Herbs and Spices // snowbaz

paint splattered bodies (au)

A man dressed in a green suit walked through the gallery, people milling past him, unable to figure out whether to look at him or at the artwork littering the walls. Only one person seemed oblivious to the dark haired man, and that was because he seemed oblivious to everything. Simon Snow, one of the artists being presented in the gallery, was staring blissfully off, completely unaware of the art curator walking towards him.

"Is this the riff raff they're letting in now?" He sneered at Simon, who blinked back surprise and let his eyes finally settle on him.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying," the man sneered, "you're a modernist artist," he said it like it was a bad taste he needed to spit out of his mouth.

"And?" Simon finally caught on and glared at the man, "You are?"

"I'm Baz Pitch, the art curator? Surely you've heard of me," Baz rolled his eyes and Simon scoffed, even though he had heard of him.

"Sorry, I don't recognise you, but that's probably what your ego needs," Simon grimaced at Baz and he smirked in return.

"Probably," he said sarcastically, "Is this your work?" He pointed at the painting hanging on the wall behind Simon, a large canvas with wide almost messy brushstrokes, large strands of vibrant colours that litter the whole piece from each corner to the other. Baz thought, 'it's beautiful from a subjective point of view, but it's no classic art.' Baz let his eyes slide from the artwork back to the golden haired man in front of him, drinking in his own beauty; the bright but vacant eyes of an artist, the slightly discoloured hands that were too often submerged in paint, the specks of bright paint that clung to each of his curls. This boy was a walking piece of art and seemed to be his very own canvas as well.

"Do you like it?"

"I prefer more classic art," Baz mused gently, and Simon nodded slightly, "But it is beautiful."

"You can still think it's beautiful even if it isn't your type?" Simon cocked his head to the side and gazed at Baz; at his long nose that came to a bump at the bridge, at his high cheekbones and pushed back hair that still threatened to cascade down his face. He looked at his cool grey eyes that already seemed to be piercing into his very soul.

"I wasn't talking about the artwork."

"Neither was I."

Simon had never flirted outright with someone else before, but standing before Baz, who seemed like the most confident and possibly dangerous person he'd ever met, he had been struck with a newfound confidence that surprised even him.

"You're not like I expected you to be," Baz smiled softly.

"Why is that? Have you heard of me?"

"Heard of you? You're Simon Snow, described as being a 'colourful KwangHo Shin', of course, I've heard of you. But you're different to what I expected and definitely different to what I expect at these events," Baz gestured around him lazily, his grey eyes never leaving Simon's.

Simon tried to ignore the 'colourful KwangHo Shin' comment, but his skin betrayed him as it flushed a light pink, "You usually only get stuffy suit types, huh?"

"Yeah, and the occasional hazy-eyed artist, trying so hard to be the next Van Gogh," Baz laughed quietly, and shrugged, "But you're not like that are you?"

"I'm not trying to be the next Van Gogh," Simon shrugged, "Just the first me."

Baz's eyebrows quirked upwards as he looked at Simon, impressed, "Good answer."

*************

"This place is a mess, Snow," Baz's eyes were wide in surprise, his eyebrows arched high on his forehead as he spun slowly around Simon's studio, taking in the high ceilings and sparse walls, both which had smatterings of paint dribbled onto them. "How do you think in here? More importantly, why am I continuing to let you rent?"