Jealousy - Emil

Emil has no right to feel the stifling jealousy wrapping tight around his throat, depriving him of both oxygen and reason. He has no use for it, no need; it is the byproduct of emotions dead and gone.

He doesn’t need to dig this grave up, he tells himself. The ghost of what could’ve been haunts him enough as is.

Still, he watches you from across the rickety inn you all had reluctantly agreed on. Or, more specifically, his eyes dart between you and someone else whose gaze is locked on you.

You sit, drink in hand with a small smile blooming on your face as you chat with Florian and Marcella. A man at the bar has been staring at you for quite some time; he’s half drunk and appears cocky enough, which is probably why he stands and staggers your way.

You all tense at the same time. Marcella and Florian both narrow their eyes as the man leans down to crowd into your space, planting himself between you and Marcella. Emil feels his jaw tighten as he clenches his teeth; honestly, it’s a miracle he hasn’t done damage to his molars yet.

“You don’t look like you belong ‘round here,” The man says, a slight slur to his speech, “Would you like to go somewhere else?”

You purse your lips. Emil is sitting across the table and can smell the alcohol on the man’s breath, so he can hardly imagine what it’s like for you.

It’s a miracle things haven’t devolved into violence yet, because Emil’s hands twitch with the desire.

“No,” You say bluntly, “I think I’m alright.”

You’re normally willing to talk to anyone and everyone. He is ridiculously happy that doesn’t extend to drunk, flirty strangers.

“C’mon, now,” The man tries again, “I know I can show you a better time than any of these suckers.”

The drunk glances around the table for emphasis. Emil doesn’t restrain himself from glowering. Then you decline yet again, looking highly uncomfortable, and he finally allows himself to step in.

Emil doesn’t want this man flirting with you. That doesn’t matter. You not wanting this man flirting with you? That’s all that matters.

Standing, he leans over the table and throws his entire glass of wine in the man’s face. The lout stumbles backwards, blissfully away from you, and nearly snarls at Emil.

Summoning every bit of haughty condescension his parents taught him, Emil raises an eyebrow, “I do believe one rejection is more than enough. Requiring two is just borderline pathetic on your part.”

For a brief second, it seems like the man wants a fight. Then white mist flickers at Emil’s fingers and shatters the empty glass in his hand, his magic summoned by his anger. The idiot quickly changes his mind.

A wise decision, certainly. Emil has never been overly fond of violence, but he certainly feels like having a spirit pluck the man’s eyes from his skull. At least then the drunkard might never make you uncomfortable again.

Marcella says something, and Florian responds with what vaguely sounds like a quip. Emil doesn’t hear the words, however. His ears are ringing, and he’s looking only at you.

You’re looking at him, too.

Your brow is furrowed a bit, confusion in your eyes. Gods, but he loves your eyes. Then your lips tilt up, the barest whisper of a smile decorating your face, and Emil feels vaguely as if he’s been punched in the chest.

Florian and Marcella are standing to leave, he notices suddenly. They scamper off upstairs, exchanging grins, leaving the two of you behind. Emil is confused; you, apparently, are not.

You move around the table, taking his hand in your gentle grasp. His heart is beating in his throat, but he still attempts to remain visibly neutral.

“You have glass all over you,” You say gently.

Emil freezes at the concern before brushing it aside, “For a worthy cause.”

For you, he silently says in the meaning between his words. For you.

Your eyes brighten, and it appears you understood regardless of if he really wanted you to or not.

“You should go bathe,” You say, averting your eyes for a moment like you can’t bear looking at him.

He can’t relate. He could never imagine not wanting to look at you.

He doesn’t say that.

“Alright,” He says, pulling his hand from your grasp.

He realizes he mourns the loss of your touch more than anything else in his life. Then he turns around, quickly going up the stairs to his room.

He’s not fleeing. He’s not.