#realising she might be queer but worrying if shes 'too old' to be figuring stuff like that out in her 30s or if its just for teens

[positivityjediprince]

No one:

Literally no one:

Lily's Garden: In the garden there is a secret underground temple made by an old secret group who fought corruption (but now are a chess society), two of Lily's friends accidentally got stuck in the temple, the cat (who may or may not be a reincarnation of the great grandmother) showed Lily how to rescue them.

They have now deliberately trapped a potential secret agent down there to find out why he's been spying on them.

[lesbiansforboromir]

I’m sorry if you’ve answered this somewhere else, but does Denethor know what his eldest is getting up to with Theodred?

And if Denethor doesn’t know, how would he react to finding out, please?

This depends upon a few things! In general I tend to go for the canon that Boromir doesn’t tell his father because he sees no reason too and Denethor doesn’t find out. Boromir and Denethor have a very paired down relationship, it revolves quite necessarily around their duties and whilst they’re both warmly dedicated too them, Boromir wouldn’t tell Denethor something if it didn’t seem necessary. There’s other stuff to it, Boromir’s generally very private, he struggles in putting himself in vulnerable positions where he’s making something ABOUT him, he doesn’t know his dad’s reaction for certain and JUST the conversation seems like a lot of risk and effort for (in his mind) not much gain.

However! I’ve also pondered a situation where Boromir as a younger and ‘still figuring it out’ 18 year old gets close to being outed. It doesn’t come to anything and he sorts it out on his own without too much fuss, but the incident makes it clear that he might not be in control of this at all times. AND if he were to be outed it would effect his ability to do his job. Which is something he SHOULD tell his dad about. 

So the conversation is very much geared as a ‘report’, after dinner one night Boromir just says ‘I actually have something else to discuss with you, if you have time tonight. Not a pressing matter but it could be important.’ And that is very normal for Boromir to say, and Denethor nods and takes him back to his office, and he asks with a little humour  "so, is this more work for you or for me?" and Boromir laughs and Denethor actually does not know anything is amiss until Boromir pauses after saying ‘I will hope it is just for me, but at the risk it comes to your desk... ‘

And Boromir just! Says ‘I am ill-fated.’ which irritates him because whilst queer communities have other names for themselves, those terms are not universally known, especially not to the general populace, so ‘ill-fated’ is all he has to describe it. And it’s not just derogatory, it’s also unspecific! Other things are called ill-fated, it is not a queer specific term. So Boromir has to clarify ‘in the ‘he is lead to the river’ sense, I have not been formally cursed.’ 

And well Boromir has to distance himself from this moment, it’s a discussion about his duties, it’s not about him, this is not vulnerable. Meanwhile Denethor (a person who only calls himself a man out of necessity not desire or comfort), with his calm and impassive expression, is wrestling down a vicious surge of protective fervour alongside 30 years of queer liberation theory. There are approximately 200 things Denethor wants to say to Boromir, but by this time he knows Boromir’s implicit request has always been to be distant. Denethor’s emotions are too heavy for his son to bear alongside the weight of duty he also carries, and Denethor has respected this need in Boromir. The absolute last thing Boromir would want is to feel like Denethor needs to protect him, that is entirely antithetical to his responsibilities. 

SO Denethor swallows down the ‘that’s my boy, that’s my son’ and the worry and the empathy and everything else, pauses a moment to try and thread the needle here, and in the end he just acknowledges what Boromir has told him, and why. ‘you tell me this as warden, as my heir, and you are wise to do so, for unfortunately, there are those who would use this to sow trouble that goes beyond you or I’ And Boromir is immediately relieved. Because that held all the information he wished to know inside it, without too much intensity. Denethor has no issue with him, Boromir’s position is unchanged, Denethor understands the situation and he is content. 

Boromir says ‘Trouble enough! I am well experienced in navigating it but I am not as blessed as Faramir and luck has toyed with me from time to time.’ and he pauses and then says, ‘I should perhaps not engage with it at all. Which I would do, if you concurred.’ And it's been hard! He's felt guilt during this exploratory phase, he never meant to make a community, he never meant to actually be invested, he needed to know the ‘issue’ enough within himself to control it. But now he's understood by a group! He has a community and he doesn't want to leave it behind, as much as he knows that would be sensible. And Denethor’s say-so would allow him to cut those ties! 

But Denethor’s composure breaks here ever so briefly as he makes this sharp halting motion with his hand. ‘No, no, do not.’ A pause and then, ‘I have every faith in you. And it is always better to have friends than not.’ And truly, it’s never been easier to see relief on his son’s face before! Usually Boromir is unreadable, even to Denethor, but just for this moment it’s almost too clear. Clear enough to see Boromir realise it himself and look uncomfortable about it. A discomfort Denethor knows how to solve, though he resents the remedy, ‘Besides, you are worth more to Gondor a whole man. Splitting yourself into pieces that way would serve no one.’

And Boromir’s smiling! He’s relieved, reassured, settled and back to being confident with this newfound purpose and logic. It WOULD serve no one, and to serve is his ultimate goal and drive. So he is satisfied. And Denethor has to accept, once again, that his son needs his joys to be of service to Gondor to entertain them. Which is gruelling! But exactly what they need! And he wishes again that Boromir were less accepting of his lot, he wishes again that Finduilas was here so that he might tell her this and hear what she would say. IT’S A LOT, but it’s very short! And really like... THATS IT. Everything continues on as it did before, exactly as it did. 

UNTIL PERHAPS... hmm... Boromir’s marriage. I think Boromir would have told Denethor about Theodred eventually. But again that joy had to be muted to be expressed and whilst Denethor was happy to hear of it, they both knew there wasn’t much to be done. Denethor welcomed Theodred warmly to Minas Tirith the few times he came and liked him more for knowing he had Boromir’s love and good opinion. 

But I DO THINK, for the actual wedding, the weight of tradition and ‘rightness’ would finally outweigh the repression. And Boromir wouldn’t have to ask Denethor to move mountains to figure out a way to properly symbolically welcome Theodred into their family. Which is a big deal!! In Gondor!!! Culturally and socially and practically! And Denethor would do his best to either attend the ceremony or craft some other small meeting. And the silk with Theodred’s blue handprint is kept safe in his desk somewhere, marking the tying of Theodred’s fate with the rivers of life of the House of Hurin. 

I GOT... carried away... and a little sleepy towards the end but I hope this is readable I read through it exactly 1 times. 

[danieljgrouse]

Gender

I think most trans and nonbinary people have these memories from their childhood that could be completely normal and inconsequential kids stuff or a proof that this is what they have always been. It is difficult to place a definitive value on these memories. Your childhood behaviour could mean anything and the human memory has the nasty habit of being coloured by our present. Still, I suspect we all sometimes sit there and wonder. Whether we have always known or not, we still have these little pieces of the past of inderminent value.

I used to play with dolls occasionally and was fascinated by beauty products. Sometimes strangers would assume I was a girl when they’d meet me. It always made me feel strange. On one hand, I was flattered, they obviously did it because they thought I was cute and pretty and so I had to be a girl. I liked the idea of people thinking I’m cute and pretty. But it also made me angry that being cute and pretty was a girl thing.

My family would tease me for liking red and wanting to wear red clothes. “Red is a girly colour!” (Now, if you’re thinking “Dan, is that a local thing? Is red considered a feminine colour where you live?” … No, not really, I still don’t get it.) Whenever my mum would be fixing anything around the house she would say “you should be doing this, not me, it’s a man’s job”, which would just make me quietly angry. I never understood these weird gender stereotypes men’s job thins, women’s job that, plus I was a child and she was an adult, pretty sure she was more qualified and none of it was a job for an eight-year-old.

Once I reached my teenage years I had begun understanding that I should probably try to fit in. I was worried about people seeing me as more of a weirdo than they already had. I didn’t want “Is he gay?” to be part of their distaste for me. Even though I kept asking that question about myself constantly. So I would start leaning into the masculinity thing. In my weird and misguided way. Not really macho, just… a twitter egg. With all of the self-important cluelessness, just with better intentions. I’m still paying for that part of my life, trying to unlearn all of the bad habits, it’s a fun source of self-loathing.

Then came uni and I slowly started becoming less of a shitty person yet still a totally clueless one. See my whole life, since the moment I knew transgender people existed, quite possibly even before that, I would occasionally stop in my tracks (literally, I would stop in the middle of the street) and think “Am I trans? Am I a woman? Would being a woman make me happier?”. The answer would always be “No, I don’t think I would be any more happy as a woman.” and so I would carry on with my life being totally convinced I was a cis man. There was an essay about our personal identity I had to write for a social psychology course. I wrote about how I was a white European cis straight man and how the cis straight man parts of my identity really never felt like a real and important parts of me probably because thanks to my privilege I never really had to think about them (conveniently totally ignoring the fact there was never a point in my life since my teenage years when I wasn’t questioning my sexuality and my gender).

Not long after I began realising things. My asexuality, being bi/pan, started accepting being aro-spec much later on. It had actually started with pronouns years before. I had realised I was uncomfortable gendering random people, especially non-specific ones. And then I had realised I prefered to think about myself in gender-neutral terms. Somehow not even that managed to tip me off. And then this video came along. And suddenly many things started making sense. I never really cared for my assigned gender, it never really felt like me. But neither did the other binary one. And being “misgendered” never really did much to me. Sure, I probably wouldn’t feel better as a woman but I wasn’t a man either. I didn’t have to be either. My discomfort with gendered terms suddenly started making sense. I realised I was agender. And started following the work of more trans people. And releasing more and more things as I would identify with many of their experiences. Figuring out that some of the feelings I used to connect with my depressive episodes were actually dysphoria.

I identify as nonbinary now. Most of the time I don’t really experience gender. Sometimes I feel dysphoric and wish I could present differently and have a different body. But I know that if I did have a different body I would still feel dysphoric, just in the opposite direction. My experience of my self is way too fluid. Sometimes I feel feminine and my life becomes painful. Sometimes I feel masculine and I question whether I’m just faking it all. Sometimes I feel like something completely different. Most of the time, I don’t get the whole gender thing. Most of my social dysphoria doesn’t come from wanting to do things that would be more me but rather not being allowed to do things and being expected to do others based on gender norms I truly do not comprehend.

My dream is to one day be allowed to be out and do whatever I want. Both because I would be happier as myself but also because I feel bad about being in the closet. I feel like I’m letting down all the people who still have to figure things out and who need the inspiration and encouragement from their fellow queer people who are further along the journey. I feel bad about pretending to be a cis man and being allowed all the privileges that come with that, even if I have to pay with my mental wellbeing for that. I feel like there’s a lot of figuring out I still need to do but can’t as long as I don’t experiment and stay closeted. But the reality is that for as long as I need to rely on work to be able to eat and pay the bills I can’t afford to visibly break out of the expected mould. Already I have people use homophobic slurs when talking about me behind my back when they think I can’t hear them.I can’t really help anyone on their journey of self-discovery by being that queer on the street who has it figured out and is just being themself. But I can at least write a wall of text nobody will read in hopes it might help still someone. And if not, at least it helps me to get all of these thoughts out of my head.

[andonewillbringhisfall]

Tired of hiding

This one is for the lovely anon who sent me the prompt. I really really hope it lives up to your idea and how you imagined it. *crosses fingers* *worries*

(Note to everyone else reading this - the idea and most of the storyline isn’t mine)

Summary: Baz starts going to an LGBT+ club at Watford, Simon finds out and it changes the way he sees Baz

Warning: homophobia (well... kind of. It may all just be a big misunderstanding)

BAZ

There’s a flyer on the door of Mummers House.

This isn’t the first time some random eighth year has decided to start up a club dedicated to whatever thing they’re interested in. The posters will start popping up around the school hallways and on bathroom doors, hanging on for a week or so before they fall and are trampled to the ground.

It’s all about finding people with common interests and common backgrounds. They have them for different nationalities and sports and types of magic. I always read them when I see a new one, eyes scanning the page as quickly as possible as I walk past. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find; a vampire club, where you can meet other blood-sucking monsters and exchange tips on how to avoid getting your fangs ripped out?

I pause when I see the heading on the poster. LGBT+ committee meeting!! Based on the painful overuse of glitter and exclamation marks, I guess that the club is run by Trixie the pixie.

Maybe this is what I was hoping to find. A small, safe space where I can indulge in letting my guard down just for one hour a week. Not pretending I’m everything my father wants me to be, not living up to the Old Families’ expectations, not playing my role as Simon Snow’s cruel and heartless nemesis.

I’m tired of hiding everything. The vampire thing, and my feelings for Snow, and anything the Families ask me to do, I have to hide. Because it’s the only way for me to survive and be able to play my part in this war. This, I shouldn’t have to hide.

But it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not going to go to the meeting. I’m a Pitch; we don’t seek comfort and understanding in the arms of others. We’re supposed to be strong, aloof.

I don’t need this. I don’t need them.

I curl my lip at the flyer and push past, into Mummers House.

*

The posters keep popping up. In the classrooms, out in the courtyard, on the walls. There’s even one at the entrance to the Catacombs.

I have to admit that I’m curious. I don’t really know who else is LGBT+ in Watford, apart from Trixie and Keris and a few other couples from younger year levels who are overly fond of public displays of affection. It isn’t the kind of gossip that interests the people in my circles.

Nobody important is going to be there, surely. No-one who would bother telling my father, or (arguably) worse, Snow. I don’t think Bunce and her roommate are on especially friendly terms.

I think about it for a week. And then two weeks. And the more I think about it, the more I realise I’m actually seriously considering going to the meetings.

More posters start popping up, advertising a Pride event that Trixie wants to run. I find myself taking a detour to walk past the classroom on the afternoon the club is supposed to run, and I look through the window to see a small group of about ten people sitting around talking. Most of them are in younger year levels. None of them belong to the Old Families.

Finally, I make up my mind. I’m allowed to have just this one thing. I grab my violin case, just in case Snow is watching when I leave the room, and walk back the way I came.

At least twenty minutes of the meeting have already passed, but I decide that if I’m going to come out, I may as well make an entrance. I also know that if I decide to wait until next week, I’ll probably talk myself out of going.

Everyone looks up when the door swings open. If Trixie is surprised to see me, she hides it well.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I drawl.

‘No problem,’ Trixie says brightly. ‘Grab a chair.’

I do as she says, leaning back in my chair and folding my arms over my chest.

‘So, this is probably a given,’ she says, ‘but this is a safe space and we don’t share anything anyone says without their permission. Cool?’

I nod.

‘Great. Okay, we were talking about ideas for Pride…’

*

I don’t say another word for the entire meeting, and no-one seems to expect me to. The others brainstorm ideas for Pride and start talking about getting flags and banners for the event. There are two fourth year girls who keep sneaking glances at each other, before finally introducing themselves. Another girl starts raving about some book she read last week, and soon the whole group is giving out LGBT+ reading recommendations and talking about representation (or lack thereof) in TV shows.

It’s just… easy. I tune out of half the conversations, but it’s nice to just be able to sit there and not have anyone expect anything from me. I’m probably not going to meet someone here (as if I could ever have feelings for someone other than Simon fucking Snow) and I’m not going to have any life-altering revelations. At this point I don’t even know if I’ll ever talk to them, about anything serious I mean, but it’s nice to know that I could if I wanted to.

‘Thankyou for coming, Baz,’ Trixie says, smiling at me at the end of the meeting. ‘I hope you’ll be back next week.’

I will.

 *a few weeks later*

SIMON

I return from the library with a stack of books under my arm and throw them down on my desk. Two of them clatter to the ground. I ignore them, heading across to open the window and let in the breeze. I know Baz will complain about it later; I’ll ignore him too.

After eating an Aero bar and tidying my bed, I force myself to return to my desk. I pick the books up off the floor and open one of them at random.

Thirty minutes and a meagre half-page of notes later, I snap the book shut and stretch. The room has cooled down since I opened the window, and –

I frown, looking over at Baz’s empty bed.

Where is Baz? I do a quick calculation in my head and realise it’s been at least a couple hours since I knew where he was.

Now that I think about it, he’s been gone a lot over the last few weeks at times he would normally be in the room. Given the fact that he’s been plotting to kill me for eight years, not knowing where he is worries me.

I should know. I haven’t been keeping tabs on him properly. Maybe he noticed that and has been taking advantage of it the whole time. Who knows what he might be planning?

I go to the window and look out at the pitch, even though I know football practice isn’t on at this hour. It’s still daytime so he’s definitely not hunting. I notice his violin case on his desk, so I know he isn’t just practicing somewhere. Something catches my eye and I move closer. There’s a tiny corner of something red poking out of the top of the case. What if the violin isn’t actually in the case, and the whole thing is just a cover? I glance at the door and tiptoe over to the case – as if Baz can somehow tell that I’m crossing to his side of the room – and open it as carefully as I can.

It’s a rainbow flag. The thing that was poking out of the case is the top corner. I stare at it, confused. There’s a bunch of other paraphernalia, like a badge clipped to the inside of the case and a rolled-up poster which says ‘I’m here I’m queer’. My mouth falls open in shock.

This must be for Trixie’s Pride thing, I’ve seen the posters around the school. Is that where Baz has been going all these weeks? But if he’s… oh.

Aleister Crowley.

Baz is gay. Baz – my roommate. My nemesis. I never thought…

I hear a sharp intake of breath behind me and find Baz standing in the doorway. I didn’t hear him come in (of course, fucking stealthy vampire). I’m still holding the poster and staring at it and probably looking like a total moron. I gape at Baz instead.

‘Snow,’ he growls, marching forward and snatching the poster out of my hand. ‘What the fuck are you doing with my stuff? Ever heard of privacy?’

‘I – you’re –’

I’m still gaping at him and getting the distinct impression that I’m handling this exactly how you’re not supposed to handle it when you find out someone’s gay (like this changes everything.) (Why does it feel like this changes everything?). But… it’s Baz.

‘Yeah, I’m gay, congratulations Snow you figured it out, only took you about eight years.’ He tosses the poster back in the violin case and slams it shut.

‘I didn’t mean – I mean, I wasn’t trying to –’ Instinctively I step back across to my side of the room.

‘Whatever. It’s not a secret. And it’s none of your business so you can fuck off.’

I hold my palms up. ‘Okay. Crowley. No need to get defensive.’

It’s a good thing Baz is so pissed that he leaves the room (or is he embarrassed? I’ve never seen Baz be embarrassed in all the eight years I’ve known him), because I need time to think about this.

I’m not sure why. I mean, it doesn’t mean anything or change anything – I know that. He’s still an evil git. Well, I suppose it does mean he was probably never after my girlfriend (ex-girlfriend). Which means he was probably just leading her on to fuck with me. Arsehole.

Has he ever had feelings for a boy? Like Niall, maybe? I wince. I don’t know why the thought of Baz having feelings for someone makes me so uncomfortable. It’s just… he’s evil.

I know I shouldn’t be making such a big deal out of this. I swear I’m not homophobic and I don’t care if he likes girls or guys. But. I just. It seems like a big deal. Catching him out with a secret like that made him seem… vulnerable. Human. I don’t know. I guess it’s hard to think of him as someone who can have emotions other than disgust and sadistic amusement. Someone who has things that he worries about, and who feels lonely sometimes (why else would he have gone to Trixie’s club?).

It’s making me rethink all of our history. For one thing, it means there was never any chance of Baz and Agatha becoming a thing. Crowley, there’d be more chance of Baz and I becoming a thing. I mean, not that he would, of course – obviously – but Baz could like me.

I freeze. What the fuck? No. I need to stop obsessing. This is what happens when I think too much.

BAZ

As soon as he finds out, everything seems to change.

Snow doesn’t say a word when I’m finally brave enough to come back to our room. In fact, he barely looks at me, though he does turn bright red, keeping his face buried in some Politickal Science assignment. I stare at him for a second, trying not to feel hurt. I tell myself he just needs time to process it and get over the shock (honestly, why is it so shocking?).

But days pass and Snow doesn’t return to his usual blustering, growling self.

I start to think that maybe he’s figured it all out. That he’s the one I love (and that I only hate him when loving him gets to be too much). But I don’t think Snow is observant enough to realise that, or self-assured enough to believe it even if the thought did cross his mind.

I miss our antagonism. I miss watching him spark and come alive.

‘That’s impressively pathetic, Snow, for a second-year spell,’ I sneer when he tries to spell his tie done and it ends up knotting in at least three different places. He blushes and doesn’t even glance at me, and later I see Bunce fix his tie at breakfast.

I try again when Snow returns from a meeting with the Mage.

‘Send you off to do more of his dirty work, did he?’ No response. ‘I’m shocked he actually visited the school he’s supposed to be running,’ I continue. ‘How long is he staying for? Two days?’

Even the need to defend the Mage isn’t enough to get him to look at me or speak to me at all.

He doesn’t even leave the window open anymore, like he’s scared of pissing me off and having to talk to me.

And it fucking hurts. Snow has always hated me, but this is different. He’s always hated me for who my family is and for the fact that I’m a vampire and out to get the Mage and, well, I have been known to try to kill him on occasion. But now he’s avoiding me like the plague, he won’t even look at me, he won’t even fight me, and all because I like boys. What is his problem? How the fuck is it any of his business, why does it matter to him? (He doesn’t even know that I’m hopelessly in love with him.)

Now I’m not just in love with a boy who hates me because of circumstance and because I’ve been cruel to him, who hates all the things about me that make me a monster. Now it turns out that he also hates the one good thing I’m still capable of, the way I love.

Fuck him.

I give up on Snow, I give up on Trixie’s club.

Fuck my life. I give up.

SIMON

Fuck.

Fuck my life.

Seriously.

Why did I ever find that flag? Why couldn’t Baz close his fucking violin case properly?

Fuck.

It’s been two weeks since I found out and I just. I can’t stop thinking. That, well. Maybe I like Baz?

It just never occurred to me before that it could be a possibility. But now that it has I haven’t been able to get the thought out of my mind. I can’t even look at Baz anymore without thinking about it. And thinking about liking Baz inevitably leads to other things like thinking about Baz’s eyes and Baz’s hair and Baz’s lips…

And I can’t stop. Fucking. Thinking.

I’ve been avoiding him, and it hasn’t helped. I’m always wondering where he is and what he’s doing and what he’s thinking and if he’s thinking of me. And then I realise, with growing dread, that it’s always been like that. I’ve always wondered those things, pretty much constantly, since fourth or fifth year at the very latest.

So yeah. I think I might be gay for Baz.

But I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just projecting somehow because I know he’s gay and I’m his roommate. How do I know if I’m gay?

I need to talk to Trixie’s club.

*

There are more people here than I thought there would be.

I’m peering through the classroom window. I’m not going in there while Baz can see me. He’s so fucking smart, he would probably guess it immediately, and I’d never live it down. But Baz doesn’t seem to be there, so when everyone starts leaving, I hang back and go in to talk to Trixie.

‘Simon?’ she says.

‘Hi. Um. I just. Hi. This is cool,’ I say lamely, gesturing around me.

‘Yeah, thanks. You should come to Pride. Bring your friends,’ she says, handing me a flyer.

‘Cool. I will. Hey, um. I was just wondering. Where’s Baz?’ I blurt out.

‘Oh,’ Trixie says. Then, ‘ohhh. Sorry, Simon, he hasn’t been to the last two meetings.’

‘Oh. Why?’

‘I don’t know. He just stopped coming.’

‘Right. Thankyou,’ I say, running out of the classroom, stuffing the flyer in my pocket as I go.

Baz hasn’t gone to the meetings ever since I found the flag in his violin case. Why, then? Is it because of me? Is he worried that I’ll out him, or that I’ll show up to one of the meetings?

Did I ruin this for him? I know I didn’t react very well when I found out, but I’m his enemy, what was I supposed to say? He hasn’t behaved any differently towards me, biting out his usual snide remarks and making his disdain for my existence perfectly clear. Over the years I’ve built up a tolerance to Baz’s insults, so there’s only a dull ache rather than tears like in first year, but now every cruel word that comes out of his mouth is like a knife to the gut.

Because yeah, I think I might like him, and he still hates me. And not even the way I’ve always hated him - for being cold and unshakeable and my nemesis. He hates me because he thinks I’m hopeless and a disgrace and a waste of magic. I can’t even look at him anymore because I’m scared it will all show on my face.

Stupid. I should never have let my thoughts run away like this. I should never have let myself like him. Because Baz is vain and graceful and fucking perfect at everything he does, and all I am is a huge mess. I haven’t got a chance in hell.

*

I trudge back up the stairs to our room.

He’s at his desk, and I hate the way my chest flips when I see him, dark hair just brushing his shoulders. I especially hate realising that my heartrate has always sped up when I walk into this room, long before I had any idea that he was gay. Or that I might be. (Or I might be bi. Because I do think I loved Agatha once. Might have to talk this through with Trixie.)

He doesn’t turn around, even when I bump into my bed – twice – and almost fall on my face (stupid crush making me clumsy). He doesn’t even turn around when I pull out my wand and start practicing spells, even when I narrowly avoid smashing the window, and it’s not like Baz to give up an opportunity to mock me.

Finally, I throw my wand down in frustration, and it clatters on the floor. Baz looks up. I feel a small sense of triumph, but he looks away without comment, and it’s not enough.

‘Why haven’t you been going to Trixie’s meetings?’ I ask abruptly.

His head snaps back to look at me.

‘What?’

‘Trixie said you haven’t shown up to the last two meetings. Why?’ I plant my hands on my hips and jut out my chin, then change my mind and fold my arms over my chest.

‘How the fuck is it any of your business?’ Baz spits. ‘Why were you talking to Trixie?’

I hesitate. ‘Because I – I was just – curious about. Her club. And. What you’re up to.’ His grey eyes are trained on me, and I’m burning up under the force of his glare.

This is the only way Baz will ever look at me. The thought makes my chest ache.

‘I’m not up to anything,’ he says. ‘Aleister fucking Crowley.’ He snaps his laptop shut and stands up.

‘Where – where are you going?’ I hate the tremor in my voice. I hate that I want him to stay.

‘Away from you.’

BAZ

He doesn’t say anything until I’m almost at the door.

‘Baz.’ His voice drops on the last consonant. I should know better by now, but I stop and wait to hear what he has to say. Because everything about Simon Snow is a spectacle and despite everything, I always want to know what’s in his head.

‘What.’ I turn my head slightly, but keep my body facing the door.

‘How – how do you know that you’re gay?’

I snarl. ‘I just do.’

‘But how?’

‘Crowley, Snow, I don’t know. I just know. Exactly the same way you know that you’re straight.’

He’s quiet, too quiet, and the silence stretches on a few seconds too long. ‘I –’

I turn around so fast I almost trip over my own feet. ‘What?’

He’s biting his lip.

‘What, Snow?’ I should just shut up. He’s not saying – no.  He’s not.

‘Do you have feelings for a bloke?’ he says, ignoring me, ignoring what he almost said. I’ve never seen him blush this much, and for Snow that’s saying a lot.

‘Why would I talk about that with you?’ I snap.

‘Is that how you know?’ he continues. ‘When you have feelings for someone?’

‘What are you getting at?’ My tone is weary, but if he doesn’t get to the point soon, I might very well strangle him, Anathema or no Anathema.

He takes a deep breath and then exhales, loudly and slowly. He couldn’t possibly be drawing this out any longer and it’s fucking killing me.

‘I just – I – you hate me. I shouldn’t. I just,’ he stammers.

‘Spit it out, Snow,’ I growl, walking up to him. He’s making me hope, and I hate that, because I’ll probably be disappointed, and I’ll hate myself for imagining that he was about to say that he likes me. I can’t help it, I almost believe it right now, when he’s bright red and stuttering and not quite meeting my eyes.

‘For fuck’s sake, Snow, tell me.’ He’s inches away, blue eyes settled on an invisible point on my forehead. He swallows nervously. It’s too much. I reach for his collar (I don’t know what I’m planning to do.) (Kiss him? Kill him?)

He backs away. ‘I think I like you,’ Snow blurts, his eyes finally locking onto mine. My hand curls around his tie, and I push him back into the wall.

‘Anathema,’ he mumbles, his hand closing over my wrist, trying to pull me away. His expression is panicked. I duck my head forward and kiss him, and he goes completely still.

My eyes are closed. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, and his mouth is warm, and he tastes like cherries and butter, and I keep pushing and kissing him until I finally feel him pushing back, his hands moving up my arms and then into my hair, and Aleister Crowley, I’m living a charmed life.

SIMON

I’m on my tiptoes.

I’m kissing Baz.

I’m still not sure how this is happening. I didn’t want to tell him. I wasn’t planning on it, but I’m shit at hiding my feelings, and somehow that led to Baz kissing me against a wall.

I want to ask him how long he’s wanted this. I want to ask him how it’s possible for him to kiss me like this, his hands brushing the sides of my face so gently, when he’s always hated me, and he’s always done everything he can to make me miserable. I could barely understand my own feelings, how am I supposed to understand his?

But then his hands wind through my hair and he presses another kiss to my jaw and I stop thinking. I’ll think about all that later. Right now it’s all too much, so I give in, and I pull him closer.

BAZ

We go to the next club meeting together. Nobody seems surprised, funnily enough.

Snow can’t seem to stop smiling and finding excuses to touch me, and I eventually give up rolling my eyes at him, and I start bringing cherry scones up to our room after dinner, just so I can see that dopey affectionate look in his eyes, one I’ve never seen before and that I can’t get enough of.

The Pride event Trixie has been organising finally comes around.

‘Do you want to go together?’ Simon mumbles to me the night before, when we’re cuddling on his bed.

‘To Pride?’

‘Yes. I want… I want people to know. If you want.’

I kiss the mole beneath his left ear. ‘Okay. I’d like that, Simon.’

*

It seems like half the school is there. I wear my badge, and Simon leaps around waving his flag like an idiot (my idiot), and we walk in holding hands. Wellbelove looks shocked. I kiss the back of Simon’s hand and smirk at her, just to watch her mouth fall open. Simon dances up to Bunce, who rolls her eyes and groans.

‘It all makes so much sense now,’ she says. ‘Honestly, this explains so much.’

*

‘Thankyou,’ Simon says later.

‘For what?’

‘Today. This. Everything. For taking me to Pride.’

‘We should be thanking Trixie. If she hadn’t started the club, you might never have realised your true feelings. Moron.’

Simon grumbles, wrapping his arms around my waist. ‘You could’ve just told me.’

I scoff. ‘Sure, Snow. That would’ve gone down well.’

He stares up at me, suddenly serious.

‘I like this better than fighting,’ he says.

‘Yeah. So do I.’

And I’m tired of hiding.

The whole school knows about us now, and no doubt soon my father will too, and I don’t know what’s going to happen then. I decide to take a page out of Simon’s book and just not think about it. Instead, I let him convince me that I’m not alone, with his arms wound around me, and with his eyes that can’t seem to look away from me, and with the way he smiles when I kiss him.

And, for him, I let down my walls.