Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they are the property of their creators, nor am I seeking to make a profit from this.
Chapter 7
"Anders!"
Anders woke as his bed shook. He blearily looked around and frowned when he saw Mitchell leaning over his bed bouncing it. "What the fuck?"
"Good morning!"
"Fuck off," Anders said, too tired to handle Mitchell's seemingly chipper attitude; especially as early as. . . eight am. "I thought you weren't coming until nine thirty." He got out of bed and went to relieve himself, leaving the door open so he could hear Mitchell's response.
"I was up and I thought we could get breakfast or something before we went to the station." As Anders considered it his stomach rumbled.
"Yeah, breakfast sounds good. . ." He got dressed and started pulling out some clothes to put in a duffel. Mitchell was sat on his bed and instead of putting the clothes on the bed, Anders threw them at Mitchell.
"Mate, stop," Mitchell groused as the second pair of boxers hit him in the face.
"Make yourself useful and put them in here?" he asked, pulling his duffel bag down from the top of the closet and throwing that too at Mitchell. "Where's your stuff?"
"On the couch. Nice camera," he added, rolling Anders' clothes and putting them in the bag.
"I got it yesterday, thought I could play tourist." He didn't say it, but he was also hoping to get a good picture of him and Mitchell. He didn't know where it came from, but suddenly he really wanted something tangible. He wasn't a very sentimental guy, but it had been bothering him that he didn't have any pictures of his family, even if he wasn't on very good terms with them.
"Sounds cool. Sometimes I wish I could be captured on camera." Anders stopped.
"What?" He turned towards Mitchell, a pair of slacks in his hands.
"Vampires can't be captured on film. I can't see myself in a mirror either. I thought I told you that," he finished distractedly. Anders threw the trousers at him and went to the living room to grab the camera. He turned it on as he walked back to his room and didn't even look through the viewer as he snapped a picture of Mitchell. He frowned in relative shock when he looked down at the picture and saw only a pair of floating, half-rolled boxers.
"I told you," Mitchell said, chuckling, and putting the boxers in the bag.
Well so much for that. . . Anders thought.
Twenty minutes later they were both ready to go. They walked down the street to a café for some breakfast. Anders ruminated over what it would be like to not see himself in a mirror or in a picture. He was a vain man, and the idea horrified him. "Is it weird?" he asked as they dug into their breakfast sandwiches. "Not being able to see yourself?"
"At first it was really unnerving. We take it for granted that we're going to look into a mirror and see ourselves, but," he lowered his voice, "a vampire's image can't be captured. It's part of why we have so many of our own in the police – we can't get arrested and booked because we won't show up in the mug shot."
"I couldn't imagine not being able to see myself. . . So you haven't seen yourself in over a hundred years? What do you do for ID?"
"I don't know how or where but my. . . boss, I guess, found someone in the seventies who looks almost exactly like me. Got an ID, driver's license, and passport made that I've been using since."
"Huh."
"Sorry I can't be in any of your London pictures," Mitchell said, his voice teasing.
"Who said I wanted pictures of you anyway."
An hour later they were at the train station, Mitchell's car parked in the long-term car park. They were towards the middle of the train, only one car away from the dining car, so there would probably be a lot of through traffic, which didn't really bother Anders too much. He loved people watching.
He was a little worried about Mitchell being locked up in a metal box with so many humans for four hours, but when he voiced his concern Mitchell assured him he'd be fine. He didn't believe him, however, and spent most of the ride watching him through the corner of his eye.
An hour in his suspicions were confirmed when he noticed that Mitchell had been staring at the same page of his comic – at which Anders had rolled his eyes – for about ten minutes. He was breathing shallow and sweating a little.
So, to distract him a bit, Anders dragged him to the restroom and distracted him for a while. They returned to their seats, slightly ruffled, with a smile on Mitchell's face and a smirk on Anders'. He raised his eyebrows suggestively at the middle-aged woman who gave them a disgusted look when she saw them leave the restroom.
After that Mitchell fell asleep, his head on Anders' shoulder as Anders stared out the window at the passing country. England was beautiful – nothing like New Zealand, he thought, but still nice.
They arrived at Paddington Station at two, and after a fifteen minute cab ride they arrived at the Royal Garden Hotel. To say it was nice would be an injustice to the grandiosity they were surrounded with.
And that's exactly why Anders picked it.
They were quickly checked in and led up fifteen floors to their room. It was extremely nice and extremely expensive and Anders smiled at how out of place Mitchell looked with his jeans, boots, and sports jacket.
"I hope you brought nicer clothes than that," Anders said as he wandered around the room, exploring. Mitchell, who was sitting on the king sized bed, looked down at what he was wearing.
"What's wrong with this?"
Anders raised an eyebrow. "This is a five star hotel. They're not going to let you into the restaurant in jeans."
"Well, I'd rather go find a good pub or something than eat here. There was one that I went to a lot when I lived here, I wonder if it's still open."
"Well before we left I looked up ten of the best pubs in London and I intend to try most if not all of them."
"Why am I surprised that all you want to do is drink?" Mitchell muttered. Anders turned from where he was gazing out the window to look at Mitchell, slightly taken aback at the comment.
"Well that's not all I want to do. I want to sight see. Break in my new camera. I want to go up in that giant Ferris heel thing." Mitchell laughed.
"The London Eye?"
"Yeah, that!"
They decided that they would go visit Kensington Gardens first. They spent an hour walking through, Anders taking pictures of the scenery – not necessarily for any reason other than he had a camera and he wanted to use it. Many of the pictures were of Mitchell, but of course he was invisible.
It was a rare sunny day and neither wanted to be inside, even though it was freezing cold. They decided to continue on to Hyde Park and walk around there. Mitchell's hands were especially cold, the cold combining with his natural coldness that came with being a vampire, and he kept touching Anders' face or lifting his jacket and splaying his hand across Anders' back, causing him to yelp and attract the stares of little old ladies.
He smacked Mitchell upside the head, and when they were done at the park he went into the first shop he saw that sold clothing. He made Mitchell wait outside as he went in and bought a pair of green knitted gloves and then forced Mitchell to wear them.
By then it was around six, the sun had gone down and they were starving, having not eaten since breakfast. They got a cab and decided to try out one of the pubs on Anders' list. They agreed that it was good, but as they stumbled out several hours later they decided that it wasn't the best. The cab driver nearly kicked them out because they couldn't keep their hands to themselves, and when they got back to the hotel they practically ran upstairs to continue what they'd started.
The next day Anders woke up with Mitchell's hair tickling his nose. He was laying on his side, spooning Mitchell from behind, one arm under his pillow, the other wrapped around Mitchell's torso. He couldn't remember a time when he had woken up spooning someone.
It confused him, so he did what his instincts told him to do: he pulled his arm from around Mitchell and got quietly out of the bed. He checked the clock as he stood, it was nearly eleven. He picked up his pillow and threw it at the back of Mitchell's head. He jerked upright with a confused yelp. He blinked a few times and looked over at Anders' smiling face. "What the fuck?" he said, but there was no heat in it, only sleepiness. They had had a late night.
"It's late and we have all of London ahead of us," he said, turning to go to the large bathroom that was attached to the room. He got in the shower, and a few minutes later Mitchell joined him, still half asleep. When Anders was done rinsing out his hair they switched positions so that he could be under the spray. Anders got an idea, and stepped forward so he was flush with Mitchell's chest.
He looked up and captured Mitchell's lips between his own. Mitchell's hands stalled as he kissed back. Anders gripped one of Mitchell's hips and reached down to take care of his morning wood. He moaned at the welcome surprise and reached one of his own hands down to reciprocate, pushing Anders against the wall of the shower, his hair forgotten.
Fifteen minutes later they dried off, clean and satisfied, and got dressed to start their day.
"Where do you want to have breakfast?" Anders asked as he finished buckling his belt.
"Brunch, more like. Want to just find a café?"
"That sounds good." They bundled up for the frigid weather outside. Anders felt appropriately smug when he saw Mitchell pulling on the green gloves he bought him, but that faded when he saw that Mitchell had acquired scissors at some point and cut the fingers off.
"You mutilated those gloves."
"Oh, yeah, I did that last night when my drink kept slipping out of my hand. I don't know why I didn't just take them off. It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Huh. Well, I'm not one to judge drunken decisions to harshly, as I'm known to make them frequently."
They left the room and went through the busy lobby and out into the cold overcast day. "Is it ever sunny in England?" Anders muttered. Mitchell laughed.
"It was sunny yesterday. Mostly it's overcast though, especially in winter. It's nice for me though – the sun hurts my eyes."
"Is that why you always wear sunglasses? Even when it's not bright?" Mitchell nodded. "At least you don't burst into flames," he said. Mitchell laughed loudly.
"True!"
They found a café nearby and had brunch. It was nice and warm inside, and they all but undressed as they sat – their coats on the backs of their chairs and their scarves piled up on the side of the table, Mitchell's shades perched on top. They both got coffee, and a pastry.
When they finished they decided to take the tube to the London Eye. When they finally emerged above ground again the sky had cleared, and it was nice and sunny. Anders loved it, especially since they would have to wait in a line with all the other tourists. Mitchell wasn't too happy about it, but he silently conceded that it was Anders' trip, he had only been invited. Besides, he was also excited to see the city from the top.
They were surrounded by American accents, and Anders had to laugh. "Who'd have thought that so many people would go on vacation at Christmas," he said to Mitchell, looking around at the people around them. "We're surrounded by Americans. Where are all the English people?"
"Not here. Besides, Anders that's exactly what we're doing," Mitchell replied. Anders responded by sticking his tongue out. "At least I sound like I belong in this part of the world, Mr Kiwi."
"Fuck off."
It was another twenty minutes until it was their turn to get on. Anders occupied himself by taking pictures of the surrounding area, as well as several tourists he found visually pleasing. He got a dirty look from one woman who caught him photographing her, and he quickly took Mitchell's hand before she could turn and say something to her very tall boyfriend. Something about gay men was very unthreatening to a woman, Anders had found. She saw him holding Mitchell's hand, and huffed, raising an eyebrow. He looked up at Mitchell and gave him a smile. He squeezed his hand and let go, glancing over to make sure the woman wasn't still watching. Mitchell followed his gaze, guessed what he was looking at, and rolled his eyes.
Finally on the Eye, it took about twenty minutes to get to the top. It really was a spectacular view, and Anders took more pictures than he needed, even letting Mitchell convince him to pose for a picture with the view behind him.
A woman approached them and offered to take their picture together, but Mitchell quickly declined and she moved on without a fuss, thankfully. They walked around the capsule several times, taking in the view. Mitchell told Anders that he'd been on it once before, right when it had opened.
The rest of the day was spent sight-seeing. Anders insisted on seeing all the "important parts," like parliament and Big Ben after lunch. Then that night was spent in much the same way as the previous. They picked a pub, went there for food and a few drinks, and decided to pick a different pub and finish the night there. This one was thankfully closer to their hotel, so the cabbie didn't have to listen to them for long.
The next day Mitchell woke first, his bladder about ready to explode. He extricated himself from Anders' grasp, slightly surprised at their spooned position once again, and went to the bathroom, softly closing the door behind him.
He relieved himself and went to leave the room, but he stopped in front of the mirror, staring where his reflection would have been. He frowned, and wondered, not for the first time, what about vampires made them inherently invisible to anything other than the naked eye. Several others he knew speculated that it was a predatory thing, it makes them harder to detect. Mitchell guessed that they were right, but that never stopped him from wishing that he could see himself, and having his picture taken. Be normal.
He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face, deciding it was time to wake up for the day. As he toweled off his face and neck he heard the door to the bathroom open and he turned to say good morning. Anders waved his hand sleepily in Mitchell's direction in what he assumed was a reply, and he shook his head a little. Despite himself he smiled, he was actually happy. He really liked Anders, even in the morning. It had been many years since he'd felt this way about anyone.
In retrospect Mitchell knew that it would go south eventually. He was a vampire trying to play human, trying to ignore his non-human side – of course it couldn't last.
That day went well at first. It was their last full day in London. It was New Year's Eve, and they spent it doing more sightseeing. Instead of going to another pub, Anders decided to take Mitchell to a nicer restaurant for the holiday. They ate, drank, talked, and it was turning out to be a really good evening.
Throughout the trip Mitchell had been able to ignore his cravings. He'd fed the night before they left, and he'd been busy and distracted enough that he hadn't really had time to think about it.
Anders was in the middle of telling Mitchell about his trip to Norway when he heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking at a table near theirs. He stopped and looked over to see a man who had, it looked like, gripped his wine glass too tightly while he was laughing. Anders raised his brows, incredulous, as he shook his head and turned back around make a comment to Mitchell. But when he looked into Mitchell's eyes fear spiked through him. Mitchell's eyes were black as he stared at the gash on the man's hand and the blood that poured out of it. A server came by with a towel and apologized to the man and his date profusely, even though it wasn't her fault.
Mitchell's breathing was speeding up as he clenched his hands in the tablecloth. "Mitchell!" Anders said sharply, and his black gaze snapped to Anders'. "Your eyes!" Mitchell stared at him, his gaze intense, and he seemed to gather the last bit of his control as he stood and fled to the men's room.
Any other time Anders would have followed, either to see if he was alright or tell him to pull himself together. But this time he stayed in his seat, rooted in place by a sudden fear that gripped him. He took a few steadying breaths and listened as the man, a Frenchman by the sounds of his accented English, apologized to the woman he was with. It sounded like he would need stitches and was so sorry that he would have to cut their evening short. She assured him that it was fine, and that she'd escort him to the hospital. He would just have to make it up to her next New Year's Eve. It sounded like this wasn't their first date, and she was really concerned for him. Anders smiled. The couple got up to leave.
After twenty minutes Mitchell still hadn't returned. Anders was a little worried, though he'd never admit it. He flagged down their waitress and paid the check before going to the restroom to find Mitchell.
The room was empty, save one man at the urinal, and Anders' concern turned into anger. Why the fuck would he just leave and not say anything? was the first thought that went through his head, but he reeled in the vengeful thoughts and tried to be reasonable as he left the restaurant and went outside.
He knew that Mitchell had given up blood, and it had been two weeks since then. Seeing the blood tonight must have been hard, and he must have just needed to get away before he did anything. He called Mitchell's mobile, but there was no answer.
He started to walk, wanting to clear his head. It was cold, and there were a few people also out walking. It wasn't late at all, but the area the restaurant was in wasn't a very bustling part of the city, and most people were probably at New Year's Eve parties.
Anders walked down the sidewalk, looking around the few people, trying to find Mitchell. He passed a small side street and looked down it, not seeing anything. He kept going but then there was a movement in his peripheral, and he turned to look back down the street. Against the wall of a building was Mitchell, holding the Frenchman by his neck as he fed from him. A jolt of terror went through Anders, and he stumbled back a few steps when Mitchell let go of him and he fell in a heap to the ground. The woman he had been with lay sprawled out a few feet away from them. He could faintly see her chest still moving.
Mitchell wiped his mouth on the back of his jacket sleeve, and pushed his hair back out of his face. He turned and started when he saw Anders watching him. His eyes were wide, and he looked surprised. Then Anders saw the regret and guilt come across Mitchell's face, and his own terror faded and was replaced with disappointment and anger. He looked between Mitchell and the dead man and felt the anger bubble up in his gut and all he wanted to do was yell, and tell Mitchell was a fucking idiot he was.
But something stopped him – probably the same thing that told him to run as fast as he could the first night he saw Mitchell. They were even similar situations.
So he looked back at Mitchell and stared directly into his eyes for a moment. He saw guilt, misery, and a profound sadness, and he couldn't bring himself to care. He turned and went back to the main road. He hailed a cab that was passing by, and went back to the hotel.
Forty-five minutes later he sat at one of the two bars in the hotel, at the very end of the row of bar chairs. There were quite a few people there, it being only nine pm and a holiday, but most weren't sitting at the bar; the occupied the small round tables that filled the majority of the room.
I should have seen this coming. He stared down into the last little bit of his drink before he threw it back and signaled to the bartender that he required another. He brought it over and Anders immediately took a long drink. He put his glass down and rubbed his eyes hard. He couldn't get the image of the man's dead blank face out of his mind. His seamlessly added itself to the growing number of dead faces that haunted Anders' nightmares – it was three more dead bodies than Anders had ever wanted to see. He thought of the woman in the alley – Diane Porter – and how scared she looked in the brief moment he had seen her face before he bolted, and the Frenchman's. . . and Helen's.
Anders shuddered and downed the rest of his drink, grimacing at the burn and willing himself to get drunk already so he could just stop thinking.
The bartender brought him another drink, giving him a look that clearly said "cheer up mate" and Anders managed a weak smile.
He heard someone sit down next to him, and the turned wearily to ask them to move away. He started, nearly knocking over his glass when he saw Mitchell. He wore the same clothes as earlier, the little bit of blood he'd gotten on the neck of his t-shirt was dried dark brown. He wore Anders' green gloves, even though it was quite warm inside.
"I thought you'd be here," he said, his voice quiet.
"What the fuck happened?" Anders blurted, unable to stop himself. He was a little louder than he'd intended to be, and several heads turned in their direction.
Mitchell didn't answer at first, so Anders quickly finished his drink, paid his tab and grabbed Mitchell by the arm to pull him out of the bar. They walked through the hotel back to their room in silence.
Once their door was closed behind them Anders walked to the window. He stared out at the view, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He could see a corner of the bed slump down when Mitchell sat heavily, but he couldn't actually see Mitchell. "What happened?" he asked, his voice calmer this time. When Mitchell didn't reply quickly enough Anders turned, hands going to his hips, both eyebrows raised. "Well?"
"I lost control," Mitchell finally said, his voice cracking, eyes to the ground.
"Well no shit. It's just like a drug, isn't it? Only relapsing on heroin or meth or whatever only hurts you, this killed someone! I thought you were ready to be done!"
"It's not that easy Anders! I need blood! I'm a fucking vampire!"
"No, Mitchell, you don't need it. It makes you feel better and that makes it a drug." Anders paused, staring at Mitchell as he stared at the ground. "You're a drug addict, Mitchell, who won't stop."
Mitchell's head snapped up, eyes angry and locked onto Anders. "This was not my fault! I did not ask to be turned into a vampire, I never wanted to drink blood! And that's really nice, coming from you. You're an alcoholic Anders, you're going to kill yourself if you don't stop drinking like you do!"
"Don't turn this on me Mitchell, my drinking doesn't kill people! Even with my admittedly fucked up worldview killing people is wrong. They had families, and careers, and people that will miss them!" He was yelling.
"I can't stop, Anders. I've tried!" Mitchell surged to his feet.
"Can't or won't? Tell me the truth Mitchell, did you even try? When you left for a week to 'get clean'? Did you try or did you just lie to me?" Mitchell's silent stare was all the answer Anders needed. "You know, I have never lied to you."
"I'm sorry I lied-"
"Yeah? Tell it to someone who cares." Anders turned back to the window. He watched Mitchell's reflection as he stood for a moment, a variety of emotions ranging from fury to sadness crossing his face. Finally he turned, hands clenched at his sides as he left the room. The door's slam sounded especially loud in the silent room.
Anders stood, staring out the window without seeing the view for a good five minutes. He heaved a sigh, dropped his arms to his side, and turned. He went back downstairs, except this time he went to the other bar. It was later, but there was still a good number of people out. He found another stool at the edge of the bar and sat down.
If he were honest with himself he was miserable. His feelings were all jumbled up inside him and he didn't want any of them. He was angry at Mitchell for lying to him, and angry at himself for trusting when a vampire said he would stop drinking blood. How could he be so stupid!
He was also sad. Anders had always had trouble trusting people, and it always seemed that when he could finally let go, they betrayed him. He had trusted his parents to be there when he was a child, and they both left. He trusted his brothers to not be complete dicks to him and act like brothers, and, with the exception of Ty, they had broken that trust.
And then he went and trusted Mitchell. He looked down at the glass of whiskey and coke that the bartender placed in front of him and frowned. I should have known better. He took a drink.
A few drinks later he mused on how he was, deep down, not surprised. The way Mitchell had been only a day after he started feeling the effects of blood withdrawal – Anders was pretty sure he would have done the same in Mitchell's shoes.
But he still shouldn't have lied to me.
"What's a good looking guy like you doing drinking alone on New Year's?" Anders jumped slightly. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts he hadn't heard a woman sit down next to him. He set his glass down and turned in his chair to look at her. She looked about his age, brown hair and eyes with too much makeup. She had an American accent and wore a very low-cut dress. She was perched on the stool next to him, her elbow braced on the bar with her half full wine glass in her hand.
"I should ask you the same question," he said, his usual come-hither grin spread across his face without even thinking about it. The woman smiled back, more than just a night of conversation in her eyes. She looked him up and down as she sipped her wine. Anders downed his drink, suddenly starting to feel everything he'd had to drink that night. "So, are you staying here?" she asked, her voice low and sultry. Despite himself Anders laughed.
"You don't even want to know my name?"
"Not particularly."
"Well alright then."
Mitchell walked back to the hotel slowly. He was in no hurry to get back, but he knew he had to. He'd always hated it when he fought with a friend, and with Anders being a. . . whatever he was, Mitchell felt even worse. He had no idea what he could say or do to fix things, but he resolved that he would try.
He entered the lobby, and wondered if Anders would even been in their room, or if he went down to the bar again. He frowned, and thought, Of course he went back to the bar. He decided he would go upstairs and wait for Anders to come up in his own time. He went to the lift, and a couple got off. Mitchell hit the button to take him to his floor and heaved a sigh as the doors closed. The ride took less than a minute, and when he stepped out into the hall it was empty. He walked down the hall with his hands in his pockets, trying to think about what he would tell Anders. Yes he had lied, and he wasn't going to make excuses, but there was nothing he could do! He's a vampire – trying to stop drinking blood was like willfully malnourishing himself. He could still survive, but he'd be weak, a shadow of his former self. Not to mention always fighting temptation. Always hungry.
He got to the door, and as he went to unlock it, it flew open and Mitchell was face to face with a woman he had never seen before. His mind went blank, and he barely registered the surprised flush that spread across her face. She said nothing as she slipped out the door. Mitchell watched, a frown on his face, as she walked quickly down the hall to the elevator.
Mitchell turned back to the door, the situation fully sinking in and anger flaring up in his gut. He stepped in and saw Anders laying on the messed up bed, naked and uncaring. His anger spiked.
"What the fuck is this?" He pointed out the door.
"What does it look like?" he said, his voice tired and resigned.
"It looks like you were fucking some slag."
"Yeah, so?"
"I- what?" Mitchell cried. "I can't fucking believe you!"
"Believe what, Mitchell?" Anders said, sitting up. "Do you think I cheated on you? Cheated on what! We're not in a relationship!" Mitchell couldn't tell which of them Anders was trying to convince. His fury faded and he was left with a cold, empty feeling.
"I j- you-" He stopped himself and took a deep breath. "You can't honestly say that what we've been doing is just casual fucking."
"What do you want me to say? That I'm in love with you?"
"No! Just that I'm not some casual fuck buddy!" As he said it, Mitchell realized that that's exactly what he was to Anders – no matter what Anders was to him.
"And what's wrong with that, hm? Nice and simple."
"You're unbelievable." Mitchell crossed to the side of the bed he'd slept on and started shoving his clothes back into his bag. He left his toiletries in the bathroom, not even thinking about them. He picked up his small duffel and turned to leave.
"Mitchell, wait." Mitchell stopped, his back to Anders. "Where are you going to go? It's midnight."
Mitchell didn't answer. He simply left.
He didn't have a plan; he just knew he couldn't spend another minute in that room. He was sad, but mostly he was angry. He only wished he could tell whom he was angrier at: Anders or himself.
When he got outside he called a cab. It arrived ten minutes later and he asked the driver to take him to the train station. The earliest train left at six thirty, and Mitchell planned to be on it.
He slept on a bench, using his duffel bag as a pillow. It wasn't comfortable, but he'd slept on worse in the past. He woke at six when it opened and people started arriving. He quickly bought a ticket for the first train back to Bristol and was heading home at six-thirty.
That night Mitchell sat in a diner across town from his home. He'd been there, sat in a corner table alone for almost an hour now. He stared at his prey – an older man who also sat alone, eating and drinking his coffee slowly as he read a newspaper. Mitchell had no idea who he was, just that he was easy prey.
He'd spent the day with Siobhan, Tom, and a few others. He wouldn't call them friends, but they were fun to hang out with. They didn't really do much besides watch television, drink and talk about their latest kills. When they asked Mitchell he told them about the Frenchman, but left out all of the other details. They'd also wanted to know all about his trip, but he told them to mind their own fucking business – it didn't matter to him that he'd apparently been missed.
And though he tried not to think about it, he was still furious with Anders – and, though he'd never admit it, he was heart-broken. Mitchell had been in some serious relationships over the years, and though they'd all ended, usually because his immortality finally became a problem, he'd always known where he stood in them. With Anders, he had no clue – and apparently he'd been the only one, because Anders knew exactly where wanted to be. Mitchell was no more to him than a way to get off, and it killed Mitchell that he hadn't seen it. Even more than that, though, Mitchell hated that it bothered him so much, that he'd let himself put so much into this relationship. It had been easy – there really wasn't much drama, beyond Anders' own melodrama, and they really understood each other.
Apparently not well enough.
All of his trying not to think about Anders – and subsequent thinking about Anders – had left Mitchell frustrated and confused. So he did what he always did when he wanted to clear his head: he went and staked out his prey, intent on killing him.
Except this time he couldn't stop thinking about what Anders said about blood being an addiction and not a necessity, and how he if didn't have to kill, how could he go on killing? Mitchell hadn't always known that he didn't need blood, but by then he'd already had it for years and he'd never really thought about stopping. Then he'd "tried" stopping a few times throughout the years, and then he'd given it one serious attempt, which failed, before he gave up.
He stared at the old man, his own coffee sat cold and forgotten on the table in front of him. As he stared a flash of anger went through him, but he couldn't tell who or what he was mad at – but it didn't matter because as soon as the old man stood and left the diner Mitchell forgot about everything else. He took out some money for his coffee and put it on the table, standing to follow the man.
The sun was just starting to set, setting the street ablaze in orange light. The old man walked slowly, and Mitchell followed at a leisurely pace. He looked as inconspicuous as he could, dressed in dark jeans and a black winter coat. He had a scarf around his neck and his hands – clad in Anders' green gloves – were in his pockets.
Mitchell tried to push away his thoughts, but with every step he took his doubt grew. Do I need it? Do I want to kill again?
The answer to both was no, and Mitchell knew it.
He started walking faster, gaining on the old man as the anger and sadness grew, consuming him. He could just make out the man humming a song.
It all came to a head, and when he was just within arms reach of the man Mitchell tore himself away with a pained gasp, and threw himself against the wall. He hit his head, just hard enough to clear it but not enough to do any damage.
"Ow. . ."
"Are you alright?"
Mitchell jerked his head to the left and saw the old man looking at him with concern in his eyes. "Yeah fine, just having a bad day is all."
"Go home and have some tea, that's what my wife always says – tea to cure a bad day."
"I definitely will, thank you." Mitchell watched the man smile and walk away again. When he was gone Mitchell slid down until the wall until he was sitting on the concrete sidewalk, knees up and his head in his hands.
He felt the weight of his decision echo through him as one thought repeated in his head.
I don't want to kill anymore. . .
