Two years.
Matt laid his head down on the table. Another meeting. Another argument. Another pain in the ass. Allen being obnoxious. Oliver being creepy. François not giving a shit. Luciano yelling. Xiao yelling back. The Nordics sitting together being creepy. Flavio preening his hair. Matt trying to sleep. Two years. Two years since he had gotten a good night's sleep. Two years since he started to be haunted by that voice. Two years of torment. Two years of pain. Now the gate was sealed, and there was no chance of closure. He just wanted to know. How could he live not knowing? How had he functioned for so long like this? Over the past two months, Matt had felt himself beginning to crack. But he had to keep up appearances. Couldn't deal with his family's prying. He knew soon he would have to deal with his feelings. That would be even worse than dealing with Oliver. Sure, Matt may have felt a fleeting regret at some of his past actions, but he had never been plagued by this kind of guilt. His soul was burning. He knew he had to atone for his crime. Maybe his death would be enough. He couldn't hold out much longer. Maybe another week...
"...att... Matt!" Matt jerked his head up off the table. "Damn lazy bum! Don't sleep during the fucking meeting!," Luciano yelled. Matt winced. Al poked him in the side. "You all right?," he whispered. Matt vaguely nodded. Al didn't push it.
The meeting came and went, and Matt went home. He unlocked the door with shaky hands, his sleeve slipping away from his wrist. He was surprised no one noticed the rolled-down sleeves of his shirt. No one had questioned it. No one cared. He stumbled through the living room. His legs didn't seem to work. He knew what he had been doing was stupid. The razor was almost... comforting. He could tell he was still alive when he bled. Sometimes he didn't want to be alive. The rope hanging in the closet seemed so tempting sometimes. Then he remembered the kind eyes, the concerned question... "Are you alright?"... But then came the other memory. The sickening crack when his hockey stick made contact with the blonde head, the immediate regret and horror, the days of numbness, Oliver's care in nursing him back to health. He couldn't remember how he got the wound in his side. Sometimes he wished it had killed him. He didn't remember how he got to Oliver's house. Sometimes he wished Oliver hadn't brought him back.
Wishing solved nothing. Matt used to be convinced that the way to solve anything was with his hockey stick. Now he could barely look at the thing. He didn't know why this particular kill haunted him. It wasn't as if he had never bashed someone's head in with a hockey stick. But the violet eyes had stared into his soul, tormenting him every time he closed his eyes.
Hockey sticks didn't solve anything either. Matt knew now that the only way to solve anything was for him to cease existing. He had to do it soon, or someone would catch on. If not Oliver, then... Him. Even if François didn't act like he cared about Matt, he was still his Papa. He would do something about it if he found out how troubled Matt was. So he made a decision.
Matthew moved to open his bedroom closet, but tripped. He felt his head hit the floor, saw red, then lost consciousness. When light reached his eyes again, it was accompanied by frantic shouting and angry questions. But Matt couldn't force himself to open his eyes, so he drifted off again. But not before seeing that eerily beautiful face.