Out of breath, Mirko went to the bar for a beer. The music in this club was loud and animalistic, the beat thumping deeper in his chest than his heart, filling the atmosphere of the entire room. Even the lights throbbed in tandem with it, and what wisps of a melody there were barely mattered. Mirko didn't particularly like this kind of music on his own, but Martín did, and he certainly liked to watch Martín dance. And Martín could dance for hours. Late at night, in a place like this, Martín was equally as savage and sophisticated as the music, and this elegant wildness was what had so captured Mirko's heart in the first place.
It seemed that tonight Martín wanted an audience, because Mirko had only turned away for a moment before he was joined, Martín leaning back against the wood of the bar on his elbows. His eyes were gold and green, his hair slightly stuck to his forehead in places with sweat, and he was smiling a smug and mischievous smile. What an incredible sight. Mirko was smitten, wasn't he?
"Oh, hello there," Martín purred, and with one hand he caught the sleeve of Mirko's shirt, toying with it like he had mind to tear the whole thing off. "Aren't you a handsome fellow! Say, have we met before?"
Mirko grinned at him, not bothering to think of a witty reply, and then the man sitting in the stool on the other side of Martín coughed and mumbled under his breath: "Faggots."
Martín turned his head immediately.
"Oh, pardon me?" he said sweetly, but his posture changed, no longer loose and sensual but tense and arched and predatory. An instant and almost invisible shift- something Mirko only recognized from having spent so much time looking at him. "I didn't quite catch that, friend. Do you have something to say to me?"
The other man's eyes flicked between Martín and Mirko in a sullen glare, and for a moment it looked like maybe he wouldn't say anything- but then he made a mistake, and did.
"I said, you're a pair of faggots," he said, raising his voice slightly, his consonants slurred. "And this is a normal bar, not a faggot bar, you shouldn't be here."
"Aww," Martín cooed, and he tutted softly, and Mirko put a hand on his shoulder but he shrugged it off. "Come now, that's no way to be. Aren't we all friends here?"
He reached out and snagged the drunk man's tie, sliding it through his fingers. The atmosphere was like that of the air just before a lightning storm, and Mirko could smell the electricity.
Danger.
"...you have a problem with faggots, hmm?"
The other man recoiled, the expression on his red face one of revulsion, and he smacked Martín's hand away- and the moment he did so Martín's other hand found the back of his head, and slammed his face into the bar.
"Ah, you think you're better than me?" Martín purred, his voice was calm and silky and the man's nose was broken, blood splattered across his face and over the smooth wood. A woman shrieked, but the music was still playing.
"I don't think so," Martín continued, and with his fingers in the man's hair he lifted his head and slammed it down again, this time summoning a few more screams, heads turning towards the commotion. The sound the man's face made was a wet, cartilage crunch, and his neck had gone lax, he did not try to lift his head again. Both strikes had happened in less than fifteen seconds.
Mirko grabbed Martín around the waist and pulled him away, which warranted a surprised yelp, but Mirko was bigger and stronger and he dragged Martín toward the club's back door, uncaring of the crowd he pushed through to do it.
"Let me go, I wasn't done!" Martín snarled, and he hit Mirko's arms a few times, and then resorted to scrabbling at them like an animal when that didn't work. "You- how dare you- I'm in control here, Helsinki! Don't disobey me-"
Then they were outside, and the night air in the alley was cool and quiet, and Martín let out a frustrated, feral scream. Mirko released him, but for less than an instant, using Martín's own forward momentum to spin him around and catch him by the wrists instead.
"Mirko-"
"No."
Face to face, Martín closed his mouth, looking stunned. There was a bit of blood on his cheek, and his eyes were wide, completely disarmed.
"No," Mirko said again, and then he began to walk brusquely away, still leading Martín by the wrist- though, without resistance this time. Martín said nothing.
They made it safely away before the police arrived.
