I have to be honest with you, I'm sorry. I mine as well say it now, because I'm not sure what came over me to make me think, and especially write, this chapter. Once it was in my brain I had to write it, though, and it was really planned from the beginning. Although I was excited to write it, I was even a little pained when it came to the not-so-great part. Okay, it's awful, but what's a story without some drama? A boring story, that's what it is. Still, once again I'm sorry, but not really—because I love drama but the sadness I will apologize for. Honestly, I feel worse for Beatrice than I do Mistel, but anyway...
Thank you for the reviews, they literally motivate me to write :) I was sick all week, but usually when I don't answer you back that means my anxiety is shooting through the roof, which it kinda is right now, but anyway please keep reviewing ^.^ It makes me oh-so-very happy.
TW: Violence... I guess that's a trigger? I think it would be best I warned you, if it were just a little violent I wouldn't feel the need to warn you but, alas, it will be pretty damn violent, so here we are. Fritz won't be in the story as much after this chapter... He won't be dead—probably—but he certainly won't be in the story as much so I'm sure a lot of you will be happy to read that—I know I am. Well, if you hate Fritz as much as I do, then this chapter will surely put a smile to your face. Make me water your goddamn crops and this is what you get, violence.
Chapter Four
"Brother, if you listen to that song one more time I'm going to—" Iris yelled harshly through the music, her eyes unflinching as she looked up from her workstation. Mistel stopped pacing and rotated the dial slightly on the record player to turn it down, his own eyes calm—uncaring, even; despite the turmoil that was happening inside his head. "You're going to what, Iris?" he retorted bitterly.
"I'm going to snap the record right in half, is what!" she scoffed, then rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers. He could understand why the song was beginning to irritate her, he had to of listened to it at least fifteen times already.
The song was almost over, but it abruptly ended before it could even finish as he picked up the stylus and hung it above the record in the exact spot he knew it would begin. He looked her dead in the eyes while he fiercely said, "I dare you to try."
"Fine, brother, listen to it til your ears bleed—I don't care!" she sighed loudly and slapped her hands down on the table. He gave a slight nod and released his hand, the stylus hitting the record with a screech, then the song began again. He watched as her face turned purple, as if she was holding in her breath, then she huffed, "You've gone mad, and it's beginning to drive me mad."
"If my madness is obscuring your creativity then by all means—leave," he said simply with a gesture of his hand to the stairs. "Or have you forgotten that I live here, too?"
"I just wish you wouldn't be so insane about these things, it's insufferable," she sighed again, her eyes darting to the clock for a moment. "It's nearly nine, I think it's about time for your pacing and inner musings to end."
"Musings? Is that what you call it?" he chuckled dryly. "So? It's almost nine? What does that mean to me? That I should be worrying about 'after hour' happenings, now? Thank you, sister, that's exactly what I'd like to muse about," his voice took on a mocking tone as he threw his hands up in the air for a second. He wished she would just shut up—the sound of her was beginning to become insufferable.
"No, that wasn't what I meant, please don't muse upon that!" Iris insisted, her eyes turning wild while she looked him up and down, as if to look into his mind and make sure he wasn't thinking of such things. "I only meant that she's probably in bed right now. Farmers go to bed awfully early, you know? Even on Saturdays they don't have the pleasure of staying up until they desire—they have no choice on the matter; they have to work very early on all days."
He sighed and looked away for a moment. Did she really think that assuring him that farmers go to bed early was going to ease his mind? If so she knew him a lot worse than she thought she did. "Oh, they do? Ah, I'm cured! Thank you!" he mocked again. "She stays here until at least ten on most Saturdays."
"Well, it's not most Saturdays, now is it?" she said, her voice sounding annoyed. She was correct, it wasn't most Saturdays. If it were she would be here, and they would probably be ending one game or another, almost ready to say their goodbyes; and everything would be fine and move along as it always did in the small town—instead he was alone, or nearly alone if he were to consider Iris working next to him company, while his inner musings taunted him. "Beatrice—"
"Beatrice?" he asked confusingly, cutting her off. "Since when do you call her Beatrice?"
"You talk about her so much I've almost forgotten I call her Bee," she returned. "If you're so worried about her then why don't you go for a stroll? Perhaps you'll end up at her farm and can see for yourself that she's asleep."
"I know she's not asleep. She said she can never get used to these hours, no matter how hard she tries. Most likely she's listening to a song or reading a book, just trying to get her head to settle down."
"See! You know her so well, why don't you just go? And if she asks why you're there so late, just tell her the truth—that you've worried yourself sick over her and wanted to make sure she was okay," she said, her voice now taking on a desperate tone.
"I said most likely," he said firmly. "I didn't consider the special occasion. You're deferring me from the subject of discourse, anyway."
"I think a stroll would do you some good, it may clear up your discomforted head."
"Fine," he resigned, walking over to the staircase. "If you wanted to get rid of me that badly you could have just said so." He started to go down the stairs carefully, not eagerly—he wasn't about to make the same mistake again by running down them, and what would he be eager for? To find out that he was correct, that his brooding was good for something? He wasn't even sure if his legs would carry him to her farm, and if they did he wasn't sure if he would be able to make it there without throwing up—or rather dry heaving, as he hardly ate anything today and nothing would probably come up.
He heard Iris cross the room and sigh in relief, then a screech of the record as it stopped. Is that really all she wanted, to stop the song? He slammed the door loudly behind him. He may have been being a little ridiculous but she was being insane. She should have known that the night would go like this. How could it go any differently when he knew that his love was on a date with another? To act calmly would be the doings of a madman, if anything she should have been happy that he wasn't attempting to pull out his hair, or dash his head against the wall until it bled. That was what he really felt like doing, but for her sake decided that pacing and musings would have to do.
The night held a crisp in the air, a coldness that shook him to his bones. He looked up to see an array of gray scattered clouds, just begging to pour down on him and ruin his mood even further—and that's precisely what they did as he began to mount the eastern staircase, he felt a drop of rain hit his cheek and roll down the side of his face. Wonderful, he thought bitterly, that's exactly what I need, to catch pneumonia. If that's what Iris wished that's what he would do—walk around in the rain until he caught some disease, preferably a deadly one so he wouldn't have to think such awful things anymore.
Apparently his thoughts did not suffice. He stopped dead in his tracks as he reached the Piedmont area. He wasn't sure if the scene in which he was viewing was reality or just simply in his head, and he had finally went insane. After a moment he couldn't care less if it were just in his head or not, it was too much for him to handle. His heart squeezed with emotions he didn't want to feel, they hurt too much to feel. He felt the blood drain from his face as he clenched his hands at his sides, his whole body heating up in anger—no, pure hatred.
His Beatrice, or who he thought was his Beatrice, was propped up against the only tree on the left side, her hands pulling on the boy's scarf around his neck in an attempt to draw him closer in their wild embrace—he was a boy, not a man, as a man wouldn't even try to kiss a woman in such a place. A pity, really. He used to like that tree.
Once he would have fled from the scene, once he would have cried his eyes out and banged his head against the wall until he forgot the view. Not anymore. He would stand there, defiant, until one of them noticed he was there; no matter if he went madder by the second. His eyes flashed between red and green in rapid sucession. Jealousy was one thing in itself, as was anger; but them mixed together made him feel more enraged than he had ever felt before, and doubt he would ever feel again.
Luckily, he didn't have to watch for very long, as it began to rain harder and Beatrice removed her lips from his to look up at the sky and giggle. Giggle? Is she seriously giggling? As they rolled back to the ground they met his, and she let out a large gasp as she removed her hands and defensively put them up in the air, the color draining from her face. "M-Mistel?" she stammered, or rather slurred, for what else but a great amount of alcohol could come over her to make her do such a thing?
"Beatrice," he tried to reply simply, but alas his voice quivered in anger as he took several strides toward them—not too close, though, for fear that once he reached them he would grab the redheaded fool and punch him square in the face. He felt as if someone had punched him right in the gut, he could hardly breathe at all.
As he approached them the fool took his head out of the crook of her neck, and at the sight of seeing Beatrice looking so startled he followed her gaze to see him standing there. The fool looked rather startled himself, and released her so she dropped to the ground, his head hung low as his face twisted into a bashful expression. Mistel couldn't believe he had the audacity to even attempt to look bashful at being caught, for what other reason would he have embraced her in such a place if he didn't want to get caught.
"What's going on here?" Mistel asked, his eyes staying locked on her wide, ruby ones.
"Nothin', we were—" the fool attempted to answer, but before he could Mistel turned to him, growling, "Did I ask you?"
"No, but—"
Enough was enough. If the fool was insisting on talking to him then he would, but it wouldn't be pleasant. Mistel grabbed him by his scarf, twisting his hand around it and pulling the fool to him until his nose reached his. With wild eyes he searched his to see them wide in fear—terrified, even. He was glad, he should be afraid. "Fine," Mistel hissed between closed teeth. "You tell me, then. What's going on here?"
"We just had a little to drink, and I was walkin' her home, and..." the fool's voice trailed off as he felt his face twist into a grimace. He cackled like a madman, he tried his best not to but that's what he felt like at the moment—a madman.
"Ah, that's all. You just had a little to drink and thought to yourself, 'You know what would be a really great idea? To take advantage of an inebriated woman, that should work out just fine'," Mistel boomed, his grasp on the fool becoming tighter.
"No, no! That wasn't what I meant—"
"Who cares what you meant! It's what you did that matters. Look at her!" He turned his hand slightly to allow the fool to see her. He looked at her, too, and really wished he hadn't. She looked absolutely frightened, as if she might faint, but her eyes were glazed over in inebriation; it disgusted him, frankly, to see her like that, and it disgusted him even more to know that the fool had a part in making her that way.
"You're scarin' us, bud!"
"I'm scaring you?" Mistel laughed loudly. "Good, you fool! You should be afraid! As for Beatrice, I'm terribly sorry to have frightened her like so, but she can leave if she wants. You, though, I'm not done with—and I'm not your friend, please try to get that through your pea sized brain."
"Look, we were just kissin', is all..."
He had heard enough. He wound his hand back as he abruptly released the fool, taking him aback, then punched him as hard as he could in the nose. The fool howled in pain as he landed hard upon his back, and Mistel took the opportunity to jump on top of him and growl between punches, "You—Don't—Kiss—A Drunken—Woman—Do you understand?"
"Mistel, please!" he heard Beatrice shriek and his arm faltered above the redheaded fool. "You're going to kill him!"
Kill him? That sounded like the best idea he had ever heard. "No one would be surprised to find a drunken fool in the river..." Mistel hissed so close to the fool he could smell the wine on his breath. He turned to Beatrice for a moment and asked, "How does that sound? I'll drown him in the river, and leave him there for dead. It will be our little secret, all right?"
"Mistel, no!" Beatrice gasped loudly. "You can't do that! He didn't do anything to deserve that!"
"He deserves nothing less!" Mistel thundered, spitting upon his face. He put an arm to his gory looking face, wiping away spit, blood, rain and all. Mistel was a little confused as to why the fool wasn't fighting back, but decided to ignore it; he had never been in a fight before, but was pretty sure he would be fighting tooth and nail if someone spit on his face.
"I swear, I didn't mean to—" the fool squeaked and Mistel punched him once more on the side of his head, growling, "Oh, you shut up! I thought we were done with you speaking, and if it's all the same to you I'd prefer to never have to hear your shrill, uneven voice again!"
"Don't hurt him anymore! I swear it was consensual!" Beatrice pleaded desperately.
"Nothing, my dear, is consensual when you're under the influence, please know that." Mistel grabbed him by the scarf and dashed his head against the hard ground, the fool's eyes drifting into the back of his head for a second. He looked back to Beatrice to see her hands covering her mouth, the look on her face making it abundantly clear that she really feared he might kill him. He sighed loudly, "Is that really what you wish, though? For me to stop hurting him?"
"Y-yes!" she laughed nervously. "Please, it's all I'll ever ask of you! Just stop this foolishness!"
The more she pleaded for his life the more he felt like hurting him. He released him and sighed, "If that's what you wish, my love, then that's what you'll get." The fool was really lucky she had stayed, otherwise he probably would have beaten him until he could no longer be recognized. Then again, he could hardly be recognized now with the blood streaming down his face.
Mistel climbed off of him and Beatrice sighed in relief, "Oh, thank goodness! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
"Thank me once more and you will have nothing to be thankful for," Mistel harshly said through the rain, still looking at him and what he had done to him. The fool hastily stood, his eyes darting from the bridge and to town, then back again; as if he was debating with himself whether to go to the clinic or not. "The clinic's not open now, you fool! No—don't talk—I can see you attempting to open that sorry excuse for a mouth, just leave."
"I'm so sorry, Bee, I didn't know you had a boyfriend," the fool spoke anyway. As he dashed from them Mistel called after him, "Oh, no, I'm not her boyfriend. If I were you would have been found dead in the river! Farewell, and please don't let me see your face again!"
Mistel laughed madly as his silhouette faded into the night, then turned to Beatrice. She still looked awfully frightened, and he grew more worried as the seconds ticked by and she stayed that way. What was she frightened of? Surely it couldn't be of him. He gathered her in his arms and embraced her so tightly the wind was knocked from her, and he fiercely asked, "Did he hurt you? Was a single hair on your head harmed? I swear I'll get him and finish the job if he did!"
"I'm fine, I'm fine!" she insisted as he released her, her eyes still wide with fear. "Did you kill him?"
"Did I... Did I kill him?" he chuckled dryly. "You're joking, right? You did see him run off, correct? Or have you gone even madder than me?"
"Will he be okay?" she asked softly, looking to where he had run off. "There was lots of blood... Are you sure you didn't kill him? I don't want you to go to jail..."
"I swear I didn't kill him, he'll be fine," he assured her, but she still had a dazed look upon her face. "We were talking about you, though. Will you be fine? Is your head all right?"
"My head," she took a deep breath, then exhaled, "Is fine. What about yours, though? Are you as mad as a hatter, now? Do you intend to kill everyone I've ever kissed?"
"You must be joking," he yelled, startling her again. "You've gone insane, that must be it—to think I wouldn't go mad at seeing anyone kiss you, let alone him when he has you like...like this!"
"So, you're in love with me?" she mused, mostly to herself. His eyes widened in shock for a moment. She was too drunk to hear him call her 'my love', too drunk to remember it. "What a quaint notion, someone like you in love with me."
"Let's go, before either of us catch something in this rain," he said simply, putting his hand to the small of her back and guiding her toward town.
"Where are we going? I don't live over here!"
"I'm taking you back to my house," he chuckled at seeing her looking so confused.
"What are you going to do to me?!" she asked wildly.
"Wh-what?" he sputtered. "Nothing! I'm not going to do anything to you! Iris and I will just take care of you, how can you be alone when you're like this? I thought we were best friends, Beatrice, yet you still can't trust me?"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said in a low tone, hanging her head. "It's a force of habit, as you saw apparently it's needed." She was right. If someone as simpleminded as him could take advantage of her then what would someone like himself do? The thought almost made him vomit, but before he could apologize she started to weep. He wouldn't of noticed through the rain if it wasn't for the loud sobs racking through her body. "I'm so sorry! If I really thought that you thought I'd prefer to kiss him to you, I'd slice my own throat!"
She was drunk and saying things she didn't mean—that had to be it, her words held no truth in them. "No tears, I can't stand to see you cry," he pleaded, grabbing her hand and kissing the back of it. "You're too beautiful for your face to be distorted in such a way, and for what—me? My feelings? What do they matter? More importantly, are you all right?"
"Me? What do I matter?" she sneered, harshly recoiling her hand. "I don't deserve for you to be so nice to me. I don't deserve cute hand kisses or anything of the like! I deserve to be drowned in the river with Fritz!"
He winced. She said his name, and it didn't sound nearly as bitter as it should have. "What in the world would make you say that? Why—why do you think you deserve that?"
"I kissed him," she whispered, gasping slightly.
"You were—you are—drunk," he stated flatly.
"No, Mistel, you don't understand!" she raised her voice, and he started. He had never heard her sound so loud while they were just simply talking. She grasped him by his forearm and shook him slightly, her eyes wild as she continued, "I kissed him—me! And you almost killed him!"
"You're—"
"So what! I probably would have done it without a drop of alcohol! He was being so very nice to be all night—no one's ever nice to me... You're nice to me, sure, but not in that kind of setting—and I was stupid, oh so very stupid. I think I was more intoxicated by the attention, honestly..."
"Is that all you want, attention?" he snickered. Was that all she really wanted? Could she not see that had so much attention to give? "It's yours. In what form would you take it?"
"In a kiss, apparently," she huffed loudly, crossing her arms below her chest. He could nearly see the gears working in her head as she shrunk into it, her eyes dilating while they gazed off into the distance. She was angry with herself. That was unacceptable. A creature such as herself shouldn't have been self-loathing, that was just ridiculous.
"Another day, when your head is more clear, I'll give you as many kisses as you desire—just not today, not right now." He wouldn't kiss her because she was intoxicated, but especially didn't want to because he was ravishing her not long ago; and if he tasted of grass as much as she said he did, he really didn't wish to ever experience that.
She nodded her head and looked away, but before she could he noticed her face grew redder than it was before due to the alcohol, and she started to hum loudly. That was strange in itself—the humming, but why did it always seem to him that only he made her blush so madly? Shouldn't her face have been so red when she was being embraced beneath a tree? All he did was offer her as many kisses as she wanted, he didn't say anything vulgar or crude. Was this an act she put on, just for him? She would have to be a damn good actor to put on a performance in her current state.
Out front of his door now, he turned to her and put his hands to her shoulders, calmly insisting, "You must try to calm down. Iris is going to make a fuss as is, then when she sees you she's going to throw a fit. I'll have to explain what happened one thousand times, and—"
He was cut off by Iris opening the door, sighing loudly, "Oh, thank goodness, you're all right. You're drenched! When you didn't come back after it started raining I grew—Oh, and you have Beat—Bee with you, why does it look like she's been crying? And why are you so filthy? Your sleeves...they're soaked in blood. Oh, dear." Iris put a hand to her head and shut her eyes, her face growing distressed. "Inside, both of you. What have you done?"
"What have I done?" he asked defensively as they stepped through the doorway, Iris closing the door behind them. "Why do you always assume I've done something?"
"It's not really a matter of assuming, brother, you have blood along your sleeves and a very sad looking Bee. It's more of a deduction, really."
"If that's what you're so good at, deduce, then, detective Iris," he said mockingly as Iris went into the closet and grabbed two towels, throwing one to him and placing the other around Beatrice protectively. She sniffed Beatrice and took in her dazed look, then shot him a glare and said, "She's been drinking."
"She has been," he answered simply, watching as Iris put a hand to her chin and looked at them both equally in turn.
"My deduction is simple, really, then. You found her and the fool kissing somewhere—anywhere, it doesn't matter, really. Perhaps at her house? No, that would just be ridiculous. How would you have gotten in without a key? Like I said—it doesn't matter. Then you grew angry—of course you did, jealousy is such an ugly thing, brother, you must really learn to control that—and once you were angry I'm guessing you what? Threw him from her and then beat him into a bloody pulp? Then fled the scene with her? Did you kill him? And now I'm harboring a fugitive?"
"Mistel, did you kill him?" Beatrice squeaked, and Iris put an arm around her.
"No, I didn't kill him—Beatrice, you were there! Why does everyone jump to murder automatically?"
"Well, look at her! You have her so frightened it looks as if she has witnessed a terrible crime. You haven't a single bruise on you—well none that I can see, anyway. Most importantly, you have blood on your sleeves! How do you expect me to clean all of that blood?"
"You say that as if you often have blood to wash off of something—as if I'm a murderer!"
"Brother, please. Stop saying that word, every time you do she gives a little jump!"
"Yes, yes, no more talk of murders," he sighed, and watched Beatrice—indeed, she did give a little jump. It was adorable, honestly, and he had to stifle a chuckle at the view. "Now will you please get her changed and out of that soaked dress, she's going to catch a cold!"
"What do you expect me to have for her? She's so little, look at her!" Iris cooed, cradling her head to her chest. "Are you sure you would like to have her as your lover? Can't I claim her as a sister, instead? She's not blonde, and is a little too tan, honestly—from working in the fields all the time? Has she always been so tan?"
"Ew, Iris, no, gross. It's already been done," he scolded, and Iris narrowed her eyes at him, giving him a strange look. "In my head, Iris, goodness! Why must you always make everything more uncomfortable than it needs to be?"
"Well, you made it sound so very dirty how could I think anything else? And now look at her face—it's grown all red! How cute. No wonder you want to kiss her, she's adorable! But seriously, has she always been so tan?"
"She grows steadily tanner by the seasons, even in Fall, I don't really understand it," he sighed loudly. Was that really what Iris was hung up on, how tan she was?
"Hmm. I see," Iris said, taking Beatrice's head in her hand and turning it in all different directions. "You need to wear sunscreen—What, Mistel? She does, don't scowl at me! The sun will age you before your time, and how can she be my younger sister if the sun does that to her?"
"I wish you would stop saying that!" he boomed, and took Beatrice's hand in his. It was downright freezing, and he attempted to warm it up with his other.
"I-I'm sorry, Iris, I-I don't think I can be your little sister," Beatrice stammered, looking absolutely confounded. "I'm not sure how adoption works, but I think I'm too old." She turned to him and met his gaze, and he really wished she hadn't. Now that she was looking at him with those eyes he couldn't look away. "And I'm sorry, Mistel. I don't think we're lovers—are we? You need to, erm...make love, to become lovers, don't you?"
Iris laughed loudly, "Look at her! We have her all confused! She thinks we're talking about physical lovers, and she has gone all red again! And she has made you a little red, too, how cute! No, dear, not like that. When two people are in love they become lovers—Just pure, stupid simple love!"
"Iris," he hissed between clenched teeth. "Take her upstairs. Now."
"Yes, brother, I know. We wouldn't want her to catch a cold," Iris said simply as she led Beatrice upstairs. "A cold, can you imagine? Something that Marian could treat you for in five seconds, and he has you dead—all over a cold! You better get changed, too, brother, otherwise you might catch a cold!" Iris laughed loudly as he followed them up the stairs.
"What do you think I'm doing? Coming to watch her get changed? What do you take me for, a pervert?"
"Well, uh, yes, a little—but it's mostly my fault. I can be a little crude at times, and I suppose it's rubbed off on him," Iris mused to Beatrice as they walked into her room, then Iris suspiciously craned her neck out of the room and gestured for him to go into his own. What did she expect him to do, just stand there frozen in fear of what she might say to Beatrice alone? He didn't plan on it, but now that it was in his head it was all he could do.
Iris gave him a weird look and closed the door behind her, but it was like all she did was close a curtain around them; he could still hear them. He could hear Iris rummaging through her drawers, saying in a demanding voice to Beatrice, "Come on, take off that dress—it's clinging to you." Then after a moment it turned—angry? He was surprised, Iris hardly ever sounded enraged. "I like your matching bra and underwear, did you wear it just for him? I would say his name, but you see, Mistel has forbade it from being spoken in this house—so please, don't say it, unless you would like to have your mouth washed out with soap. I, for one, would certainly enjoy it, but that's a completely other matter entirely."
He was taken aback. Iris was being mean to her now that he wasn't in the room? She was being absurdly mean from what he could gather—and for no reason, too. He heard Beatrice speak but couldn't make out what she was saying, as she kept her voice low and it still sounded dazed. He could clearly hear Iris replying harshly, "Am I mad at you? Yes I'm mad at you! Have you already forgotten our little talk? I know you're not dense—so you haven't? Then do you understand why I'm—oh, you do? No, don't cry—I don't care about your tears. Save them for someone who does.
"Don't try to apologize. I warned you, Bee, and now look where you've landed us! I know it wasn't your fault—but ugh! Don't you have a mother to tell you not to get drunk when you're with such boys? You do, and she has? Then why are you such an idiot? What if Mistel had—no did, kill him. We don't know for sure that he didn't! Then he would go to jail, and he would be dead in five seconds I have no doubt! Then boop—Mistel would be gone and it would be all your fault.
"Hmm? How would it be your fault? You caused the violence, didn't you? You may not have actively seek to—or perhaps you did, I have no notion of have far your dastardly deeds go. You did kiss him first, didn't you? I see, I knew it. Then his death would be on your hands—how so? Seriously? You're dumber than a rock. If I must explain it to you—you see, from Mistel's perspective Fritz—ugh, I swear I'm not washing my mouth out with soap! I'll say his name if I want to! Fritz kissing you is seen as him kissing you without your permission. My brother has been raised right—you don't kiss someone under the influence of alcohol, especially a woman. Unfortunately it doesn't seem like you were raised the same.
"All these deaths would be on your hands! For disregarding completely everything I told you—that's what I'm really angry about. How dare you? After I took time out of my busy day to have a pleasant conversation with you—I told you our next wouldn't be. Honestly, I can't even stand to look at you! Put this t-shirt on and be out of my way. He may look fine now, but once you're gone he'll break—and gods be damned if I'm picking up all the broken pieces!"
He had heard enough. He would have done something sooner if it weren't for his fear had turned into shock, and he was frozen there. He shook his head and hastily ran over to Iris's room, then loudly banged on the door five times, shouting, "Iris, would you stop bullying her? You're being a—a..."
"A what? Come on, brother, say it!" Iris yelled back. "I will gladly wash your mouth out with soap, I don't care how old you are!"
"You know what you're being so there's no need for me to say it!" he harshly returned. "Have you gone mad? Saying this to our guest?"
"I haven't, and you had better be changed! You have sixty seconds before I throw her into your room, she's not mine to worry about."
He dashed off and into his room, then changed out of his clothes and into clean pajamas before the sixty seconds was even up. Forty-five, to be exact—he had counted. Apparently Iris had been, too, because as soon as he landed on the sixty Beatrice was unceremoniously shoved into his room with a gleeful, "Your turn."
She looked absolutely horror-stricken now, and as soon as she saw him she burst into tears, then threw herself into his arms. She started to weep on his shoulder, and he could feel her chest heaving compulsively as she sobbed. His arms hung in midair, he wasn't sure what to do. He wasn't the best at comforting people, but felt like it was his fault that she was like this in the first place, so he started to trace small circles on her back; hoping it would be of some help.
He wished Iris would have put her in more than just a t-shirt, but knew that she had probably done it on purpose just to make him uncomfortable. He could feel her bare legs against his, he could feel her barely clothed chest—and to his surprise he felt a lot more comfortable than he thought he would have. He would insist that she wear a pair of his pajama bottoms, it was too cold for her to just merely be wearing a t-shirt.
Apparently his act of comforting worked, as her sobs subsided to just crying. He let out a loud sigh of relief. Crying women was one of his weaknesses, but he wouldn't dare tell anyone that for fear that they would use it against him. He was taken by surprise when she grasped his shirt in her hands, her eyes desperate as they gazed into his. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't look away. With tears streaming down the sides of her face she softly said, "Iris told me to save my tears for someone who cares. You still care, don't you, Mistel?"
"Of course I still care," he fiercely responded. "Please pay no mind to what she told you. I am so terribly angry with her right now, I can't believe she decided that traumatizing you for a third time tonight would be a good idea."
"I've...hurt you, haven't I?" Beatrice whispered, looking away and fixating her eyes on the floor.
She sounded hurt, and it put a pang in his heart hearing her that way. Did the thought of hurting him hurt her? He hoped that it didn't—but at the same time, he kind of hoped that it did. He put his hand to her chin and tilted it to meet his gaze, replying simply, "I won't lie to you, Beatrice. You have hurt me, but you didn't deserve Iris's harsh words. You owe nothing to me, so if anything I've hurt myself with my own feelings. I shouldn't of done what I did, I should have just walked away and let you kiss him—you can kiss whomever you'd like."
"That's the thing, though..." she mumbled. "I'd rather kiss you. Can't you ever forgive me?"
"You've already been forgiven," he said with a smile. "But, I'm afraid, if you'd rather kiss me then this is the last time I'll be able to forgive you, is that understood?"
"Yes..." she muttered miserably.
"Will you be able to forgive yourself, is the real question."
Her grasp on his shirt loosened and she sighed, "No, I don't think so..."
"Well, you must," he insisted. "I will not have you hating yourself over me, that's just absurd. Now, I would like for you to put on a pair of my pajama pants and get into bed—it's nearly midnight and you have work to do tomorrow, I'm sure!"
"Okay...but where will you sleep?"
"In bed next to you, of course!" he chuckled, flashing her a big grin. "Or if it would make you more comfortable you could sleep on the sofa, but either way I'll have to stay with you."
"Wh-why?" she stammered, looking slightly taken aback.
"You've drank so much tonight, my love, I'm afraid you will choke on your vomit in your sleep. For what other reason than to look after you would I have insisted that you stay over?"
"I'm not sure if Klaus would like that..." she trailed.
He felt his heart skip a beat and his eye twitch. "Klaus? What would Klaus care?"
"We often have tea, and apparently he has come to think of me as a younger sister. He warned me not to stay over a boy's house. Of course I already knew that, but the way he said it...it frightened me a little."
"Well, I'm a man, not a boy, so the subject is moot," he said with a devilish grin. She often has tea with him? How much tea is she having? Does she just go around having tea with everyone?
"He said especially men," she giggled, and the mere sound lifted his spirits. She didn't sound nearly as drunk anymore, and she sounded happy again; to top it off, he had no doubt that he had made her happy.
"Well, then, I suppose you're just going to have to trust me as your best friend not to do anything distasteful and to just make sure you get through the night alive."
"As my best friend I can trust you, but as someone who's in love with me I'm not so sure...With love comes lust, does it not?"
"Trust me, my love overrides my lust by approximately ten-thousand percent," he said, trying to suppress another smile. She looked so confused by the statement. He turned around and bent his body slightly, opening his bottom drawer to pull out a pair of pajama pants. He handed them to her and turned back around, saying, "Let me know when you've finished."
After a moment he heard her say in her usual sing-song voice, "All done." He couldn't help but to smile at the sight of her, she looked utterly adorable. Although her eyes were slightly swollen, the rubies shone with joy. She grinned so large that her dimples showed, and her cheeks were tinted a slight pink. He put his hands to either side of her face, longing gazing into her eyes—he couldn't help himself, the look was too much for him. She let out a small gasp as her blush deepened, and from this close up he noticed small freckles sprawled across her cheeks and nose—he couldn't believe he had never noticed them before.
He wasn't aware she could look anymore adorable, and before he could do something that he would later regret he softly pressed his lips to her forehead; although he really wished he would have been pressing them to hers. "Please get in bed, before I take you there myself," he said in a teasing tone, leaning back slightly and giving her a small smirk.
"Fine, fine," she sighed, then jumped into his bed and pulled his purple blanket around herself. He grabbed his waste bucket and put it on the floor next to her head, just in case—he didn't want to have to clean up vomit if she did decide she needed to in the middle of the night, or in the morning. He carefully crawled in bed beside her, and let out a large sigh. He was glad that the day was over, it had been a whirlwind of emotions and he was exhausted.
To his surprise she wrapped herself around him, putting her arm across his chest and laying her head against it; right next to his aching heart. The ache felt different now, though. Instead of feeling like it might crush him it felt like there was a longing in it; one that he wasn't sure how to subside. He hoped she couldn't feel the way it beat so quickly, and he attempted to steady his breathing in order to steady his heart.
"Goodnight, darling," he heard her sleepily murmur against him, and he felt his eyes widen in shock and slight disbelief. Had his ears deceived him, did she really just call him darling? He felt his chest swell with pure happiness, and leaned down to sweetly kiss her forehead again, whispering back, "Goodnight, my love."
He could feel her grinning against him, and her arm around him tightened. He liked the way her warmth felt around him, it made him feel a comfort he had never felt before. He listened as her breathing evened out, and after a couple of minutes she started to snore softly. He snorted. He would have never taken her as someone who snored. It didn't bother him though, to him it was music to his ears.
He felt his lips twitch into a huge grin. This was by far the happiest he had felt in years. Although the night had its ups and downs, at least it had ended on a good note. He had a lot to ponder about now. Was she in love with him, as well? He truly couldn't take the anticipation anymore. If this was still a game to her then she was playing it awfully well. He had a feeling it wasn't. She was just a sad girl who longed for attention, perhaps even more than he. He would shower her with attention if that's what she desired. He would do just about anything to make her happy, so long as it didn't interfere with his own happiness.
Mistel fell asleep quickly that night with a grin plastered on his face; his heart happy in his chest and his head filled with hope.
A/N: Not too happy with the ending, but it will have to do. Anyway, so apparently don't mess with Iris or Mistel. Hoped you liked the chapter, and as always if you're reading please review ^.^