Everything is real, but it's also just as fake,

Tick, tick.

“You wish you could taste them,” came the gentle remark within the sudden deafening silence. “The sandwiches. Made with love, so it goes. But you can smell, still.

“Sunflowers.”

A beautiful sunset (A beautiful moment). Sandwiches (Perfect, even without being able to taste them). Sunflowers (They always reminded Ell of him).

The pain sank into his chest, sharpened rather than dulled by time. 

That memory had been unprodded until recently, and really, how was it meant to heal without a bit of that? But he’d left it alone right after that talk with Jack, hidden deep in a drawer. Literally. He had to wonder if Isfet had stumbled upon the ring by now. …He missed him so much right now.

Marcus didn’t respond at first. The moment after Elliott’s last fiery word was heavy like a stone, and like a stone it slowly sunk deeper between the two men while the seconds ticked by. The other gentleman held the Gaillot’s gaze, wordless.

There was then a soft shifting sound when he sat back and laced his fingers together atop his lap while his elbows rested at leisure atop the arms of the chair.

“Let me tell you a story.”

Marcus’ voice was gentle as he spoke, as though he only grew calmer the more furious Elliott became. His gaze had released Elliott and was flitting across the ceiling.

“We’ve been talking about patterns… Patterns of behavior. Imagine, if you will, something a little more literal.”

The other man’s gaze slowly fell and settled back on Elliott. The room grew still.

“Like all vampires, you shy from the sun, but nothing stops you from enjoying the warmth of grass when a day is drawing to an end.

“The air smells like earth.”

Elliott’s dark eyes remained planted on Marcus, even as he broke his gaze. Being the emotional one was a role reversal the Galliot was not pleased with but it wasn’t what made him decide enough was enough. 

Something in him told him he really didn’t want to hear Marcus’ story, as ‘pleasant’ as it seemed to start. 

Marcus wasted no time in continuing their little dialogue, as unruffled and poised as ever. Elliott was the one being unreasonable, here–emotional, the unreflective brown of Marc’s gaze suggested wordlessly as he launched right back in.

“I know you don’t learn from them. Always the same thing, over and over. Even now you want to run. Do you expect to be excused because you’re sad, Elliott? I suppose that’s been working for you lately, what with all the kind people in your life who eat your lies with a smile and spit out forgiveness after because you crawl up to them like a worm.”

“And you're basing this off of what? My mother’s gossip?” Elliott did not seem to have a high opinion of her words, clearly. There was no point in hiding his disdain anymore, but he still felt childish for it deep down. That shame wasn’t quite enough to quell the ramping anger that Marcus’ words inspired in him though.

“You don’t scare me,” Marc stated without batting an eyelash. He sat back up, one leg crossed and just as dignified as before. “And I’ll tell you. You’re playing a game where you get to have everything you want and not answer for what you’ve done. How many of your dear friends know everything about you, Elliott? How transparent have you been? How have you hurt them? Oh, but it doesn’t matter, does it? Because they’re just so kind, aren’t they? So kind and sweet and forgiving. You begin to think it’s possible to be forgiven for almost anything. What’s a consequence? It’s not like you’re using them.

“Oh, and you can be dear friends, as long as you don’t think about how that puts them in danger. Because, surely, none of your dearest ones are compromised in any way? Sensitive? Vulnerable–”

The distant disdain in Marc’s eyes had sharpened like blades as he spoke.

“–To the types of people you engage with regularly? But I suppose that doesn’t matter. They make you feel fuzzy.“

While Marcus readjusted himself with poise, Elliott was unable to recover. To the contrary, his posture and his face had become fixed—unmoving—with tension and yet it was still a poor representation for the storm erupting in his heart at Marcus’ words. 

The Gaillot was far behind the ability to self-soothe for this. Sure, he’d been making progress. But it was too soon for him to feel confident enough in himself or his actions. Something was holding him back. 

A feeling. 

That feeling that kept him trying to find meaning at the end of a bottle, in the arms of an attractive but ultimately detached stranger, in the physical and mental cage he’d allowed Sebastian to become. That feeling that kept him working for his family, even now. 

It was the feeling that love was not for him, and that he’d been wrong all along for desiring it. 

And it held a vice grip against his throat, stopping any objections from spilling from his lips. What was there to say? It wasn’t as if Elliott hadn’t thought the same damn thing on some days. That he’d been treated too well, and it was only a matter of time before everything caught up to him. To them too. 

All for what? So he could have something that wasn’t for him? And wasn’t it on brand that his first instinct was to eject himself from this situation entirely? To run?

But there was one thing Marcus had wrong. Consequences. Those, he’d never been able to outrun. Even if they had to be handed to him by the world, and not those who deserved his apologies. 

Oh, that fucking asshole.

Jean-Paul hated looking up at people. The easy solution to this would be simply to become taller but what, why the hell should he give in? He was normal sized and it was everyone else who was wrong.

But-

The vaporvoph paused before opening the drivers side door, let his gaze linger a minute on muscles and height. How completely, dreadfully, wonderfully mortal. Well, if he’s volunteering to be punched in the face by a pissed off mobster, then who is he to crush his dreams?

“I can handle myself better than you might think,” he said, “but if you insist, by all means, go ahead.”

He revved the engine of the old car, turned on the radio because he needed to concentrate on something besides the smell of vampires.

“Get in. We have a drive ahead of us. Also, thanks for putting that dreadful thing out, darling. No smoking in my car.”

Jean-Paul was actively smoking as he said that.

Elliott climbed into the car. Taking notice of the cigarette still hanging from his partner’s mouth he couldn’t help but an incredulous chuckle at the statement, which he wasn’t quite sure he’d regret or not. “Yeah, no problem.”

The vampire got comfortable, leaning an elbow on the door to prop his head up lazily with. Perhaps unfortunately for Jean-Paul, Elliott wasn’t sullen enough about the job not to make conversation. He also wasn’t dumb enough not to ask any questions.