I don't know where this came from or where it would go, but here it is anyway, with no background or explanation or anything. The usual 'Snowbaz is together but no one really knows' awkward side-story dilemma. Some dialogue taken directly from Fangirl. You'll recognize it.

Baz was very polite until someone tried to infringe upon his gentlemanliness.

"Bunce, I swear if you and Wellbelove don't take the couches, I will stuck like glue you to the cushions."

So the girls took the couches and he and Simon laid out two nests of blankets, pillows, and sleeping bags set exactly how far apart their beds were in their tower room. Mostly out of habit.

"Baz. Hey, Baz. Are you awake?"

The girls had fallen asleep a while ago, Penny snorting into her pillow with her glasses smushed awkwardly against her cheek, Agatha delicately whaffling through her slender nose.

Baz rolled over and glared at Simon, who was lying on his side with his head pillowed on his hands, staring at him. Baz could see him perfectly, but he knew Simon would have trouble seeing his glare in the dim light coming through the windows from the streetlamps outside. He made sure to convey his feelings through tone of voice.

"I am now. I suppose, Snow, that you are aware that the whole sky getting dark outside and us going to bed, is not an invitation to start talking?"

"Do you know the prophecy about me?" Simon asked, ignoring Baz's sarcasm.

"Do I know the iconic childhood verse of your heroic coming and epic deeds that everybody and their mother has memorized? Yes, I believe I've heard of it."

"You know I have to be the one to defeat the Humdrum. I don't know how, but I'm to have to try or else it will never stop. But I probably won't- I don't think I'll be able to- I really might-"

"Shut up, Snow."

They were quiet for a long moment, and just as Baz was thinking he was going to get to sleep, Simon spoke again, his voice cracking a little.

"I don't want to die, Baz."

Baz raised his head and looked at Simon furiously.

"Snow, I swear, if you're saying this is some sort of supposed-end-of-life-sexuality-crisis, or that you're trying to break up with me as some crap gesture of noble heroism, off to fight the Humdrum with nothing to lose, sacrificing yourself so no one else has to get hurt, I will punch you so hard, so help me I will light you on fire-!"

"That's not fair, Baz." Simon sounded hurt. "I'm not saying any of that and you know it."

Baz let his head fall back with a thunk.

Simon waited for a moment, and when Baz didn't say anything he opened his mouth to speak. Baz cut him off at once.

"Shh."

"I just-"

"Hush."

"I worry-"

"Don't."

"But-"

"Simon."

"Baz?"

"Here."

Baz reached out his hand and Simon's met his halfway. Their linked hands lay in the cold space between them. Simon's hand was warm, square and strong. Baz's hand was thick, rough and fire chapped. They gripped each other tightly, like a lifeline.

"You know there's a word for us in Greek," Simon murmured sleepily. Baz's thumb was scratchy and soothing as it rubbed across his knuckles.

"εχθρός?" Baz asked quietly. "Or maybe Νέμεση?"

"No, I mean this part." Simon squeezed Baz's hand. "I think it was . . . philtatos?"

"φίλτατος?" Baz repeated, his voice hitching up in surprise. "Do you even know what that means, Snow?"

"It means 'dearest' or 'most beloved', doesn't it? I don't think the Minotaur was trying to trick me . . ."

Baz swallowed and didn't say anything, but he tightened his grip on Simon's hand. Should he tell Simon that he had called them what was basically the Greek equivalent of soul mates?

"Come here," he said. His voice sounded strange in his own ears.

Within a few minutes they had merged their blanket nests and were lying next to each other. Simon had an arm flung across Baz's chest and his face pressed into his shoulder. Baz's hand cupped the back of his neck, his scratchy thumb tracing the line of moles on his neck. Baz tugged his face up and pressed their lips together.

They kissed for a long while. Again. And again, harder. Closer. Pressing. Molding. It felt like a reassurance. I'm here, you're here, we're both here and we're both okay. Kiss me on the mouth and set me free.

Simon ran one hand up and down Baz's chest, from his stomach to his collarbone, smoothing the soft fabric of his tee-shirt. He would have laughed at the contented expression on Baz's face, except his hand was rubbing in between Simon's shoulder blades in such a lovely way that it was turning his mind quite fuzzy.

When Penelope woke up, she found them asleep and tangled together among the blankets.

"I don't care," she told them, waving away their half-hearted explanations. "I don't care whether you rolled over in your sleep, or the elves snuck in and moved you around. All I want to know is where Simon's other hand is."

I blame my love of Greek mythology on Percy Jackson, but that still doesn't account for everything. I blame my love of Song of Achilles on Achilles and Patroclus having a fucking beautiful relationship both in the book and in any context anywhere.

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