Who: Glibt and Mark. What: The bitter taste of defeat. Where: Brownstone 2.0 When: Late Tuesday evening. Warnings: Language, alcohol use.
Glibt had never been more thankful for the private jet he'd purchased for Mark. After a long day of waiting around, constantly checking the news and constantly in contact with all of his DC advocates, only to have the Republicans filibuster the vote, it was a good thing indeed that he didn't have to bother with airport security or have a baby bawling on the admittedly short flight back to New York City. Instead, he kept his cell phone turned off and read something that wasn't legislation or lobby material, he read one of the random novels he carried around in his laptop bag for use in times like this, when the last thing he wanted to think about was his cause because even LGBTQ Culture himself got tired of fighting every now and then. The only white noise was the sound of the engines, though, and even in combination with the intense way Glibt was focused on his book couldn't block out the repetition in his head: 56-43 56-43 56-43 56-43 56-43. Thankfully the flight was a short one and Glibt was able, by the end of it, to drown out the numbers, the regret, as he stepped out onto the tarmac.
What he wasn't able to block out, however, was the knowledge that, if the Democrats lost Senate seats in the upcoming elections, the discriminatory policy would be even more difficult to repeal, if not impossible. Really, Glibt wanted to bug Mark about an Executive Order from Obama, but he knew he wouldn't, just like he wouldn't needle Mark about the two Democratic Senators who had voted against the bill. Pursing his lips, he resisted the desire to light up a cigarette in the taxi and instead turned his cell phone back in, fielding text messages and emails from his activists who were trying to figure out their next move. He urged calm, urged resilience; they would bounce back from this defeat, they would triumph eventually, of that much he was sure.
He was also sure that he really wouldn't mind blackening James' eyes and breaking his jaw, but beating up the Republican Party, while it would be therapeutic, wouldn't change the fact that the vote had been filibustered. With that thought firmly in mind - he wasn't supposed to be violent anymore - he entered the brownstone, a frown on his face that felt like it would be firmly etched in place. Dropping his bag off at the door, he stooped to retrieve his cigarettes before moving toward the kitchen, where he could hear Mark rummaging through the cupboards. Silent as he entered, Glibt plucked a beer from the fridge before collapsing tiredly into one of the kitchen chairs, taking a deep swallow before looking over at Mark and speaking.
"You know, I could happily break your brother's jaw right now, if I wasn't mostly nonviolent." Maybe not the best way to start, but Glibt was angry and while he knew he wouldn't actually do anything, it was calming just to talk about it.