My Selfish Desire

Twenty-Two ~Baz~

All he did was stare. He didn't say anything. He didn't move. Simon Snow was a statue. A spider could have crawled into his gaping mouth and spun a web if it wanted, and Simon would have never noticed.

I couldn't do anything but stare either. My heart was beating against my ribs, desperately trying to free itself. I felt as if I may puke, but didn't know if it was from the current situation or from the alcohol.

"So you're gay..?" he asked, finally breaking the silence.

I nod, but can't feel myself do it.

"Baz, you're drunk."

"And you're ridiculous. Your point?"

He seems flustered. "My point? My point is you're just loopy because of whatever you drank!"

"Loopy? Crowley, Snow, I'm not in primary school."

"You may as well be! You're just drunk, Baz. You aren't gay."

"And who are you to judge my decisions?"

"You can't make proper decisions, you're drunk off your arse!"

I wanted him to shut up. He had no idea what he was saying. Crowley..I had no idea what I was saying. I was arguing, but couldn't hear a word I was nearly shouting.

He was yelling as well, but I had no idea what he was coming out of his mouth either. All of his words just blurred together as his mouth moved. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was drunk. Maybe I wasn't gay.

But looking at Snow, I knew I was. It was impossible not to be instantly infatuated with him. He was addicting, and I understood entirely why Agatha couldn't stop being drawn to him. Simon was more than just his magic, he was absolutely perfect.

Perfect skin that was flushed with anger.

Perfect curls that are always being raked through.

Perfect eyes that always glare.

Perfect lips that never stop moving.

The room kept swimming, skulls becoming warped as the floor threatened to pull me into hell. My stomach dropped and a hammering began to chip at the back of my skull.  I could barely stand. Simon might have seen this, because he suddenly stopped talking. I said something - Crowley knows what- and he changed entirely.

His voice became softer, and he stopped glaring. Simon Snow was a guardian angel just trying to lead me through a storm.

"Baz, you're not okay."

I'm fine.

"Baz.."

Shut up, I'm fine.

"Baz."

No. Shut up. I'm fine.

I must've swayed or lost my footing, because Simon was suddenly holding me up. His arms were wrapped tightly around my ribs, and his fingers were bore into my back like metal rods. I couldn't see his face, he had managed to bury it in my robes.

The room stopped swimming. I had an anchor to keep me in place.

Crowley. If anchors always smell like burning pinewood and heavy cologne, I'd buy three the next time I came across one.