Sixth Year (Snowbaz)

17. Baz in Jeans

A/N: Hey guys. Was supposed to upload a while ago but 700 words deleted. Which in hindsight, was a good thing because I'm changing it up.

Simon

Baz's house is humongous. It's practically a castle. Everything in it is either blood red, dark brown or black. If it had a moat and a few coffins Hollywood would be using it as a set for a vampire lair. As I enter into the foyer there's a large oil painting of a woman who I recognise as Natasha Grimm-Pitch, Baz's mother. Her light brown skin and dark eyes are unlike the fair complexion and cement grey eyes of her son. But their faces are starkly similar. They have the same sharp cheekbones, intense stares, noses that start so high on their face you wish you could pull them down half a centimetre or so. Portraits of Pitch ancestors line the walls all the way down the hallway, sitting proudly in elegant sculpted frames. None of whom exuding the same malice that appears so frequently in Baz's eyes.

The hallway is so long that it takes almost a full minute to get from the front door to the kitchen. When we finally arrive, Baz pulls a plate of croissants out of the microwave and shoves them in front of me.

"Here, you can have mine." he says. "Knowing you, you're starving. Anyway, I should probably change. It's almost ten."

"Don't change on my behalf," I reply, smiling down at the little sausage dogs on his pyjamas. He usually wears obnoxiously posh silk pyjamas at Watford that are too big for his slender frame.

He pulls a face at that and turns on his heels.

I hoover down the chocolate croissants (delicious) and hear Baz's footsteps hurrying down the stairs and then slow, as if to subdue himself. He appears in the archway looking as cool and collected as ever in a grey turtleneck jumper and jeans. Hair slicked back like James Dean.

"You're wearing jeans." It slips out of my mouth. I'm not quite sure why.

"Yeah, and?"

"You don't usually wear jeans."

"Very observent. Come on. I'll show you to your room."

I follow him up the staircase, lit with strange lights and ordained with sculptures of cherubs. Who seem as though they're being crushed by the weight of the railing. Baz leads me through the hallway to a door with a dragon carved into the doorframe. He swings open the door and I swear I see a dark figure dart under the bed.

"You can leave your bags in here and get changed if you want."

"Okay," I look hesitantly around the room and catch the curtains moving even though the windows aren't open. Of course Pitch Manor is haunted.

An awkward silence follows as I drop my duffel bag at the foot of the bed and stand dumbly in the middle of the Persian rug. Baz mirrors my awkwardness in the doorway, both hands in his pockets, swinging up and down on his heels slightly.

I attempt to break the silence"So...what now?"

"You tell me. What were you expecting to do on your spontaneous trip to Hampshire? Visit Highclere Castle and meet the cast of Downton Abbey? Go to the Jane Austen museum? Pepper Pig World perhaps?"

"Crowley Baz, I don't know. I needed somewhere to stay."

"Well, why didn't you just bugger back off to Watford?"

"If you don't want me here I can leave."

"No." There's desperation in his voice. Maybe he secretly gets lonely here. "Don't. I mean. There's no point. You're already here."

The awkward silence returns.

"We can head into town," Baz says. "Only if you want to."

"Yeah, alright. I'll get changed."