All I can think, can remember, is that this has to happen, that I can't--I can't--let my feelings get in the way of this. It's destiny. Fate. Set in stone, as sure as Excalibur.

It's funny, although probably not at all surprising, that even now, I'm still thinking about how beautiful he is. How his curls move just slightly with him, how his glare makes his eyes look bright and fiery. (His moles are always what catch me off-guard, though. Three on his left cheek, two below his ear.) (A few are scattered sinfully across his neck, one on his jaw.) (I know there are some on his back and stomach.) (I want the chance to study them, memorize them as well as I have the ones on his face.) (I want to kiss them all.) Something about him is off, though, something...

My mouth moves, the leather grip of my wand is strange in my hand. I don't even process what I'm saying, my mind is a thing of chaos and nightmares. The hills around us--trees, they're trees. I could have sworn--

I'm not sure if Simon is crumpling slowly, one bit at a time, or if I'm just seeing it that way. The way people describe when they're in shock, like slow-motion. I think I must be in shock.

Either way, he falls to his knees first and the look on his face is as stunned and heartbroken as I'm feeling. He's dropped his wand, wood and bone bounce and clatter against the forest floor hollowly. Desolate. It's how I'm feeling, how he looks, what the wind whispers.

His hands meet the earth next and he quakes like he's retching, but no sound comes out. His fingers are curling against the grass and dirt harshly, his knuckles are bloody. I don't remember why they're bloody and it bothers me. It seems important, it seems horrible that I don't remember every last second of him.

That last bit replays in my head, over and over and over, but just a few seconds pass and the letters trip over themselves. Every last second. Last.

I'm not sure how I get there, I remember half-tripping and fumbling, but not covering the distance. Simon starts folding downward, elbows collapsing into the dirt, and I catch him and pull him into me.

The movement should be awkward, I should have to reposition him, I should have to work it out in my mind, how to get him comfortably into my lap, but he just slips into my arms like magic, like fate. They're two forces that are both at work here, so it makes sense.

One arm is wrapped around his shoulders, his head is resting against my bicep, lolling. His eyes are closed.

I feel like there should be more blood. If he's dead, there should be blood. It should be obvious that he's broken beyond being repaired. He just looks like he's asleep, and it gives me hope. Stupid, reckless hope.

"Snow..." It comes out hoarse. Even now, I can't bring myself to say his first name because it seems weighted and I know I won't be able to form the syllables in my mouth without making it sound loving, cherished, everything Simon has become in my head, in my chest. (In my heart. My DNA. I'm pretty sure there's a part of my genetic makeup that's coded for me to love Simon Snow.)

He doesn't answer, but I know he's alive. I can hear the shallow thumping of his heart, how it wavers. "Snow!"

Simon Snow has always been so alive. Alive, alive, alive. Now he's dying.Dying, dying, dying. (Almost gone.)

I pull him closer, push his hair out of his eyes. "Oh..." I choke, I think I'm crying. (It feels closer to dying.) "Si-now... I love you... I love you."

And then he laughs, but his eyes don't open, and my heart shatters. I push my nose against his cheek where his moles would orbit around if he was the universe, if I was the sun. "I love you."

Simon makes a low huffing noise, it's scornful, I realize that his laughter was scornful as well. "No, you don't. You did this to me."

I sob, his hand fists around my sweater, knuckles pressing into my stomach. "I'm so sorry..."

He's shaking his head, the whole world is spinning. His face is twisting, I don't know if it's rage or pain. Maybe a mix of both. "No."

"I'm so sorry." I can't stop shaking. Shaking, shaking, clutching.

Fiona is somewhere to my right--no left. Behind me? It doesn't matter. She's screaming, she's angry--What am I doing? Why don't I just kill him? This is my duty. What am I doing? Just--

"Baz!" Snow's voice is so frantic, pleading. Worried. Why? He's the one slipping, fading. Leaving.

"Don't leave me."

I pull him closer, close enough that our lips brush when we speak. His eyes are open. Blue, blue, blue. (Wrong?) I keep whispering--or screaming, I could be screaming--his name. His first name. Weighted, weighted, falling. Crushed.

"Basil!" He's clutching at my shoulders.

I jerk upward--downward? I'm moving forward, so it should be downward.

I'm falling and I flail and shout in fear, in hysterics. I reel backward when my forehead crashes into something solid, I'm gasping. I am not outside. My chest is heaving and Simon--Simon.

And I think, Oh, oh, oh. How could I have been so stupid? because his eyes have never been the color of diving deep into the ocean.

He's clutching at his forehead, wincing, stumbling backward. My sheets are tangled around my legs and I am damp with sweat. I'm still shaking. My cheeks are wet with tears. (I have always been a tragedy, but never on the outside.)

We're just staring at each other (I'm breathing like I've just run a marathon) and want to be angry, I want so badly to lash out at him for seeing me like this. I am so glad that he's here.

Alive, alive, alive.

He takes a step forward, hand falling away from his head. His eyes are so wide, so concerned. Simon Snow has never looked at me softly.

I feel my shoulders gradually falling, the tension being released out of them, and he takes another step. I want him closer and a breath hiccups in my throat and then comes out water-logged and more unstable than one of Snow's spells. Just like that, I'm crying, really crying: sniffling and shaking and sucking in unsteady air. Just like that, he's covered the distance between us, no longer cautious.

He's brushing away my tears, "Baz... Baz... Basil... It was just a dream. It's not real. Focus on me, I'm real. Baz..."

I clutch at his wrists just to keep his hands on my cheeks. They're like rope, rough and strong and easily tangled. They feel like a noose, sucking all of the oxygen from my lungs, but gently. With careful touches and pretty whispers.

I take in a quavering breath, "Snow... I need..." My hands are slipping downward, pushing at the sleeves of his bed shirt, so that my fingers can brush against the inside of his forearm and then back up, back to the pulse in his wrist. I think he shivers. (Wishful thinking.)

"Basil?" It sounds strained, I want to kiss him.

I just tug him closer, "Hold me."

He tenses up. I wait, he doesn't pull away.

"Simon." It feels so beautiful on my lips, I want to whisper it over and over like a prayer. I want to pull it back in and tuck it away, because surely there is no way that he doesn't know now. (I say his name like he's my salvation.) (He's my destruction.)

He pulls his hands away from me and I want to scream, but then he's pulling himself up beside me, settling in at my shoulder, dragging me into his chest. He smells like burnt cinnamon and when he starts rubbing circles into my back comfortingly, I think I might truly fall apart.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He says it against my hair, his breath warms my scalp.

I shiver and huddle closer. "I... I just..."

Simon's hesitation is a tangible thing before his next statement, and it's so quiet that I would not have heard it had it not been practically breathed against my ear, "You were saying my name. You sounded scared."

He says 'scared' like a question and my shoulders tense up. He must feel it, because his fingers briefly dig into my shoulder blades (there's a vivid not-memory there: bloody knuckles and fingers curling painfully against earth), but he doesn't resist when I roll off of him, lean my head back against the headboard with my eyes squeezed tightly shut. How am I going to explain to Simon Snow that I was afraid of losing him when killing him is all he thinks I want?

"It was the big finale, our final face-off... and-- and I killed you." My throat tightens around the last two words like they're the most tragic things in existence. (They are.) I wouldn't have said it if we weren't pressed together from hip to shoulder; if I didn't want to keep him here as long as I possibly can.

He turns his head to look at me and I know that that means I should keep my gaze straight forward, that looking into his face is a dangerous and captivating thing, but I'm breaking all sorts of rules tonight and this isn't the exception.

Tears are still stubbornly streaking down my cheeks and I have to press my lips together to stop their trembling. I look like a wreck and so does he, but he always does and his is a more elegant wreck; more of a choreographed disaster than a spontaneous mass of carnage.

We're so, so close together. I could do a million things in this moment, I have the power to tear him to shreds or crush his lips with mine, paint bruises onto his throat. All I'd have to do is tip my head down, just a bit. (Just a taste.) I can feel my lip curling into something that looks like a snarl, but it's frustration. Simon is the most frustrating human I have ever met.

"But you hate me." It's a sure statement until the very tail-end when confusion creeps into his voice and makes it a question. He's whispering, and he leans toward me as he says it, like if he gets a bit closer he can dig out all of my secrets.

I don't consciously decide to do it, but I move downward slightly with a sad, bitter smile and let my nose touch his. It's the faintest brush of skin and my heart is running for a touchdown. "I've never wanted to kill you, Snow." The way I say it makes it sound like it's obvious; like I'm exasperated that he hasn't noticed.

His lips are just parted, breathing slow and deliberate. I can feel my eyelids drooping, mouth parting to mirror his. I want to kiss him. I can never kiss him, so I jerk my head back upward, pull my lips into a thin line, try and convince myself that I don't need this.

But he's leaning forward now, and I've made it so that my jaw is level with his mouth, so it's the easiest point of contact. I don't let myself believe it, I don't let myself hope. (I'm hoping deep, deep inside myself.)

My eyelids flutter closed as soon as his lips brush against my skin and I let out a breathy noise. His movements are so deliberate and his lips are soft and warm, caressing. "That's not what you've said before," he mumbles, smiling when I nod into the movement of his lips mindlessly. His fingers are dancing over my collarbones.

He pulls in a short breath when I duck my head suddenly, growling low in my throat, and catch his bottom lip between my teeth, just make him start and jerk closer, which he does. And his fingers come up to dust my jawline, right where he was kissing beforehand.

"Baz," he chokes, and then we're kissing. (Really kissing; his mouth is on mine and I can barely think.) I don't know which one of us started it, I don't really care.

It's all fire. I'm burning up from the inside out, clutching at him because I'm desperate for his destruction. I want him to completely ruin me. I never want to be whole again.

"I would never-- I could never--" I'm trying to pull him closer, but both of us are twisting awkwardly just to press our mouths close, so he pulls away just long enough to swing his legs across my hips and then he leans down and swallows the surprised gust of air that's pushed its way past my lips.

Simon pushes his hands up into my hair, pressing me back into the headboard. This is dying, this is my end.

I'm kissing each one of the moles on his cheeks, slowly, lingering at each one to nuzzle into him and remember it. He's practically purring, his hands are ghosting over my arms, my neck, my cheeks, jumping from place-to-place like he's afraid of staying for too long. "What are we doing?"

"Some people call it snogging, Snow," and my tongue moves over his bottom lip.

He laughs breathily, pushes closer. "But you're a boy."

His eyes are wide, his pupils blown huge, when I pull back suddenly. Breathing labored, teeth gritted together, "Is that a problem?"

He just presses his forehead to mine, splays his palm against my cheek, "I'm going to have to kill you. Or you'll kill me. We'll end each other."

I bite his jaw like a reprimand, but it makes him growl and grasp at my hair."No," I say, fierce, my voice is hoarse.

"We don't have a choice, Basil." I shudder, because he says 'Basil' like I say 'Simon.'

"We have every choice. I'd rather die, I'd rather kill myself than kill you, Simon. Simon Snow. Simon." His name comes out strangled because he's kissing my neck slowly, sucking on a spot an inch below my jaw, and it feels like Heaven or Hell. Destruction.

"Okay..." His voice is hoarse too, and his kisses are becoming less desprate and more caring. He keeps pressing his lips, slow and sweet, over my jaw, on my cheekbones. He finishes by kissing the tip of my nose, like an oath, "We can stand together, Baz. We don't belong to anyone. They don't own us. No one owns us"

"You own me, Snow." I'm sure to look him straight in the eyes, "I'm all yours. I've been yours for years."

He looks awed, completely thrown. Like it's a miracle, "Mine?"

I let myself relax under him, massage his sides carefully. "Yeah, Snow. Completely."

Simon stares at me for a few seconds like he's trying to detect falsehood my expression, and then his hand slowly, slowly creeps beneath my shirt (he smiles when I jerk slightly and let my head drop back against the headboard, gulping, reveling in him) and he traces his fingers over my ribs, patterns. "My name," he tells me, and I want to cry, "my signature."

"Oh, Simon." I trace my own name out on his cheek and it takes a long while, I have to write layers of invisible letters on top of one another. I tell him, "My full name, because I want you to have every part of me."

Gently--he's so careful with me, like I'm precious--he pulls my shirt over my head and kisses the span of my chest, my stomach. He whispers things to me the whole time, about how he's so marvelously stupid, about how he doesn't care, about how he never wants to see me cry again.

I fall asleep with him wrapped around me from behind, his legs tangled together with mine. His arms are wrapped securely around me and he's kissing my shoulder blades. I want to turn and return the favor, but I'm so tired... can hardly keep my eyes open. Plus, he's whispering for me to sleep, to close my eyes.

He has a voice like a heartbeat. Steady, constant, beautiful. Alive.