Three’s A Crowd
silvasboys:
some-bloody-saint:
“Oh fuck off.” The venom tasted good in his mouth. Matthew began to cross the room to Marcos, Giovanni a vibrating, fiery beacon in the peripheral of his awareness (always), an anxious pit in his stomach, but belated fury sizzled around it. He positioned himself between the Exterminator and Marcos. His back felt naked.
Matthew’s fingers fumbled numbly with the clasp of his satchel. He could feel Giovanni’s eyes on him, though no retort was forthcoming; he was no doubt deliberating between embarrassing himself further and some other unknowable plot. Don’t always have a comeback, now, do you.
“Let me see it,” Matthew muttered, this time to Marcos, though the wound danced red-hot in front of his eyes. He blinked, frowned down into the contents of his kit.
“Matthew-” Marcos reached up and grabbed the man’s wrist as he tore open an alcohol wipe and raised it towards Marcos’ face. At first his grip was light, but when Giovanni shifted slightly in the background and Marcos refocused on him, his hand clenched around Matthew’s wrist and then abruptly released him. The utter disregard and disrespect Matthew exhibited was only matched in discomfort with the strangely convoluted anger now radiating off the Exterminator. Knowing he was repeating himself and already positive that it would make no difference, he whispered urgently, “Matthew please, just wait in the hall? I’ll be out in like five minutes, please-”
The urge to grab at Matthew was nearly overpowering. But Giovanni didn’t do that; he didn’t touch Matthew first. He never did that. But how much could he say here? What could he say to diffuse this situation? Matthew’s temper was unpredictable and capricious; at least it seemed so to Giovanni.
But he must be careful to avoid appearing soft.
“If you would like to discuss some dissatisfaction you may have,” Giovanni said in a tone that was carefully enunciated, warning, “then see me privately about it. In the meantime--”
Matthew rounded on him in a sudden movement which sent medical supplies showering to the cement floor in a deafening clatter.
"DON'T--" Matthew's hands froze, poised in the air as if in mid-reach for a strangle. “Start. Okay.”
“No, don’t you start with me.” Giovanni’s gaze flashed to Marcos’ wide eyes momentarily--they couldn’t do this here, right now, but-- “I can’t read your fucking mind, Matthew, whatever miscommunication is happening here is your fault. How many times have I--”
Giovanni found himself looming over the shorter man--not too close, the phantom impressions of Matthew’s teeth stinging in his face--and the subtle expression of a cornered animal darkened Matthew’s pupils and quickened his breath. But he did not back off because he never did, in Giovanni’s memory. He had the look of a dog itching for a throat between its teeth. Regret and caution flooded Giovanni’s haphazard thoughts, but at the edges, there was a dark satisfaction, too. The moment hung suspended.














