Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the wonderful universe to which they belong, neither do I own the song lyrics or characters from Wicked, the Broadway musical. All I own is the plot of this story, and the plot bunnies that run around in my head. Enjoy (hopefully).

Also, I apologize if I got any lyrics wrong.*—

'Dearest Father, Daphne, and Mordelia,'

Writes eleven year old Basilton Pitch, warily eyeing the emaciated blonde boy sprawled across the other bed in their suite, furiously scribbling on a piece of parchment with his freckled hands.

There's been some confusion over rooming here at Schiz...

'You'll never guess who I'm roomed with at Watford. We were cast together by the Crucible, so I suppose there's no undoing it.'

He flips onto his side and sticks his tongue out at the "Chosen One", who merely rolls his eyes and huffs in aggravation.

There's been some confusion, for you see my roommate is...(unusually peculiar and almost impossible to describe...)blonde.

It's already their second week at Watford, and Snow is apparently adjusting himself to the fact that Basilton Pitch is supposed to be his nemesis. Not his equal. Never his friend.

'It's the Mage's Heir, Simon Snow. He seems pathetic, and not very powerful, so I don't think he's much of a threat yet.'

He thinks back to when he'd first met Snow, who'd stumbled towards him across the Lawn, yanked by the pull of magic.

Baz had been expecting it, of course, and he'd strolled casually towards Snow, keeping on the perpetually emotionless mask expected of a Pitch. He'd also, of course, been expecting Simon Snow, the Chosen One, the Mage's Heir, excetra.

His family hated his very guts, his and the bloody Mage's. The Mage, he could understand. The Mage had burst into their house numerous times without warning, searching for signs of dark magic, or banned books in their library (which were tucked away in a secret compartment up in the loft). The man looked like an overgrown Robin Hood, or Peter Pan, as though he'd jumped out of a children's fairy tale, and he certainly acted as such.

What is this feeling, so sudden and new?

But Si-Snow, it's Snow, that he couldn't understand. When he'd showed up in a simple t shirt and ragged jeans, looking as though he hadn't had a proper meal in months (he probably hadn't, the gossip among the old families was that the Mage had never taken Simon in, despite him being his heir, and had let him be booted around to different care homes in London), Baz had felt an unexpected twitch of pity under the cold, emotionless Pitch-mask, and he couldn't understand why he was supposed to hate this pitiful, pathetic creature zooming towards him across the Lawn.

He'd held out a freckled hand, and Baz pretended not to be mentally drawing constellations across the numerous moles on his skin.

I felt the moment, I laid eyes on you.

Baz hadn't taken the hand. If his father had heard- if his reputation as a Pitch had been soiled-it was already bad enough that he was scorned for being a vampire. (Oddly enough, his Aunt Fiona, who was a vampire hunter, didn't pay it much mind and cared for him more than his father did.)

So now he's spent the past two weeks trying to convince Snow they're supposed to be enemies, and the blonde boy has only started to catch up on the animosity. Bloody idiot.

The boy obviously hadn't known that they were supposed to hate each other, and so Baz was taking it upon himself to inform him.

—-

He scowls at the retreating back of Basilton Pitch as his roommate traverses the lawn, heading God knows where. He looks even paler than usual in the faint moonlight, which is saying something. It's definitely past curfew, and Simon has given up on trying to be friends with Baz. In the past two weeks, he's shown himself to be nothing besides a bloody wanker and snobbish prick.

Fine, Simon thinks. If that's how you want it to be, that's how it'll be. He'd tried to be friendly to Basilton when they first met, offering his hand to shake when they were magickally drawn together across the Lawn on their first day. The other boy had merely scowled at his outstretched freckled hand in contempt, crossing his deathly pale arms that were swathed in obviously expensive material.

My heart is racing...

That was before the Mage had told him that Baz was a Pitch, and part of the old families, who didn't like the Mage. Naturally, Simon sided with the Mage, considering he was the one to take Simon out of the care home he'd been in and introduce him to magick and Watford.

My pulse is rushing...

He'd told him that animosity between him and Baz was to be expected, and to be on his guard for any possible attacks against him or the Mage. Something called an Anathema protected Simon from Baz while they were in their room, but he doubted someone like Baz cared about that.

Someone like Baz, he thinks, and then pushes the thought away, not quite sure where it's headed.

My face is flushing...

He walks back into their suite only to find all of his course books magickally stuck to the ceiling, while Baz pretends to snooze on his bed, although Simon swears he can hear him snickering the second he turns his back on him to examine the disaster his roommate created. Bloody tosser.

It's looking like it'll be a very long seven years of sharing a room with Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

Oh, what is this feeling?

It's third year already, and it's been a very long three years of sharing a room with Simon Snow, whom Baz has learned isn't as weak as expected. Sure, Snow has no control whatsoever over his magick at times, but when you piss him off, he goes off.

Fervid as a flame...

Like a bloody H-bomb. It's quite frustrating, and has created more disasters in their shared suite then Baz can count, which sort of backfired on him, considering he also lives there.

Does it have a name? Yes...

Take last week, for example, when Fiona had suggested Baz send some sort of magickal creature to get Snow, after Baz had been going on about his loathing of Snow, and how Snow was so insufferably obnoxious, clumsy, uncoordinated, prone to magickal disasters, excetra, excetra.

Loathing, unadulterated loathing, for your face-your voice, your clothing.

Fiona had stared at him with a peculiar look on her face, something Baz thought might resemble amusement, but then it was gone quick as a flash.

("If you're sure this is what you want, Basil." She'd said. Of course this is what he wants, to destroy the bloody useless Mage's Heir, and keep the old families in power. It's his legacy, what he was raised to believe. He had to.)

So he'd waited until Snow and Bunce were meandering about campus, Snow trailing after Wellbelove and making heart eyes. Who, if she knew what was good for her, would stay away from Snow. (The device didn't work, it sucked up the voice of some pathetic girl in their year like Ursula herself had cast it.)

But of course not, they all sucked up to Snow like he was bloody Aleister Crowley, which made it easy enough to forge a note in Wellbelove's handwriting and lure Snow out into the Wavering Wood. Where a chimera that Baz had strategically summoned into place was waiting.

Let's just say, I loathe it all.

He felt a little twinge of guilt as he watched the boy he lov-loathed, (he loathed him, right?) go after the chimera with the force of a thousand armies and strode straight into the jaws of certain death.

Baz would be lying if he said a single year didn't drip down his cheek as the pebble in his stomach morphed into a boulder that swam up into his throat, choking him as he watched Snow fight off a bloody chimera.

That Baz had sicced on him.

Maybe Baz would be lying too if he said he didn't feel immense guilt when Snow stumbled into their suite a few hours later with Bunce in tow, never mind how she'd snuck in, dripping blood all over their pristine floor.

But he had to. He loathed him, right?

Oh, what is this feeling?

—-

Simon has been surreptitiously following Baz everywhere he goes since September, trying to catch him in the act of well, being a vampire. It wasn't easy, and more than once Simon would think Baz hadn't spotted him, only to find himself caught up in some sort of spell the next moment with a flick of Baz's wand. Ha.

He whips around on the stairs, dark locks gently falling on his shoulders.

Every little tic, no matter how small.

"What, Snow?" He barks. "What on earth could you possibly want from me, you bloody prick?!" Sim-(Snow, it's Snow) looks almost sheepish now, a blush crawling up his freckle-dotted cheeks, bronzed curls falling into his perfectly blue eyes. It takes all of Baz's (quickly disappearing) self restraint not to take the boy right then and shove him against the railing, snogging until he can't think of anything else. But Snow would most definitely burn him at stake or something equally appalling if he did that.

Makes my very flesh begin to crawl...

So he stands there feigning annoyance with his arms crossed, hair swept back over his widows peak and a single midnight eyebrow raised, slate grey eyes cold and indifferent.

He waits for his supposed nemesis to regain his nonexistent composure and spit. it. out. (Snow's always had trouble with words, stuttering constantly and reddening in frustration when a particular phrase won't come out of his pretty pink lips. Baz has wanted so many times to wrap Snow up in his arms and tell him it's alright, who cares about proper words anyway, and kiss those pretty pink lips better. But he won't. He can't.)

With simple, utter, loathing.

In the end, he reminds himself for the umpteenth time, it's easier to pretend to hate Snow. Crowley, his life sucks enough as is without the added disapproval of his family that would come from even befriending Snow.

Not to mention dating him, the Chosen One, the Mage's Heir. Baz is snapped out of his reverie when Snow mutters softly, though his advanced hearing catches the words.

There's a strange exhilaration,

"I know what you are, Baz." He says. Baz merely raises the eyebrow higher and smirks.

"What, Snow? Better than you?"

Snow growls in a threatening manner that sends shivers up Baz's spine for all the right reasons, and he chides himself. Focus.

In such total detestation.

"I've seen you, you know. Walking down to the catacombs to what? Drain rats? Suck their blood? Do whatever demented vampire things you do when you're sneaking around past curfew?" Baz gulps reflexively at 'vampire' and Snow seems to notice, which is also when Baz realizes that much to his chagrin (and delight), Snow has stepped closer while he spoke, and now there's barely a foot of space between them. He can so clearly see every freckle and mole on his roommate's beautiful tawny face, and he wants nothing more than to trace out the constellations on his skin, one by one.

It's so pure, so strong.

He shivers and redirects his attention to Snow's eyes, which are blue enough to be illegal. "You can't prove anything, Snow." Baz whispers, careful that Snow won't see a flash of fangs as he speaks. He's so close, too close, and Baz can feel his self control crumbling like someone took a wrecking ball to it. Nicks and Slicks, this boy is too beautiful for his own good. He's like the sun, and he's so close, and all Baz wants to do is burn like flash paper.

And while I can admit it came on fast, still I do believe that it can last.

He licks his lips reflexively, (since when did he step closer to Snow?), and backs up to him, putting Snow in the vulnerable spot right at the edge of the stairs. Baz feels himself taking hold of Snow's collar, he leans in, (NO NO NO I can't be bloody doing this, he thinks), he's so close, another half an inch would have Snow's rather delectable looking lips on his-and he snaps out of his reverie as Snow whispers: "Merlin and Morgana, Baz. What're you doing?" He's almost sure he's not imagining the want and the look of desire in the other boy's eyes, but he can't handle this, it's too much and he smells so good, and Baz doesn't want to hurt him. He's never wanted to hurt him. But he's so close, too close.

And I will be loathing, for forever,

So he swallows hard, steeling his nerve, and he's already hating himself as he pushes Snow down the stairs and the other boy cries out in surprise, his perfect blue eyes wide as he flails in a futile attempt to regain his balance.

Loathing you my whole life long.

("Aleister Crowley,") thinks Baz as Penny rushes over and bombards Snow with an avalanche of healing spells. He swallows hard and looks away as Snow winces after a particularly painful one. He can't stand to see Snow like this, weak and vulnerable and admittedly pissed off. Especially knowing he's the one who caused the pain in the first place.

"What in Merlin's name am I doing with my life?"

—-

Dear Glinda, you are just too good! How do you stand it, I don't think I could!

Penny sneaks him a plate of his favourite cherry scones into Mummers House later that night, and while he appreciates the gesture, he doesn't want Baz to catch her in the boys suite, he's certainly in no shape to deal with the bastard, with his broken ankle and whatnot. (And whatnot consisting of four other broken bones, but the ankle hurts most. Well that and the fact that Baz pushed him down the stairs, he doesn't know why but it pains him to think of the tosser actually doing something about their bubbling animosity. He always thought he'd be the one to finish Baz off, not the other way around. How would he do it? The bloody prick is a vampire as well as a brilliant mage, and Simon knows Baz has him outmatched in nearly every way.)

He's a terror, he's a tartar, I don't mean to show a bias-but Glinda, you're a martyr...

Simon startles as Baz struts into their dorm, though the dark circles beneath his eyes and the late hour betray his weary state.

Well, these things are sent to try us.

He's shocked when Baz merely yanks at his drawers and grabs his silk pyjamas, grumbling at Penelope to "stop treating the Chosen One like a child in need of his nursery maid, and get out of here, Bunce!"

Poor Glinda, forced to reside, with someone so hideous abide.

He storms off to the en suite without further remark, and within a minute they hear the sound of running water as Baz washes up.

He honestly thought Baz would've put up more of a front, after pushing him down the bloody stairs earlier, and Penelope's raised eyebrows and almost...concerned glance towards the bathroom reveal she feels the same.

We just want you to know, we're on your side.

"I suppose I'd better head back to the Cloisters before the night watch catches me out and Trixie rats on me." Says Penelope, briefly glancing at her (contraband) mobile.

He supposes Trixie is too busy with her girlfriend Keris to rat Penny out to the night watch, but he appreciates his best friend letting him sleep and recuperate.

She uses an "Into thin air!" to vanish the empty scone plate, pausing briefly at the door before padding into the hallway.

"Goodnight, Simon."

By sixth year Snow has given up on following Baz around every corridor and trailing him into the Catacombs like a lost puppy.

It's almost unnerving to see the lack of suspicion, though he supposes Snow is too busy fighting off the Humdrum's allies with his smarter half to pay attention to a teenage vampire.

We share your loathing, unadulterated loathing.

In seventh, he doesn't get the chance to see what sort of special torture Snow has in store for him-because just before the school year starts, he gets kidnapped by numpties.

Bloody numpties.

While he's draining a deer in the woods behind the Potch mansion.

(What is this feeling, so sudden and new? I felt the moment I laid eyes on you?)

He doesn't make it back to school until October, and by then he's sure Bunce has beaten him to the top of the class.

He strides into the dining hall, all composure and sharp angles. Eyes follow him everywhere, and he can feel Snow's gaze burning into his robes.

There's a strange exhilaration, in such total detestation.

He corners Baz after dinner, in their room at the top of Mummers House.

Thank Crowley, Snow at least has a thin t-shirt on, although it doesn't help much, as Baz can still see the sharp slope of his shoulders, defined muscle peeking through the cotton.

He stares Baz down with steely blue eyes, absently running a hand through his bronze curls as he searches for words.

"Spit it out, Snow."

(For your face, your voice, your clothing.)

It's almost funny how he startles at the sound of Baz's voice, like it wasn't blatantly obvious that he was staring at him.

He isn't much in the mood for questions, and he's getting thirsty for blood.

He should leave now, before Snow does anything particularly stupid.

Before Baz does anything stupid.

It's so pure, so strong.

His roommate stammers, and starts again, a flush already creeping up onto his freckled cheeks. "Baz, while you were gone..." -Baz raises a dark eyebrow, gesturing for him to continue- "your mother Visited, through the Veil." Says Simon, and a shock like lightning trickles through every vertebrae, causing him to shudder.

He's across the room and at Snow's side in an instant, with half a mind to bite him if he doesn't tell Baz more. "What did she say?!", he breathlessly intones, urgent for details.

"She said that her killer walks, and to find Nicodemus, Nicodemus knows." He can feel the surprise flash in his grey eyes, and he pivots to face Snow directly. His mother-this could change everything. He could avenge her, and he feels a twinge of sorrow at the thought that he missed her.

And while I admit it came on fast,

He watches the hesitation in Snow's extra-blue eyes grow at Baz's panic, until he's wary.

He inhales, apparently having decided on something, and he leans in, gently cupping Baz's face with a calloused palm.

"She said to give you this."

His thoughts swarm and his breath hitches, but he can't make himself move away. He braces himself, not quite sure what's coming, until Simon presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, just below his widow's peak.

And thank Merlin he hasn't drank yet, otherwise he'd be red as a tomato by now.

Fortunately, only a faint pink settles over his features.

"Snow, what in Crowley's name are you doing?!" He whispers, trying to make his gentle voice furious. It doesn't work apparently, although Snow does seem duly embarrassed.

Still I do believe that it can last.

"Your mother, she-I..." he stammers, trailing off and looking a good deal sheepish.

With clarity, he returns to the memory of his mother kissing him gently just like that, right below his widow's peak. His head swims with euphoria and confusion and hurt, so he makes the only logical choice.

"Snow, stay here. I need to hunt. Don't bother waiting up, I don't know why you would."

His blue eyes widen at the casual use of the word 'hunt' and Baz curses, hoping Snow'll forget about this in the morning. It's late, after all.

And I will be loathing, for forever,

Storming across the lawn, he follows the familiar path into the Catacombs, muttering to himself as he goes.

About his mother, of course. And Snow. The murder, then Snow again. Snow and his brilliant blue eyes, his courage and his tendency to run into the most dangerous situation possible. The boy has the self preservation of the fancy chinaware his father likes to use, which is why Penny is there.

Loathing, loathing you.

His mother-the bravest woman he ever knew, with a reassuring smile and the bravery of a lion, fire snaking across her fingertips.

He stops short at her tomb, hastily renewing the flowers there with a wave of his wand, and draining another rat.

"Mother, I'm here again. To say sorry like I usually do, of course. And to say I'm not giving up on you. Ever. I will find your killer, I'll hunt them down myself and destroy them if that's what it takes."

He presses a gentle kiss to her gravestone door, just like the one Snow gave him earlier.

The thought makes his head spin and he turns away, spinning on his heels and resuming a fast pace towards the dorms.

"Goodnight, Mother."

My whole life long.

He trots up the empty tower staircase into their suite, merely sighing when he sees Snow fidgeting with his cross and sitting on his bed.

Waiting up for Baz? Maybe. A small part of him hopes so, and he pushes that part deep down into his stomach.

"Boo." He says, startling Snow, who pats the empty space next to him, looking at Baz like a lost puppy. "No." Says Baz, rummaging through his drawers for his pyjamas.

It's too late for him to talk to Snow without worrying he'll do something stupid. Like bite him. Or kiss him. Or something.

"Baz?"

"What?"

(I will not give in, I will not give in, he thinks)-Can we talk?" Says Simon, who's padded over to Baz's side of the room.- He's already given in, and he hates himself for it. "About what, Snow?" Who's somehow only a foot or two away from him, and is too far in Baz's personal space for his liking. Or maybe not close enough.

Snow does his showy swallow where his Adam's apple bobs and his neck tilts back and honestly, Baz is about three seconds away from jumping him and kissing every mole on his body. He can already feel the blush forming on his features as Snow leans towards him. He can feel every exhale and smell the sour cherry scones he most likely ate earlier.

"You know, earlier."

He gives up.

"You mean, earlier as in the time you told me my own mother had Visited and told you her killer was alive? When you stood right there and kissed me on my bloody forehead, because she told you to?!"

He slumps a little, feeling his perfect posture deflate like a poked balloon.

"What is there to talk about, Simon?"

Snow makes a strangled noise in his throat,

"Ah!" He says. Baz feels way too tired and weary of games and pretending to loathe the love of his life for this.

"You called me Simon." Says Simon, and Baz straightens, alarm bells ringing in his head.

"No, I didn't."

"You did," he murmurs, and leans in even closer. Nicks and Slicks, Baz has no idea what he's doing, but he can't make himself loathe Snow right now. He doesn't want to. He never has.

There's about six inches of space between them, and he thinks he might close it and kiss the living daylights out of Simon Snow before one of them kills the other, just to know what it feels like. So he can die having been kissed by the only person he's ever wanted to kiss.

But then Simon closes the gap between them swift as lightning, and suddenly Snow's lips are on his. They're hot, so hot, and Baz is burning but he doesn't care. So this is what it feels like to be kissed by the sun, he thinks, sliding his hands through Simon's curls.

Simon returns the favor, tangling his fingers in Baz's jet black mane, and his eyes flutter closed in euphoria. He pushes their jaws together and their tongues smash between their teeth. It feels like a fight, like everything else has been between them. But it's so good.

So good. He can feel Simon's cross in his throat and he pulls away, panting, and rips it off. It flies across the room and Baz notices the absence of heat so he dives back into Simon, kissing him as his cool hands slide up and down his tanned back. The boy is like a human heater, and he shivers at Baz's cold touch, but doesn't pull away.

He hopes they never have to pull away.

But then Simon does and Baz almost regrets his actions. But he takes his hand and pulls him into his bed and they lay there, cuddling.

They offset each other so well, that Baz can't help think they're perfectly balanced.

A magickal human heater and a vampire cold as an ice cube.

"Truce?" Says Simon, seemingly cautious to upset their perfect balance they've found.

Baz snorts and Snow glances over at him, finding mirth in Baz's eyes.

"I've been in love with you since we were twelve, Simon. I certainly hope it's what we have can be more than a truce."

There's humor in his voice as he strokes Simon's palm with his thumbs, although his grey eyes are pleading. Simon's eyes are twinkling as he leans into Baz, placing a gentle kiss upon his lips almost like a butterfly has landed there. "Baz. I know you have an image, you have a reputation, a family. But I...I like this, I like you. I certainly don't want to have to kill you someday, and then kill myself straight after because I couldn't live with that, killing you. I want this, if you'll let me have it."

His words send a million skeletal chimeras galloping throughout Baz's chest, setting him alight with flames from the inside out. His voice is soft, barely a whisper, as he says: "You can have it, Simon. I'm done trying to pretend I loathe you, or that I even just want a truce." He raises Simon's hand to his lips, kissing it delicately. The reality of the situation strikes him as a thought hits. "What about Wellbelove?" He says, suddenly uneasy. He doesn't want to be the reason for Snow's downfall. If they're still together, he resolves, he'll make himself forget about this by tomorrow.

Simon locks eyes with him, raising a cinnamon eyebrow. "We broke up weeks ago because I thought she was pining after you, Basilton, and you were leading her on."

He snorts at the irony of the situation and Simon giggles softly. "Plus," he adds, "why in Merlin's name would I kiss you if I was dating Agatha?"

Baz laughs at this, saying that Snow tends to make decisions based on reckless impulses. Snow smacks him lightly and Baz attacks the moles on his neck in retaliation, causing the other boy to gasp in surprise and pleasure.

Just when he thinks Simon is asleep, his fingers thread through Baz's and interlock, Baz shifting into his side to look at him. "Simon?" He asks, patiently waiting for him to answer, seeing a question in those beautiful blue eyes. The moonlight makes Simon's tawny skin glow and casts a silvery wash over his curls, and Baz feels like the luckiest mage in all of England. "Baz?" He drawls sleepily.

"Hmm?"

"I don't want us to be back to normal tomorrow, like tonight never happened."

"Me either, Simon. I don't want to lose you."

He feels the shuddering breath drawn in beside him, and braces himself for whatever's coming next.

"Even if they stare, Baz?"

"Yes."

"What if they talk?"

"Of course they'll talk, darling."

Simon shrugs, noncommittal.

"We're better looking and magickally stronger than any couple has a right to be."

Simon snorts softly and grips Baz's hand tighter, leaning into him.

"So you'll be my boyfriend, then? And I'll be yours?"

Baz laughs breezily, almost dizzy with relief. "Merlin and Morgana, Simon. Of course I will."

"And we won't have to fight, then? I don't want to fight you. I stopped wanted to fight you, really fight you, a year or two ago."

His voice is so small and all Baz wants to do is hold him and tell him he never wanted to fight him, ever. And maybe trace over and kiss all of the moles on his skin that make the most spectacular constellations.

So that's what he does.

"Aleister Crowley," thinks Baz. "I'm living a charmed life."