CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.
"Here comes a feeling you thought you'd forgotten."
Since you're not answering your phone, I'll just text you~ I'm sorry about blowing up at
you like that yesterday. Totally uncalled for. This is something we need to sit down
and really talk about. I should have given you a chance to speak,
but I didn't and I'm sorry about that. Call me, eh~ :3
Maybe I should grovel or something. Like, Al, I'm really sorry. You don't
even understand. Message me back or call me when you get this?
Is everything okay, Al? It's been a week and I still haven't
heard from you. Let me know if everything's fine. Please?
Dropped by your place today and the doorman said he hasn't seen you in over a
week? Uh, the fuck is this? Please call me, text me, whatever. Just do something.
Do I have to call the National Guard or something, Al? I'm
worried. Maybe a sewer creature ate you. That wouldn't be very cool.
You were definitely eaten by a sewer creature.
Police won't let me file a missing person's report because I'm not a family member? I
just think the officer there didn't like me because I'm prettier than his wife.
Haters gon' hate.
Dropped by again. Doorman said you still haven't been there. What is this I don't even.
The Doorman's name is Hugh, and he gave me a coffee when he saw me
today, and told me you still haven't shown up. He's a nice man and
I think he's kind of worried about you, too.
Okay, maybe this is just creepy now, but I stopped by your brother's place today - I
swear, I'm just concerned for your well-being and safety. His wife said that you're fine
and for me to not worry. Yet she wouldn't tell me where you are?
Sense has not been made and I'm still worried as fuck.
Alfred, I don't know what you're getting at or what sort of stunt you're after
pulling, but if you're getting these messages, answer me. Please.
I'm sorry. So. Fucking. Sorry. You don't even know how sorry I am.
Please, talk to me if you've been getting these messages.
Four and a half weeks and nothing? This isn't funny anymore.
I miss you, Alfred. More than I thought I could. Please talk to me again.
Hey You. Even though I know you're probably not going to see this - or reply to it for that
matter, really - I just wanted to see if there would be any change. Miss you.
Five weeks. This is ridiculous. You know that, right?
I miss you so fucking much.
The alarm on his phone went off, but he was already awake to greet it; he had been up already for the past four hours now, so he didn't entirely know why he had set the alarm to begin with. He picked it up and opened it, checking the screen. One missed call. Eyes widened and he immediately went to see who it was that it had called, and brought up the number. His face fell almost instantly when he saw that it had only been Gilbert, and that it had been about a half and hour ago since he had called. The guy was probably wondering where he was.
Flipping his phone shut and setting it down on the table beside him, Matthew drew his knees to his chest and the blankets back up to his chin. He was tired. So fucking tired and sick to his stomach. He had reached another breaking point, and all he wanted to do was just say fuck it all and throw in the towel because it was damn well tempting. Sleeping was hard to do, and eating was impossible unless he just felt like throwing it all back up - and last time he checked, he had dropped eight pounds within a little less than a week. Maybe that was why he felt even colder than he usually did. And he sort of felt like he had been nailed by a kamikaze dump truck.
Hell didn't even describe how he felt with even the slightest bit of accuracy.
Matthew bit down on his lip until he could taste blood and he dug his nails into his palm, screwing his eyes shut as he buried his face.
He had fucked up.
Not Alfred. Alfred hadn't fucked up at all, now that he looked at it. He had just been doing what he was used to; you couldn't blame him for being addicted - that the Canadian understood considering he had come from the exact same place several months ago.
But he, Matthew Williams, had fucked up in a way he never had before.
Nuzzling into the polar bear teddy he kept tucked between his knees and chest, he sighed and just kept his face there, not wanting to acknowledge the bedroom around him.
Five and a half weeks.
That's how long it had been since he had blown up at Alfred and then, later on that evening, tried to call him.
Five and a half weeks since he had talked to or even seen the lawyer - his best friend, love interest, partner in crime, whatever the fuck you wanted to call him. Almost forty days. Over a month. And there had been absolutely no contact between the two of them, not even a whisper of where he might have been or what he might have been doing.
His head felt as though it had fallen off of his shoulders back in that nameless town, and he didn't know if it would even be possible for him to go back and get it at this point. The first week had been alright; he still wasn't too happy with the man and, frankly, he wanted to give the fucker one hell of a shiner before finally saying, 'Alright, I'm going to help you through this. We can do it together, right?' However, Alfred wouldn't call him back - which was, understandable, because really why would you want to talk to the person that blew up at you without waiting to hear you out?
But then after that first week, something felt wrong. Out of place, and it was making him sick. It was a gut feeling, and maybe he was just being stupid, but after living on the streets he had learned to go with whatever his stomach was telling him - at that time it had been in a knot; he couldn't even eat without gagging that was how bad it had gotten in that period of seven days. So, obviously, he went to Alfred's condo.
When he saw the Doorman - Hugh O'Conner, a fifty-one-year-old Irishman who had come to America wanting to follow a career in music - the man asked him where Alfred was. At first Matthew just stared at him with a stupid, blank expression on his face before he managed to stutter out an 'I was about to ask you the same thing'. Then, when Hugh just looked at him sadly, he laughed. That nervous, high-pitched giggle that you experience when something's making you anxious; scared; when your heart starts beating a little too fast for your liking or for what could be considered normal. You're joking, right? He had asked, scratching the back of his ankle as he counted backwards from a hundred to try and quell his racing heart.
Hugh had simply looked at him, said 'I wish I was' and held the door open for an elderly woman who did not say thank you to the man that had given up pursuing a career in the one thing he wanted because, like so many other people, New York had aged him too quickly and had left him jaded.
And that was when everything felt like it was beginning to fall apart, all over again.
Matthew didn't quite know how he had made it to this point, but he had. Somehow. Maybe he had simply fallen back into his old lifestyle without even noticing the change. The get out of bed and drag yourself to work, come home and pass out then do it all over again. Except for the sleeping part was getting to the point of not even happening anymore, and it was getting harder to haul himself out of bed. Tired; he was tired all the time. Tunnel vision and the inability to concentrate, and honestly, he looked (and almost felt) like the walking dead. Frankly, he just needed a nine hour coma. Something to knock him out for a while, for him to get a grip that was a little more solid and stable on everything. That wasn't going to happen, though. Not with everything looming so heavily over his conscience.
He knew quite well what it was, and whose fault it was. He just didn't want to admit to it.
Curling in further upon himself, he sniffled and bit the inside of his cheek before glancing over to his clock radio. Nine thirty-four flashed in garish red numbers on the black screen and he rolled over onto his back, taking his mobile phone with him. He was an hour late for work and he hadn't even called in yet. For a moment, he just lay there, and then he remembered Gilbert would have been working with him today. So that explained why he had called. Shit.
Picking the phone up, he dialled the store's number and listened as it rang, sighing as someone on the front end - from the flatness of the voice, it sounded like Natalia and a shudder ran through him along with the words that scary bitch - and he asked to be transferred to someone in grocery. That was when he crossed his fingers and prayed to whatever considered itself Holy and fucking demanded that his manager would not answer the phone. While Sadiq, the man that was the head of the grocery department, was a good guy and all, he could also be unusually cruel, didn't care much for the well being of others besides that of his own and there were times when he could be downright strange. Strange being he wore this ridiculous mask that Gilbert joked about, saying that it made him look like the Phantom of the Opera and then the university student would spend the rest of his shift talking in a deep, theatrical voice, pretending to use a Punjab and talking about beautiful sopranos and how he had the sexiest left eyebrow in the history of left eyebrows.
Moments later - much to his relief - it was Gilbert that answered the phone.
"Hey, Gil, listen, I-"
"Aw, hey Birdie! You do know you were supposed to be here, like, an hour ago? Sadiq is pissed as fuck, but he hasn't gone to Specs yet so-"
"Yeah, about that. I'm not coming in for my shift today. Or tomorrow, for that matter."
There was a lengthy, stagnant pause between his words and Gilbert's response. "W-What? Why? Is everything alright, Mattie?"
"No, everything isn't alright," the Canadian choked out, the words leaving his mouth before he had even processed the fact that he was speaking. He flipped the phone shut, terminating the call before the other had a chance to ask him what was wrong. Around him everything was silent, with the exception of the soft buzzing that emanated from the clock radio. And so he lay there for a few moments, one hand covering his glasses-less eyes and the other resting on his flat abdomen. No sooner than a minute after he had hung up on the other and then his phone started ringing. A smirk crossed his face and he picked up his mobile, glancing at the number. It was the store, just as he had suspected. So that meant it was either Gilbert calling him to ask what was wrong, or Sadiq - the Grocery Manager from Hell - calling to ask none-too-politely where the fuck he was.
Not bothering with answering it at all because he didn't want to talk to anyone at the given moment nor did he want to play twenty-one questions with his former boyfriend, he simply turned the device around and removed the battery from the back, turning over to set it back down on his bedside table. Once more he glanced down at the clock. Thirty-nine. He continued to watch the clock and, after what felt like forever, the numbers finally changed to forty.
Leaning down and over the edge of the bed, he groped along the wall and, when he found the outlet and plug that was there, Matthew yanked it out from the wall, watching as the numbers flickered and then died altogether.
Now he could say his apartment was completely silent.
So he laid there, the polar bear plush Alfred had bought for him in January pressed close to his chest and the blankets up over his chin, curled into the mattress and pillow. It was impossible to keep his eyes open for the way they burned, but he couldn't fall back to sleep no matter how hard he actually tried. How many hours had he slept last night, anyway? Matthew considered it. It was almost two before he finally fell asleep and the next time he remembered looking at his clock, it read five on the dot. Three hours sleep - maybe even a little less than that.
Fuck yeah, he felt like the ultimate trooper.
Yawning and nestling down further in amongst the blankets, Matthew shivered and shut his eyes against the dim light of his bedroom; the thick curtains were drawn firmly across the window, keeping everything outside hidden from view. If he couldn't see it, then why would he bother with worrying about it? It was very simple and awfully logical, especially for him. Everything was just beginning to pile up and make him feel like such a sappy, angst-filled little bastard so all he wanted to do was, really, bury himself and never climb out of the hole ever again.
It could be comfortable down there for all he knew, so why the fuck would he want to leave it if he had nothing to go back to besides the Lamp?
Actually, he could take the Lamp with him and then he really wouldn't have to worry about anything else.
Problem solved, case closed.
Reopening his eyes some time later, he looked around groggily, wondering where the heavy thumping noise was coming from. He could feel it in his temples, all down through his body and it made every inch of him hurt like nothing before. Then he realized it was a migraine forming, not someone knocking at the door like he had thought at first. Probably from not bothering with eating or something, as that was how his headaches usually started. But either way, when he turned his head and looked around, everything blurred dangerously and he groaned, covering his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose at the same time, as if doing that would push the pain he was feeling away.
What to do, what to do, Matthew wondered, rolling onto his back and sighing. Lie in bed for the remainder of time as his mind was slowly eaten at by sharp bursts of pain and mental self-abuse or crawl to the kitchen, take painkillers, his vitamins and his Valium and crash on the sofa for the rest of the day to watch cartoons?
He didn't like either idea because he would rather stay asleep for the rest of the day, but he sat up all the same, shutting his eyes as a vertigo ensued and the room twisted and turned in a way it wasn't supposed to. Rooms were not supposed to turn inside-out; they were to remain stationary for as long as possible. There was no swaying and wiggling and curving. They were made of solid wood, gyprock, insulation, wires, cords, pipes. Things that were logical; things that functioned to a set degree. Things that did not curl into ugly monsters at the whim of a pain-addled and nearly-depressed-brain.
Unless he was living on the other side of a looking glass, then it was okay and he should probably get used to it. Maybe it could even be fun, looking at things through a kaleidoscope as everything swirled while he did nothing but sit there, watching and wondering.
But this was Manhattan, not an Alice in Wonderland story, and he needed to get up, force some kind of food and drink down his throat before he collapsed and take his pills so that he could at least function for a small portion of the day.
He shivered when his bare feet touched the cold, hardwood floor, toes curling and a soft curse being hissed.
Hesitating for a moment before he left the bedroom, he looked back to his bed where the polar bear - Kumawhatsit - was and he bit down on his lower lip before making a lunge for the teddy and grabbing it, cradling it close to his chest and burying his nose in its head, inhaling lightly before sighing and shaking his head as he left the room. While carrying a teddy bear around at the age of twenty-one in the same way a little kid would made him feel absolutely ridiculous, in a way it also put him at ease. But he told himself it was simply because it was one of those little creature comforts, almost like a security blanket.
Most certainly not because he could still faintly smell the cologne Alfred usually favoured on its fur.
Meandering out into the kitchen with another yawn playing on his lips, he opened up one of the cupboards and grabbed three different pill bottles. His Valium, iron pills for the fact that he could afford to take them now for his anemia, and Vitamin D pills because, after some blood tests, he found out that his D levels were low. Of course. Because shit like that was just so fucking convenient.
Grabbing a glass from the same cupboard with a hand that was trembling a little more than it should have been, he turned on the tap, letting it run for a few minutes out of sheer habit, and he filled the goblet, popping each pill into his mouth one at a time and then washing it down, grimacing at the iron pill in particular.
And then he stood there, resting back against the counter and wondering what he would do now.
Well, there were plenty of things for him to do. He could sit down and read, or he could do some painting - which he hadn't done in almost four weeks now - or he could take out his sketch book and do some drawing. He could go on his laptop, which he was doing more often than not, creeping different blogs on interior design, books and video games. Or he could play some video games, but that wouldn't be nearly as much fun because it was so much better to play with another person than just himself.
He blushed upon realizing the potential context of his thoughts, thankful that there was finally no one else in his head that could overhear them.
However, Matthew didn't really want to do any of those things; he felt too listless, too tired. His attention span was worse than usual and God fucking dammit, he missed Alfred too much to even want to do anything. It was ridiculous, he knew, being so depressed over the fact that the man hadn't been in his life for over a month now but he couldn't help but feel low. The idiot made him smile like no one else could, and frankly, it killed him to not see him or hear him laugh or make up stupid, inane stories at the most inappropriate times. He missed Alfred randomly taking his hand and tugging him off in the most random directions with little to no explanation. He missed the silence they could share without feeling suffocated. He missed their stupid arguments that were more along the lines of fun than serious. He missed the serious discussions they could have about anything and everything, and how they could make the most ridiculous of topics sound like the most important, ground-breaking causes ever experienced.
He missed it when they would be in his living room, watching movies and making their snide commentary about a certain actor's performance or just how awful the dialogue was. He missed it when the American would fall asleep part way through a boring scene and his head would rest on his shoulder as the lawyer would snore softly. He missed the way he could curl into the older man when he was the one falling asleep; missed how strong arms would wrap around him and keep him pressed up against a firm torso and leave him with the feeling of being in the safest place in the world. He missed how fingers would gently run through his hair, making him sleepier than before.
He missed the way Alfred would smile at him, whether it was his bright, million-watt grin when he did something stupid and he knew it or that shy, tentative and boyish smile reserved just for him when the two of them were together and doing absolutely nothing. He missed the way he would causally hold his hand while they were out walking, the way his hand felt, how strong it was. He missed the stupid faces he would unwittingly make, and he most definitely missed how he would occasionally space out in the middle of saying something and then suddenly start talking about something else altogether. His quirks, his ways of saying things, his gentleness and how brash he could be all at the same time. He missed-
Oh for the love of fuck, he missed everything about the man.
And the only reason he missed it was because he had fucked up and, more than likely, driven the American away with his angered outburst upon finding out about his cocaine addiction instead of offering, right then and there, to help him get through it.
Feeling his legs go weak, Matthew sighed as he slid down along the cupboard to sit upon the floor, resting his head back against the counter.
It was just sitting on him like a dead weight, what he had done and Alfred's subsequent disappearance. He felt like he was suffocating beneath it all - the guilt, the self-directed anger and loathing, the nausea, the anxiety, the returning depression. Someone had turned on the taps while he was lying on the bottom and now he was back to drowning.
Nothing could ever work out for him. Not even this would.
A sigh passed his lips and he shut his eyes as the beginnings of a migraine finally started to dissipate. At least there was one small blessing hanging around for him, right?
No, not really, but it was the thought that counted.
Sliding along the cold tile flooring to sit down in front of the fridge, he set the polar bear teddy down upon the floor in the same spot he had previously been seated to as he yanked open the ice box. Stainless steel, Kenmore, and installed a month before he had moved in. While the Canadian hated materialism and was damn well happy enough with what he had, this was a splendid fridge.
There was even an ice maker on the front of it.
The fuck kind of fridge had an ice maker on it?
Oh yeah, those fancy kinds that cost more than what he made over a two week period.
Skimming down through the racks in his fridge, he looked at everything that was in there but pulled back with a sigh, not quite knowing if he wanted to tempt sitting down and trying to eat. His stomach felt so hollow, yet strained. But he knew he needed to eat sometime soon otherwise jade would find out - she had already commented several times that he was getting too damn thin again - and that meant McKnight would find out. The last thing he needed was to be hospitalized for his eating habits again.
Grabbing a cup of pre-cut honeydew melon and a small tetra pack of chocolate soy milk, he slammed the door shut and studied the two things he held. Fifteen pieces of melon, and 160ml of soy milk. He could handle that, right? His stomach totally wouldn't flip a shit, right?
Not likely, because the moment a piece of melon touched his tongue and he got the flavour of it, he retched, coming dangerously close to vomiting whatever bile was in his stomach. It was like his throat had frozen and swollen up, preventing him from being sick in the first place. Indigo eyes watered, his jaw trembled and there was a sort of weakness that overtook him that was different from what he was already experiencing. Glancing to the melon he had just tried to eat - he hadn't even taken a bite out of it because the taste of it alone had set it off - he felt his stomach tighten even further and he shrank down and away with a whine, pushing the food away and picking up his little container of soy milk and puncturing the hole designated for the straw. There was no problem in drinking back the entire container within a few moments when compared to the food he had just tried. His stomach didn't clench, he didn't feel the urge to crawl into the bathroom and vomit until his insides fell out.
But even looking at the food made him want to get sick. It was ridiculous, and it made Matthew hate himself all that much more. McKnight had warned him to go see him if this happened again; when it came to depression and how the Canadian reacted to it; the whole ordeal was never an emotional thing. Not at first. The first thing to go - and stay gone - was his ability to eat. Every goddamn time. The moment he would sit down to try and eat something, he would get physically sick and then, by the end, he would just give up eating altogether and he would stick to liquids.
And although he knew he should probably go and see McKnight about it, Matthew just didn't want to. He didn't want to take more pills; didn't want to put up with side-effects for the first week, the occasional suicidal thought that would turn into several a week and then into several a day; the way everything morphed into a tunnel vision he couldn't get rid of.
With a grimace of determination upon his face, he picked up the container of melon and ignored how his stomach tightened at the thought of what he was going to do. But there was no way he was going to let this get the better of him. At least not today. Tomorrow, maybe. Not right now though.
Picking up one small piece of honeydew, he put it in his mouth and immediately chomped down on it, chewing and gagging at the same time as his insides just about pitched a fit. But he swallowed it down and pressed his forehead down onto his knees as his legs were drawn up to his chest, a shaking hand pressed firmly over his mouth. He felt so ill - a cold sweat had broken out all along his back and he felt icy cold right down to the roots of his hair, and his mouth watered disgustingly - but he just kept swallowing until, after a bit, he didn't feel like puking.
While it took him the better part of an hour, being sat there on the kitchen floor and practically curled up against the fridge, he somehow managed to choke down all the melon without puking everywhere. Despite it being just a small accomplishment, Matthew couldn't help but feel a small sort of pride at being able to eat all of it. One thing he had done right, at least.
He sat there, head resting back on the cold, metallic surface of the fridge, humming lightly as he massaged the bridge of his nose.
That hadn't been too awful. And he didn't feel quite as sick anymore, which was a small bonus. His stomach didn't feel empty, either; it felt as though he had been stuffed to the brim. Now he didn't feel like his mid-section was just going to crumple in on itself when he stood.
Hauling himself up, trying to ignore how his knees still trembled and practically knocked together. Maybe a shower would make him feel a little bit better, as well. Warm water, lots of steam and some nice body wash. Oh, and he'd get a shave, too, despite not entirely needing one just yet. He only had the slightest scruff on his chin, and it had been almost a week since he had last shaved; all that was there was a little stubble and not much more.
Running his fingers along his jaw and chin, he hummed lightly and for a brief moment wondered if his father had the same problem - the inability to grow facial hair properly. Maybe it was something genetic that he had inherited from the man.
The thought surprised him and he stopped in his tracks, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before he looked around, as though expecting someone to creep up behind him.
It wasn't very often he caught himself thinking about his father, if ever at all, considering he had no notion as to who the man was. While his mother had been adamant in her hatred for the man, and Matthew had grown to dislike him as well - probably for the fact that hatred can be contagious when one is exposed to it for an extended period of time as it's channelled toward the same object and/or individual - now he just had no opinion on him. But he had never known him, didn't know of his motive for leaving his mother - because that's what she said had happened - so he didn't know if his hatred of him could even be classified as legitimate; his cousin Francis knew who his father was, and no matter how many times he had begged and pleaded for the older man - who had to be in his late forties by now - to tell him who his father was.
Francis would simply chuckle, pat him on the head and tell him that he couldn't for his mother had sworn him to secrecy, then offer for the boy to join him in a tyrannical raid of sorts in the kitchen that would leave his mother scowling and trying to ignore the two and how the Frenchman always managed to worm a cookie or three in before dinner.
(The French lawyer also said he had an uncanny ability to profit from the sidelines, which Matthew never really understood until he was a teenager.)
And he never did find out; it had been almost four years since he had seen Francis, and even now he knew the man would just tell him he had made a promise to keep the Canadian from knowing. As odd as it might have been, or maybe it was merely paranoia, things like that made Matthew feel like he might have been an accident, as he was an only child and his mother had only been eighteen-years-old and just out of high school when she had found out she was pregnant in the first place.
Accidental pregnancy. A cold smirk curved his lips as he grabbed a pair of jeans from his closet and a t-shirt at random along with some clean undergarments. Jason had known who his father was, as well, and he had known that his existence wasn't intentional, either.
On more than one occasion the man had called Matthew an accident. That he shouldn't have been born in the first place. They were the few words said by the man that still rang clear in his mind; perhaps it was from the amount of times the other had stricken him, but the majority of the things Jason had said to him in the entire time they had known each other completely escaped him.
Being called an accident, though, was something that would never leave him.
Peeling off his shirt as he ambled into the bathroom and sighing heavily, he ran his fingers down along his ribs as a reflex and grimaced when he realized he could feel them again. "Fuck," he breathed, shucking off his sleeping pants and throwing them into the hamper along with the shirt he had been wearing. Back to this shit.
Grabbing his shampoo and body wash and stepping into the shower, he shut the glass door behind him as he winced at the cold stone beneath his feet. The shower was tiny, big enough for just one person with a little space to move, and the thing was almost in pitch darkness from the fact that it was isolated from the bath and more or less built into the wall. Turning on the taps and pulling to the side a little as the water heated up to the point that standing beneath the torrent should have scalded his skin, Matthew ducked his head beneath the water and then just stayed there, resting his head on the cold stone wall as water streamed down his bare back. Shutting his eyes as water began to drip and pool into his eye lashes, he listened to the steady sound of the water plinking onto the cold floor that was slowly beginning to warm.
He could feel the steam pooling around him and slipping into his lungs as he took slow, measured breaths. And then he pulled back, turning on his heel and grabbing his shampoo as he set about the purpose of a shower. The water was some warm, and he still felt so weak and tired that it was making his legs rubbery, so Matthew figured he might as well clean his hair before his legs gave out on him altogether; he could sit down on the floor as he washed himself. That would probably make it easier, actually.
Setting the shampoo back in the rack once he was finished with it, and when he finally had all the suds rinsed out of his hair, he slid down along the wall and set his head back against it, shutting his eyes and letting the water beat down on his torso, the initial sting of the heated water gone. Or maybe his body had just been so scalded by the water that he couldn't even notice it anymore. A yawn escaped him and he ran his hand down over his face, staring up at the ceiling as the steam rose in thin swirls. It was fascinating to his exhausted and pill-clouded mind, something he couldn't take his eyes off of no matter how hard he tried to.
It was nearly an hour before he mustered the strength to get up and emerge from the shower, a trembling and weak mess. The water had gone cold and had been icy for a while before he had even realized it. Shivering as he staggered out over the stone ledge, tripping and almost landing face-first on the floor as he tried to wrap a towel around his narrow hips. He cursed lightly before straightening up and setting his shaving gear down onto the countertop with a heavy sigh.
Grabbing a face cloth and wiping it over the fogged-up mirror, he tossed it down onto the counter and then started to run the water, listening to it as it hit the stainless steel sink. It hit with a shaper noise than what the water in the shower would have, and he hummed a little, tilting his head to the side as he just listened. He sighed, feeling ridiculous for allowing himself to be so amazed by a goddamn noise, and made a grab for his razor.
And then he hesitated, staring at the blade, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he studied it. Five of them, short and clean. Sharp; he knew this because the last time he had shaved, he hadn't been paying attention and he had nicked the underside of this chin. Matthew noticed that his hand had started trembling in a way that was unrelated to his cold water-induced shivering, but otherwise he paid it no heed.
Cocking his head to the side as he stared blankly at the razor blade, his eyes were glassy and he felt as though he were somewhere else; in another year altogether. Spinning the black and blue plastic and steel around his finger tips, eyes never once leaving the blade, he blinked sluggishly, contemplated and then paused. The Canadian then scrunched up his nose with distaste at the entire situation he was presented with - that he had brought upon himself yet again.
He blinked quickly several times, huffed and then grabbed for the container of shaving cream before turning his gaze back to the mirror, trying to ignore the bags beneath his eyes; the fact that his skin had gone several shades paler; the fact that his face was thinner again.
Just perfect because losing weight was just what he needed, right?
Some half an hour later, he wandered out of the bathroom, freshly shaven, clean, a little less sane and dressed for the day even though he didn't quite intend on going anywhere anytime soon. A sigh passed his lips; if he could have it his way, he wouldn't leave his apartment ever again - not until Alfred came back, at least. Plodding over to the sofa and crashing down with a grunt, he lay there and stared at the ceiling, letting a sigh slip pass his lips.
This was beyond feeling down. This was being sub-terrain. Marianas Trench. Undersea cavern. The center of the Earth. The interior of the center of the Earth. If the interior of the center of the Earth if it imploded. If it imploded several times.
Why was this affecting him so damn much?
This was beginning to make him feel like some stupid, whipped, pussy-ass little bitch. He could function just damn fine before Alfred became, essentially, a permanent fixture in his life. Even in January he was just fine. But since then, since he admitted to It, to those stupid, bullshit feelings he hadn't felt since he was in high school, it was like he was just so completely dependant on the man being around him for both his emotional and physical well-being. As if without him he wasn't meant to function properly. He wasn't supposed to feel like this about anyone. He was a guy, first off, and it was the general, well-known stereotype that men weren't dependant on anyone except for the right hand and a stable economy or some shit like that. His art teacher had told him that once, after they had sex. Although that affair had been completely illegal, it had been one hell of a learning experience. Mr. Rightie was supposed to be his sole companion when no one else was there.
So then, if that was the case, then why the fuck was he so hung up on Alfred not being there with him?
"Why did I have to go and fuck up like that and why, for the love of fucking Jesus, am I so fucking in love with that bastard?" Matthew moaned aloud, grabbing a pillow and shoving it down over his face with a groan of absolute frustration. "This is fucking embarrassing as shit an-"
"Who are you talking to?"
A shriek was startled out of the Canadian and he bolted up off of the sofa, crawling over the back and landing on the floor before scrambling to sit up against the wall and stare up at the speaker. Roderich Edelstein stood there, arms folded across his chest and an eyebrow arched, hip cocked as he tapped his foot.
"As well, might I mention that it would be perhaps somewhat beneficial to lock your door, even when you are at home, Mr. Williams?" he pointed out smoothly, moving with a sort of grace across the room before sitting down primly in an arm chair and watching the pale-faced Canadian as he slumped against the wall, hand pressed to his chest and his eyes wide. "Are you going to just sit there and stare at me?"
Matthew's mouth opened and closed uselessly for a moment and then he swallowed, looking around and his eyes widening further as Gilbert wandered in as well, flopping down on the sofa, one arm dangling over the back and the other resting on the arm.
"What'd you do to him, Specs?" he asked. "Give 'im a heart attack or something?"
Roderich scowled. "Ingrate," he snapped. "No, I simply startled him because the genius didn't have enough common sense to lock his front door."
"Well, you were the one that just waltzed on in without waiting for him to answer the door," Gilbert retaliated with a shake of his head, grinning as the Canadian finally got up off the floor and tottered over on wobbly legs to flop down on the other end of the sofa as his expression still registered shock and the slightest dismay.
The manager opened his mouth, sat there wordlessly for a moment, huffed and then shut his mouth, glaring pointedly before looking away as his cheeks flushed lightly. There was a smug look on Gilbert's face and he sunk back against the cushions of the sofa, grinning rakishly.
"But, seriously Birdie, who were you talking to?" Gilbert asked, straightening up and tilting his head quizzically at the other.
Saying nothing at first, the Canadian rubbed at his temple and averted his eyes to look at the floor. But the German-American's gaze did not waver from his face despite his best efforts to avoid it - Gilbert's eyes were practically blazing as the older man watched him, waiting for an answer.
Then he sighed, breaking down finally. "Myself, really," he muttered, staring out into the kitchen area with a vapid look on his face, lips set into a firm, stubborn line as he glowered at nothing in particular; glaring just happened to cross his fancy at the given time so fuck that shit he was going to give the evil eye to whatever he damn well felt like and right now, that toaster was looking like a prick.
"And what's so fascinating about talking to yourself?" Gil asked, edging forward with a curious look on his face.
Matthew sent him a sharp look before turning his gaze once more to the kitchen, this time the blender being the object of his scrutiny. "I'm an amazing conversationalist," he said coldly, subconsciously crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive way as he sunk back into the cushions. "Why wouldn't I want to talk to myself?"
"What about Alfred?" Gilbert demanded, although he was unable to keep the bitterness in his voice from showing too much; from the corner of his eye, he could see the tightness in the man's shoulders, the way his jaw twitched for a brief moment. While Matthew knew Gilbert was damn good and over him and quite in love with Roderich, the art student hated Alfred with a passion. And be damned if he could figure out what it was about him that made the man hate the lawyer so much in the first place. "I thought you guys were tight?"
The muscle in Matthew's jaw twitched, but he said nothing; just swallowed against the burning sensation in his throat that was slowly migrating to his chest where it would sit there and fester like a malicious disease.
"I mean, I'm sure you could babble to him instead of the open air or whatever," the man continued, not having noticed the way the other's composure had changed, "about whatever it is that was bothering you, especially if you couldn't talk to me, of all people, about it. Which isn't cool, y'know, considering how awesome I am and all." He snuffed through his nose and then rolled his eyes. "I don't see why you couldn't come to me about it. Speaking of ol' Yankee Doodle, what did he do, disappear or something? I haven't seen him in ages."
At this, Matthew's breath hitched and he looked away, running a hand through his hair while his other hand curled into a fist and then uncurled. His stomach, still full from the pathetic meal of chopped pieces of melon, was beginning to turn at his friend's words. He was going to be sick. He just knew it; first he had driven Alfred away with his sheer stupidity, and now Gilbert was pissed off at him, too, in that subtle way reserved for when he was really angry, but didn't quite want to hurt his feelings.
"Shut up, Gilbert," Roderich snapped suddenly, capturing both of their attention. The man had pinched the bridge of his nose and was shaking his head. "You oblivious fool."
Gilbert, much to his, surprise, did indeed fall silent, staring at his lover with a mixture of apprehension on his face and annoyance.
"I had a feeling." Turning in his seat to face the semi-bent over Canadian, he tilted his head a little as he watched the way his eyes had fluttered shut and the way he chewed on his lip. "What happened between you and Mr. Jones, Matthew?"
Matthew's lower lip trembled and all he did was shake his head, looking away and covering his mouth. How the hell had Mr. Edelstein known? Well, he probably didn't know what it was - more than likely he had no clue about it, at all - but for him to have a hunch that something was wrong between the two of them when they didn't really talk outside of work unless he was hanging out with Gilbert and the store owner happened to there. The artist swallowed, deciding against speaking. As it stood, it wasn't like he knew what to say in the first place.
Next thing he knew, Roderich had crossed the room and was seated in front of him, crouched down before him and peered up at him with concerned violet eyes. "Matthew? Talk to me."
And then he broke.
Words started spilling out before he even realized he was talking at all, and it was the oddest feeling; to be talking without even being aware of it in the first place. "I … I … we went for a drive last m-month and, well, we stopped in some town to get something to eat. Which was cool and all. But then he was taking too long to come back from the bathroom so I went to check and see if he was okay and then I caught him doing cocaine in the bathroom. Like, I lost my shit at him. It was totally unnecessary. I a-absolutely flipped out at him. So that was cool and we had the most awkward lunch ever and I couldn't even look at him without wanting to throw up and smack him and then when we left we just … we didn't say anything at all. The entire four hours driving, we didn't say one word. Not until we got back into the city. I-I didn't know what to say, I didn't know how to approach him on it and then I just … I don't know. Something felt like it broke, like someone snapped a thin, fraying string that was keeping everything togetherand I just needed to get out of the car so fucking bad. I've never needed to get away from him so bad in my entire life, and that hurt. Oh, fuck, it hurt so much. I couldn't face him, not even to talk. Even though we should have. We didn't. I just … I was just so angry and upset and I couldn't … I just couldn't." He made a choked noise as his voice cracked dangerously, betraying how he felt, covering his mouth as tears worked their way into his eyes. "So I basically let him have it, and s-said that if he wanted t-t-to stay d-doing his coke then I-I'd never tal-" His voice broke altogether and he gave a strangled sob, shutting his eyes as tears leaked from them. "Why? Why couldn't he fucking tell me? I … I'm his best friend! Well, at least I thought I was. But … I just don't fucking understand. I-I-I would have helped him if h-he had to tell me before I-I f-found out l-like that!"
Neither of the two men in the room said a word to the Canadian that was silently crying on the sofa, taking the occasional shuddering breath, and Gilbert looked deeply troubled. He shook his head, running a hand through pale blonde hair before speaking. "Maybe it was for the same reason you couldn't tell me you had tried killing yourself? Because that's damn well what it sounds like to me, Birdie."
Indigo eyes went impossibly wide and the Canadian recoiled sharply, moving to stand. Maybe it was just him being paranoid and distressed, but from the way the man had worded that, it almost felt as though he had just attempted to use his history of suicidal tendencies, as McKnight called them, against him. His former boyfriend, however, would not allow it; he grabbed him by the wrist and jerked him back down to sit upon the sofa once more, a serious look on his face.
"If you wouldn't listen to Alfred - and knowing you, you probably didn't give the guy a chance to get a word in edgewise - you're going to listen to me, and you going to fucking listen to me now," he hissed, pale blue eyes icy. Matthew nodded, oblivious to how his hand stayed tightly on his thin, fragile wrist. "I remember you were fucking terrified to tell me you had tried to kill yourself; that you were still suicidal; that you were on more pills than what a fucking pharmaceutical company puts out in a year; that you had a therapist you saw once a week that still worried that you were going to try and off yourself again. You were fucking terrified to tell me that you had done drugs while you lived on the streets, that you stole from some stores and held them up with your gun on several occasions just so you could get a little bit of the spoils for yourself; that you worked as a p-"
"Don't you say it," Matthew hissed viciously, panicking now and taking a furtive glance towards his boss who looked on with an expression of pure shock on his face at what Gilbert had started to easily list off; while Roderich had known the sort of situation he had come from via McKnight, who had gotten him the job in the first place, he did not know to what extent it had all been for him. "Don't you dare say it, you bastard."
"What?" Gilbert asked lowly. "That you worked several times as a prostitute while you were living on the streets? No, I won't say that."
All the colour drained from Matthew's face and he stood, wringing his hands and unable to bring himself to look at either of the men in his sitting area. There was nothing he could even say. Nothing coherent, and nothing that would keep their friendship in one piece. So instead he stumbled away from the two, weak at the knees and feeling sicker than he had in days, and just sat at the kitchen table and held his face in his hands because that was all he could do. For Gil to go and just say that as though it were the most casual thing ever and be so goddamn nonchalant about it - in front of their fucking boss, none the less - it had left Matthew shaken and speechless. He felt sick to his stomach; weak. Gilbert was the only person that had ever known that, and now Roderich did, of all people, too. The fuck sort of game was he playing at?
From across the room, he heard Gilbert speak again, "Alright, now imagine how Alfred felt when you found that out he does cocaine. And compare it to how you felt just then."
A look of realization crossed Matthew's face and he let his face hit the table as he ran his hands through his hair. "I'm an excuse of a human," he choked out miserably. "I don't think I've ever hated myself more than what I do right now."
No one said anything after that; they just watched the Canadian as he sat there, hands laced through his hair as he drew his knees to his chest and cursed rapidly beneath his breath, depreciating himself for just plain existing.
It felt as though hours had dragged by before he made to move again, but for all he knew it could have been minutes; his sense and state of mental cohesion hadn't been working for a few weeks now, along with his sense of time. Upon feeling a hand running through his hair, Matthew jerked his head up, rubbing at his neck which had grown painfully stiff to the point that movement made his eyes water and pain prickle all down along his neck. He blinked slowly and then sighed, wiping at the tears that had dried there. It had been a while since he had stopped, but even then he didn't want to lift his head; the migraine had returned a ten-fold and he still wanted to just roll over onto the floor and vomit.
"What?" he demanded sharply, the word coming out a little harsher than what he had initially intended.
Gilbert grimaced. "Hey, c'mon Birdie, don't be like that," he said softly, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he watched the mercurial young man beside him as he glared angrily at the table. "No one here thinks any less of you because of it, and you know it."
"That's not the point, Gil," Matthew said, voice strained. "I just … you promised me you wouldn't tell anyone that."
"Well, I didn't exactly tell anyone, directly," he said smoothly, hauling a chair over to sit down beside the Canadian. "I just said it. Whether or not Roderich heard anything is up to his listening abilities, right Specs?"
Roderich ambled over and arched a brow. "Heard what?" he asked quietly, resting his hip on the edge of the table and smiling lightly at the youngest of the three in the room.
Not quite getting it at first, Matthew only stared at the man in front of him before his lips curled into a tiny, trembling smile of relief and he ducked his head. "Thanks," he whispered.
"I don't know exactly what it is you're thanking me for," Edelstein sniffed haughtily, "but I'll accept it all the same. You're quite welcome, boy."
Matthew laughed weakly before he shook his head again; slumping a little in his chair and staring out across the room with a forlorn look on his face. "I just … I feel awful," he said quietly, blinking rapidly and grimacing. "It's been almost six weeks since I last heard from him and I can't sleep, I can't eat without getting physically sick, I have no energy and I'm like it all the time. I can't handle feeling this way again and I don't want to do this anymore. I won't."
"Don't say shit like that," Gilbert said lowly, cupping a thinned-out cheek in his palm, forcing the Canadian to look at him as he scowled. "You say shit like that and I'll kick your scrawny ass, got it, Birdie?"
There was silence in the kitchen after Gilbert spoke, and the Canadian sunk back in his chair, looking away and removing the hand from his cheek, but still holding onto it lightly, just letting their fingers twine together for a moment before he turned to look over at the man seated beside him. The expression on his face was miserable and he sighed, shaking his head and gnawing on his lip. "I-I'm sorry, Gil," he whispered. "I don't even know where my head is right now. I feel like I'm all over the place."
Gilbert wiped at his eyes with a tissue he had grabbed from seemingly nowhere, smiling softly, expression oddly tender. "Listen, we're going to head back to work, alright? Turn your cell phone back on and give me a call later tonight; I'll come over, and we'll get completely wasted, watch some terribly dubbed movies and just be general assholes. Maybe I'll even get Luddy to come over, too. I'm sure he'd get a kick out of getting drunk with us."
Nodding, he managed a small smile that in turn caused a look of relief to cross the German-American's face. "That sounds good to me," he said softly. "Being drunk sounds like it would be the most amazing thing ever right now. Bring some vodka, tequila and whiskey because, honestly, I want alcohol poisoning at this point in time."
Leaning down between them, Roderich pinched Gilbert's cheek, scowling. "I'll come and pick you up," he said icily, "but you better come into work tomorrow. I don't care if you're dying. You are coming in whether you like it or not." Then, he turned to Matthew, expression stern. "You, on the other hand, may take the rest of the week off and you can return when you feel up to it."
Matthew smiled a little, and then he laughed at the expression Gilbert now wore - one that was utterly displeased and slightly spiteful. "Hey, don't be such a priss," he snapped. "Do you want me in puking my guts up and being hung over as fuck?"
"Stop it with that foul language, you barbaric, uncouth brat," Roderich snapped, the entire act of being disgusted by his lover's foul mouth being thrown out the window as the pale-skinned man stood and kissed him lightly on the corner of the mouth. Roderich's expression softened and he sighed, lightly kissing his temple. Matthew felt his gut clench, but he managed to keep a grin plastered on his face all the same.
That was something he had gotten good at.
"You don't complain when it's just the two of us, in your bedroom," Gilbert purred saucily, grinning roguishly as he trailed his finger's down over the older man's chest while the store owner's face flushed dangerously and he spluttered helplessly. Matthew, on the other hand, burst out laughing. Hysterically. To the extent of having tears in his eyes and pains in his chest and stomach. "Or in your music room for that matter. That poor piano will never be the sa-"
"We're leaving now! Goodbye, Matthew! Have a splendid afternoon and I do hope you come around soon, and that everything works about between you and Mr. Jones," Edelstein said in a shrill voice, dragging his boyfriend out of the room by the collar of his shirt. "Oh, and if you never hear from Gilbert again, you're free to assume the worst! I have no problem should you wish to press charges!"
Laughter increasing and the tears rolling freely down over his cheeks, Matthew covered his mouth as he did his best to try and inhale. The two lovers were still bickering and then the door to his apartment slammed shut and everything was silent. The laughter faded to soft giggles and he wiped uselessly at his eyes, letting out another few giggles before giving a high-pitched sigh and leaning back against the rungs of the chair. That had been exciting, so what now? Sit there again and stare at the four walls? Contemplate why he should be allowed to exist? Count the tiles - which he had already done, and as it stood, there were 264 between the kitchen and bathroom - and all the different knobs and hinges? Try and figure out the colour codes for all the different shades of paint and recreate them out of various foods and household cleaners? Surely that would make for some very engaging entertainment, would it not?
And so he was left there in his apartment, alone once more and not knowing what to do with himself.
Pathetic. That was the only word for it. Pathetic, dependant and a total fuck up.
He stayed there at the kitchen table for some time, staring out into the living room at nothing in particular, gnawing on his lower lip and playing with the pieces of cell phone set down before him. It was impossible to make up his mind about what he was going to do - what he was about to do, really. Something needed to be done. But it would be pointless because, at this rate, Alfred would never find out. He probably wouldn't see any of the texts he had been sending, and if he did, they probably meant nothing.
But he still needed to tell him; he still needed to let him know, even if telling someone via text message, for the first time, was the lamest and most unclassy and unromantic thing he could have ever done. Lame, too.
That knowledge did not stop Matthew from popping the battery back into the phone and bringing up a blank text message screen.
It did not stop him because there was another thought running through his head, as it had been for several weeks: what if Alfred had simply forgotten his phone and had gone on without it? Would he find the messages still there when he came back and picked up his phone again? Of course he would; the messages would be manually deleted unless his phone was batshit or something. So that meant there really was a possibly he could see it, which made it all not as unsettling.
Initially he hesitated again, typing slowly and then backspacing furiously several times before he finally felt he had gotten the message right. Matthew knew he had a way with words - he had been told that by his English teacher 'you could write lovely poetry if you didn't hate it so much. I mean really, I have never met, in all my years teaching, someone who can eloquently express their loathing of the poetic form through their very own Villanelle', but words were failing him. He couldn't even think of two words that made sense together in the exact same sentence.
Pressing 'Send' after almost twenty minutes of debating whether or not he would send him the final product, which still felt pathetic and made him feel just as desperate as he sounded, Matthew sunk back in his chair and set the phone down on the table. That would be the last message he sent the American because honestly, if he sent anymore, he would probably pine to death over the imbecile as though he were some maiden that had lost her husband at sea to a vicious storm and a sunken, destroyed ship. Pining to death would suck. Bringing up his outbox, he clicked on the message he had just sent and re-read it, still wondering if it had been the right think to do, or if he should have waited it out a little longer than he already had (because five and a half weeks was nothing compared to six or seven).
I love you, Alfred. Please, please don't make me be alone anymore. I can't handle it. Not now,
not again. Never again. I love you and I just ... I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.
I just know that I love you so much and that I want you here so badly it
hurts. All I hope is that you're safe and doing okay wherever you are.
No more texts; now he would just wait for absolutely nothing because that's what Matthew Williams was good at doing.
Yaaay filler chapter hehehe. That's why I got it written so fast. And some of you were thinking that this would be resolved in one chapter~ Oh ho ho not likely. Sob.
And 30 reviews last chapter? What? What? What? WHAT?
I love you all, so much. Like oh Christ it hurts. Thanks so much. ;w;