The Stray

Matt coughs as he falls, feeling his head thudding harshly as he hits the cold cement. Then suddenly he is numb, and deaf; he does not hear the sound of sirens or voices. They're muted. For this, he is thankful. Blood specks coat his chin and paint the gray beneath him. His eyes widen as he watches feet dance around. It is as though he is dreaming, though he knows that he's not. His heart beats slowly in his chest as he clutches it. It's like a dull throb, and he knows that he's dying. Perhaps he knew it was over before it had really begun; however, like a forever-loyal puppy, he had followed to the gallows and met his death with steady eyes. And now he lies dying.

He should hate The Stray for causing this. He may have lived for years to come had it not been for the suicidal request. Had it not been for The Stray showing up at his apartment doorstep, clutching its bleeding face; had it not been for The Stray and its hateful hiss as Matt tried to clean the wounds while insisting that they go to a hospital. The Stray and its crying eyes when it looked into the mirror to see what harm had left it. The gift of scars and burns along its once beautiful face. The Stray had needed his help. It had all been his undoing, and he had known it.

I…

He coughs again, and this time the blood dribbles down his lips. The police had really gone overboard with bullets. He would tell them so if it were at all possible to speak. However, he thinks that maybe he is dead, or at least ninety percent gone, so speaking is no good.

…Suicide…I knew…

So, angry as he dies, he wishes to point the finger. He cannot, though. The Stray had only asked, not insisted.

I knew it was suicide…why…

If he had known, he asks himself, then why did he go along with this?

It hurts to die.

Though physically he is numb and deaf, he hears and feels, now, perhaps more than he's ever felt in life. If that's possible. He doubts that it is. He doubts that anything can cause him to feel more than he has felt for the past months, the past year. The Stray. The Stray had made him feel such things, such sinful, yet

right…they were right…

things.

Tears had made his heart clench. The Stray was—is—untamable, and tears didn't fit right to the puzzle that made its character; they had seemed so wrong as they seeped out from beneath lush lashes, down pale cheeks. He had hated to watch it cry, clutching to its knees and pressing against the sink, beneath a broken mirror. Fresh blood had made Matt sick. The Stray had busted his bathroom mirror with only its fist, and it had wounded itself yet again, giving Matt another chance to play nurse.

Matt is never faint from the simple sight of blood, but it had bothered him so to see The Stray bleeding, crying, wounded emotionally also, though it refused to admit.

Tears had made him ache and blood had made him queasy, but it had been the rage that made him feel fear.

Calm, Matt is always calm. It was what had him in the running for L. However, he had always tiptoed around The Stray, and it was only when a gun pressed to his temple, the telephone clanged to the ground, and blood dripped from slender wrists down the barrel that he had sweated and fought to have his own hand wrapped around the weapon. Oh! how his heart had pounded! The Stray had not noticed though, or at least Matt doubts that it did as it had writhed beneath his weight that night, cursing him. Telling him that he was as good as dead when it was freed from Matt's vice-like-grip.

So stubborn…

That stubbornness had made him feel his own bouts of anger, more anger than he had felt for quite a while. Calmness had been thrown to the wind as Matt and The Stray had rolled around across cotton sheets, smearing blood.

The peaceful, slumbering face had caused something to stir in Matt. Wrapped in moonlight, The Stray looked almost approachable, stretched out and bandaged as it slept. Not at all like itself, which was

Is…is, is, is…

usually angry, scowling, filling itself with creamy, brown poison. Untouchable, genius, passionate, hopeful.

Jealousy. Matt had felt jealousy, but what was more, he had felt lust, and it had frightened him.

I was scared…you scared me…you…

His breathing is no longer coming in soft puffs. Nor is it labored and panicked. Matt tries to swallow and realizes that he can't. A single drop of water touches to orange plastic. He really doesn't want to die. He had psyched himself out before as he had grabbed his gun and car keys, but now that the time has finally hit him, he is more than a little upset. Why? Why did he agree to this? This foolish suicide.

Because you asked…only asked…

He is struck with involuntary jerks as his body fights to live on. It is a losing battle. More dancing feet surround him, rolling him onto his back. He is no longer blinking. If he is honest with himself, he doesn't really feel his heart beat within, either.

Is this death? Am I dead, Mello?

The Stray doesn't hear him, of course, but it comforts Matt to think this way. To think that maybe he isn't alone as he dies, for, he's been alone for so long and to die that way after finally finding The Stray once more seems unfair. But life is never fair, and death, it seems, is no kinder.

Kindness. Matt, though not a violent or aggressive person by nature, has never been one to do things for others—except for The Stray—and even with The Stray there had been limits. Up until now, he realizes, now that he has gone and passed all those limits and died for the damned Stray. Damned, damned, damned, damned Stray.

The damned Stray and its knitted, angry brow as it pulled him into a kiss. Brutal, the kiss had been so brutal, but Matt had not expected anything less of The Stray; though, he really hadn't expected the kiss. It had all been so sudden. That roaming tongue and its sweet taste. Creamy, brown poison for its coating. The feelings he had felt then Matt doesn't know what to make of still. He wishes that he did understand what it meant. Lust, he supposes, does strange things to a person's train of thought. And medicine impairs judgment.

But, he had not been able to stop, and The Stray hadn't asked him too. Of course, it was an impaired and confused Stray, though it proclaimed that it was not. It knew what it was doing! it said.

Liar…

Touch had brought all of Matt's senses alive. Made him want for more. Seeing and hearing, though, had perhaps sent him over the edge. Moans from pale-pink, full lips had ignited something within him. Clawing hands had not only left marks on his back, but his heart also. Needy kisses and sucks had made him want to give. Give, give, give.

The Stray was—is—such a liar. Matt tells himself that he is guilty of taking advantage of The Stray, but as he looks up at the darkened sky and helicopter, he begins to wonder. If it is true, then why did The Stray remain with him, still asking for his help? Why did it not hit him when it awoke, wrapped in Matt's arms, with Matt's face buried between its shoulder blades. Why did it…

Why did you…why…

Why did The Stray still run his finger across Matt's lips as they parted ways only six hours ago?

And it dawns on him that maybe The Stray was at fault. Maybe The Stray had been the one to take advantage…The Stray was—is—so smart, after all, and if it had known that it would need help in such a way as it had tonight…

Deceitful bastard…

He hopes that he is wrong.

Matt tries to chuckle at his thoughts, but he can't. He's not even sure his face shows signs of anything more than chill and death. It must not. They're covering him with a blanket. His sight is going now. He doesn't think it's because of the sheet over his body, because it's too dark for that. And suddenly there is not even the feeling of sadness and panic within him. There is nothing. He closes his eyes.

Note:

This used to be posted on one of my old accounts, 18doses. I am trying to move all of my finished stuff to this account. Sorry to those who had faved this on the old one.