Pairing: CanUk (MathewxArthur)
Warning: Swearing, suggested themes in later chapters and as always, typos...
Discailmer: I own nothing, this is just a pure production from fan to fan.
JUST AS MUCH AS I COULD
-XXX-
He walked as the dark reigned his surrounding, snickering in its own amusement from the very filthy corners of the ugliest part of the city. The paling silver moon shone down the street paralyzed-y and weakly, so quickly overshadowed by the dim light produced from the street lamp. And he almost wanted to smirk at its piteousness.
[His piteousness]
Mathew didn't know why he came here, venturing around like an angry lost dog whilst his nostrils were full of the smell of misfortune and misery, of sins and poverty mingling in the air. He oh so wanted to vomit, to shuddered at the dirty touches of the even dirtier atmosphere on his skin; but his mind and his body's desire whirling inside lusted for everything disgusting, disgraceful and temptingly guilty to squeeze and strangle him to dead.
His heart pounded in his ribcage ever so calmly, betraying his cautious dark blue eyes. Every step he took seemed to be heavier, murkier and more scared. Yet the more reluctant his pace was, the more determined he felt. He kept going, deeper and deeper into the intimidatingly welcoming night of the foreign district.
His obsessive mother would never let him go to this part of the city, saying it were an outcast of this beautiful world, sheltering so many dishonor and sinful people who had stupidly crossed the line that God mercifully drew for human. Clean people like her, her sons, her husband or everyone from the same high class shouldn't (mustn't) set foot there; because she thought her eyes, their eyes, would bleed at the scene they might see, the beautifully rich big nose she owned, their owned, would sneer at the air they breathed, and dirtied were her hands, their hands, when she showered those people with her disgusting generosity.
But she never knew. How could she know? When she was too elegant to care.
So much energy would be taken if she lifted her ridiculously well-care brows in distaste and fake worry.
Aimlessly he went, hearing shouts from cramped houses, barks of bony dogs, seeing hungry eyes with growling mouths target him in sick interest and curiosity from a group of criminal-like men.
Scars [ugly], skinheads [too sweaty and raw], cigarettes [smoky, so cheap], jaws [hard and square], teeth [far too yellow, being bared to make unfriendly noises].
He felt his breath rushing, his hair shamefully stand on end, his eyes darting around as if a cornered animal, his lip hurt under the impact of his bite. His hands pulled the coat that covered his school uniform close to his slightly shivering self.
Breathing in.
His legs quivered but ready.
Breathing out.
Dark colored irises were on the tenterhooks keeping looking back at the approaching shadows.
Breathe. Breathe.
Matt ran. Just running for the sake of his hateful life. Footsteps were harder and harder to be heard as he ran as fast as he could. His throat was burning and tightened as though a rope was wrapping around it tightly; his lungs were crying in the lack of delicious oxygen; his eyebrows were strained with heavy sweats. He didn't dare to breathe, didn't dare to look where he ran to even though the prior sounds of chasing seemed to have already died down.
[Too much. Too much.]
And in all of a sudden he slipped, falling hard on his stomach and face to the ground. He felt like being punched and slapped as the same time, his upper part shaking as he slowly caught up with his breathing rhythm, endeavoring to calm his hammering chests down, trying to push himself off of the astonished state.
Clumsily he sat up, wiped his aching nose and immediately hissed when it was stinger and wetter than he had first thought. His right thumb was stained with a little bit of blood.
Damn it, he cursed and already imagined the picture in which he tried to lie to his dear mother where the shit that bloody nose came from. Not amusing at the very least. Because, surely, he would just want to slam the wooden door into her accusing, pretty face after shouting at her to fuck off. Oh, how he wished he could do all those, without an endlessly boring and threatening lecture accompanied by a stony slap from his darling father.
Gritting his teeth, he stood up and shook his head several times to clear his foggy head, causing his mild-curly blond hair to sway and his glasses to glide down to the tip of his damaged nose. He was absently wiping his clothes when a short laughing-like snort stole his attention.
He hurriedly looked up to be greeted by a man. A small crook smile painted his full, red lips, somehow having provoked the young boy in its strangely mocking way. Mathew narrowed his eyes but undoubtedly stared at the man's feature – A cheap old white jacket, which was obviously faded to the darker shade, covered his oversize strong blue T-shirt just to the waist and helplessly shown the rest that loosely reached pass the zip of his tight black jean to the world; two high black boots finished the scene.
Matt noticed he seemed to gather up his weight to his left leg, proving he had been standing here for a good while. His back and shoulders hanged down oh so slightly, almost able to fool Mathew's observing eyes [yet no such luck], displaying their owner's worn-out state. But the blue eyed boy was impressed that the man held his head, with no needed efforts or affected manners, high and dignified, which right away threw all chances for Matt to look down at him out of the window.
Without saying anything, the seventeen-year-old boy walked to the lamp street the man was standing under. He could see his sandy blond hair damped with the pathetic artificial light and his lock shadow his pair of eyes a little, creating a sharp look to his deep, deep green gazes that never left Mathew's figure. All of the man profile were screaming defensive, unwelcome and daring. But Matt just ignored them all together.
The glare the boy was receiving became more and more intense the closer he got to him. He found the need to smirk at the man's start when he sat down with redundantly heavy contact with the pavement, not caring if his expensive layer of clothing got dirty.
The man snorted again, annoying him to no end. "What are you doin' 'ere, chap? Boys like you shouldn't come to this part of all places. Try to be adventurous and shit, huh?"
This time it was Matt to snort. The green-eyed man clicked his tongue, pulling out a cigarette and then a light after his pissed searching through various pockets of his. The smoke from the lit cigarette danced into the night like illusion, now and then joined with the same poisonous gas blown out expertly by the man himself. Emerald eyes flicked back and forth, right to left while the man's arms crossed against his chest. The ashen substance fell down, swept away into nothingness.
Mathew's orbs found themselves unable to leave the pink and orange flame patiently engulfing the pinch of tobacco. His mind finally clicked.
"You're a prostitute, aren't you?" He said, no surprise, no implication. Purely a statement of fact.
The blond man barely shrugged, "Take you long enough." Matt looked at his casual carelessness weirdly. The boy just expected something else entirely different. Matt opened his mouth, though closed it briefly when he caught a flash of bitterness in those vivid eyes. He bit his bottom lip, chewing it in sudden awkwardness and guilt.
"Nay," heard his ears and Mathew couldn't help gazing up from his sitting position. He saw the man glare down at him with a very, very tiny forgiving smile. Was it weird that he felt like blessed? "It's bloody nothing. Don't tire yourself out with bleeding nonsensical worries." He told Matt, dropping his half-smoked cigarette near where the boy sat unmoving from the beginning; an eyebrow was lifted as the man watched his younger, unexpected 'company' brought the fallen cigarette up to his eyes.
The sandy hair man stepped away right when a car pulled up beside him. He looked back at Matt, who had stopped his observation and locked eyes on the prostitute again. "Throw it away, don't try to smoke, it'll kill ya later, kid." He warned and turned his attention to whom Mathew guessed to be his client.
The young boy watched them converse, catching those dirty, lewd things that passed the prostitute's lips. He was surprised at being satisfied whilst contemplating the man as though he could capture him all just with his dark orbs, and at trying to assure himself that it was only an act for the man's 'career' [He didn't know why he cared. But the man he met tonight was definitely not that kind of slut. Not that he knew any other kinds. Yet this person seemed to be especially different…]
The sound of car door slamming snapped Mathew out of his thought. He quickly raised his head, looking the car rolled away into the pitch-black night street. He craned his neck like he was hoping to see something, but he saw none.
He gazed down at the almost-dying cigarette; the flaming blobs were so wan. He brought it to his lips. Inhaling.
Which resulted in a round of coughs and left a sweetly bitter taste lingering in his mouth.
The woman who gave birth to him was paranoid and obsessed with her own soul and her own blind belief. His mother always thought that she was good, even when she had pushed a servant girl down the stairs for staining her bible book and called her a worthless witch. [The girl ended up in hospital without any money or jobs. And his mother had made sure no one would hire her after that in this city as a worthy punishment.] She was so cleanly elevated that she couldn't stand her children playing in the mud. She would punish them afterward with her wooden ruler, pinching their chubby cheeks far too roughly, slapping their hands and legs until they turned red and too swollen to work properly.
[But they had to, had to walk with heads held high despite their abused childish legs which made them bite so hard into their inner checks in a vain attempt to stop the pain. They had to hold those glistening fountain-pens that they had received as some practical presents, even though their fingers ached so badly. The hard mental surface pressed against their red, shaking palms while they wrote on their home-schooling papers, making them scared of it. Causing them to become some young adults having a pen-haunt.]
Even her nail had been his phobia since he was a mere toddler. [Too red, to clean, too sharp]. He still remembered the feeling of having them dig into his back, his arms or his face whenever she wanted to make her points clear with a sugary smile for persuasion. Yet nowadays she could hardly do so, for he always smartly avoided being near her hand-reach.
Or sometimes, avoiding being with her presence as much as possible.
However, she had a hobby of disappointing him and crushing his rotten luck. Just like now, with her eyes fixing on him from where she were standing next to her favorite tea table, she asked, "Where have you been, Mathew dear?"
Keeping a well safe distance, he secretly cringed at her purely dark green fingernails, answering, "No-" He flinched when his mother, who had unnoticing-y came closer, planted her hand on his arms pitching her nails into his bare skin. "Don't dare lie to me, young boy!" Matt bit back a hiss as she unforgivingly dug deeper.
He gritted his teeth strongly, making an effort not to bend her arm over and break it in satisfaction. Instead he shook her hands away, which didn't forget scratching him along the way, leaving angry half-moon marks and long scratched trails.
He looked down at the woman like she was a mad animal and went upstairs, ignoring her furious screams. He found the door across his room was left ajar, light on. He held all of his breath in his chest and hurriedly walked pass it, determined not let his eyes glance inside that room.
[Not now.]
He closed his own door, standing in silence. His arm felt numbly sting.
Mathew let his irises hidden by his eyelashes, sucking and moving his tongue to find anything left of that nicotine bitterness in his wet cavern.
His eyes were locking on the black board which was tattooed with white letters and numbers. His pencil tapped in a very slow rhythm. Tap. His note was blank, since there was no need to write down things he had already known too well. Tap.
He glanced at the seat next to him – Empty. Behind, no occupants. In front of, the first two tables were left inhabited and the third eventually had two of his classmates – who never had the desire to take a look at him.
Tap.
He truly had no social life. No friends.
[He had had once, long ago – a fury white dog he found abandoned in the rain one day and named Kumajirou. In his blurry memory of six-year-old, he remembered those little paws held onto his pants or socks begging him to play together, those excited barks welcoming him and Alfred home, that tiny pink tongue licking his face lovingly and days that four fast short legs running after the two laughing boys...
Until one afternoon he discovered his pet, his closest friend, had gone missing. How panicky he had been when no familiar barks answered his desperate calls. How surprised and terrified he had felt when Alfred found a dark red ribbon of his puppy in the garden, near the lake. How horrified when his big blue eyes caught his mother watching them, a strange glint flashing in her cerulean orbs. How dark everything surrounding him seemed to be, his heart shattered and crumbled under his feet.
How much he had wept that night and how tightly Alfred had embraced him to comfort while drowning in his own salty tears.]
In his childhood time his parents had considered it was best to solitude him and Alfred from the outside world, cutting off any chances for friendships. Though Alfred always knew how to sneak out and come back in time before their parents could come home from some business trips.
Dirty clothes would be washed, cuts from playing would be treated and lies would be covered by their sympathetic servants and that kind old man of a butler. [Although he died when the two brothers reached twelve from some sorts of lung diseases, which Alfred had loudly doubted to Matt maybe their father's smoking habit was the cause. However, neither of the boys dared to voice out any words, even if their father choked them to dead with his cigars. Perhaps he could have done so if they had really said it.]
But then again, Alfred was the one who went around making friend and introduced him along. Even though Mathew knew he would be shadowed by his brother bright smile right away, he enjoyed every single moment they got out of that prison they called home.
They continued their sneaking adventures till they were both sent to a famous private school.
Life had been easy at first, the twin quickly befriended with some other students. How happy they'd been as they rejoiced their short freedom. Yet Mathew acknowledged that that freedom was not enough, not satisfactory to Alfred. His brother had always had an obsession with anything to do with liberty; he fought for it greatly and held it in such a passionate passion.
Matt had realized that light, that calculating and longing light of Alfred's eyes whenever he planned on something.
["Mattie, I will go." – So determined. So brave. So ideal. So stupid.]
And in the end his brother had paid deeply for the freedom he desired and loved.
["Idiot," his hand were so cold, so cold, so cold. So lonely. "How about me now?" So lonely. So dark. Dark. "What about me…?"]
So then Mathew was scared, afraid to make friends. It was like a taboo to him. And somehow he felt as if he was paranoid himself.
Tap.
He tongue traced along his teeth.
Tap.
He taste-bud was craving for something. So desperately.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here again?" Mathew raised an eyebrow then shrugged his shoulders ["Who knows?"]. He heard a huff and plainly paid it no mind. [Truth to be told, he really had no clue why he came back to this dangerous, dirty place just to see the man again even when he surely knew the chance was slim. It had been two weeks since their first encounter – An enough amount of time to make strangers forget each other. And who could tell whether the prostitute worked on the same spot or not.
So he had secretly praised himself for not jumping up and down in weird merriness when he saw him standing there like they'd first met (or smiling in strange relief, self-satisfaction and happiness because the pros still remembered him), instead putting on an indifferent practiced face. Trying his best not to satisfied-y smirking at the elder's started reaction when he returned to his previous position just like that night with, again, an unnecessarily hard impact of his butts with the filthy ground.]
The air was dry and cold, seeming to be in a rather bad mood. The boy hugged his coat closer; his school bag felt heavy as though it was the one who was tired, trying to push back him while he himself demandingly pressed it against the brick wall behind his back. His arms rested on his two ankles, mindlessly toying with the material of his uniform pants.
"You should go home kid, wandering in this area ain't safe," Mathew looked up at the prostitute who was leaning against the forever-good-and-loyal street lamp, brows knitting together in anxious annoyance, red full lips pulling into a thin line, eyes gazing out not meeting the boy's ones.
Mathew licked his lips, "Why don't you smoke anymore? It's seemed to me you really need a quick one." He asked, mentally astonished at being expectant.
"None of your business" was his grumpy feedback. Matt watched silently as the blond hair man impatiently switched from foot to foot, arms crossed tighter and eyes more narrowed. "Then I'm not goin', eh," he was happy at the surprised attention he was getting, "It's none of your business." He added, smiled when the prostitute's eyes grew wide and the older man quickly averted them in disbelieving anger, biting down his bottom painfully.
Mathew sat there, patiently observing. "Tell me your name and I will leave." Said he calmly. Silence came and calculating reluctance overtook the questioned man. But Matt's eyes held him onto place, leaving no escapes. "Arthur. My name's Arthur, and now go."
The boy shook his head; Arthur looked sharply at him, ready to retort. But the younger male was faster, "Why do you care anyways? For things that can happen to me?" Mathew could feel the man stiffen and his dark blue orbs gropingly searching Arthur's profile. "You worry too much, for a man like you" – He continued in his usually soft tone, but every spoken work was firm.
Green eyes were furious, though he just waited for an answer, unaffected. "Don't talk to me in such a tone, brat. You don't know a fucking thing about me, so bugger off!" Mathew stood up harshly, his face turned into a sudden rare stony scowl towards the man. "You can't tell me what I have to do." Threat possessed his voice.
"Aye! I bloody fucking can! Get your stubborn arses home! You don't know what can happen in this place!" - Why are you so restless? Nobody cares before [except Alfred], now and after. But why are you?
"It's not home" – Never breaking eye-contact, Mathew said as though he wanted so desperately to correct the man, his inside burning, as if screaming and crying. The sentence was heavy and hard like an inevitable truth. He could see the reflection of his darkly flaming eyes on those emeralds. Just wanted to swallow all and end everything by a blink of eyes.
The night had become blacker and blacker, thickened with dread silence and inhumane empty white threats. The prostitute's warnings, pretty painted nails, the room across his own, no-man-land tables, questionable feelings…
But standing here with a man he only met twice – who made a living out of a scowled-upon job; who, to his mother, should be dragged into Hell; whose name was craved deep into his mind, forever unforgotten – and staring in Arthur's warm, angry pair of eyes, he found no fears.
