The gentle cawing of crows; an animal that usually unsettles people, represents darkness and despair, has been an acceptable representation of death. It soothed him to hear the cawing of a group of crows.
The smell of fresh parchment and the scraping of pens scrawling against them. Sometimes he got the urge to buy a whole new set of paper and pens and just scribble all over them, reveling in the sound.
A quiet exam room, where only gentle breathing and paper shuffling could be heard. He didn't mind that he could feel his heart hammering in his chest or his mind spinning wildly around; actually, he loved that. Loved the pressure of writing essays, loved the moment where it all clicked and his pen seemed to move across the page seamlessly, without any resistance between his thoughts and his page. Loved the purposeful silence, the concentration.
The smell of peppermint in his soap, and the way it burned his skin slightly when he used it (a warming burn that didn't hurt so much as tingle delicately.) Anything that smelled so lovely and fresh; basil, mint, peppermint, jasmine, so many flowers and herbs that sent him to other times and places.
His shower at Watford, the way it fell in a rainfall like spray over his head and body. He loved the way he could close his eyes and feel only water, hear only water; everything else could fall away and he could be where he was and expect nothing to change that.
His room at Watford.
His bed at Watford. The way he could sink into the thick mattress and pull the sheer curtains around it, feeling his body fall into familar lumps and bumps, every smooth edge hitting the spot in such a complete way.
His roommate at Watford.
Simon Snow. He was everything to him all at once. When Baz looked at him, he could see nothing else. Everything else faded away in beams of light, stripped back and fell away when Snow was in his field of vision.
He loved the way the sun would fall onto Snow's hair and blind him momentarily. The way Snow would scrunch his face up into the direction of the sun and then shut his eyes, head tipped back and basking in the warmth. The way Snow would bite his lip when he concentrated, a gentle nibbling that stopped Baz's heart in his chest. The way Snow would push his hair back from his forehead, fingers tangling in unruly curls until he gave up and let it hang and stick up all over the place. The way Snow mumbled in his sleep, tossing and turning around in his blankets. The way Baz didn't have to see him to know he had walked into a room, didn't have to see everyone react to him; just had to feel it. His skin fit differently on his frame when Simon was around, his face arranged itself differently, the things around him felt different. Everything was easier (and harder) when Simon was around him than when he wasn't.
Baz loved many things in this world, but Simon Snow was in a league of his own.
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I honestly don't really know what this is, I just wanted to post something and this has been STARING AT ME for so long!
Thanks for reading and ugh I don't know, keep posted about this.
YOU ARE READING
Herbs and Spices // snowbaz
Fanfica series of short stories filled to the brim with all things Watford, particularly Simon Snow and Baz Pitch all of the characters and settings and general Watfordness about these stories belong to Rainbow Rowell. I, in no way, take credit for...
