CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.
"That was too close; you were almost a Jill sandwich!"
As much as he loved the time of year - the crispness of the air, the leaves changing colours, the anticipation that built up over the course of the month that lead to the very end - the only thing Matthew hated about October was the fact that the days got shorter and shorter, until it was practically pitch black out by five o'clock in the evening.
But as much as he hated that, he also loved it for the simple fact that it made watching horror movies and playing horror videogames in the pitch dark so much easier.
Like now.
Curled up alone in his apartment, bundled beneath piles of blankets and sitting in inky darkness, it was a Tuesday night and Matthew was letting his brain ooze out through his ears by doing absolutely nothing productive. Unless the plan of twelve hours straight of Resident Evil was considered productive in a parallel universe, his brain was going to be nothing but squishy gray gunk.
It was going on nine in the evening and Matthew had his eyes peeled wide as he navigated Jill through the entrance hall of the Spencer Mansion. Barry was already off doing his own thing, and Chris had disappeared. So it was just him and Jill, navigating the hell hole, gun in hand with absolutely no background music. All he could hear was the sound of Jill's combat boots as she wandered around the main level of the grandiose, death-infested mansion.
If anything, it was the silence of the game that was getting to him.
(Silence was always the first thing to drive him crazy.)
Walking through the main hall, up over the stairs - staying away from the front door was a necessity, given the rabid, T-Virus infected dogs that would rush the door when you tried to open the damn thing - Matthew hesitated before he sent her off down one of the adjacent halls. It had been at least six years since he had played the game, so he couldn't remember which room to go to first. Nor did he have any idea what to do. Unless he was supposed to go downstairs first, and go through that room with the statue in the center…
Shit. He needed a walkthrough, and desperately. So much could go wrong if he went to the wrong room first. Like, he could miss out on green and red herbs; miss out on ammo; miss out on weapons; miss out on maps and journal entries.
Miss out on some fucking awesome zombie brain blowing-out action.
Pausing the game, he dug around the sofa cushions for his cellphone, groping blindly in the dark until he found it. Sliding it open, he started to type:
Mathias save me where the fuck
do i go in the very beginning of the
first RE game? room w/ the statue
or back where the 1st zombie is
eating out kenneth? ;)
Sliding the phone shut, he unpaused the game and continued to wander around the top floor, getting a feel for the awkward controls; he had gotten so used to playing games on the 360 that, with this archaic Playstation One game, navigating was an anal task (and not the good anal, either); push the joystick forward and she'd move backwards. Push the joystick back and she'd move forward. More than once Matthew had contemplated taking the controller and throwing it at the television screen, but then he would take a deep breath and calmly remind himself that it wasn't his TV to mangle.
If it was though…
His phone happened to vibrate at the same time as the controller in his hand as he was attacked by a zombie that seemed to come out of nowhere, and a frightened shout left Matthew as the controller left his hands, flying to the floor as he recoiled sharply. Jill was getting devoured by the particularly relentless zombie (poor bastard must have been starved) and all he could do was sit there, heart pounding with an unremitting vigour against his ribs. Without taking his eyes off of the screen - which now read You Are Dead - he slid his hand along the sofa and grappled with the phone, quickly retracting it back into the safe confines of his blanket castle.
ha ha ha I c wat u did ther ;D
u got 2 go in2 the room on teh
main florr cos theres a map &
ink ribbon in there that u need.
lemme no if u need mor help.
'Spell check, bro,' he thought with a slight amount of disdain as he replied to the message he had to spend a moment deciphering, 'you could seriously handle it.'
Tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him, Matthew bent forward to try and grab the controller he had tossed to the floor (all while trying to keep his legs and feet tucked firmly beneath him). Instead of latching onto it like he had been aiming for in the first place, he overreached and landed face-first on the floor, face squishing into the wood with a heavy thump. Sharp pain flared all up along his face and straight through his nose. A groan of pain left him and he let the rest of his body roll off of the sofa.
Then it hit him: shit no he was on the floor he was totally defenceless now with nothing soft to protect him so that meant the zombies would get him oh Lord he was screwed so hard and in so many ways.
Matthew scrambled to get back up on the sofa and to get the blankets wrapped around him once more. Fuelled by this completely irrational logic that would have his partner roaring with laughter, the artist made certain he was bundled up to the nines with his controller, his cellphone, the gigantic bottle of Pepsi Max and Coke Zero on the coffee table as well as the bowl of chips, sour Cherry Blasters and watermelon candies.
He was on the sofa for the night and he was going to play through as much of the goddamn game as he possibly could. It wasn't like he needed to go to work on Wednesday, anyway, so he could stay up as late and sleep in as long as he wanted to.
Bringing himself back to the dining room where the typewriter and the first zombie corpse was he moved Jill from the room and out into the main hall once more. No need to go upstairs just yet; for one, that zombie was still wandering around up there. It was the main floor room he needed to go to anyway. Not like he could just leave the stuff he needed there; ink ribbons, if he could remember properly, were a bitch to come across - and it was good to have a stock of them, especially if you ran out of them right before a particularly hard level.
Hunkering down on the sofa with a look of sheer determination on his face - jaw set, eyes peeled and focused on the glowing plasma screen that illuminated the room - and cursing beneath his breath as he entered the side room, he scanned the screen. "Aha." There was the statue, a woman holding an urn (and not to mention a body lying on the floor; after close inspection, it proved to be dead and a sigh of relief left him). At the top of it was a small, glowing object: the map of the first floor, just like Mathias had told him. Perfect. Getting Jill to climb up and grab the map, Matthew continued to scan his eyes over the screen. The body was still dead. There was the door he needed to go through later on, and there was the backroom. Now that he was looking at it, he found himself remembering the places he needed to go. First to the backroom, where the ink ribbon was. Then he needed to pick the lock on the other door.
What lay beyond that door, he couldn't remember for the life of him, but that was alright; he'd get to that when the time was right.
Map secured and, after fiddling around with the buttons to try and bring it up a few times, he moved to the back room where the ink ribbon was.
And, of course, where the other fucking zombie was.
He had forgotten about that zombie.
Damn it all to hell and beyond.
Spinning Jill around despite the fact that he wanted her to stay in one goddamn place, he shot around him in circles, only hitting the zombie once - and non-fatally at that. In the shoulder. What good was shooting a zombie in the shoulder? It was no fucking good at all, that's what it was. Cursing aloud as he was cornered by the undead bastard, Matthew knifed it instead of wasting bullets. All that happened was the zombie staggered backward before lunging at him again, slugging its dead weight across the small space the violent gesture had created. Doing this again, he forced the zombie back again with another stab.
Enough of this horseshit. Sprinting out of the little hallway (thankfully he had remembered to grab the ribbon while he had been in there), he ran in an unintentional circle before turning back to shove the wooden block across the mouth of the back hall. That would block off the bast-
Fuck. Fuck everything walking on one leg, two legs, three legs and four or however many goddamn legs it might have had; the zombie had managed to worm its way between the small gap in the wood as he had pushed it across.
Matthew let out a frustrated groan and shook the controller angrily as he watched the zombie advance across the screen, steps jerky and awkward. Other than the fact that he hadn't had time, maybe the other reason he had never picked Resident Evil back up after his first time finishing it was because of the fact that he got frustrated so easily with it. He wasn't like this when it came to his other horror games. He never got angry with those. Resident Evil, however, brought out the little Tyrant in him.
Backing away from the monster as Jill drew up her handgun, Matthew prodded tentatively at his tender nose and pressed forward as he started to fire off shots. None of them were getting it in the head! They were all landing in his torso, which was not where he wanted them to go.
"You stupid bitch," he hissed beneath his breath as he retreated from the advancing zombie. Why couldn't he just try to throw his knife at the thing's head? Surely that could work. "Shoot in a fucking straight line and stopping moving like some kind of retard panda these fucking controls are shit I hate you so much Sony."
Running from the room as he found it impossible to kill the thing - seriously, those damn zombies needed to learn when to lie the fuck down and not get back up - he hesitated, staying out in the main hall and breathing heavily for a moment. Maybe the zombie would have returned to the back hall and he'd be able to pick the lock on the blue door without getting his flesh eaten. Sometimes it worked in other games, right?
Hoping (see: profusely praying) for the best, he went back into the room. Then he considered throwing his controller again because the bastard was still there.
The zombie was even more persistent than Alfred. Christ on crackers.
And the body that had been playing dead up until he had left the room was up for the party, too. Of course. Of. Fucking. Course. Matthew wanted to cry and laugh all at once because he couldn't throw his controller at the screen in a rage-filled fit.
Dancing circles - literally; he still didn't quite have the hang of the controls just yet (maybe he should have considered staying out in the main, empty hall to practice) - around the zombies, he accidentally walked her into a wall before whipping Jill around and firing off a few shots. Luckily enough, one of the bullets fluked into nailing the undead freak in the head, downing him instantly. The remaining zombie, however, launched itself at his character from behind and threw her forward. Before he had a chance to try and fight the monster off, the zombie was already overpowering the brunette little squirt, and was trying to take as best a chomp out of her as it could.
Cursing fluently beneath his breath and steadily button-mashing, he continued to spin Jill around in some sort of evasive/look-at-me-I'm-a-freak dance before escaping getting mauled by managing to land another two bullets into the remaining zombie's skull.
And then there was one.
With a little self-congratulatory pat on the back, Matthew was grinning dumbly as he finally found the chance to go and pick the lock on the door at the back of the room. A shiver passing through him as he watched the animation of the door swinging open - the eerie, silent background punctuated by a soft creak of door hinges was frighteningly accurate despite the age of the game - before stepping into the hall beyond the door.
Still feeling a little rattled from the run in with the zombies, he walked Jill down the hall instead of making her run. Knowing his luck, the hall would either be crawling with zombies, or there would be something else lurking. Something that liked to eat protagonists for lunch.
Or maybe it would be Barry and he'd have another stupid little one-liner. It always made for fantastic comic relief.
He wasn't even a hundredth through the game, and here he was, already desperate for some comedy. A few shits and giggles, not-
The window shattered, causing him to jolt, scream curses and come nearly a foot off the sofa as a T-Virus infected dog came bounding and snarling into the room. He barely had a chance to quell his racing heart and shoot the dumb fucker when, at the same time, there was a heavy knock on the inside door of his apartment. Three loud, heavy knocks and the door creaked open.
If the dog wasn't enough to take a few years off of Matthew's life, then Greg standing silhouetted in his doorway without ample warning was.
Not even pausing the game as the dog proceeded to maul Jill - which would kill her, and bring him right back to the beginning in the dining room and he'd have to go through the process of finding the map and ribbon and killing the dumb fucking persistent-er than Alfred zombies all over again - Matthew let out a high-pitched curse/scream combination before throwing himself over the back of the sofa, hitting the wall in the process, and cowering behind it as logic eluded him. He didn't need those limbs or that shoulder anyway. As long as he didn't break the plaster on the wall, he didn't give any fucks.
A light flickered on, burning his eyes and practically blinding him. He hissed, covering his eyes with the blanket still around him as he lay facedown on the floor (because the sofa and blankets were enough protection).
"… Matthew?"
Scooting across the floor, his six-year-old self pretending to be a caterpillar, he inched his blanket-wrapped body along the back of the sofa in order to poke his head around the corner. Indigo eyes were wide with shock.
Forgoing human contact to play survival horror games in the dark was a bad idea. A very bad idea.
But a fun bad idea.
Kind of like stealing cars and going for joyrides, illegal border crossing and graffiti.
"Is this … a bad time for you?" Greg asked. He scrunched his forehead and he gave the artist a skeptical look, glancing to the television and then back to his young tenant before arching an eyebrow. "I mean, I don't entirely mind coming back in a few minutes should you need it to collect yourself."
Ouch. Matthew winced as his dislodged his body from the small gap between the back of the sofa and the wall, unravelling himself from the blanket. "No, no," he prattled, "it's totally an okay time. I'm just, uh, indulging in the Halloween spirit by spending all night holing myself up playing zombie games."
Greg nodded slowly, obviously not getting it. All that business must have sucked the inner child clean out of him. "Well, there's a man downstairs for you. I guess it's a good thing I didn't send him up right away."
"Someone for me?" Matthew asked. Glancing to the screen, he glowered at the plasma TV when he saw the words 'You Are Dead' displayed in all their pixelated glory.
"Yeah. It's not anyone I've met. Tall, skinny, blonde. Probably late forties."
"… Wesker."
"Who?" A look of confusion crossed his face and Matthew hastily passed it off as nothing, instead quickly crossing the room and accompanying the older man down over the stairs.
From behind him, he heard Greg mutter, 'how you don't land yourself on the psych ward from games like that is beyond me', and Matthew couldn't help but grin.
That would be a good reason to land on the psych ward. Sure the game-related paranoia and potential insomnia that would land him there would be a bitch to deal with, but he'd be pretty happy to end up there on account one too many hours playing survival horror games. Then he gave that a moment's thought, realizing he had never exactly equated 'happiness' to the psychiatric ward.
A mildly uncomfortable thought.
Straightening the hem of his sweater, Matthew absently finger-combed his messy blonde locks and shook his head. As always, the home beneath his smelt of freshly used cleaners and whatever it was Jade had cooked for dinner. This time around, it smelt like something coated in lots of herbs. Possibly salmon; he had eaten with them before, and that was always how she cooked her fish. Apparently it masked the after-smell.
"If you want," Greg said suddenly, causing Matthew to jump and nearly lose his footing as they went down over the flight of stairs that would bring them to the main floor. A choked noise left the business man behind him, and he shot McKnight's son a dirty look. Clearing his throat and passing it off as a cough, Greg was grinning when he spoke again: "If you want, you two can just tromp on up through the house instead of going outside and up over those stairs."
"That's a good thing, considering I don't have my keys and the door is locked," Matthew clucked, leaning over the railing and looking out into the porch to see who was there.
The man in the porch turned from looking out through the door to face the voices as they came down over the stairs. He had pale blonde stubble on his chin, and wavy shoulder-length hair surrounded a narrow face. Blue eyes - blue eyes he hadn't seen in so long - went wide despite the obvious exhaustion that filled them, and the smile that broke out across his face, lighting it up, nearly caused Matthew's heart to break with utter happiness.
Heart rising to his throat instead of breaking, eyes flying wide, Matthew sprinted down the rest of the steps without a word to the startled Greg. Without a warning to the man in the porch, he launched himself at him. Laughter, a weak, relief-filled sound, left the lanky blonde and arms were wrapped firmly around him. The embrace was reassuring and if anything that hold on him was what caused Matthew to break.
Feeling tears forming in his eyes and then rolling down over his cheeks, burning his skin, he buried his face in the man's shoulder and inhaled deeply, a choked noise leaving him. "O-Oh my God-"
"Shhh," Francis murmured softly, exhaling heavily as he ran a hand through Matthew's hair. One hand had settled on the center of his back. "Relax, relax. It's alright. Everything's okay." Matthew only cried harder and held on for dear life because he was suddenly petrified that if he let go, Francis wouldn't be there.
"Don't cry, Matthew, please." The words were spoken quietly into his ear; the arms around him tightened. He sounded almost desperate. "It's alright."
Saying nothing, the Canadian stayed there without moving, the hand on his back rubbing in steady, calming circles while the hand on the back of his head lulled him; the finance lawyer murmured quietly, reassuring him in French, lips pressed against his temple. Even though he didn't understand a lick of it, it had the desired effect.
(I'm so sorry for everything, Matthew.
So, so deeply sorry.)
Inhaling deeply as he tried to quell the tears, the tiniest of smiles tugged at his lips; he still smelt the exact same as what he could remember. A thick cologne that made his nose itch, but it was distinctly his. He remembered the first time he really noticed it; he had been seven. Him, his mother, Jeanne and Francis had been sitting in the kitchen. It had been an Indian summer that year, and all Matthew could truly remember was being perched on his cousin's lap and having latched onto his tie, smelling it happily even though it made him sneeze. He could distinctly remember the way his mother laughed as he did so, eyes bright and amused, the way Francis and Jeanne did as well. The tears came harder with the frighteningly vivid memories and it took another moment to attempt calming down amongst his choked sobs. Arms around him tightened. Pulling away, he used his sleeve to wipe at his eyes and he gave a wet laugh, smiling at his cousin, quietly apologizing.
(I don't even know where to start apologizing.)
Francis gave a weak smile - his own eyes were wet and bloodshot, no longer from just exhaustion - and he shook his head slowly. "Don't be," he said with a sigh. "There's no need to be. At all." The man cupped his cheek, looking his face over before shaking his head again, this time with a laugh. His thumb brushed over his cheekbone; it was as if he were trying to reassure himself that yes, he really was there.
(I hope you'll forgive me for not being there.
Just, please, don't hate me.)
Matthew just nodded, looking at the floor. Neither of them spoke. Turning his eyes to the Frenchman instead of staring at the tiles, he looked him over briefly, picking out where he had changed since he had last seen him, just before he had turned eighteen. He had aged, that was for sure. The lines around his mouth were deeper; the lines at the corners of his eyes as well. Wrinkles in his forehead were a bit deeper than he remembered them being; worry had created them. His hair had paled with age. What was he now, forty-seven? Forty-eight? He couldn't remember. There were bags beneath his eyes, and his usually immaculate, fashionable clothing was wrinkled. "You look awfully tired…"
Chuckling, the sound deep and warm, Francis smiled. "I got off the plane about an hour ago," he said. "Got a taxi to my hotel, dropped off my luggage and then came straight over. It's been a while since I've slept, let alone well."
Matthew groaned. "Why didn't you at least sleep before coming over? Did you sleep on the flight?"
"Couldn't," said the man with a shake of his head. "That, and I didn't exactly … feel like waiting a day to come and see you. I would have driven myself crazy with nervousness and anticipation. Would you want to wait another day when you to see someone you've been trying to locate for the better part of four years when you could go and see them right away?"
Ducking his head, Matthew nodded. It was easy to understand where he was coming from; had he been in that position, he would have felt the exact same way and he knew it. "I didn't know you were going to be in tonight," he said quietly, licking his lips and giving a wide grin. "Why didn't you call me in advance? I would have made you something to eat, or-"
"Oh, shut up," he laughed, adjusting his suit jacket. "I much rather the element of surprise. Your reaction was far too excellent to pass up on."
Flushing, Matthew shook his head and motioned for the older man to follow him. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Greg ducked into the sitting room, a smile on his face as he shoved the nosy, teary-eyed Jade back in as well. Chances were McKnight would find out about this within the hour.
"How about we go up to my apartment instead of just standing in the porch," he said with a laugh, turning on his heel. "We might be able to talk a little bit better that way." Francis kicked off his shoes and, along with his leather briefcase, picked them up and carried them up over the stairs beneath his arm.
Stepping into his apartment, Francis going in before him, Matthew shut the door behind him and watched as his cousin looked around his living space. Embarrassment crept upon him as he took in the messy state of his living room - there was a pile of (clean now, mind you; he wasn't Alfred) laundry sitting in the arm chair, yet to be folded. His dishes from dinner were still piled unwashed in the sink, and then there was the mess of the coffee table he had left behind. Art supplies covered the dining room table (he saw Bonnefoy eyeing them with a pleased look) and he had left a stack of novels.
Of course someone would come over when his apartment was a rare disaster zone. Of fucking course.
"A lovely little place you got for yourself. It feels awfully homey here," he commented. "And I don't mind the mess; it makes the place look lived in."
'You should have seen the last place,' Matthew thought, smoothing away the cold smile that was threatening to form. Francis didn't need to know about that; some things were better left unsaid, especially when fossilized hamster guts, no hot water or heating and an obscene rent was included.
Eyeing the table covered in candy, chips and soda, Francis shot him a wry grin. He jerked his head towards the mess. "Having a one-person party are we?"
Laughing, Matthew headed over to the kitchen and turned the light on over the stove. "You could say that," he said, adjusting his glasses as he grabbed down two mugs. Setting them on the counter, he moved to fill the kettle with fresh water before setting it down on the burner. "Coffee or tea?"
"Coffee, of course," the lawyer said with a laugh. "Don't you dare lump me in with those god-awful tea drinkers."
Matthew looked over his shoulder, grinning. "A teaspoon of coffee, two of sugar and no milk, right?"
"I'm impressed," he mused aloud as he continued to survey his surroundings. "You still remember how I take my coffee."
"For one, mom used to suck at making your coffee whenever you came to visit, so I always did once I was old enough," he reminded him. "And that's how my boyfriend takes his. So I haven't had much of a chance to forget."
"Boyfriend?" Matthew shot his cousin a furtive look before moving to sit down on the sofa with him as the kettle heated up. Francis' eyes had widened, and he looked the slightest bit interested. "Oh, please, do tell. I need to hear all about who my little cousin is seeing."
Spluttering, cheeks reddening, Matthew couldn't look him straight in the eye at first; the man was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Well, what do you … want to know exactly?"
"Name. Age. Location. Current employment. Various neuroses. Criminal background if there is one. Favourite sports team. Favourite music. Favourite position-" Matthew made a choked noise, earning loud laughter from the Frenchman "- and his favourite food. Go."
Floundering as he tried to remember each little detail, Matthew squirmed and then: "Alfred F. Jones. 27. He's from Lowell, but he lives in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He's also the District Attorney for Manhattan and spends numerous hours volunteering. Various neuroses include: not having his cellphone on him at all times, the sound a toilet makes when it's filling, his comic collection being messed with, not knowing what to do with his spare time, being in a silent house and shaving at least twice a day. There's no criminal background that I know of, unless you include stealing his neighbour's cat because it was being mistreated. He's a fan of the New England Patriots. Favourite music is anything by Bob Dylan, Elvis Presley, Don Henley and Bruce Springsteen. Favourite food is anything that comes out of McDonalds, and he also enjoys Chinese, cigarettes and coffee for breakfast, and Greek food, as well as fine-dining and seafood. And that is my man in a nutshell."
"Ah-ah-ah," Francis chided, waggling his finger. "You left out one."
Matthew stared at his cousin, watching with a reddening face as the man's wicked grin grew wider and wider while the younger's face grew redder and redder.
"No I didn't," he muttered blackly, looking away pointedly and picking up the videogame controller as what was now a welcomed distraction.
"Oh, yes, yes I think you did," he taunted, blue eyes twinkling mischievously. He nudged the younger in the ribs with his elbow, scooting over to squash him against the arm of the sofa.
Heavy silence that bordered on combative hung between them, and Matthew finally broke. He hung his head, and when he spoke, he had to strain his ears to even hear himself speak: "… He told me he likes it when I, um ... ridehim."
My face is on fire oh my God my face is on fire someone call the fire department I think it's going to fucking explode.
Francis practically howled with laughter, clapping his hands and then giving Matthew a congratulatory pat on the back that just about knocked the wind out of him. "You, my dear boy, are a work of art. A little Mona Lisa."
"I'm pleased to tell you that you haven't changed a bit, Francis," said Matthew dryly as he stood, running a hand down over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. More laughter; the sound of the kettle whistling. "You have not changed one goddamn bit."
"I should hope that you're not implying that I'm some sort of pervert," Bonnefoy called after him as his cousin headed to the kitchen to pour up their drinks. "That's terribly cruel of you, if that's what you're getting at."
"Oh, no, I'm not implying anything like that," he said in a dry voice. "Just that you have an unhealthy interest in everyone else's sex life. You should be, like, disgusted by my sexual activity. I'm your 'little cousin'."
"Don't give me that bullshit, Matthew," Francis chuckled, wiping at the corners of his eyes as his laughter tapered off. "I've known full-well that you've been at it since you were fifteen. Then, yes, it was gross. Very gross, actually. But you're twenty-two now; you're an adult in a committed relationship and it's quite normal to enjoy sex with the one you love. So I'm not at all disgusted by it. In fact, if I do say so, I would be mildly alarmed if you have no interest in extracurricular activities as such."
Staring at the cup of coffee he had poured for Francis, he considered his words and then shook his head with a weak laugh. He wasn't at all surprised. Leave it to him to take such a view on sex like that.
He hadn't changed one little bit, which was nice to see.
Bring their coffees over and setting his down on the table as he handed the other to Francis, Matthew moved to curl up on the end of the sofa. The lawyer twisted the mug around in his hand before inhaling, a smile crossing his face. "Smells excellent. You need to teach my wife how to make a nice cup like this; I forgot how good you were with this sort of thing, you little housewife."
Grinning, pointedly ignoring the comment, Matthew rubbed his nose. "How is she, by the way?"
Francis glanced over, smiling around the rim of the mug. "Jeanne is well," he said pleasantly. "As is Seychelle. They were both immensely pleased - especially Jeanne - when they found out I had managed to get in contact with you."
Matthew squirmed a little, smiling shyly. "How old is Seychelle now?"
"She just turned thirteen last month," he hummed. "What about you? How have you been? You've thinned out quite a bit, I must say, but you've always been a tiny one thanks to all those sports you were in. Much skinner than the last time I saw you though…"
Saying nothing at first, Williams just picked up his mug and stared at the milky coffee he made. While he knew the question would have come up eventually, and he knew he'd have to tell him everything, he didn't want to. It felt like everything would be ruined if he did. Francis frowned deeply at his silence, brow knit together as he took in the look on his cousin's face. But he didn't press. Just waited, ever the patient man.
Boundless patience. It must have been a lawyer thing.
"I've … I'm okay," he said, finally. "Actually, I'm feeling the best I have in a while. In a long while."
"Why do you say that?"
"I've been seeing a therapist going on three years in December. I'm on medication for depression and anxiety, but I'm not nearly half as bad as I used to be," he admitted, feeling his stomach coiling unpleasantly. He drained back some of the coffee despite how it practically scalded his mouth and throat on the way down.
"'Bad as you used to be'?" Francis asked tersely. He was sitting upright and had turned slightly to look at the artist beside him. Worried had etched itself into his face, deepening the lines. "What do you mean?"
Mouth cottony, Matthew felt his voice lodge itself in his throat. "Living on the streets didn't sit too well with me," he said finally, voice a whisper. "After Jason kicked me out, I didn't have anywhere to go. I still wasn't even close to coping with mom's death - hadn't even started. Gilbert's family had gone back to Germany. Gil was studying at Penn State. You were in France and I had no money and no passport. Nothing. I couldn't leave the country. There was no one I could get in touch with that would take me in. I was beyond beside myself, so I just … lived on the streets. Did what I could to make sure I didn't get my sorry ass killed."
(Did what he could to do make sure he didn't get his sorry ass killed, just so he could try to do it himself.)
A look of nausea had formed in his cousin's eyes. "Then how did you manage to get out of that?"
Licking his lips - they were parched, just like the rest of his mouth - he stared at the game screen. It still read 'You Are Dead'. "I … did some pretty stupid, desperate shit," he said with a weak laugh. "I was just so fed up with everything that I got liver-wrecking drunk and tried to kill myself. Almost managed to except for some people I knew dragged my unconscious, sorry ass to the nearest hospital and dumped me there."
The colour had drained from Francis' face and the mug he held trembled so dangerously that, to keep the liquid from sloshing up over the sides, he set it on the table and held his head in his hands. "That was the only time though, right?" he asked, voice shaking a little.
Matthew shook his head and looked away when he saw the pained look that went through Francis' eyes. The man looked like he was prepared to break down and cry right then and there. Instead of doing so, he took a shuddering breath and then sat back, eyes shut as he rubbed circles against his temple. "I … tried a good few more times after that. Hospitalized three times, once on the psych ward after leaving the ICU. My first attempt was in September, and then by December, after five more tries, I got caught for trying to hold up a convenience store. That was when the man that's my therapist bailed me out and I started to see him on a regular basis. I lived with him and his wife, and they helped me sort things out the best I could. There were another few attempts here and there, nothing major. A few of them I didn't even tell my psychiatrist about. It's only been since mid-January, though, that I've really started to come around."
"When…" his voice faltered and Francis looked away, staring out into the kitchen, face turned fully from Matthew's vision. Nervously, he wrung his hands. "When was your last attempt?"
"It'll be a year this December," said the artist quietly.
Francis said nothing at first, but he sank back against the sofa again and shook his head slowly. Mind blank, the artist didn't know what to say to try and make the older man feel better; he looked downright miserable and he couldn't even find it in himself to crawl along the small space of sofa that separated them to just sit next to him as if to say, 'hey, here I am. I'm alive if that counts for anything'. Couldn't even bring himself to say, 'everything's alright now, so you shouldn't trouble yourself with worrying about it.' He felt a creeping unhappiness settle in and he slumped a little as his stomach clenched. His eyes started burning while a thick lump clogged his throat.
Straightening slowly, Francis looked across the living room and scratched his brow. "I wish I had taken you with me to France when I was going to," he said in a low voice. "Your mother and I discussed it, the last going off when she got really sick. I thought taking you to Paris with me to live with Jeanne and I for a little while once you graduated would be a good idea. So you could clear your head. She thought so, too. But she passed before we could finalize the plans, everything happened the way it did and then, when I called Jason, he told me you were gone. No explanation; just gone. When I asked where, he just … hung up on me. I tried calling back later and it said the phone number didn't exist. If I had just brought you to France with me instead of waiting until you graduated, then so much of this could have been avoided. You wouldn't have had to spend four years of your life-"
"I hope you're not blaming yourself for any of this," Matthew said curtly, picking up his coffee and draining some of it back. Francis, eyes damp and heavy, looked over to his cousin and ran his hand through his hair. He looked raw.
"Only a little," said the Frenchman in a subdued voice.
"Don't," he said, trying to not sound pleading, "Honestly, as bad as things got, I'm to the point now that I don't know if I would want things to have gone differently. I mean, yeah, I've dealt with shit that I wouldn't wish upon anyone, no matter how badly I wanted to slam their face into a sidewalk and stomp them. But I wouldn't want to change any of it."
Francis nodded. He looked worn out, slumped against the sofa, hands twisted together in his lap as he stared out across the room. His eyes were vacant and, slowly, he moved forward to pick up his mug of cooling coffee. At least his hands weren't shaking nearly as bad as what they had been when he put the mug down first time around.
They sat there for some time after that, neither man speaking. Matthew continued to watch the television screen until his eyes watered and slipped in and out of focus. He wiped at them, biting back a sigh. Occasionally he would reach forward and grab a few candies, filling his palm with them and popping them half-heartedly into his mouth, puckering his lips at their sourness.
Bonnefoy, on the other hand, seemed to be lost in thought as he alternated between staring at the floor and out through the window closet to his end of the sofa. Tired eyes, rimmed red and shadowed with exhaustion, were heavily lidded and his mouth sagged around the corners. He looked like he felt miserable; Matthew knew damn well he was.
The shifting of material beside him; a sigh. Williams finally tore his burning eyes away from the screen.
"Well, at least you never died in a gutter," Francis finally said. "I guess that's one little blessing."
Wincing at the wintriness his words were filled with, Matthew drained back what was left of his warm beverage before standing. He crossed the room, placing the mug in the sink, filling it with water and then leaving it there to sit until he did the dishes in the morning. He dipped his fingers into the water and left them there. Don't cry don't cry don't cry don't you dare cry, Matthew Williams. Don't you dare fucking cry.
For once, he didn't.
But it didn't make him feel any better.
Dumping the water from the mug and wandering back over to the sofa, dropping down to sit beside Francis, he propped his feet on the table and let his head fall back. The Frenchman moved to sit next to him, Matthew found it somewhere in him to smile and he lightly bumped the older man's side with his elbow, giving him a weak grin.
"I'm just glad I found you," Francis said, voice growing thick. He had his head bowed and was looking to the hands he had lumped together in his lap. "The past four years have been hell, Matthew. Complete and utter hell. Not comparable to what you've told me, not by a long shot, but to spend it all quietly assuming you were dead despite still trying to hunt you down?" He shook his head. "While I've never resorted to a professional, I can tell you that Jeanne has played psychiatrist for me on more than one occasion."
Which brought him to a question he had been dying to ask: "How did you find me, anyway?" Matthew asked, sitting up and bringing his legs up to curl them beneath his bum. "I'm surprised you didn't just call Gilbert or his parents."
"I lost their number, address and I couldn't remember their names to top it all off. It's hard to look up a name and number when you don't even have the name to go with it," he sighed. "And the only way I found you was because of Jeanne, actually. She was looking at some online art gallery - one of those travelling ones. It set up some sort of permanent gallery somewhere around here, in August or September I think. And she ran out of the computer room, screaming some nonsense about seeing you there. I thought it was absolute ludicrous, but I went in and checked all the same. Sure enough, that painting you did was there - well, the picture of the painting-"
"Street art. There's a difference, man, there's a difference."
"… And it's safe to say you haven't changed either. Still a pretentious little brat when you have the chance," he said with a hearty chuckle, a smile on his face as he looked to the young man beside him. Matthew laughed. "But, the bit of street art that you did was there on the wall. While it was under your name, there was also another name. A Lars something or other. I hunted down his contact information with the help of some professional friends of mine-" Professional, if Matthew could recall, being a friend affiliated with Interpol "-and I gave him a call. Asked him how he knew you. He told me he had been your art teacher throughout high school. So, I asked if he had seen you recently, or had even heard from you. Anything. And he said that he had been talking with you at the gallery opening. So, I managed to get your address off of him; he had misplaced your phone number. Tracked down the address, had a minor freak-out when the names that came up weren't anyone I had ever known you to associate with, but I called them all the same."
Matthew sighed quietly. "When you called, I didn't even know what to think," he said with a short laugh. "I couldn't process anything that was happening. Nothing made sense. You were the very last person I had expected to hear from. And I had no way of calling you up because I had lost your address and phone number, and I couldn't remember if you were still living in Paris, or if you had moved to Normandy like you had been thinking on doing."
Tousling his hair, Francis grinned at him before draining back the rest of his coffee - which had probably gone cold by now. The grimace that crossed his face was evidence enough.
Taking the empty mug from his cousin, he glanced back over his shoulder as his cellphone started to ring on the coffee table, sending little vibrations throughout the wood as it shifted along the surface.
"Would you mind getting that for me?" he asked as he started running the water.
The phone stopped ringing and then, when Francis spoke, Matthew burst out laughing: "Allô, ceci est la résidence de Mathieu Williams. Comment est-ce je peux vous aider aujourd'hui?"
Filling the sink partway with warm and sudsy water, Matthew rolled the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows and tossed in the cloth. Shivering at how hot the water was, he grabbed up his dinner plate and started to scrub it.
A moment of silence and then, in a voice with a thicker accent than usual. "Ah am zor-ee, but ah do naht speek ahny Eengliz." Quiet again and then: "No, no. No Eengliz. Zor-ee, zor-ee."
The Frenchman held the phone away from his mouth, covering the mouth piece. He was grinning wickedly. "I like this young man," he cackled. "He seems to be such a good sport."
Spluttering, hands dripping wet, he set the plate down on the rack and ran from the kitchen to wrestle the phone out of his cousin's hands, trying to smother the man's laughter. Shoving his wet and soapy hands into his face, Francis yelped and swatted at his younger cousin. The phone dropped to the floor and both of them made a dive for it. Matthew grabbed it up before he could.
They wrestled briefly, Matthew shoving his face away and plopping down on the arm of the chair, he panted, shooting Francis a dirty look. The grin he received in return was a shit-eating one. "Hello?"
"…. What the hell was that."
It was Alfred; no surprise there. He smiled. "That was my cousin, Francis," he said meekly. "He's French, in case you couldn't tell."
"Oh, really? Never noticed. So I guess you're not doing your Resident Evil all-nighter now?"
Laughter. Matthew ran a hand through his hair. "Not anymore. Are you still at the bar with the guys?"
"Nah. Patriots were losing, so we all bailed; probably for the better - Jeff's stressing over some spreadsheet he has to hand in to his boss tomorrow and I think he's sitting on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Poor guy's miserable, even if it is kind of fun to watch him squirm. Mind if I come over? I wanna meet this French Fry."
"You're a sadist. And of course you can come over. I'm sure French Fry-" a snort of indignation left Bonnefoy "-would love to meet you, too. Just knock when you come by; the door's locked."
"You? Locking your door? What?"
"There was no way I was sitting here playing Resident Evil, alone in the dark, without the door locked." A rustling sound caught his attention, and he glanced over to Francis, who was now helping himself to the bowl of chips and some of the Pepsi Max that was there. The older man looked over to him, pausing mid-chew. Rolling his eyes, Matthew mouthed the word 'pig'. The lawyer screwed up his nose and crossed his eyes before popping another few chips into his mouth.
Watching him, it was safe to say the food on the flight had been less than desirable; he normally avoided food like that, stating that he needed to keep his figure trim. To sit there and chow down on junk food like that? The food had definitely been shit.
Alfred's laughter filled his ear. "How is it you can sit through any horror movie and read any horror novel without even twitching, but you play a videogame and end up terrified?"
"There's a lot more emotional investment in playing a videogame than watching a movie, Al. I don't even know why you're asking me that when you're the one that almost cried while playing one of those Gears of War games. You should know all about emotional investment in videogames," Matthew babbled, rolling his eyes. "Don't even start an argument you will never win."
More laughter. "Alright, alright. We'll discuss this at a later time. How does that sound?"
"Sound excellent. See you in a bit."
Tossing the phone onto the table, Matthew ran a hand down over his face. "He's a child," he muttered, shaking his head and then looking over to his cousin. He was still chowing down on the chips. "I'm surrounded by children. Constantly."
"Who are you calling a child, child?" Francis demanded. "I am anything but a child; I am all man, all the time."
Matthew made a choked nose as he stood. "You tell yourself that," he advised, "and you can believe it all you want."
Lapsing into an easy silence, the artist crossed the room and headed back over to the sink, sticking his hands back into the water as he tried to find the cloth. It was somewhere in there, hidden out of view by the bubbles. The water wasn't as hot as before, either. Glancing back over his shoulder when he heard a phone ringing, Matthew paused but then smiled and went back to washing when he saw Francis answering his own phone. He spoke in quiet French, more than likely with his wife.
Tapping his feet on the tiling, he hummed quietly to himself as he scrubbed what was in the sink, placing each mug gently on the drying rack. While he had known he was going to have a good, quiet night, he hadn't expected it to turn out to be a night like this; he hadn't expected Francis, of all people, to show up. He had a bit of a feeling Alfred would end up calling and whining about wanting to come over considering they had barely seen much of each other over the week between working and crazy scheduling.
Between Alfred's days at the court house, his volunteering and then going back to his office to pull in even more hours what with program-planning and going over cases and various laws while meeting with board members and officers, and Matthew's own forty-plus hours a week (with Gilbert gone, the overtime he was racking up was almost mind-numbing), the time he'd devote specifically to paint - Alfred wasn't even allowed to breathe the same air as he did during that time - and then the time he had been spending helping Mathias with some of his art projects for school, if they had seen each other for three hours, that was it.
He sighed a little and dropped some of the utensils onto the rack. Maybe he'd be able to coax the lawyer into staying with him for the morning instead of going to watch the case; it would still be another several months before all the evidence was examined and put out for the jury to pass a verdict, so missing out on one session wouldn't kill him, especially when Chris would easily keep him up to date. Then, that way, given the next day was supposed to be raining, they could just stay in and do absolutely nothing; just laze around and watch movies or whatever.
Wiping the suds from his hands once he had let the water out of the sink, Matthew picked up a dry cloth and began to wipe the excess water from the cutlery and dishes. The sound of Francis speaking in low, calm tones filled the background. He also hadn't realized how much he had missed the sound of the Frenchman speaking, either; he had a melodic sort of pattern to his voice that made the artist relax even when he wasn't trying to.
No sooner had he placed the last mug in the cupboard and hung up the slightly damp dishcloth to dry in front of the stove and there was a heavy knock on his front door. Four short but firm raps on the window panes. Glancing at the stove clock, he pursed his lips; it couldn't have been no more than fifteen minutes ago when he had gotten off the phone with Al. The hands read that it was just a bit after eleven-thirty. He must have already been on the way over when he called.
Immediately perking up and tugging his sweater sleeves down, Matthew headed to the door. Cursing when he stubbed his toe on the little table right around the corner - it happened every goddamn time, he swore it - he limped the rest of the way down the dark hall and unlocked the door, grinning when he saw the lawyer there.
Yawning as he walked in past the younger man, Al grinned at him as he toed off his shoes. "I still can't believe a videogame is enough to scare you into locking your door," he chuckled lightly.
"Hello to you, too, asshole," Matthew scoffed, rolling his eyes as he looked the man over. "And who goes to a bar to watch football in a suit?"
"Because both Chris and I came straight from the court house," he huffed as Matthew loosened his tie with an eye roll. "So instead of wasting time to go back and change, we just picked up the guys and went straight to the bar."
"I guess that makes enough sense," murmured the Canadian as he discarded his partner's tie on the chair by the door, fingers moving to undo the top two buttons of his dress shirt. As he did this, Alfred shucked off his suit jacket and threw it down into the chair, masking another yawn. Running his fingers over the patch of skin he had revealed, Matthew gave a tiny smile before looking to the man. Alfred was watching him, looking his face over briefly before settling and he grinned. "Have fun?"
Chuckling, he shrugged. "It was good fun until the Patriots started losing and we had to resort to cat-calling," Alfred said in a flat voice. "But at least it was just the season opener. There're still plenty of games ahead for them to haul ass. It was when Jeff started flirting with the female bartender that we decided to pack up and go."
"Jeff? A woman?"
"Yep."
"Poor guy really must be stressed."
"Very stressed. I almost feel bad for him. Almost." Al hummed as he pressed forward to give him a lazy kiss, sliding an arm around Matthew's waist as the latter placed his hands on the former's shoulders, smiling against his lips. A week was far too long, and he pressed himself flush against the American as the arm around his slim waist tightened; apparently Alfred felt the same way as he coaxed the other's mouth open. When he pulled away, Alfred was grinning as he started to roll his sleeves up to his elbow. "What have you been eating dude? You taste like a sugar factory."
"Sour cherry blasters and watermelon candies," Matthew laughed, slipping out of the lawyer's grasp and turning to head back out into the living room instead of leaving his cousin by himself. Alfred quickly tagged along behind him, moving his hands to the slighter man's shoulders to manoeuvre him out of the way of the table he would have otherwise walked into. Again.
(At least someone was willing to save his toes; being squished was always a nasty way to go. Ask any cockroach within a fifty mile radius of Times Square and it would agree.)
Leading his partner into the living room and flopping back down on the sofa - Francis was, at the same time, shoving his phone back into his pocket - he grinned at his cousin. The look was returned and then they both directed their attention to the lawyer.
Alfred stopped short and stood with his hands in his pockets, shuffling awkward for a brief moment before moving to sit down on the love seat, hunched forward a little and watching the other two.
"So," Francis drawled, inching closer to the end of the sofa, bringing himself closer to the worried-looking American. McKnight and Gilbert had scarred him for life, more than likely, and had permanently put him on edge; July sky eyes flickered nervously from the Frenchman's face to Matthew's with a pleading sort of look - Matthew proved to be of no use for he just grinned wickedly - and then he looked back to the man edging towards him. "You're Alfred F. Jones? My charming little cousin's boyfriend?"
"Y-Yes?"
Glancing back over his shoulder to the Canadian who had picked up the videogame controller and was starting to play the game again, Francis waggled his eyebrows. "While I'm no man-canoodler, you have impeccable taste," he commented shrewdly. Matthew felt his face heat up, unable to help the grin that spread across it. Alfred's face had grown rather rosy, too. "You know damn good and well how to choose them."
"Yeah, I'd say I have pretty good taste for the most part," Matthew hummed distractedly. "And I have a fuck load of patience, too. And tolerance. We can't forget tolerance."
A pillow collided with the side of his head, Francis burst out laughing and Alfred was grinning roguishly at him from the love seat that now had one pillow instead of two.
Pausing the game and pointing at the DA, he arched an eyebrow as he glared at him. "Don't start what you can't finish, Jones," he warned.
Sitting back and holding his hands up in a defensive position, he was still grinning wickedly. "Start something? Me? I'd never do anything like that Mattie. I can't even believe you would suggest something like that. You're awful to me." He looked at Francis. "Can you even believe him, saying I'd do something like that?"
Francis shook his head piteously. "No, I can't. I wouldn't even want to fathom an accusation like that," he said, doing his best to smooth out the smile at the corners of his mouth. "He could be terribly cruel as a child, you know, so maybe it's just something he's never grown out of."
"That doesn't surprise me," Alfred said, smiling lovingly at his fuming lover. "Not one little bit."
"I hate you both so much," the Canadian snapped, sinking down into the sofa and glaring at the television. He was back to where he had started, and he had to go through killing those two zombies all over again. But, with this new-found motivation of sorts, spurned on by the two smirking idiots he was sharing a room with, he was feeling the right drive to do so.
Toning out the voices of the two men as they started to chat about their work - 'So, you're a district attorney? You're awfully young to be one, how did that happen?' - Matthew felt himself relaxing into the cushions.
Like when he had met Lars, the two men got along well enough with one another right away; from Francis' easy posture, none of it was forced, either. Alfred seemed comfortable enough as well; he was using hand gestures as he spoke, which spoke volumes of how secure he felt. When he was around someone he wasn't comfortable with, his hands were still, usually tucked into his pockets. When it came to his job, when he was with the guys or with him, his hands were practically flying all over the place to accompany whatever it was he was prattling on about.
Right now it was about his job and how he had managed to land it so early on in his career, something that rarely happened from the way it sounded; most people, according to what his partner was saying, had to go through many years of being a lawyer before even being considered for the assistant program. Alfred and Chris happened to fluke into being in the right place at the right time and, given that they both came from families with good names and an extensive amount of money and a history of public funding, they happened to land themselves jobs within their first six months of graduating from Harvard.
Once it got to that point, Matthew pinched his tender nose with a wince before focusing once more on the game. He had already gotten past the two zombies all over again and was edging Jill down along the hall, holding his breath because he knew that goddamn dog was going to come bursting through the window at any given moment.
When it did, he was actually ready for it, gun drawn and he lodged two bullets into the dog before it dropped to the floor with a twitch before blood stained the tacky carpet beneath it.
Snuffing through his nose, righting his posture - 'he's getting into the game now,' he half-heard Alfred comment, 'just watch. This is going to get funny' - and sitting on the edge of the sofa, feet planted firmly on the floor. One dog down; the rest of the hall to go. He was so fucking ready for this shit it hurt.
Rounding the corner at a run, a startled, choked noise left him when another dog came barrelling through a window at his character. With a curse he drew his feet up onto the sofa and shrank back as quickly as he could against the back of the couch as the controller vibrated. Pained yells came from Jill as he hauled her back once she had knifed the dog, loosening its grip on her. He fired a few shots, laying the infected dog out, and then paused the game, heart battering the inside of his ribcage.
Calmly placing the controller on the table, with slow, deliberate movements and feeling the eyes of the two, now silent men on him, Matthew picked up the bottle of Pepsi Max and poured it into the glass he had drained much earlier in the evening. Capping it, he brought the glass to his lips, sipped it daintily and then sank back against the cushions. Turning to his cousin once he felt relatively calmer, Matthew gestured to the floor with his head, frowning. "I meant to ask you earlier, but if you dropped all your stuff off at your hotel, then why did you take that briefcase with you?"
Expression collapsing in on itself, Bonnefoy ran a hand through his hair and held it before letting go. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask until sometime later," he muttered, "but I guess I forgot how inquisitive you are. We have a few things to discuss. In private, preferably."
Matthew shook his head, shrugging. "We can talk about it in front of Al," he said softly. A grateful looked passed through his partner's eyes. "There's nothing to worry about."
Quiet for a moment, he watched Alfred, lips pressed tightly together. Then he nodded, reaching for the black leather case he had shoved beneath the coffee table. "I … discovered three years back that half of your mother's hospital expenses were never paid for, nor were some of her debts."
Matthew felt the colour drain from his face, leaving him feeling like a humanoid ice chunk from the roots of his hair right down to his toes. Alfred's brow furrowed and he looked between the two men, expression concerned.
"W-what?"
No. There was no way that could be right.
Francis nodded, grim. "I managed to get about four thousand of it paid off within the first year-" Matthew felt sick and swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat "-but then when they realized that I'm not immediate family, they refused to accept any further payments from me, given you were written down in her will to inherit everything. Which also meant you inherited her bills and debts, as you were aware of."
"And they wouldn't let you pay any of it off, despite the credit companies never having heard from me?" Matthew demanded, incredulous.
"Not once they found out," he said with a sigh. "If I could have paid it all, I would have. In fact, I'm still willing to do so."
Alfred looked like he was about to say something, but he shut his mouth, biting his lip and staring at the floor.
"No, no, I'll … find a way to finish paying it off," Matthew said quietly, staring numbly at the floor. Francis had probably paid off most of it anyway, so there wouldn't be too much of a problem with it, right? He could handle three or four thousand dollars.
He felt ill and each time he swallowed against the burning in his throat, he thought he was going to be sick. "How much do I owe them?"
"… Close to ten grand." Francis was chewing on his lower lip; Alfred's face was ashen.
Oh. Okay.
That was … a lot of money.
More money than what he had, or would see within the next six to seven months.
At first there was no reaction from the Canadian. He couldn't think; he couldn't breathe. His body just stopped responding and he sat there rigidly, staring with widening eyes at his cousin. Slowly, it started to register with him. Ten grand. He owed ten grand. Jason had said he would pay for the remaining half of his mother's treatment - the chemo, the radiation, the pills. And then he was to pay off the other half of her remaining debt from when they had the farm in Alberta. That had amounted to almost twelve thousand, with the interest already built up.
Looks like he hadn't.
So here he was, four years later and ten thousand dollars in the hole, blindly going about and thinking everything was wonderful and sunshine and roses and daisies.
Thinking all that when it was far from it.
"Ten thousand…"
"I'm sorry, Matthew," Francis said quietly. "I had considered paying the whole thing in full because I had feared something like that would happen, but-"
"Fuck off with the apologies, Francis," Matthew said weakly. "It's not your fault and for once it's not mine, either. It's Jason. And if I could get my hands on that fucker, I'd murder him. I'd break his fucking neck if I could, or I'd hit him with a car. Maybe both. But this is far from being your fault."
Staring at the coffee table, Matthew covered his face as he tried to breathe normally despite the nausea in his gut. What was he going to do? Last time around, the payments he had made had all been gradual, and he had dipped into the savings fund his mother had for him for university, used all the money he had made from working, used all the tips he had gotten. This time, though, he had nothing. Maybe four thousand in the bank, and what he lived on from pay-to-pay. Nothing more, nothing less. The other difference was this had to be paid in full, lest he wanted more interest to accumulate.
And that was when his stomach turned. Standing, teetering off-balance for a moment as the world spun and twisted unrelentingly, Matthew staggered before he made a beeline for the bathroom. For the first time since he had moved in, he didn't bang into the end table. Tears had worked their way into his eyes, and his chest had constricted to the point of actually causing him pain; he swallowed constantly, trying his best to fight back the rising vomit. Francis moved to get up and go after him, looking panicked, but Alfred pulled him back down to sit, shaking his head.
Matthew was grateful as he bolted down the hall; he didn't exactly want an audience as he puked his guts up.
Door shut behind him, Matthew swallowed back the quickly rising vomit before turning the water on in the sink, running it full-blast as he bent over the toilet and heaved. Kneeling, glasses discarded on the floor and his hands raked through his hair to keep it out of the way, he retched violently, tears rolling down over his cheeks at the same time.
Gagging until it was nothing more than dry retching that sent pain flaring through his stomach, Matthew grabbed some toilet paper and wiped his mouth, dropping it with the rest of the mess. He shut the cover, flushed it and then let his head hit the plastic lid once he had the water shut off. An icy sweat covered his body. Keeping his head up, which was heavy and everything around him was spinning and it was so hard to focus on anything. Groaning, Matthew drew his knees to his chest. There was no way he could afford ten thousand dollars. No goddamn way. Arms wrapped over the back of his head, covering himself the best he could; he tried his best not to cry.
I'm not completely fucked. I swear I'm not; I'll just pick up a second job, empty my bank account of what I have. I'll use the money from my second job to pay for rent, and then what I make now will all be used to pay off those debts. That's not too awful. I've done it before; I can easily do it again. I'll just forgo university for another while, at least until everything is paid off.
('Don't you think that's being a little crazier than usual?' the Lamp would ask disdainfully if he had any way of hearing his thoughts from the bedroom. 'You're fucked and you know it, boy.')
I'll need a few more pills than usual though. Just to be on the safe side.
He didn't know how long he stayed in there, curled up the way he was, but he eventually heard the door creak open. His head was leaden; it was impossible to lift. The door clicked shut. A warm body pressed close to his a moment later, arms and legs wrapped around him and he was held tightly. Finally lifting his head, neck stiff and sore, he looked to Alfred. The lawyer watched him before pressing a short kiss to his forehead, hand cupping the back of his head.
Pressing his cheek to the man's broad shoulder, Matt shifted himself around to wrap his legs around his mid-section to curl in against him. "Alfred, I'm fucked," he whispered, voice breaking. "I'm so fucked."
('So good to see you know yourself,' the Lamp chuckled. 'Now that we've established that, do something about it.')
"No, you're not Mattie." There was a note of firm conviction in his voice. "Listen, I'm more than willing to pay all that off for you."
Balking, he pushed away and held the man at arm's length. "No," he said, voice cracking. "I'm not letting you blow that much money on something like that."
"B-Blow my money?" he spluttered, incredulous. "Matthew, this is not blowing my money. This is far from blowing my money. This is the complete opposite of that."
He shook his head. "In your eyes it isn't," he muttered, "but I think it's a waste. You have better things to spend your money on."
Alfred laughed outright, but it was a cold sound. "Better things to spend my money on?" he demanded, incredulous. "You're fucking hilarious. List five things, other than the basic necessities, that I can spend my money. So this excludes bills, food, gas and minor repairs. Go."
He sat there, thought about it for what felt like ages, and then slumped when what he had already mentioned were the only things that came to mind.
"Please?" Alfred whispered. "I've never been able to do anything for you, and you've done so much for me. Like, this is the best way I can help, and I know it will. The things I spend my money on are just unnecessary indulgences, and you fucking know it. But this - I can actually do something good for you with this. And then you won't be fucked for money. Can I? Please?"
(But you have done so much for me, he wanted to tell him. You've done more for me than I ever thought possible. So you don't need to do anything.)
Those words, however, stayed lodged traitorously in his throat, unwilling to go any further than his vocal cords. Licking his lips, he looked around the room, frantic. He couldn't let Alfred do this. "B-But where are you going to get ten grand, Al?"
"… My bank account?"
"Don't get smart with me," Matthew hissed, narrowing his eyes. "How can you expect to just haul that much money out of nowhere, eh?"
"You don't have any idea about how much money I'm sitting on right now, do you?" Alfred asked in a flat voice. Hesitating, Matthew shook his head.
Jones laughed a little; it was an acidic sound. "I didn't pay for my university education, my father did. I've never had to work a job flipping burgers or cleaning floors or stocking shelves. I've never had to pay for anything myself until I bought my apartment here in Manhattan - and I paid for it in cash, Matthew. In fucking cash. My vehicles I've paid for in cash, all the trips I've gone on since high school - my trip to Thailand, my trips to England, my trip to Moscow, to Berlin, Madrid, Hong Kong, to South Korea - have all been paid for in either cash or by someone else. Half of the money I had been given first time around for university I gave to OXFAM and then the other half I spent on buying different parts of various rainforests and naming them after relatives. I have credit cards for the sake of having something to pay off every month other than the usual bills; otherwise I'd use my debit card for everything. I'm the definition of a fucking trust fund baby. For what I've managed to bank from pay-to-pay, what I have saved from the allowances I was given as a kid and a teenager, what I had set aside for me, and from the fact that I'm set to inherit half of my father's estate and his money, I'll be able to retire by the time I'm fifty. That's in twenty-three years, man."
"So, letting you pay off my debt is … doing you a favour?" Alfred nodded, a grin lighting up his face.
From the look on his face, it really would be doing him a favour. And, he couldn't exactly call it charity. Well, it sort of was. But Alfred was his boyfriend, so that made it not as bad to agree to take it. And he did need it, desperately…
Matthew let his head hit the man's shoulder, muttered a 'do whatever the fuck you want' and Alfred gave a jubilant-sounding laugh before tightening his grip on his partner.
"It's a good thing you agreed," he chuckled, "cause I already told Francis I'd pay for it, and I was already after transferring the amount to another account so I can take it out tomorrow."
Feeling a little bit better about everything (or maybe the right word to use was bitter because here he was again, with someone taking care of him because he couldn't help himself), he hit the lawyer's chest lightly. He let his hand rest on the center of his torso, blinking back tears and shaking his head. "Thanks," he whispered.
Swiping his thumb along his lower lashes, Alfred kissed him softly, cupping his cheeks. "Don't worry about it," he sighed against his lips before giving him another lingering kiss. He moved to stand, bring the artist up with him, helping set him on his feet as he pulled him close and pressed their foreheads together. They were practically eye-level and it made him smile. "Like I said, we're doing each other a favour."
Giving a small laugh, Matthew shook his head and finger-combed his hair out before tugging themselves towards the door, Alfred whining and refusing to relinquish his grip. It made walking back into the den awkward, both of them waddling as the lawyer chewed on his ear and kissed the space behind it, blowing cool air on his dampened skin. Shivers ran through the Canadian and he squealed at the sensation, trying to shrug him off. The American, however, was worse than a leech. Snickering, tightening his arms around his partner's narrow waist, he continued to chew on the top of his ear, to tickle his tummy and keep kissing the sensitive patch of skin just behind his ear.
Twisting his body to get the lawyer off of him, the Albertan lost his footing with a yelp. Startled laughter left Al and they flopped on the sofa, the larger man lying on top of him, which earned a startled yell of 'get off of me you fat fucker!' and a slew of offended-sounding 'fuck you, Matthew Williams I am not fat you're just a brittle-boned bitch!' followed.
Francis sat slumped in a chair in the dining room, arm dangling over the back, but the scene caused the Frenchman's haggard face to brighten up in a smile. "I take it everything has been taken care of?" he asked quietly, moving his hand to mask a yawn.
Nodding, Jones grinned roguishly. "It took a bit of convincing, but yeah, everything's good. I'll go to the bank with him some time tomorrow. Everything'll be handled from thereon in."
His cousin shut his eyes, and nodded. "Thank God you're not equally stupid as stubborn, Matthew."
Unsure of whether he should have felt insulted by that or not, he decided to pass it off and instead turned his focus to the weight caking him into the chesterfield. Lying on the sofa with Alfred flattening him into the cushions and refusing to move, Matthew gave an accepting groan instead of shoving his hand into his face (like he originally wanted to) before twisting his head so he could look at the lawyer. The smile he was given was an affectionate one, accompanied by a peck on the nose and a 'love you, Pet'.
Shaking his head with a laugh, he sighed and then looked to Francis. "Save me?" he asked half-heartedly.
Watching the couple for a moment, he grinned. "That's not worth saving you from," he teased. "Let me know when you're really in dire need of help."
Matthew just huffed and allowed the lawyer to stay there, after a while begrudgingly sliding his arms around his waist, earning a smile (that made his heart flutter, skip a beat, stop for a second a do a few other crazy things all at once).
And Francis just sat quietly to the side, a smile on his face as he wondered to himself just when Matthew had grown up, how fast it had happened, and who to start thanking for Alfred's existence when he clearly needed it the most.
SURPRISE. I actually managed to finish this chapter way quicker than I thought possible despite the amount of hours I've spent at work over the past two weeks, or at least since I finished the last chapter. But yeah! I'm leaving in nine days now, so definitely no chapters any time soon. I don't want to have to leave mid-chapter, come back eleven days later and then try to pick up where I left off from; that's way too hard, I find.
But I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! And ahhh, sorry I never got around to answering all your reviews guys, but trust me, I've read them lots (they tend to brighten my day especially if it's been a particularly shitty one ;w; )
Thanks again guys, and have a great Easter for those of you that celebrate it!