“I’m not gay,” Simon says. Immediately.

I stop and turn back to him. “Oh. I’m sorry. I suppose, I mean—” We’ve never really talked about this. I’ve just assumed … I don’t know what I’ve assumed. “Are you bi, then?”

“What?” He looks put off. “No.”

“Well…” I look around the alley, like I might find something helpful there. I hold up my hands. I forget I’m carrying rats. “What does that leave, Simon? Do you still think you’re straight?”

“Christ, Baz, I never thought I was straight. I never thought about it at all.” He’s walking down the alley, away from me.

I follow after him. “Haven’t you thought about it a little? Since us?”

“What’s there to think about? I’m with you. And you’re a…” He trails off.

“Man,” I say flatly.

Simon shrugs. “I was going to say ‘boy.’”

“I’m twenty years old. I could go to war.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“So, you do know you’re dating a man. That’s a start.”

He turns to wink at me. “A-ha, this is a date.”

“Simon, I’m being serious.” I’ve stopped walking.

He stops, too. “Yeah, but why are you being serious? Is this important? Is this, like, our second-biggest problem? Me not knowing what colour flag to hold at the Pride Parade?”

“I didn’t think it was a problem,” I say. “But you’re being a real twat about it. So maybe it is.”

Simon sighs and rubs his forehead. I’m glad I spelled his hands clean. “I just … don’t know. All right? I know I’m not straight. And obviously I was whatever I am now back when I was going to all your football matches and hiding outside your violin lessons.”

“I thought you were trying to figure out whether I was a vampire,” I say. I really did.

He’s exasperated: “I already knew you were a vampire!”

I want to put my hands on my hips, but I’m still holding four dead rats. “Are you saying you liked me? In fifth year?”

“Baz, I was obsessed with you.”

“I knew that. But you liked me?”

Simon sighs again. Really put out now. “I didn’t like you. I still don’t really like you…” That’s a lie, and he knows it.

“But you wanted to kiss me?”

“I wanted to jump on you. I didn’t really think past that.”

“Plus ça change…”

“Fuuuck you,” he says, extravagantly. “I know that’s French for something smug.”

I laugh. Snow makes me laugh. He makes me lose track of why I’m irritated with him. I see a rat scuttling past us in my peripheral vision and crouch, catching its neck in my fist. It’s small enough to kill with one hand. “I liked you,” I say.

“You hated me,” Snow says, above me.

I stand. “That, too.”