the door shuts behind simon, and baz looks up from his textbooks, sneer already plastered on his face.
“how was your little session with the mage?” his voice is taunting, mesmerising, almost haunting. like a siren’s song. simon watches the shadows shift over baz’s face and can almost believe baz means him no harm.
“fuck off.” it’s tired.
simon turns his back to baz. he doesn’t see baz frown. this isn’t the simon he’s used to at all.
baz’s voice floats across the room to him. “aw, what’s wrong? does the mage not like widdle simon anymore?”
simon’s shirt makes a soft rustling noise as he gingerly peels it off his body. he instinctively holds his left hand over the giant bruise on his stomach, prays baz doesn’t see it.
“or maybe,” baz continues tauntingly, “the mage finally realises how idiotic this whole thing is and he’s called it off? aleister crowley, i hope so.”
he thinks baz’s voice sounds like music, the sharp noise bouncing off the silence of the night. a breeze blows through the window, and he shivers.
simon pulls off his socks and leaves them on the floor. baz lets out a disgusted sound, but simon really, really doesn’t have the strength to care right now. he climbs into bed, pulling the covers over him.
baz sighs loudly. “i can’t believe i’ve put up with six years as roommates with this prat.”
“baz.” simon’s voice is soft. monotone. nothing like a siren’s song at all. “shut up.”