and "personification of untouchable goodness" and "ex-nemesis"….

At least it was usually "ex-nemesis," he tried to console himself.

He peeked over at Baz. His roommate was still sitting up against the headboard, surrounded by papers and books, though he seemed to have given up on studying for the moment. Simon wondered whether even Penelope had given up on the airless stacks of the library for today, wondered whether she and Agatha and everyone were keeping cool, whether Elspeth's fur made her extra hot, whether maybe the merwolves in the moat would make an exception for once and let students swim without attacking them… unlikely.

Baz was muttering darkly about the lack of central air at the school when Simon had a thought, and spoke casually, without thinking. "Hey Baz, you're a vampire."

No answer for a few seconds. Simon glanced toward him; Baz had gone very still. Even the exercise book he was fanning himself with had paused.

When he finally spoke, Baz's voice was as cool and dry as the breeze Simon so desperately wished for. "Yes, I hadn't forgotten."

Oops. Simon had forgotten how touchy Baz still was about the vampire thing. Even though Simon (and Penelope, and Agatha, and Martin Potts, and Lucinda and Elspeth… that was all, wasn't it?) had known for months, ever since the incident with the water demons back in October. That would have been a disaster if it weren't for Baz—more than a disaster, Simon knew. He and Lucinda, at the very least, would both have died.

But Baz had jumped into the fray from nowhere, all fangs and blue fireballs, and Agatha and Penelope had been able to finish the containing spell, and no one had even been hurt in the end, not even Lucinda's cat.

After that—after they had stood around staring at one another and gasping, full of shock and relief and adrenaline—after Baz retracted his fangs and stood stock still, avoiding everyone's eyes, face even paler than usual—after Simon reached out and shook his hand, like he'd refused to do the day they met, and Lucinda forgave him, officially, for teasing her cat first year—after Martin patted Baz on the shoulder and Agatha thanked him, gracefully and formally, and Penelope fussed over the very slight scratch on his arm, and Elspeth, to everyone's shock, actually hugged him, a long and lingering hug, and Elspeth really didn't do that sort of thing—after they all promised not to report him to the Mage or anyone else—even after Baz continued helping out with quests and patrols and research and hunting for the clues to the oak grove—

Even after all that, Simon still had been avoiding the topic, because every time he mentioned it Baz did this—got all still and tense and formal. And Simon hated it.

"I'm assuming you have a point here, Snow?" His tone was frosty, and his face as distant as white-capped mountains. He sounded so cold that Simon almost expected to feel it radiating off him. Which would probably be welcome in this weather, except that Simon hated it, hated that look, that tone, that distance, that chill. He wasn't used to it anymore. He'd thought (hoped, really hoped) they were past that.

So he carried on, as casually as possible. "I just mean—your body temperature is lower than average, right? So does that mean the heat is better or worse for you?"

Baz stared at him, distance thawing slightly to baffled. "What?"

Thawing, even a little, was definitely a good thing. "Just, you know, temperature differentials, or something, something science-y, it seems like there could definitely be something science-y about it. I just don't know whether starting out cooler would be like built-in air conditioning, or whether it would mean you'd feel too warm sooner… I don't know, maybe I should ask Penelope, she'd probably have equations or something—"

"Snow."

Simon looked up sharply. "What?"

The left corner of Baz's mouth was twitching. "You're babbling."

"Oh. Sorry?"

Baz shook his head, and said, "You are so strange." But all the iciness had gone out of his face, his shoulders, his eyes, replaced with something Simon couldn't quite identify.

Baz resumed the motion of the exercise book (it was labeled Seminar: Social Media, Memes, and Other Transient Incantations, Simon saw), his hair fluttering slightly in the artificial breeze, looking away. "And I have no idea. About temperature differentials, perceived heat and cold, whatnot." He glanced back at Simon sidelong. "How did you… how did you even know that?"

"Know what?" Simon was slightly annoyed, but relief (the thawing, Baz here again, present and… well, not human, technically, but since when did Simon care about technicalities when it came to Baz?) tempered his tone to primarily amusement. "I know 'temperature differential' is a lot of syllables, for me, but we're seventh years now, I do my physics homework on occasion, it's not completely unheard of—"

"'A lot of…'" Baz's face was a picture of consternation, and then he rolled his eyes. "Not that, you pillock, I know you—" He snorted, then looked curiously across the space between their beds. "How did you know about… that my body temperature is 'lower than average'?" He over-enunciated the words in his usual prissy manner, and Simon pretended that he didn't know that when Baz started talking in that clipped way it meant he was trying to pass something off as unimportant.

Simon thought, very seriously, about not answering. He could just shrug, and Baz would probably be happy to drop the subject.

But instead, he shrugged and grinned. "Research, dear roomie, research and observation."

"'Research and observation'?" Baz's eyebrow arched, and his shoulders tensed, but only slightly. "Do tell." He looked serious, then added, "Also, never call me 'dear roomie' again, please."

Simon shrugged again. "All right." He turned onto his stomach, his face still toward Baz, and let his eyelids droop. "Research facts: contrary to popular gandry media, vampires do breathe. Have reflections and heartbeats and lower-than-average body temperature. Cannot shapeshift into bats or wolves, which is too bad really, because cool." Simon peeked at Baz, who was staring at him, then resumed his list. "They do not need to be protected from sunlight, obviously," the afternoon light was currently partially streaming across Baz's lap, "or from holy water or other religious symbols, or from garlic, unless they're you…."

Baz made an odd choking noise, but managed to sound at least a little indignant. "I have an allergy, Snow."

Simon waved a hand, dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, sure, Pitch, I think you're just spoiled and finicky about your food, but whatever." He continued over indistinct noises of protest. "Now, observed facts: vampires are overly fussy about their food and their uniforms and making their beds every single morning, and harassing their roommates about doing the same…." Baz was trying to interject something about "not living in squalor" but Simon just ignored him. "They seem to enjoy listening to Bastille and the Beatles and Beethoven all about equally. They are not morning people but they're never late to classes. They like mint Aero bars and apples to a possibly unhealthy degree, judging by the kitchen raids that they go on in spite of Cook's grudge—seriously, one of these days you're going to get caught, Baz, and she's going to chain you in there to do dishes for a thousand years, by hand…."

Baz was laughing now, a little helplessly. "My father replaced that microwave, she's just ridiculous, and besides, I do not get caught—"

"They boast outrageously about their dubious ninja skills," Simon said, smoothly. "They spend just far too much time in the bathroom, though they do give Agatha a run for her considerable money in the perfect hair department."

Baz was staring at the ceiling, shaking his head, but still grinning. He looked warm, pleased, like he'd never been frozen and brittle in his whole life. "Now you're ridiculous."

Simon took a deep breath, and spoke more quietly. "They can apparently survive on rats and squirrels and I think goats, too—" Baz was looking away, saying nothing. "I think they would never actually kill one of Eb's goats, though, so it must be only an occasional thing, they must be really careful about it. The goats hardly seem even weakened, even though I've seen…." Simon trailed off.

"Well… Eb does love those goats." Baz's voice was hesitant, and he still wasn't looking over, so Simon looked at the floor and dared just a little more.

"They're loyal. They're willing to—to defy people's expectations, and jump in and defend people who never liked them much for years before. They debate with Penelope and encourage Martin and make Lucinda and Elspeth laugh, and they're polite to Agatha even when she's tired and cranky, and they just keep helping, and I—"

"Now you're generalizing, Snow," Baz said, cutting him off, albeit gently. "Not all vampires can possibly… be like that. And certainly not all the time."

"Yeah, I know." Simon wanted to slam his head into the wall. Too much, too far, why couldn't he ever learn to shut his mouth and quit while he was ahead? Had he ruined everything? He wanted to hide under the bed. Maybe it would be cooler down there, anyway.

"Any more than all Chosen Ones can be strong and handsome and true and generous and talented and untouchable and—"

Simon fidgeted. "I'm not—" Crowley, Baz knew that Simon hated being called that, all that, he knew….

"They can't all the time," Baz said, emphatically, though he was looking back up at the ceiling. "Sometimes they're just irritating roommates."

Oh. Wait, what? "Sometimes," he agreed, slowly.

"Sometimes—" Baz's voice was very quiet. "Sometimes they're just… ordinary."

Ordinary. Ordinary wasn't the Chosen One, the Mage's Heir. Surely ordinary wasn't untouchable, was it?

Oh. Simon's stomach twisted a little, jittery. He was even warmer than he had been before, sure his cheeks were burning. He considered holding his laptop up to his face. It had a fan, right? But that just pushed out the heat from the inner workings, and the idea of adding more heat was right out.

Then Simon heard a sound—the shiver of leafy branches blowing, across the Great Lawn outside. Blowing… Simon's head snapped up, he met Baz's eyes, and they both scrambled desperately for the open window.

"Come on," Baz muttered, their shoulders knocking as they strained their faces toward the air in the too-small space, both attempting to perch on the windowsill. "Come on, come on, come on…."

And there it was—a breeze, at last, strong enough to cool Simon's face and chest and get into the crevices of his neck. He ruffled his own curly hair, and sighed as tendrils of wind sneaked through it, up over his scalp, then disappeared.

Baz made an impatient noise. "That can't be it," he grumbled, scraping at the longer, heavy black hair stuck to his neck, trying to twist it up from where it caught in his collar.

The back of Baz's neck was sweaty, tendrils of dark hair clinging to it, and Simon said, "Here, I'll—" He didn't pause, just leaned closer, and blew softly across the nape of his pale neck. He could see down-fine dark hair dry and lift, see the sweat-curled wisps of black tremble slightly, see the shiver that ran down Baz's skin and over his shoulders.

Suddenly Simon felt hyper-aware of his bare shoulder brushing Baz's white shirt. He shivered himself, and pulled back, trying to muster up a normal, teasing tone. "Ugh Baz, you're making me hot just looking at you. At least loosen your tie or something."

Baz blinked at him. His grey eyes, lit from the side, looked clear as water. He let his hair fall back again, leaned against the window frame, and slowly reached up to his tie knot, tugging it slightly.

Simon tried not to stare. Tried and failed.

Baz loosened his tie maybe an inch, maybe, then stopped, dropped his hand. Simon's eyes flicked up, and Baz was smirking. He raised an eyebrow mockingly, and oh no. No way.

Simon snorted and darted his hand in, grabbing. He tried to rip the tie off his neck, but it wouldn't slide, and Baz snickered, and pushed him. Simon half-stumbled backward, falling, but he still had a grip on Baz's tie, and so he tumbled right after him to the floor.

"Just…take the bloody thing off, Baz!"

Baz wrestled back, attempting to twist away, indignant and laughing. "Unhand me, you savage."

"Not till you take—it—off—" Simon managed to roll Baz onto his back, but the knot was still stuck.

"Ugh, don't you dare drip on me, Snow."

Naturally, at that, Simon had no choice but to grin maniacally and rub his hair into Baz's face.

"Crowley!" Baz spluttered. "It's like I haven't already endured six years with you, Snow, you might as well still be twelve."

Simon cackled, intentionally, and pulled back. The knot was finally undone.

"It's far too hot for this sort of thing, you know," Baz puffed a little.

"It's far too hot to be wearing that tie, you mean," Simon retorted, and tugged again. For just a moment, it still wouldn't just slide out from under the collar, and Baz's face followed the pull, up close to Simon's, but only for half a second—then the fabric finally released, and Baz fell back with a thud, leaving Simon with a handful of green and purple striped silk.

"Victory," crowed Simon, breathless with laughter. "And now—"

"Now?"

"Now the shirt."

"Never," Baz sneered, but it was utterly unconvincing with that much laughter in his voice. He lunged after the tie, which Simon held away from him as they grappled on the rug.

"You must be—delirious—from the heat—oof, no kicking—if you think..."

"If I think what, Pitch?" Baz had wrestled Simon onto his back now, sunlight streaming over them, rough carpet underneath, but the tie was still safely wrapped around Simon's fist and half behind him. He grinned up at Baz with half-lidded eyes.

"If you think—that I'm getting half-naked—in front of you—"

Simon laughed. "It's all right Baz, I already know you're pasty."

"Pitches are not PASTY."

"Oh, definitely pasty." Baz elbowed him. "Fine—lily-white?"

"You—get off me."

Simon fell over, rolling slightly away, still giggly and out of breath. "Come on, Baz, aren't you hot?"

"Well, I am now…."

"Just a couple of buttons," Simon wheezed at the ceiling. "I'll trade you my battle trophy." He waved the tie in the air, then let his arm fall, and the end of it fluttered across the floor like a fallen banner.

Baz rolled his eyes, but was still grinning wickedly. "Fine," he said, and sat up, panting a little, and leaned against his bed.

There was a pause, and Simon pushed himself up on his elbows. "Well?"

Baz curled his lip, but his eyes glinted. "Such impatience." He sat up a straighter and began to slowly, slowly undo his cuffs. Not taking his eyes off Simon.

Oh dear Crowley, thought Simon, sitting up, staring. Had there been a plan here? He couldn't remember. He could barely remember how to swallow, and his mouth was terribly dry.

And then Baz lifted his chin up, stretching his neck, all the long lines of it, and opened the top button—

Simon couldn't seem to remember how to breathe properly, either.

—and then the next one, and the next, so slowly, his fingers fumbling slightly because he was still looking at Simon, not at the buttons.

Simon licked his lips and took a shaking breath.

Baz raised an eyebrow after the third button. His collarbone was just barely visible. "Good enough?" he whispered, smirking, and tugged on the free end of the tie.

Simon let the tie slip out from his fingers, but he followed it immediately. Pounced right onto Baz, right into his lap, knocking him back against the bed frame.

"Oof," said Baz, but his arms went immediately around Simon, tightly, hands sliding up his bare, sweat-slick back.

Simon licked up Baz's neck, salty and perfect, and hissed, "You bloody tease, Baz," as he yanked on his shirt. Buttons popped off in at least three directions.

Baz made an odd sound that was half-laugh, half-moan, his head tipped back against the mattress. "Pots and kettles, Simon, you're merciless, you've been sitting there forever, just—just glistening at me, you great prat—" His hands were already sliding around to Simon's front, up to his shoulders, down to his stomach and back up, like he was helpless to stop them.

Simon laughed, as he finally got the last stubborn button open, and tried to push the shirt back off Baz's shoulders.

Baz tried to help, his arms half-restrained behind him, grumbling as fabric stuck on his damp skin. "And you're going to be sewing all those buttons back on, Snow."

"Whatever you say, Baz," Simon said, abandoning the shirt to Baz's efforts, and put his hands around Baz's jaw, and kissed him. Finally, finally. A little wild at first, then softer, then Baz groaned and finally got his arms loose, and sank his own fingers firmly into Simon's hair, and they kissed till Simon was dizzy with heat and tongues, with soft lips and finally.

Baz flipped them over, Simon on his back on the floor, and mm, that was all right too, his hands over the lean muscles in Baz's back shifting under his skin, but Simon couldn't resist: "So I thought it was too hot for this sort of thing?"

"Shut it, you," Baz said, and kissed him some more.

Eventually it really did get too warm for cuddling, much to Simon's disappointment. Also the floor was hard. Baz rolled away, then sat up, then stood up, a little unsteady, and dug around in a drawer.

"Here," he said, and tossed a t-shirt into Simon's face. "I've got an idea."

"Uh oh," said Simon, but he stood, and stretched a little, then sat on the edge of his bed. He kneaded his fingers into his opposite shoulder for just a moment and angled his neck to work out a kink in it.

When he looked up again, Baz was standing, wearing a black t-shirt (one of Simon's), staring at him with a look that was a little alarming.

"What?" Simon looked around, down at his still bare chest, behind him, then back. "What?" The sun through the window was lighting Baz up where he stood, limning his black hair in gold, warming his pale skin, turning his grey eyes amber. If anyone should be staring, it should be me, Simon thought.

Baz took a step toward him. "Gods, Simon. You're so…."

His tone was so… so awed that it made Simon want to frown. He reached out and caught Baz's hand, pulling him closer. "Ordinary?" Simon asked, and the word made him so fiercely glad, he was almost lightheaded with it.

Baz snorted, shook his head. "Not even a little."

Simon's stomach flopped. "What? But…?"

"Simon." Baz sat next to him, and smoothed the sweat-sticky fringe off Simon's forehead. "You don't even listen to yourself, do you. 'Vampires do not need to be protected from….'" He shook his head again, eyes closed. "Do you know who does that kind of research?" He opened his eyes and looked straight into Simon's, almost frighteningly intent. "Nobody, that's who."

Simon blinked, uncertain. "Well," he admitted, "Penelope helped me."

Baz laughed, a tiny choked laugh, and rested his forehead against Simon's shoulder. Simon ran a hand up his back, into his hair again, carding through damp strands, and then stroking them back down.

"As long as—as not-ordinary doesn't mean… untouchable," he said finally.

Baz looked up. "What?"

Simon took Baz's hand, placed it firmly over the center of his chest. "Not untouchable. Okay?"

Baz stared at his hand, then looked at him solemnly and nodded. "Definitely touchable."

"Good," Simon said, and kissed him again, briefly, drawing their foreheads together. "Now…" he said, drawing back and pulling the t-shirt over his head, "where are we going?"

Baz grinned. "The kitchens. Ice cream."

Simon groaned, shook his head, and followed along.