Chapter Text
Monday, 18 April 2022
It was a late Easter Monday night, Anton was at the Embassy, of all places, and he was about twenty-five minutes into a film called The Lost City, which he wasn’t hating, but didn’t really want to see in the first place.
It had been Clifton’s fault, right? Post his whole realisation in the mid-2010s of “maybe he had been lashing out with gay slurs because he was actually gay”, he’d done a whole bunch of self-discovery and realised that he could go and see the movies he wanted without being weird about them.
And so, the movie.
The rom-com.
Anton had accompanied him because he wanted to do something mindless that wasn’t watching all the other wolves play Elden Ring, but ten minutes into the film, Clif had turned a horrifying shade of grey, whispered, “I’m gonna fuckin’ spew,” (Anton had let him off with the swearing because he really did look like it) and sprinted down the stairs and out of the theatre at a pace that was probably a little too fast for a human.
Fifteen minutes later, Clif was still absent, and Anton could still hear him retching into the toilet in the men’s room outside the theatre. Presumably the possum (?) or something that he’d eaten while turned the night before hadn’t agreed with him. That or it was the post-Change hangover beer and Easter egg he’d had that morning.
Anton sat back in his chair, rubbing at his neck. The movie wasn’t terrible, but he knew if his mum heard through the Wellington grapevine that he’d been seen going to the movies with only one other person he’d never hear the end of it. Yeah, he was in his mid-80s in human years, though looked mid-40s and he’d not yet settled down - a crime in her eyes.
It had been easier for her - wolf weddings were all the rage back in the 1920s! - but there wasn’t all that much out there for wolves who went out on their own, alpha’d their own non-family packs and then spent the next forty years looking after a bunch of people who looked as though they were in their thirties, acted as though they were in their teens, but were actually in their fifties.
In truth, he didn’t even really want to settle down.
He was a little like the protagonist of the film, in a way - except she was a novel writer and he was an eighty-something year old werewolf who worked as a park ranger during the day.
So not really all that similar at all actually.
He let his eyes wander around the mostly empty 700-seat cinema, wondering how much longer he’d wait before he went to check on Clif, and that was when he spotted him.
Right in the side of the cinema, a dark shape dropped down from the ceiling and landed right behind two people sitting in the weird seats in the W row where very few people (and even fewer humans) could see them. They were usually seats where teens went to make out - Anton had called them the “kissing booth” when he worked at the Embassy in the 80s - but as he squinted in the dark, he knew that this time it wouldn’t be quite as good for them.
A vampire.
No. Wait.
Viago.
For the first time in a long time?
Viago was back?
Darn.
Did he really want to interrupt him?
Not really.
But he knew that if there was a massacre and the elf with ridiculous eyeliner who worked in the theatre’s admin office found out he was there and didn’t stop it, he’d get yelled at at the next Wellington Supernatural Creature Mixer, and he wasn’t in the mood for that.
Darn.
“Viago.” He whispered, barely even bothering to make the sounds with his mouth. The vampire would hear him regardless. “Viago, are you seriously doing this now?”
The vampire glanced up, all of a sudden, and glared over at him. He shrugged. “Sure am, wolf.”
“You could at least use my name. It’s polite.”
Viago rolled his eyes at him. “Anton, I am simply having a nice meal. You do not have to look.”
“You don’t have to do this here. The seats will stain.” He knew that much from experience.
Viago threw up his hands and backed away from the two cinemagoers. Leaping into the air, he flew across the room and settled down into the seat next to him, moving Clif’s popcorn to the side gently. He jabbed Anton in the arm with one painted fingernail. “You are discriminating against vampires, wolf.”
“Sorry that I’m a little more conscientious of the underpaid movie workers who will inevitably lose their minds at your bloodbath and never come to work again.” Anton hissed. “You have all of Wellington to hunt. Why do you need to kill people here?”
Viago shrugged. “I do not kill them. I just take some blood. They leave and think they enjoyed the moving picture so much they do not remember it and also they are a little dizzy. It is a foolproof plan.”
“Just… do it elsewhere.”
Viago settled back into his chair and looked down at the screen. “Oh, this is a romantic comedy? I do like those. The last I saw was Singin’ in the Rain.”
“Mhmm.” Anton grunted. Now that Viago was close enough to make out his clothing in more detail, he could see that the man was wearing… leather pants, of all things. “I haven’t seen you in… what… eight years, and you make your return to Wellington dressed like you ride motorbikes now?”
“I have been here.” Viago said. “Not all of the time, but most of it. Wolves just have bad eyesight.” He smoothed a hand over his pants, a little self-consciously. “Do you think they look bad?”
“No!” Anton said, because they didn’t.
Then a little less forceful. “No. You look nice. But I feel like you’re fishing.”
“What does catching fish have to do with my choice of attire?” Viago asked, but he didn’t get an answer, because he darted upright, floating out of his chair and said, “Another wolf?”
“Oh, Clif-” Clifton was climbing the stairs, looking dizzy and about three kilograms lighter than he had been when they’d entered the theatre. Anton turned back to explain the whole deal to Viago, but Viago was gone, as though he’d never been there at all.
Clifton slumped back in his chair. “Can we go home?” He whispered. There were actual tear stains on his cheeks. “I think I’m dying.”
Anton pressed his hand to the younger wolf’s forehead. “You do feel quite warm. Serves you right for eating possums. They were probably laced with poison, you know. Especially that one in the trap.”
“I’m never eating a possum again.”