I keep writing because I'm afraid I'm gonna run out of steam if I stop.

This is only a few days post-TYD, so some heavy stuff. For those who haven't read it, that means references to a suicide attempt.

It's late when they finally make it back from the hospital. Dark-outside-in-early-July late. Despite the dark, the air is heavy and warm, and Mattie struggles to breathe. Arthur and Alfred hover on either side of him like guardian angels with anxiety, and he can't decide if he wants them to go away or actually help him. They make it to the front steps and the sight of the door suffocates him more than humid summer air ever could, so he turns and lowers himself onto the stoop.

Hunched into himself as he is, he can't see his family's faces, but Arthur's fingers twitch restlessly, and Al's hands are shoved deep in his pockets. He watches Arthur lose the battle to keep himself from wringing his hands a couple times, then drops his head as far as it will go, too exhausted by his own thoughts to deal with his foster father's angst.

He feels Arthur brush by him, finally, and enter the house in silence. Al waits for the door to creak shut, then sits down beside his brother.

"Hey, uh… so you're gonna give me shit for this but… you should cut Arthur some slack."

Mattie snorts, then immediately winces.

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

"Why do you think I'm not cutting him slack?" Mattie's voice is low and hoarse from under-use, and he hates the way it sounds, like another signal of his weakness.

"You've barely even looked at him, let alone spoken to him." Alfred, too, wrings his hands as he speaks. No one likes to criticize the kid who tried to kill himself.

Mattie doesn't know how to explain that it has nothing to do with Arthur. It has nothing to do with Al, nothing to do with anything in the whole wide world except him and his mind-numbing shame. He can't look anyone in the eye because he doesn't deserve to. Because he knows what they must be thinking about him behind the mask of concern.

"I'm so tired, Al," he starts, and then the front door opens again.

"I—I started a shower for you, Matthew," Arthur says. "I thought you might want to wash off the hospital."

And because Al is watching, Mattie pulls his mouth up into a weak smile as he stands up.

"Thanks."

. . .

The walk up the stairs is excruciating and interminable, and Mattie is fervently thankful that Arthur and Al are talking in the kitchen—even if they are talking about him. Once he makes it into the bathroom, he eases the door shut and leans against it with his eyes closed. When he opens them, however, any calm coming from the steamy air and the steady beat of the showerhead vanishes.

. . .

It takes too long for Alfred to realize that sending Mattie upstairs himself was a mistake.

"What's wrong?" Arthur's face is mildly apprehensive, but turns pale and stricken as Alfred replies from halfway up the stairs.

"Mattie's alone in the bathroom!"

. . .

It's the same rug.

And it's stupid, really, to think that there would've been time—or a need—to change it, but all Mattie can think as he lies there staring at the floor beside his face is that he hates that faded yellow rug.

He used to curl up on it like this after his bath when he was little, when it was still plush and bright, when his only concern was that the air on the other side of his towel was cold…

"Mattie!"

Al bursts in without knocking, but Mattie doesn't move, just stares vacantly at the floor, trying to remember if there was this much dust under the sink when he was dying. He winces as Alfred yanks him upright, and his brother recoils, releasing him as suddenly as he had grabbed hold.

"I'm sorry," Al murmurs.

"S'fine." Mattie hugs his legs to his chest, but arches his back out the moment his knees brush his sternum.

Even that hurts, though, so he lets his knees fall open and slumps forward. It doesn't hurt less, but it gives him the illusion of protecting the ache at the center of his body.

"Do you—" Al runs a hand through his hair, damp from the steam hanging in the air— "Do you need help?"

"No," Mattie says reflexively, then, softly, "Yes."

Al doesn't even need to brace himself to lift his gangly little brother to his feet. "You good?"

"No," Mattie whispers again, almost choking on his shame. "I don't think I can lift my arms."

Al doesn't hesitate, doesn't even blink. He just takes Mattie's right wrist in his left hand, and uses his right to gently tug down the sleeve of Mattie's t-shirt. He repeats the process with the other sleeve, then stretches and coaxes the shirt over his brother's head. He's about to toss it to the side when he stops, the shirt dangling from his fingers.

Goosebumps ripple down Mattie's arms and back, and he crosses his arms quickly over his chest, but he knows it's too late. Alfred saw.

"Is that...?"

Mattie nods, unable to speak. As if survival wasn't mortification enough, he has to have a mark to prove it.

Al doesn't say anything, just grips Mattie's shoulders and pulls him into an embrace, careful to leave an inch of space between himself and the large, circular bruise on his brother's breastbone. The closeness of the moment looses something inside Mattie and he lets out a shuddering breath.

"I don't think I can ever make it up to him," he whispers at last.

Alfred only holds him tighter, and Mattie can feel him weighing his words. So it's surprising when the words he chooses finally come.

"You're alive, dumbass."

Mattie blinks and pulls away. He feels like maybe he should be offended, like any moment he'll feel the harshness of the words cutting deeper into open wounds. Instead, to his surprise, it's more like a hot iron, burning them suddenly closed and staunching the constant flow of guilt.

Misreading Mattie's expression, Al grimaces. "Oh god, Matt, I'm sorry—"

"No." Mattie pulls him back in. "No."

Al's arms wrap around him once more, and it doesn't matter that it hurts.

"I'm alive," he whispers into Al's shoulder, and for the first time it doesn't feel like bad luck.

Al lets go and taps him on the cheek. "Stay that way."

Mattie nods, cracking a small smile. Al turns to leave, then stops and looks back.

"Just—" he hesitates. "Leave the door open."

Mattie aches with the knowledge that this too means "I love you."