Chapter 4: Chapter 4: Say No to Knits
He immediately notices the woman in the corner look up at him and almost takes it back when he sees a look of fear flood the man’s face. He steals himself and remains steady.
“Oh! Well-“
The man tugs at his sleeve for a moment then seems to come to sort of conclusion before planting himself with an air of conference Alastair did not expect from him.
“I apologize if the drink is not to your liking, sir,” he replies with the practiced sort of formality you learn in customer service.
His voice remains genuine, but the apology doesn’t reach his eyes. Then, all at once he lets out of bit of air, as if even that brief display of falsehood was already too much for him.
“If you have a complaint, I’m afraid I’m the one you’re looking for.”
“You own this shop?” Alastair questions with a bit of disbelief. It is a careful thing that allows him to keep any of the twelve emotions he feels out of his voice.
“Yes, sir. Well, me and my sister. My name is Oliver,” he notes and ends with the gentlest raise of his shoulders.
“You look like you’re in college,” Alastair states, the war in his head allowing comments that he’d normally only think slip through his lips.
Perhaps he is just hopeful. His family is opening the first vegan cafe and this man claims to be the source of some counterfeit product in direct competition. No matter how deserted this shop seems, people do hear of it and do speak of it. That’s enough in this vicious world of social media to ruin everything.
Still, a secret part kept locked beneath his lifeless heart, hopes beyond all hope that this cheery, sweet light before him is not the villain of this story. Even more does he hope this when this joy of man before him bursts into a musical peel of laughter.
“Yes, well, people say that a lot,” Oliver replies with a sigh. “I’m actually 26, but really I only finished a few years ago.”
He wearily wipes a hand along the side of his face which effectively smears the red smudge from his brow down across his cheek. Cute.
No. No! Not cute. Focus, Alastair.
“Do you really not like the drink? You are a vampire correct? I thought I—nevermind. It’s just you’d be the first,” he admits with a sort of humble confidence Alastair is not sure he has ever seen a person capable of.
He takes too long to respond and he realizes he's staring again when the man glances down at the cup clutched in his hands on the table. Alastair blinks and takes another sip, really attempting to process the taste this time. He takes a long, unnecessary breath after he finishes.
This might be a problem.
“It is good,” Alastair begins. “But-“
“Oh, thank god.”
The barista, in all his messy glory, collapses in the chair across from him in apparent relief. Alastair bristles with something akin to fear, but pushes through.
“But it is not vegan,” he finishes sternly.
The woman in the corner looks at him again, this time with obvious disdain. Alastair ignores her in favor of watching that same humble confidence roll back over the complex being before him. A smirk appears on his face along with a red stained, raised brow.
“You think so? Listen, I mean no disrespect when I say this, but I promise you it is vegan. I’d bet my life on it.”
“What does your life mean to me? I hardly know you,” Alastair quips a little meaner than he’d intended.
It's just he feels like even the tiniest whisper of an emotion, the impossible man will turn it into something life altering. It’s exhausting to tamp down.
“Would you prefer I bet on your life then?”
Alastair’s eyebrows furrow and his voice turns cool. “Is that a threat?”
“No! No,” Oliver laughs. “Look, believe it or not I worked very hard on making that blood vegan.”
“I believe that you worked very hard on…something,” Alastair snips, then softens despite himself. “It is very good, why not just sell it as a regular blood drink?”
Perhaps he might solve this issue with the erasure of one word on the menu.
“Because it is vegan and I worked very hard to make it that way,” Oliver insists, leaning both his elbows on the table. His head is now in his hands and his eyes locked like he’s in a bluffing match. Alastair feels his jaw click and he sets it stubbornly.
“You are not making this easy,” he complains. Oliver laughs again. It's distracting every time.
“Making what easy?!” he laments, waving a hand gently. “Why exactly have you come in today? Are you an undercover health inspector?”
His voice is light, but Alastair is hyper aware of every breath this man takes at this point so it's fairly easy to detect the waver in his tone near the end. Still, he finds himself commenting on the wrong thing.
“Do I look like a health inspector?” Alastair asks.
Does he? It’s never crossed his mind to try and not look like one, but he certainly finds himself fearful that he might.
“Oh no, I mean I suppose they come in all types, but it would certainly be a shame for a face…for someone looking like you to strive away in any industry outside of—“
Oliver very obviously looks him over here, like he's fully noticing him for the first time and swallows. Again, Alastair finds himself tracking the movement until further speak pulls his eyes back up.
“Fashion?” he guesses with a soft smile.
“You think I’m a model?” Alastair deadpans.
“I’m saying you could be!” Oliver exclaims with a noticeable nervous edge. “Now, you’re the one not making this easy,” he complains, dragging another blood stained hand down his cheek.
“Making what easy?” Alastair asks distractedly. He pulls his eyes from places they shouldn’t be by raising the cup for another drink
“Flirting.”
Alastair does not choke, but it's a near thing and he can’t manage that and his strength is enough to keep from setting the mug back down with far too much force. Red splashes between both of them, flecks landing on his chest and all along Oliver’s face and terrible yellow hat.
“I apologize,” Alastair rushes, feeling warmer than he has in years. He scrambles to hand Oliver a napkin or two but finds the man laughing and already clearing his face with the collar of his shirt.
“It’s alright! It’s alright let me just—”
He pulls out an old wooden circle containing a dirty mirror which he wipes clean with his shirt once again before checking over his face.
Alastair uses the napkins he fetched to dab at his own shirt, but he’s wearing black so it will hardly make a difference in the end. However, Oliver’s green shirt is most certainly ruined along with the poorly knit hat. Oliver watches him remove it and a mess of brown curls tumbles free.
“You look better without it,” Alastair says, spelled again into forgetting the difference between speaking and thinking something very vividly.
Immediately, the skin around Oliver’s nose pinks. He can smell it, he realizes, the shift in Oliver’s scent adjusting to accommodate the sudden rush of blood to a new location. It’s intoxicating. The smell of delicate flowers twisted up with whatever he brews into his vegan blood along with something unmistakably unique to Oliver. His head feels foggy and he thinks he might be stupid enough to say more when a loud slam shocks them both into reality.
“Ah,” Oliver sighs, both of them looking from the swinging back door to the missing woman in the corner. “My sister made this hat,” he says, then leans in closer as if they weren’t alone in the room. “She’s still learning,” he whispers.
Alastair can feel his breath and it takes at least three seconds for him to put together that the woman in the corner was, in fact, his sister and the co-owner of the shop.
“I apologize,” Alastair whispers back despite being extremely aware that they are alone. He feels fearful for some reason, like speaking too loud might break a spell he’s found himself comfortably swayed by.
“She’ll live,” Oliver replies, even quieter.
Alastair leans in like he can’t hear a pin drop from a mile away. This close he can still see the small flecks of blood and the obvious streak that Oliver failed to wipe away. He can also see the green in his eyes, and the freckles that spread even to be visible under the delicate skin of his lips.
“That’s good,” he states stupidly. He finds that he is not made aware of just how close they’ve gotten until that same door slams again and both men whirl around to find Oliver’s sister holding a painfully sickly looking cat with a permitting undercurrent of irritation throughout her entire body.
“It’s 7pm. He needs his medication and you know he will not let me do it,” she snips with equal parts misery and frustration.
“Oh, that’s right.”
Oliver sighs with tired affection and rises before pausing and looking back at Alastair who rushes to fix whatever bare expression he’d left coloring his face from the sudden intrusion. He must not be as quick about it as he likes because Oliver bites his lip to cover a grin.
“I’m afraid we’re past closing, but….” He does smile now, just a bright and blinding as the first time. A smile to rival the sun. “Feel free to come back anytime,” he finishes, and then adds with a particular emphasis: “Please.”
Alastair thinks he might evaporate on the spot, but instead clever stands to cover and tries his best to not look like he's rushing as he paces for the door.
“Yes I—” He pauses halfway out the door. “I still have some questions, If that’s alright,” he notes. His head quirked just far enough to the side to catch Oliver’s sister smacking the back of his head with an irritated fondness he’s very familiar with among his own siblings.
“Ow,” he winces. Then, Oliver replies: “Yes! Yes of course- we’re open tomorrow at seven!”
“Eight,” comes a voice that must be his sister’s.
“Eight, right—” Oliver notes.
That’s the last thing Alastair catches before he feels like he may never move again if he doesn’t leave now. He forces himself out the door then immediately discorporates into a bat. As he flies, he feels slightly less embarrassed about the speed in which he gets as far away from the shop as possible.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone