63
BAZ
Simon is breathing hard.
At some point he stopped kissing me, but his head is still resting on my face.
Is he okay? Was that okay? Are we okay?
I can’t ask him, I don’t want to say the wrong thing. So I lie very still and try to read his heavy breath, his dead weight. I’m still squeezing the blood out of the base of his tail, so I unclench my fingers one by one. The length of it slips away from my arm, uncoiling and falling onto the bed.
Is Simon okay?
I mean, obviously, no, never. The real question is—what kind of not-okay is he at the moment? And what do I need to do to deal with it?
Is he scared? Embarrassed? Overwhelmed? Did he even want that to happen? He’s never been with a guy, maybe he didn’t like it. Maybe it wasn’t what he was expecting. It’s messier than being with a girl. (Isn’t it?) (I don’t know anything about being with girls.) (I don’t know anything about being with guys.) (I know a lot about furtively bashing one out while my roommate is off fighting magickal crime, then hoping he doesn’t wonder why I’m taking a shower in the middle of the afternoon.)
Simon’s still got both hands on my jaw and cheeks. His fingers have come to life a bit. Tensing. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head. (Never a good sign. His brain is an engine that only overheats.)
In a minute, maybe less, maybe in a second, the wind is going to change. We’re deep in the minefield now, with no safe path out. My hand is still on the back of his neck. All I want is to ride this out. To show him we can keep getting through every sort of breakdown together. (Is that what this was? A breakdown? Is that how I’m going to have to file it away? Because that’s going to kill me a little.) (A little more.)Is Simon okay?His fingers are awake on my face, gently stroking my cheeks. And he’s lifted his head a bit.
“Baz?” His voice is all breath.
I’ve still got him by the back of the neck. I think of minefields. I think of those mechanical bulls. Are those real? We didn’t see any in America. I squeeze his neck. I’m going to ride this out, we’re going to—
“Baz? Are you okay?”
I . . .
I nod.
“You’re still cold,” he says, and he brings a wing over and around me.
“I’m fine. Are—Are you okay?”
He pets my cheek. His thumb ghosts over my bottom lip. “If you are.”
I squeeze his neck. “That’s not how it works, Snow.”
“Isn’t it?”
Is it?
He hasn’t moved his leg. I haven’t moved mine. We’re slotted together and sticky. I put my arm around his waist, carefully, and flatten my hand against his back. I’ve been biting my lip. “I’m okay.”
Simon kisses me. He’s still being so gentle. Maybe I’ll have to tell him that he can stop now. (Maybe I’ll never tell him.)
“You’re being quiet,” he says.
“Only because you’re kissing me.”
“You’re beingweird.”
“You’re not . . .” I shake my head. Our lips brush. I shiver. He tightens his wing around me. “You’re not freaking out.”
“Did you want me to?” he asks. “It’s probably not too late.”
“No . . . I . . .”
