Mathew tries to fade into the background as he eats, painfully aware of Arthur sitting just across the table from him. He knows he should apologize, but this isn't the time or place. He's grateful for his ability to disappear as the others seem to talk right over him, nobody seeming to notice his quiet demeanor. The table is loud, Antonio, Gilbert and Alfred all laughing obnoxiously loud, Arthur bristling when Alfred responds to his apology for not helping cook breakfast with a comment about his laziness saving their lives, and the general chatter around the table. But Mathew can read a wariness in the air, a tense feeling of waiting for something to happen, and he knows what's causing it.
Every so often, someone will steal a look towards the door before quickly looking away as though they weren't looking in the first place. Mathew finds that atmosphere stifling, like they're all acting on a bad 90's tv show. Alfred starts gesturing wildly as he tells a story, and Mathew takes advantage of the distraction to sneak away to the kitchen, feeling as though he'll suffocate if he stays there any longer. Mathew's mind wanders as he washes, and all of a sudden, he's struck by an overwhelming fear. What if Francis gets worse after seeing Arthur? He remembers how Gilbert hadn't wanted to let Arthur in, and the fear seems to grow. Gilbert knows Francis better than he does, its obvious just by seeing how quickly he and Antonio brought life back into Francis. Even if it was just a little, they'd been able to do what Mathew couldn't. His heart sinks as he realizes something. Francis had gotten better with everyone but him. When he was with Mathew, he'd gotten worse.
Mathew tries to deny the thought but its persistent, and suddenly he's spiralling into self-doubt. Nothing Mathew had tried had helped. Why did he think Arthur could? He doesn't know when he stopped washing, or when the ringing in his ears or pain in his chest started. He just knows its getting worse. He crouches down, bringing his head to his knees, as everything in his stomach threatens to come back up. He squeezes his eyes shut and he sees Francis behind his eyelids, eyes completely dark, no sign of the spark that used to be there. Mathew tries to chase away the thought, to picture Francis as he used to be, to picture his eyes glowing and his smile spreading across his face. The dark eyed Francis in his mind quirks his lips up into that forced, polite smile.
The pain in Mathew's chest is sharper now, his nausea is more pronounced. Mathew suddenly finds he cant remember what Francis' smile used to look like before. There's a distant voice that Mathew can barely hear through the ringing in his ears, and he mumbles what he hopes is an excuse about a stomach ache. He cant seem to hear his own voice. Mathew feels sick. Someone helps him to his feet, and Mathew claps a hand over his mouth. There's a repeated murmuring, Antonio's musical voice, saying to hold on, they're almost there. Where?
The Francis in his mind is holding a rope, darkened eyes staring in almost disinterest as he loops the rope around the coil. Mathew's hands find the rim of the toilet bowl, and his breakfast comes back up. Antonio's voice is further away now, like he's inside a fishbowl. Mathew gulps for air, his nose and throat burning, refusing to blink. Mathew doesn't want to see the end of the story his mind made up. The ringing in his ears is starting to sound like Francis' voice, thick and choked with tears. What is he saying? If only the other voices would just be silent! Mathew's hands creep up over his ears, and he whispers the words as he hears them.
"I.. wish.. I... was..."
His hands are wrenched from his ears and wrestled to his side, and Mathew looks up in a glazed bewilderment.
"Al?"
But its not Alfred.
"Don't!"
Gilbert instructs, staring Mathew fiercely in the eyes. His eyes are unwavering, a deep, solid red. They remind Mathew of blood. Would he find Francis in a pool of that colour if Francis meets Arthur? Mathew's stomach churns, and he twist to lean over the toilet bowl again, vomiting bile instead of food. His throat is raw and feels like fire, his mouth tastes disgusting and smell of vomit in the air is sickening. His nose is running too and tears are spilling from his eyes, though Mathew cant tell if its because of the force his body took to reject the food, or the traumatic thoughts playing through his mind.
Gilbert is speaking again, sharp and commanding, and Mathew finds himself listening to the commands.
"Stop thinking about it! Pay attention to my voice."
Mathew takes a steadying breath, and the ringing in his ears is fading.
"Good."
Gilbert approves, then there's Alfred's arms around him, despite the vomit, and Alfred's whispering in his ear, words not meant for anyone else, and as Mathew listens, he feels the world slowly falling back into place.
"Mattie, i need you.
Its okay, I'm here.
Mattie, its okay.
Calm down, we'll go do something fun, we could play hockey, you like that right Mattie?
I'll be the goalie and you can practice your shots, and then we can get ice cream, okay, Mattie?
Its okay, i'm right here.
Its going to be okay. "
Alfred's babbling, not really making sense, but Mathew welcomes the distraction from his thoughts and focuses on what Alfred's saying. Slowly, Mathew realizes he's sitting on the tile floor of the bathroom, Antonio and Gilbert are crowded into the tiny room while Lucille keeps Michelle at bay. Alfred's still babbling, and Mathew licks his lips, disgusted by the taste, and forces the words out his raw throat.
"Ice cream would be nice."
Mathew offers sheepishly.
"My throat hurts."
There's a sigh of relief in the bathroom, and Alfred releases him enough to meet Mathew's eyes. He studies Mathew's face, and, apparently satisfied, wrinkles his nose.
"You stink."
Despite himself, Mathew's lips quirk up.
"Sorry."
