Carry On

You were the sun, and I was crashing into you.

What you are is a fucking tragedy, Simon Snow. You literally couldn't be a bigger mess." He tries to kiss me, but I pull back- "And you like that?" "I love it." He says "Why?" "Because we match.

I am going to die kissing Simon Snow. Aleister Crowley, I'm living a charmed life.

You have to pretend you get an endgame. You have to carry on like you will; otherwise, you can't carry on at all.

Sharing a room with the person you want most is like sharing a room with an open fire. He's constantly drawing you in. And you're constantly stepping too close. And you know it's not good--that there is no good--that there's absolutely nothing that can ever come of it. But you do it anyway. And then... Well. Then you burn.

Just when you think you're having a scene without Simon, he drops in to remind you that everyone else is a supporting character in his catastrophe.

He's still looking in my eyes. Staring me down like he did that dragon, chin tilted and locked. "I'm not the Chosen One," he says. I meet his gaze and sneer. My arm is a steel band around his waist. "I choose you," I say. "Simon Snow, I choose you.

You were the sun, and I was crashing into you. I'd wake up every morning and think, 'This will end in flames.

I let myself slip away... Just to stay sane. Just to get through it. And when I felt myself slipping too far, I held on to the one thing I'm always sure of - Blue eyes. Bronze curls. The fact that Simon Snow is the most powerful magician alive. That nothing can hurt him, not even me. That Simon Snow is alive. And I'm hopelessly in love with him.

It's the good things that hurt when you're missing them.

For a moment -- not even a moment, a split second -- I imagine him saying, 'The truth is, I'm desperately attracted to you.' And then I imagine myself spitting in his face. and then I imagine licking it off his cheek and kissing him. (Because I'm disturbed. Ask Anyone.)

I was eleven years old, and I'd lost my mother, and my soul, and the Crucible gave me you.

How often do you have to drink?” “Every night, to feel good. Every few nights, to stay sane.” “Have you ever bitten anyone?” “No. I’m not a murderer.” “Does it have to be fatal every time? The biting? Couldn’t you just drink some of a person’s blood, then walk away?” “I can’t believe you’re asking me this, Snow. You, who can’t walk away from half a sandwich.

The whole prophecy is bollocks," I say. "'And one will come to end us. And one will bring his fall.' Did I also bring my own fall?" "No," Baz says. "That was me. Obviously." "How did you bring my fall? I stopped the Humdrum myself." Baz looks back at his phone, bored. "Fell in love, didn't you?

It’s like being a fairy named Mary,” he goes on. “Or a vampire named Gampire,” I say. “Gampire isn’t even a proper name, Snow. You’re terrible at this game.

He smiles, and he's made of trouble.

The front seat is for people who've never been kidnapped by bloody numpties. Jesus Christ, Baz.

I think I might kiss him. He's right here. And his lips are hanging open (mouth breather) and his eyes are alive, alive, alive.

She told me later that her parents had told her to steer clear of me at school. "My mum said that nobody really knew where you came from. And that you might be dangerous." "Why didn't you listen to her?" I asked. "Because nobody knew where you came from, Simon! And you might be dangerous!" "You have the worst survival instincts." "Also, I felt sorry for you," she said. "You were holding your wand backwards.

He shakes his head, and he's saying something, and I think I might kiss him. Because I've never kissed anyone before. (I was afraid I might bite.) And I've never wanted to kiss anyone but him. (I won't bite. I won't hurt him.) I just want to kiss him, then go. "Simon...," I say. And then he kisses me.

He’s a book full of footnotes brought to life. He’s a jacket made of elbow patches.

Snow kissed me last night until my mouth was sore. He kissed me so much, I was worried I’d Turn him with all my saliva. He held himself up on all fours above me and made me reach up for his mouth—and I did. I would again. I’d cross every line for him. I’m in love with him. And he likes this better than fighting.

I lean into him, because I'm cold and he's always warm. And because I like to remind him that I'm not afraid of him.

I wind my fingers in his hair. It's thicker than mine, and curlier, and it shines golden in the firelight. There's a mole on his cheek that I've wanted to kiss since I was 12. I do.

You called me Simon before." "No, I didn't.

Safety, stability--it's an illusion. It's a false god, Simon. It's like clinging to a sinking raft instead of learning to swim.

He looks at my face and huffs, exasperated. "Baz, you're actually, literally the only thing I have to lose. So as long as doing gay stuff in public doesn't make you hate me, I don't really care." "We're just dancing," I say. "That's hardly gay stuff." "Dancing's well gay," he says. "Even when it isn't two blokes.

You were the centre of my universe and everything else spun around you.

Sometimes when I’m walking through the dining hall, just saying hello to people, she’ll drag me by my sleeve to hurry me up. “You have too many friends,” she’ll say. “I’m pretty sure that’s not possible. And, anyway, I wouldn’t call them all ‘friends.’” “There are only so many hours in the day, Simon. Two, three people—that’s all any of us have time for.” “There are more people than that in your immediate family, Penny.” “I know. It’s a struggle.