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Mitchell leaves, it’s what he does best.
Run, run, run.
He knows how to make himself disappear, how to fall into a crowd and have no one see you again. He knows it's the best thing for him, for everyone around him. He can’t keep hurting those he loves.
He goes as far away as he can think, where oceans and miles stretch between.
Anders stops going out as much, limits his one night stands to just two to three times a week instead of every night. He spends more of his time at home, sinking into the cushions with a bottle in his hands.
He can’t find a way to understand the feeling of missing growing inside of him.
When they met Mitchell felt tremors under his feet and now every time he sees him he feels it behind his knees, how it settles there wanting his body to shake.
Mitchell is not looking to get involved but they keep finding their way towards each other. Three times in two weeks is a little much to be a coincidence.
“You should come back to mine.” Anders rests against the bar, Mitchell looking pointedly straight ahead and not into endless blue.
“Sorry mate, not really my thing.” Mitchell winces at his own words. Not really my thing? Anders is very much his thing, he’s practically begging for it, but Mitchell knows that he can’t, not this time. He can’t risk the way the monster claws inside of him, wanting to devour.
“Are you telling me you’ve never done anything with a man? You’re missing out, men give the best blow jobs.”
Mitchell chokes on his beer at Anders casualness of it all and looks around the place to see if anyone has noticed.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Sure sounded like it.”
“I just meant that, I’m not interested in seeing anyone right now.”
“Who said anything about seeing someone? I’m just talking about fucking.” Anders finishes off his beer.
The constant war waging inside of Mitchell seems to come to a halt. The creature inside of him rationalizes it, that someone who spends all their free time in pubs, bars, and clubs must not have anyone to come home to, anyone to miss him.
Mitchell lets his teeth tear into flesh, let's sticky blood flow into his mouth.
Anders’ moan breaks through the haze, through the creature controlling him.
He breaks away to look at crimson covered neck.
Fear crawls inside of him as he tells himself, not this time.
His neck bruises purple, flowering across his tanned skin. The violets on Dawn’s desk remind him of last night, the plum in his hands speaks worship, speaks bleeding, speaks something unshakeable.
He throws the fruit into the bin with a bitter taste left on his tongue.
“Dawn, can you get rid of the flowers? They’re giving me allergies.”
At night when he thinks of the purple petals wilting in the bin he tries to think nothing of it.
Countless lives rest themselves between Mitchell’s shoulder blades, their names in the tired curve of his palm. His body saying, I remember.
Mitchell is too selfish to try to kill himself, too selfish when the word hope still hangs from the roof of his mouth.
Words seems to always settle in Anders’ mouth, bitter and unkind, resting at the edge of his tongue waiting to bloom.
They find each other again about a week later. Mitchell with a beer in his hands, the same way Anders always seems to find him. He thinks to himself that him and Mitchell have that in common, the way alcohol seems to warm them both and help them to forget.
It’s something akin to the word desperate, how their hands always seem to be reaching.
It’s morning, or afternoon, Anders’ isn’t really too sure, but there’s sunlight pouring in the room, inching it’s way across the floor and to the bed. He watches as it passes, crawls across his skin and rests like a halo on Mitchell’s raven hair.
For a moment he thinks that he can get used to this.
The dark has turned Mitchell into a victim, shadows have made him nervous and on edge and if he could find the light then maybe there would be something holy about it, something divine, something worth saving.
Mitchell carves himself out of guilt, lets it settle between his bones.
Anders listens to Mitchell’s past, to his crimes and commits each scene to memory. Etches them in his wiring, each name, each death and the screaming violent ways they happened. With each new story he takes Mitchell’s guilt in the palm of his hands, lets them flow up the lines of his palm and sink into his skin the way he lets Mitchell’s teeth sink into his neck.
In the soft light he is something just north of tender, just east of kind, and if he had a map perhaps he would be able to find the ending he’s looking for.
“I get it, I do. You don’t really want me around because of what I’ve done.”
Anders laughs darkly at this. He pushes back the coat of his suit, rests his hands on his hips and looks up at the ceiling.
“No, I’m not, not even fucking close.” He wishes the things that Mitchell has done would be enough for him to end all of this, but it’s not.
Mitchell knits his eyebrows together, rubs his gloved hands across his knees. “I’m sorry, what?”
“This is fucking stupid.” Anders pinches the bridge of his nose and taps his foot before speaking again. “I couldn’t give less fucks about your past honestly. Don’t you get it? We’re not good for each other. I’m not going to be the thing that stops you from making a mistake and the problem is that I’m ok with that.”
They spend the night a part. Anders thinks about how close he was, how it sat on the tip of his tongue. How he almost told Mitchell that he wants to push him away because he cares and it's the only way he can save himself.
Mitchell stays awake the whole night, looking up at the water stained ceiling of his flat.
He gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom, to a mirror that doesn’t recognize him. He stands there with a hand against the cold, leaning against the glass. He breathes out, memorizes the labor of it, inhale, exhale.
Don’t I deserve something better?
He knocks on Anders door almost two days later, it’s three am and they’re both missing it, the way their wakefulness and echoes of their pasts slotted through their ribs suit each other.
When Anders skin touches him it staves away the ghosts of touches his skin was trying to forget.
“Who is your god?”
Mitchell’s fingers dig like fish hooks into Anders’ skin.
“You are, you are, you are.”
Anders has spent his years reading books, learning about all the wrong ways to fall in love. He can speak tragedies, speak masterpieces. He sees the signs, has them etched and cataloged into his mind. He knows that when Mitchell reaches out for him and his pulse quickens, when he Mitchell stops by his office with food and he’s not pissed about it, all of these small things are there. The lead up to all of it, to falling in love.
He realizes that this this time he’ll let himself fall.
It’s not redemption, not even close, but when his hand rests on the back of Anders’ neck he lets himself believe for a moment that everything is alright.
“Can you not talk about this please?” Anders drags his hands across his face in annoyance.
“Why not?” Mitchell puts on his most offended face.
Anders decides to go for the truth, “I’m not trying to have Bragi write a fucking poem about beans on toast. I will fucking kill myself.”
Mitchell laughs, laughs until he’s on his side on the couch with his hands wrapped around him. Anders tries to be pissed off, really tries, but it’s hard when Mitchell’s laugh comes out melodic and Bragi clings to it like a lifeline.
Mitchell kisses him with blood on his tongue, kisses his cathedral mouth, knees pressed into the mattress like a pew.
Anders sits in his car, lets his exhales fog up the window as some sort of proof of life. He sits there until the sky turns violet with night, until his lips quirk up into a smile and the thought of heading home brings a swelling to his chest.
If Anders swallows down love the way he swallows down vodka then he is drowning in it.
Redemption. Mitchell used the word a lot and Anders lets is roll around in his head, let's Bragi grab a hold of it and translate it into every language and synonym he can.
He thinks of the blood stained clothes, of Mitchell’s shaking hands.
Here’s the thing, Anders doesn’t need to forgive Mitchell, not when none of it bothers him anyway. There’s this small part of Anders brain that screams being in a relationship with a vampire isn’t the greatest idea but there’s another part that is louder that says being in a relationship isn’t either. He silences them both when he hears Mitchell speak, hears the fluctuation in his voice.
“-and well the thing is I’m much more a fan of a good curry. Hey, are you listening?”
“Unfortunately, you’re complaining about something, which you always seem to be doing.”
“What was it I was complaining about?” Mitchell raises his eyebrows and smirks knowing that Anders wasn’t listening.
“How you much prefer take away over pizza but pizza places tend to be open later and that’s why you feel like you eat so much of it. A riveting topic I assure you.” Anders walks to the fridge to grab a beer.
Mitchell stands up straighter and fixes his face. “You were listening.”
“Always.”