Snowbaz Oneshots

come out and play

Hello, welcome! Read as you see fit here- warnings for general discussions of experiencing mental health issues, particularly OCD, and brief mentions of other people's yucky opinions. This is on the lighter side, though, complete with supportive Simon and a happy ending.

To clarify, I did not write this because I'm saying that Baz Pitch canonically has OCD. I wrote this because I wanted to write a character with OCD and Baz seemed like a good pick. This is based on my own experiences and was really cathartic for me to write—so please don't come for me, lol. There is no 'one right way' to have OCD.

Title from the Billie Eilish song of the same name, "come out and play," because dang talk about fitting. And pretty guitar.

Enjoy, sending love to you all <3

1

February 2015

I wake up really needing a piss.

While Penny would berate me over the fact that my first lucid thought is such a crass one, it's the truth. I high-tail it over to the ensuite. Since it's nine-thirty and I've already gotten the chance to sleep in, I decide to get dressed and ready for the day while I'm in there.

I'm feeling good when I emerge, excited to take on the Saturday. This feeling abruptly drops when I come face-to-face with Baz, though. As per usual.

He's hovering by the bathroom door and glowering at me. "What were you doing in there?" he asks.

I shrug, partly out of habit, partly because I know it'll get under his skin. (Maybe it's a habit because I know it gets under his skin.) "Had to piss. Not rocket science."

"What also isn't rocket science," he menaces, "is the fact that we have a weekend schedule. You're off buffet-ing by nine a.m., and I get free range of the ensuite from nine to ten."

He's right, even though I've never realised it. What in the name of magick do you need a full hour for? I think to myself, but he does look gorgeous every time he steps out the ensuite. It's no wonder Agatha keeps glancing in his direction.

"What's the big deal?" I ask instead. "You get the bathroom from ten to eleven today."

"The big deal is that my whole schedule is messed up. It's going to affect my entire day."

He's pacing furiously, like someone just pulled the rug out from under his feet or lured him into a frantic, building wind. Flustered is almost the word I'd use to describe my roommate, despite how odd that is. Baz Pitch is never flustered.

"I'm sure it'll be fine," I say, even though placating words feel foreign in my mouth when speaking to Baz. He startles like he's weirded out, too, and suddenly the mask is back on.

"I only ask you to extend me some modicum of courtesy," he states, enunciating, before running a hand through his bedhead and prancing off into the ensuite. Within half a second, he was back to the same old Baz: neutral expression, disdain in his eyes. Like he wasn't just filled with hairline fractures over me mucking up his routine.

We don't talk about it. But if I spend the next few weekends at Watford trying to be up and ready before nine, that's no one's business but ours.

2

June 2017

Baz taps his temple three times.

He's sitting in the passenger side seat of the vintage car that's temporarily ours. I put him on navigation duty—Pen's still unwound, curled in on herself in the backseat, occasionally muttering things about Micah to the wind.