desiderium | m. o'hara

two

TW: anxiety, mentions of death, blood, someone gets slapped (it's Miguel. Miguel gets slapped. And not on the ass, on the face)

  A teacup is placed on the dining table and slowly pushed towards me. I watch it suspiciously, eyes narrow. The steam curls, the scent a fragrant, calming chamomile. Miguel's fingers slide from the ceramic as he takes a seat opposite me.

  The clock ticks. In the trash can is a broken umbrella.

  My gaze flickers up to Miguel's imposter, who crosses his arm and stares me down like I'm a misbehaving child whom he doesn't know what to do with. I sit up straighter and try not to appear intimidated. Above me, I'm all too aware of Rosalina getting ready for bed. I'm so aware of her presence that it drives me up the wall.

  There is nothing more that I want to do than to grab her and run.

  I eye my opponent. He's Miguel copy-pasted, a perfect replica through-and-through; if you excuse the eyes and the horror-movie fangs. He's got the same solid build, the same strength. His hair is still in a disarray and pushed back from his face. He's still got the same thick eyebrows, the strong cheekbones, the same slope of his ox-like shoudlers.

  If I have to fight this thing, I'm not going to be the one winning.

  Miguel's cleaned the blood from his chin but I can still see it in my mind's eye; the forbidden ichor staining his stubble glossy, the redness that sits in tune with the vivid colour of his gaze. It had sickened me in the dark, but even more when he flicked the living room lights on and didn't turn away fast enough. Even now my stomach rolls at the sight of him, grows queasy at the memory of him sucking the blood from the man in the alley.

  His fingers, lithe and thick and dirty beneath the nails, wrap around his own cup. The storm rages on outside, and I feel as though it's a juxtaposition of our current predicament; quiet inside, and yet moments from shattering the windows. It's tense.

  I don't touch my tea. I don't have an appetite for it.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," Miguel prefaces. "That's not the reason I'm here."

His words are spoken with a deliberation designed to make me trust him. I ignore the pull to and furrow my brows.

  "I don't trust you."

  Miguel sighs and leans back in his seat. He stares at me intently. "I'm not a bad guy."

  I pull my teacup towards myself and take a small sip. It's too hot and I don't want to drink, but I take the excuse to hide my face. "Last I checked, good guys don't drink blood."

  Miguel tilts his head with a sly, thin smile. His eyes are slits of deadpan. "You're very judgemental, aren't you?" His brows tick upwards, almost in humour. "Do you judge books by their covers, too?"

  "You're haven't given me any good impressions to think otherwise," I remind bitterly.

  His shoulders roll with a hum of monotonous amusement, an acceptance of the fact I presented. He swirls his tea, and the liquid turns a tiny whirlpool within the cup's confines. It sloshes against the rim and threatens to spill. It doesn't.

  "I'm sorry for scaring you," he says. "And not just tonight. I'm sorry for scaring you for the last week."

  A tiny sliver of tension leaves my body when I don't detect any ill will or disingenuity in his apology. My hand reaches out of its own accord and brushes the tips of my fingers against his large, scarred knuckles.

  Taken aback, Miguel's red eyes jump to my face. My hand swiftly recoils. I wasn't meant to do that. He's so much like my Miguel that it confuses me.