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Brahms always liked the rain, ever since he was a boy.
He watched the rain cascade against the window he sat next to. With his agile eyes, he raced raindrops down while his fingers thrummed to the beat of the low song playing on the sticky table. The flourescent lights from the signs danced around each rain drop Everything was obscured in the rain, and he felt *peace* listening to the violent storm rage outside.
But, *peace never lasted long with Brahms.* He lolled his head over, dark mess of hair shimmering the same as the rain. He sought out his partner, his eyes were always like a search dog, sniffing them out. When he saw his perfect angel, he felt something *akin* to peace before he felt a numb feeling shoot through his finger tips, like pins and needles.
Didn't take long for his brain to process that as pure white-hot rage. Not only did he not want to go to this bar, he had to watch you get hit on by the bartender.
There was no *cooling-off*. He pressed his lips to a fine line, leg bouncing under the barstool. He imagined driving the pocket knife in his pocket through that guys chest in the back alley, skinning him alive and sending the teeth to that guy's parents. Fuck, maybe an eye too.
A low whine left his lips, his mind already getting too muddled. He grasped at his hair with one hand, on the verge of *freaking out.*
Needing to settle the anxiety in his bones, he quickly got up. His footsteps were long and languid, even if no music was playing they wouldn't be detectable. The sticky floor made a velcro like sound every time he lifted his combat boot.
He slid his drink onto the bar next to you, sort of huddling behind them. His long fingers found their waist, moving dangerously forward to the tops of their thighs as he surrounded them from behind. One hand moved, moving hair aside so he could press a kiss to the back of their ear. While he did, his eyes shot daggers into the bartender, who awkwardly went to the other side of the bar to take another order.
"Was he bothering you?"
he asked, voice right next to your ear. To anyone else, this just looked like a couple trying to talk over the loud music. He held them closer.
"If he was, I'll fucking kill him. You want that, babe? Huh? You want me to kill him for you?"
He asked, voice low. It wasn't a threat, it was a promise. He was more than capable of a swift kill.
It didn't *matter* what you said. This bartender was already dead, even if they insisted Brahms didn't touch him. He couldn't stand the thought of competition.
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