If You Must

All That We Are Is Angry

Simon

The food is delicious. I finish mine quickly, and then proceed to eat half of Baz's. He still eats with one hand over his mouth-- it's the one self-conscious habit I haven't been able to shake him of. Without really thinking, I reach across the table and pull it down, intertwining our fingers.

"Simon, my fangs pop. People will notice," he objects, glancing around as if we're being watched.

"Basilton, I like it when your fangs pop. And no one will notice. I promise," I reply, offering up a soft smile. Those silver eyes bore into mine unyieldingly, and for a moment, I think that he might take his hand from mine. But then his gaze softens, and he tips his head ever so slightly to one side. The ghost of a grin quirks up one corner of his lips.

"Fine. You win. But--" he points his fork at me, smiling for real now, "--you owe me big time, Simon."

I grin devilishly at him, wishing for the life of me that I could raise one eyebrow.

"I can think of a few ways to pay you back. I'm all yours, my dear," I tease. To my surprise, Baz actually blushes (no small feat for a vampire). But he's grinning back at me, so I don't worry that I've actually embarrassed him.

"I'm going to keep you to your word, Simon Grimm-Pitch." I lean forward a little, smirking.

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't, Basilton."  Baz bursts into laughter, and I follow suit. Before we got together-- before Eighth Year, I suppose-- I never got to see Baz laugh, except when he was laughing at some prank he'd pulled on me. And as sappy as it might sound, I cherish every laugh I get, now that he's mine. Aleister Crowley, I'm in love (I mean, obviously, I'm marrying the bloke, but still).

We order dessert and share a small glass of wine (technically Baz ordered the wine, but by now it's precedent that I steal his food and drinks)(he doesn't mind-- I've asked). Once we pay for the food, Baz helps me with my coat (ever the gentleman), and we make our way back outside. Night has fallen, but the air is still fairly warm. It must've rained while we were inside, if the damp pavement and sweet-smelling air are to be trusted. As we walk, I loop my arm through his, catching his hand in mine. He smiles at me, leaning in to brush a brief kiss against my forehead.

Someone shouts at us from across the empty road. And unless the man in question is just really enthusiastic about cigarettes, I'm pretty sure the look of disgust on Baz's face is well warranted.

Shock lurches through my stomach. This is the first time Baz and I have gotten public shit from people-- honestly, I kind of forgot that there are still homophobic dickheads out in the world. I look to Baz for guidance, but he just squeezes my hand, continuing to walk. When I continue to look at him, he gives me a nearly imperceptible shake of the head and whispers,

"Just ignore it, Simon. Don't let it go to your head." But it's obviously bothering him; he's walking ramrod straight, and his shoulders are cinched and tight. For the first time in a long time, he's trying to make his fangs less noticeable through his cheeks (I'm not sure how he does that-- holds his mouth differently? Sucks them into some secret cavity in his skull?). I try to follow his example and ignore it, but, well, I don't exactly have a good reputation for keeping my cool. I'm on edge; ears perked, magic simmering just under the surface of my skin. I swear the muscles in my back clench, as if trying to flare my now-nonexistent wings.

And then the man yells again, this time with the addition of "You disgusting--" in front of his apparent lust for cigarettes.

I try my best to stay levelheaded. I really do (sorry, Baz...). But something in me just snaps and I whirl around, letting my magic come to my skin, feeling it simmer in my eyes and snap across my features.

"Do you have a fucking problem?" I growl, squaring my jaw. Baz tugs on my arm, eyes darting nervously around. It's the most uncomfortable and un-Bazlike I've ever seen him. To be honest, that scares me.

"Simon, please," he whispers, voice low and panicked and urgent. Apparently he's not quiet enough when he says it, though, because the man laughs-- a drunken, cruel laugh-- and bellows,

"Listen to your boyfriend," he spits out the last word as if it's acid in his mouth, "You don't want to pick a fight with me, you ruttin' pixie."

My. Blood. Boils.

Fury takes over the unfamiliar fear on Baz's face, and suddenly he's smooth and cool and utterly terrifying. That's my vampire.

"Please, sir, if you've got some concerns, do voice them," Baz purrs silkily. Uh-oh. Nothing but death, destruction and carnage has ever come out of his soft, sweet, 'I'm going to kill you and get away scot-free' voice. I fight down a grin. This will be fun.

"Tha's PDA, tha' is," he nods at our still-interwoven hands, "You tryin' to turn the kiddies of London gay, are you? Fuckin'--" he repeats his choice word from his earlier shouting. He's not lowering his voice at all-- people are starting to stare. Couples with bags from the nearby shops, kids with their parents... everyone. The street didn't seem so crowded until this exact moment; like they've all just appeared out of thin air to witness the spectacle.

Baz smoothes back his hair with one long, steady hand. A sneer tugs at those lips.

"Well, as this little outburst is obviously due to your latent homosexual feelings for your downstairs neighbour, allow us to give a demonstration of how things are properly done," he says, cool as you please. And though he's not shouting, his voice carries. I would assume he'd cast a voice-magnifying spell on himself, but I didn't hear him cast anything. 

The man across the street splutters angrily as Basilton Grimm-Fucking-Pitch swoops in and kisses me right then and there. It's overly dramatic and completely grandiose, but that's Baz for you. (You know that famous black-and-white photo of that couple kissing in Times Square after the end of The War? It feels a bit like that).

When we break apart, people are clapping. The man's face is beet red, and he's practically foaming at the mouth.

"We really do hope this has been educational for you," Baz concludes, just as calm and collected as ever. Personally, I'm breathless, stunned, and my brain has been replaced with candy floss.

People are still clapping when the man screams at us,

"You'll fucking rot in Hell! Fuckin' abominations!" Before storming off. I hear angry yelps down the street as he rams into people.

Baz grips my shoulder, some of the hurt slowly returning to his face, as if peeking through cracks in his mask of calm. Like he's trying his hardest to keep it together, but is one fell blow from falling apart.

"Simon," he implores, "take me home." Without further question, nod.

We walk in silence the rest of the way to the car.

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Hello!

I feel like I've been saying this a lot, but sorry for my hiatus! Again, I've had very bad writer's block. I knew what I wanted to have happen in this chapter, but I just couldn't get it to sound right-- this is my third time writing it. Hopefully it isn't too shitty!

On a completely unrelated note, I'LL HAVE SOME REALLY EXCITING NEWS SOON!!! Like, within the next couple of weeks! Part of me wants to tell you all now, but that would ruin the fun of the surprise ;)

Yours,

-Lefty

P.S.

Buckle up for safety, 'cause it's about to get REAL angsty.