Just because he waited until the last minute didn't mean Tybalt didn't like buying people presents. The opposite, indeed: any excuse was fine to get a gift, and the choosing them was very much part of the fun. But he had faith in his abilities to find things, so never did stress; the only problem with present-picking was how terribly easy it was to get distracted.
Which was how he had found himself in Honeydukes for a good forty minutes already, tossing things in a basket left right and centre, for family and friends (and himself, sure; why not, he was miserable enough to deserve it!) and marvelling at his clever idea of saving money by sticking to sweets. (He may have done better to not, you know, buy up half the shop, but.)
There was one gift he wouldn't get to look for this year. Wouldn't have to, Tybalt told himself ruthlessly, just like he hadn't had to get anything for the middle of May, and good. This was easier. Not caring was a breeze.
Engrossed as he was in his shopping, an earnest deliberation between fizzing whizzbees and fudge, Tyb heard the clattering of some sweets from a stand and whirled about, reactions quick as he might've been on the pitch. He'd dropped to the floor to start rescuing the lollipops well before he registered the rest of the scene, and he spent an excruciatingly long moment trying and failing to scrape up one of the lollipop sticks with a fumbling hand when his stare settled on Elsie Beauregard, of all people.
"Always trying to be the centre of attention, aren't you -" Beauregard, Tybalt heard himself begin to say - blurt out, unthinking, automatically - a fond, teasing sentiment that didn't work anymore, a relic of redundant times. Once he realised what he was doing - what he couldn't be doing anymore - he promptly shut his mouth, and tried to play it off by pretending to focus resolutely on picking up another lollipop, hope she hadn't heard. (Two seconds in to an encounter he had spent months trying to even decide whether or not it was one he wanted to have, and he already desperately needed a do-over.)
Which was how he had found himself in Honeydukes for a good forty minutes already, tossing things in a basket left right and centre, for family and friends (and himself, sure; why not, he was miserable enough to deserve it!) and marvelling at his clever idea of saving money by sticking to sweets. (He may have done better to not, you know, buy up half the shop, but.)
There was one gift he wouldn't get to look for this year. Wouldn't have to, Tybalt told himself ruthlessly, just like he hadn't had to get anything for the middle of May, and good. This was easier. Not caring was a breeze.
Engrossed as he was in his shopping, an earnest deliberation between fizzing whizzbees and fudge, Tyb heard the clattering of some sweets from a stand and whirled about, reactions quick as he might've been on the pitch. He'd dropped to the floor to start rescuing the lollipops well before he registered the rest of the scene, and he spent an excruciatingly long moment trying and failing to scrape up one of the lollipop sticks with a fumbling hand when his stare settled on Elsie Beauregard, of all people.
"Always trying to be the centre of attention, aren't you -" Beauregard, Tybalt heard himself begin to say - blurt out, unthinking, automatically - a fond, teasing sentiment that didn't work anymore, a relic of redundant times. Once he realised what he was doing - what he couldn't be doing anymore - he promptly shut his mouth, and tried to play it off by pretending to focus resolutely on picking up another lollipop, hope she hadn't heard. (Two seconds in to an encounter he had spent months trying to even decide whether or not it was one he wanted to have, and he already desperately needed a do-over.)
