Is this what people do? At night? In the dark?
I was never magic.
I hitch my knee higher on his hip. He pushes his palm down my back. I wrap my tail around his forearm, and I’m gentle. He isn’t. And I am.
“Kiss me,” he says.
I kiss him.
“Please,” he says.
“Baz, don’t—”
“Please…”
“I will.” I do.
He doesn’t have to beg. He never has to beg. I’ll give him whatever he wants. Can’t he see that, here in the dark—that I’ll give him whatever he wants? My hand is gentle on his scalp, gentle on his throat. I couldn’t break him if I tried. I won’t try.
“Baz.” I kiss him. “You can have whatever you want.”
“I want to always be here.”
“I want that, too. I love you.”
He’s moving against me in waves. I hitch my knee higher. He’s wearing pyjamas. I’m wearing boxers. We’re both hard. I’m being gentle, he isn’t. I was never magic. He was human once. My fingers clench in his hair— “Simon, ” he says, and it isn’t good.
I let go.
“Simon…” he says. That’s better.
My wings spread out of their own volition.
Baz. Like a wave, against me. Like a serpent moving through the sand.
（The Humdrum sent a three-headed snake once—I chopped all three of them off.） I hold Baz’s face in both my hands. Like he’s made of glass. Like he’d break. He won’t. I kiss him. And it’s cool. I kiss him like he’s cold water, and I’m drinking.
He wraps his palm around the base of my tail. He holds me by the neck.
He rocks and rocks and rocks into me.
“Baz…”
“Please, Simon.”
“You don’t have to…”
Is this, is this, is this what people do?
Is this what he wants? Is this what I’m allowed to take?
He’s rocking into me, and I need this to happen again someday in the light.
I don’t know what Baz’s face looks like, like this, when he’s coming undone.
And I can’t keep my eyes open anyway, when I’m coming against him.
Is this, is this, is this …
Is this magic?
Is this enough?
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.