Chapter Five: Home With You

Jonah wakes suddenly the next morning, startled to consciousness after accidentally dropping a fish he'd caught in his dream. Groggy, he turns over, arms stretching wide, and meeting nothing.

Matt is gone, his side of the bed still warm, the indentation in the pillow apparent. Feeling flushed, Jonah scrambles out of bed, fully awake now. Did Matthew have another nightmare that Jonah was unaware of, too deeply asleep to wake Matt from it? He doesn't remember another nightmare—

He hears Matthew's voice and pads out into the hallway, peering over the banister to see Matthew on the telephone.

"Yeah, yeah...no…listen, why can't Dr. Warren grade them? I'm not exactly equipped to…ugh, no I…I understand," Matthew sighs, sounding annoyed, "look, I'll print them, grade them, and have them scanned in, I'll email them to you later. Fine. Yeah. Whatever, Eric, just…fine. Bye."

There were quite a few words in that one-sided conversation Jonah doesn't exactly understand. Matthew hangs the receiver back on the hook and goes into the kitchen, and Jonah decides to wait before making an appearance. He doesn't want Matthew to think he was eavesdropping. He goes to the bathroom instead, looking at his own face in the mirror in the pale morning light. It's strange to see his own face unburned, identical to the last time he was truly alive. The medium studies his own aura, pleased at the colors he finds, still primarily orange and violet, though with edges of blue and yellow, now. What a novelty, yellow. He can't remember the last time his aura has held yellow. He uses the lavatory and then washes his face, brushes his teeth with a blue toothbrush he finds by the sink. By the time he pads downstairs, still clad in a nightshirt and drawers, he finds Matthew smoking a cigarette over his morning coffee.

"Good morning Matthew,"

Matt startles at the soft voice, sleep-muddled and soft as the morning fog hovering outside. It's very early, only around six in the morning.

"Hey, I'm surprised you're up already! I haven't gotten far into the day yet." Matt states.

He watches the three-day-old reincarnation slowly but surely sink into a chair and fold himself up, knees drawing up to his to his chest, held in place with an arm. He scrubs the sleep from his eyes with a closed fist, their usual vibrancy dulled bleary. He perks smiles though, perking up and uttering a polite 'thank you', as Matt delivers his first cup of coffee.

It's not long before they're both smoking, Matt reading the paper and Jonah staring, unfocused, out of the kitchen window. Matt offers him the paper. Jonah rifles through it, plucking out the comics section before passing the paper back to Matthew, uncaring of the news—it's not as if it matters to Jonah, after all. He can't leave this house. Ever.

They spend a while like this, sitting in quiet contemplation together, reading, before Matthew stands up, clearing his throat and refilling his coffee.

"Listen, kid, I have some work I gotta do. School stuff. I'll be in the study, just come in if you need anything, okay?"

Jonah nods and Matt leaves, taking the cigarettes with him. It's only a few moments before the conduit begins to feel lonely…odd, considering he rarely felt lonely in his past life. Being truly alone had been such a blessing, then. Jonah stands and fiddles with the tiny radio over the sink, figuring it out quickly. It's similar to those he's used to. He finds a station playing music and sets the volume low. He roots around in the cupboard, locating a tall, round container with a smiling colonial man on the front that reads 'Old Fashioned Oats'. Bemused, Jonah measures out oats into a saucepan, seasons them with salt and a bit of sugar. He pulls milk from the fridge, and after a pause, strawberries. He hums along to the tune of the song on the radio as he delicately chops up some berries, discarding their crowns into a bowl for later. He's been saving seeds too, from their meals, in careful little piles drying on the windowsill, labeled with little slips of paper.

He finds he really likes her voice, soft and deep and sad. He picks up the chorus quickly and quietly sings along, slowly feeling more and more melancholic.

"I didn't know that you were lonely…if you'd have just told me, I'd be home with you…"

Fitting, Jonah thinks to himself, as he adds the chopped strawberries to the boiling pot of oats, monitoring closely to make sure the milk doesn't scald. As it cooks, he does dishes and finishes the comics page. He snips out the ones he likes with a pair of scissors he finds in a drawer by the stove and sets them to the side. He finishes the pot of coffee while reading, and diligently goes about making more, doing his best to remember how Matthew has been doing it,water in the back of the machine. He dumps the old grounds into the bowl of green strawberry crowns and puts a new cotton liner in the funnel above the pot, soft and white. He sniffs it first, finding the cotton smells like paper. He uses the little scoop he finds in the jar of new coffee grounds to measure out an appropriate-looking amount of coffee, winging it. As that brews, he takes down two bowls and starts ladling out the red and pink-tinged oats, finishing them off with handfuls of fresh berries, a sprinkle of cinnamon, and a drizzle of maple syrup. Studying the syrup bottle in his hands, Jonah curiously runs his fingers along the smooth, undetailed face of the colored woman.

"How does it feel to be immortalized, ma'am?" he asks her noncommittal face, tracing her dress and wrapper, her small, fingerless hands. "Have they done you justice?"

She doesn't answer, of course, and Jonah's sadness deepens, his mouth slipping into a quirked pinch. He leaves her on the counter…it seems strange to keep a human effigy in a cupboard. He'll have to ask about this Mrs. Butterworth lady, later.

He dresses a tray with newspaper, napkins and spoons, saucers and fresh cups of coffee, and the oats, of course, with a tiny little boat of cream. He uses his foot to open the sliding door to Matthew's study. The man looks deep in thought, one hand to his face, finger to his glasses as he marks up a paper with a red-inked pen. He looks up as Jonah enters, his unhappy expression melting into a smile. Jonah sits the tray at the edge of Matt's desk and pulls up a chair.

"Sorry to bother you," Jonah starts, but Matt interrupts him.

"Thank you, Jonah, it seems I forgot breakfast. I shoulda made sure I fed you"

Jonah shakes his head and smiles.

"I love to cook," he states, "I'm grateful to."

Matthew simply nods in response, and the two eat quietly together. Matthew compliments the strawberry oats several times, seemingly very pleased with them, and a warm, heavy feeling settles into Jonah's stomach. His ears are blushed red, and he smiles quietly into his bowl, shyly thanking Matthew for his words of praise. Matt watches the teen's awkwardness and wonders if the clairvoyant is unused to praise. After they finish up, Jonah removes Matthew's cup of coffee from the tray and transfers it to a coaster on the desk, gathering everything else up and returning it to the kitchen. He stores the dry dishes from earlier and washes these new ones, flitting aimlessly around the kitchen for a while, ensuring its tidiness. He goes to the kitchen closet, tugging harshly on the door—this particular latch had always stuck hard—and winces at the sound of the wood and jamb tugging free of each other. He's pleased to find a metal bucket inside. He places the bowl of discards, the strawberry tops, coffee grounds, and leftover oats in the bucket. He resolves to ask Matthew to start rinsing and keeping eggshells for him.

He carries it all outside onto the back porch, where he leaves it. He crosses the dewy lawn, skirting the cooled remains of the fire from yesterday's May Day, to the back shed/garage. He roots around inside for a while before finding his prize—a fresh bag of soil, the package made of some strange, shiny-smooth material. Jonah finds it rips easily under his nails. He removes the bowl from the bucket and pours the rich, black dirt into the bucket. It's filled with strange little white beads that Jonah can't identify. Smells like fine, healthy earth though, so he shrugs his uncertainty aside. He dumps the discards into the earth and mixes it all together with his hands. He leaves the bucket uncovered by the shed.

He washes his hands at the outdoor faucet before going back inside. He finds himself with nothing left to do. He goes back upstairs to his own room, feeling embarrassed at his state of undress, biting his lip at the dirt he'd accidentally smeared down the front of his white nightshirt. He shucks this and his drawers, discarding them in a basket conveniently placed in the hallway between the bedrooms and bathroom. Jonah shivers in his nakedness and retreats back to his room, peeking quickly into the other, empty, rooms on this floor, distantly recalling which had been Mary's, and Billy's his own room having been Wendy's.

He selects a casual outfit of gray wool slacks, a tan collar shirt, and a sky-blue jumper. Raising it to his nose, he finds it's soft, a loose knit, and…it smells like Matthew smells, like sage and patchouli and cigarettes. It makes his heart speed up a little and the medium smiles goofily, happy with these details. He buttons a brown pair of suspenders to his trousers before putting on the jumper, and decidedly chooses the canvas sports shoes. They look like Matthew's black ones, though unbranded and white, with brown leather edging. They're comfortable and lace easier than boots. After a moment of consideration, Jonah selects a simple black-and-white striped straight tie that he tucks underneath his sweater.

Going back downstairs, he peeks into the study to find Matthew deep in work still. Jonah's idleness irritates him in comparison. He shyly edges the door open to slip inside. Matthew looks up, and Jonah feels bad for having interrupted, again, though Matthew's smile is immediate and warm.

"Hey there, looking sharp! How're things?"

Jonah stares down at his shoes, scuffing the strange rubber tip on the floor.

"Could I, ah…sit in here, with you? And read? I won't bother you…" he asks quietly, bracing himself for Matthew's sure rejection. Father had never tolerated interruption, or coexistence, for that matter.

"Sure hun, take your pick." Matthew gestures to the bookcases along one wall. Jonah crosses to them, studying the spines. They seem to be well organized, with sections for fiction, nonfiction, and…well, the occult, books with names like Advanced Manifestation, Moon Cycles and Star Positions, Marks and Sigils, and more casual titles such as The Little Book of White Spells, Incantations and You, and Chakras: Are You Aligned? Though Jonah finds these endlessly intriguing, he decidedly walks over to the fiction. He plucks out a book titled The Iceman Cometh, and is delighted to find it's a play script. He crosses to the window seat and settles in, leaning back into the wall and stretching out his legs in front of him, crooked just a bit at the knees to fit. He props the book on the pillow and begins to read. He struggles with some of the bigger words, doing his best to sound them out in his head. There's also references to things he knows not of, but he's surprised at how familiar the language and setting are, which is mostly in a barroom. Before or after prohibition, then. It's easy to prescribe voices to the characters as he reads, and Jonah quickly finds himself immersed.

Silence settles over the study as the sun rises and shifts in the sky, casting the room in cold brightness, the day overcast. The only sounds are Matt's pen scratching paper and Jonah's quiet turning of pages, his shifting and settling. Matt finds himself glancing at the boy often, watching his neon eyes move slowly but steadily across the pages, chewing absentmindedly on his own bottom lip. Sometimes he's smiling, sometimes he's frowning, or sad, and sometimes he looks as if he could laugh, bottling his mirth for Matt's sake. He sips now-cold coffee, head leaned on the window glass. Matt wishes he could commit his peace to memory, file it away airtight, a calm memory he can live in when old age eventually muddles his mind.

Matt is about halfway through the papers, several hours later, when Jonah stands, stretching his arms above his head with a soft groan, his jumper and shirt rumpled under his suspenders, riding up over a sliver of pale, hollow stomach. Matt quickly averts his gaze, his jaw clenched with slight anger, worry, and some unnamed, viscous emotion curling in his stomach like a cat. Before he can unpack what that may be, Jonah quietly announces that he'll be back soon before he departs, soundlessly sliding the door shut behind him. He returns a little while later with the tray again, a plate of sandwiches, a pitcher of tea, and drinking glasses thoughtfully balanced. They eat the carefully-cut cucumber and tomato sandwiches, fresh like a summer's day. A little salad is lightly dressed with oil and vinegar in a bowl, and Mat is startled to realize they're dandelions, clean and slightly muddled. The sleeves of Jonah's jumper are pushed up to his elbows, the cuffs of his undershirt rolled up and buttoned, the traces of grass on his shoes. Jonah is eating the salad with his fingers, so Matt does the same, surprised to find them sweet, soft and crunchy at the same time, tasting like summer, grass and sunshine.

"Hey, Jonah, these are really good," Matt motions to the dandelion salad, and Jonah brightens, flushing again, murmuring a thanks. Matt wonders how normal of a food this is for the kid, and it seems pretty damn common, if the kid's nonchalance is to be considered. Perhaps Matt had never truly considered or grasped that the Aickmans may have been rather poor, especially considering Jonah died before the Great Depression. This thought sticks with Matt as Jonah clears away their lunch, eerily similar to their earlier breakfast, leaving the half-finished pitcher of tea on a side table, thoughtfully cradled in a potholder to catch condensation. Jonah returns and goes back to reading, though he seemingly finished the book not long after. Matt hears a slight sniffling, looking up to see Jonah discreetly wiping tears from his eyes.

"Hey, was it good? Did you like it?"

The kid only nods, still a little emotional.

"It was sad. I didn't know it was gonna be so sad,"

"Yeah…that's most of Eugene O'Neill's work…you should read A Long Day's Journey Into Night, next. I think you'll really like it, and it's the sequel to the play you just read. It's sadder, though, from what I remember…"

Jonah shakes his head. "I really loved it, I'll read the other eventually, but…I think I'm finished with tragedy and addiction for now."

This draws a laugh from Matt. Jonah stands, looking awkward again, unable to meet Matt's eyes as he rolls his sleeves down and uses them to scrub his tear-stained face.

"Do you have any pencil and paper, Matthew? I think I'll just draw instead."

Matt nods and passes him the requested items. Jonah selects a thin, large, flat book from the shelf, replacing The Iceman Cometh to its dedicated spot, and takes up his previous post, this time quietly sketching. The day draws on, the shadows elongating, and Matthew finds himself drifting. He removes his glasses, scrubs his eyes, and rests his head on his arms, resolving to rest his eyes for only a moment…

The light snores catch Jonah's attention, and he looks up to find Matthew asleep, mouth slack and face peaceful in sleep, resting on a bare, crooked arm. Jonah quickly flips his paper and begins sketching a sleeping Matthew, quickly and deftly rendering the professor right down to the bottom edge of his teeth, his eyelashes, the slightly-blurred scars that render his face permanently asymmetric. Jonah is dutifully scribbling in this lettering when Matthew's energy shifts. Jonah pauses, concentrating hard, coaxing Matthew's dream into his own head.

It's the summer after his diagnosis, and though he hasn't started chemotherapy yet, he feels worn. Tired. They'd wanted to start it immediately, but Matt insisted on one last 'normal' summer at camp. The faces of his childhood friends take shape easily, though a little hazy, the voice of his camp counselor familiar, stored deep in his memories. Matthew feels the smoothness of the canoe paddle cutting through the water, the bright sun beating down, the drone of cicadas echoing over the lake, comforting and nostalgic. He smiles up into the sky, grateful to be alive, considering. He's told no one, yet. He plans to simply never come back, though, the chances of Kyle, his bunkmate and closest friend, calling as soon as camp ends, is high. He doesn't know how he's gonna explain to him that they'll likely never see each other again. Pushing these thoughts aside, he paddles harder.

"Hey, Campbell! What's got you looking so upset?" Kyle laughs, clapping him on the back. Matt startles, and their canoe jostles, rolling with unfortunate timing into a wave. Both boys scrabble, exclamations of panic and anticipation echoing across the lake as they flounder to correct the boat, only for it to roll completely and capsize, plunging both screaming boys into the water. They struggle uselessly to right the canoe before giving up, swimming back to shore.

"Race! First back gets the other's dessert at dinner!" Kyle yells. Matt does his best to keep up, but he feels shaky, tired. Kyle beats him easily.

"Dude, what is wrong with you? You good?" Kyle laughs and he helps tug the tired teenager onto the shore, Matt looking pale. Matt stands shakily, unsteady and waterlogged with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Matt breathes hard for a few moments, trying to calm his pounding, halting heart, straightening up, looking up just in time to catch a lumescent gaze from across the gravel shore. The neon blue of them is vibrant, so pale, they seem more like an energy than a color. The young Matt freezes like a deer under this gaze, his own eyes widening in shock as that gaze crawls under his skin, fills up his mouth, settles in his bones, the emotion they hold one of fondness, sadness, and…pity?

Matt jolts awake, groans, and scrubs his face. It was just a dream, he thinks. It makes sense for Jonah to appear in his dream, considering dreams, even dreams of memories, are derived from the subconscious. Though, Jonah doesn't usually appear in Matt's memory-dreams, unless they're of the time in Hell House. He looks up to study Jonah, who's still scribbling dutifully, eyes fixed to the paper. He looks as if he hasn't moved in hours. The sun is low in the sky, and Matt glances to the clock on the desk, shocked that it's already past six in the evening. He'd spent the whole day grading, it seems, and Jonah had spent the whole day reading and drawing, if the stacks of books and paper beside him are anything to go by. Matt wonders how long he'd been asleep. He clears his throat, and Jonah startles, looking up.

"Hey there sleepyhead!"

"Hey, kid. You hungry? It's right around or past dinnertime," Matt's voice is rough with disuse.

"Sure, I can get it started,"

Matt waves his hand, Jonah having half-risen from his seat.

"That's okay, I'll make dinner. I need to run to the store real quick to get more groceries anyway." Matt rises, stretching, starts to toe on his Converse. Jonah hovers as Matt gathers his things to leave.

"I need to get more cigarettes, is there a brand you prefer?"

"Uh, Camels are fine, but…I prefer Lucky Strikes? Menthol, if that's okay?"

"Noted," Matt supplies, "you need anything else?"

Jonah shakes his head, looking shy again, his most recent sketch still in hand. From what Matt can see, it's a painstaking recreation of the floor plan of the family house in Long Day's Journey Into Night, which Jonah must have read while Matt was asleep.

"Damn, kid, you're a great artist…would you like anything besides pencils? Charcoal, pastels, pens, colored pencils…what's your favorite medium?"

Jonah seems startled at this question, looking up at Matt with wide eyes.

"I, uh…I actually really like to paint, but I'm pretty rusty…I really like watercolors, and…and colored pencils too…" he murmurs shyly, voice so quiet Matt has to strain to listen.

"You got it, boss. I'll be back shortly. If you think of anything you need, you can call the number written in red above the phone, okay?"

Jonah nods, but Matt is already walking out the door, the screen door banging behind him. With a sigh, Jonah finds himself alone in Hell House again. He goes to the kitchen and uneasily turns on the radio, displeased to find the station from before is playing talk radio. He's worried that Matthew knows Jonah had been trespassing in his dream, had watched the sick teen swim weakly to shore, only to be dragged out by his friend. He plays this memory over and over in his head, and sits down in the kitchen to finish sketching out the scene of Matthew, half crouched on the gravel shore of the lake, his friend leaning in, concerned, holding Matthew's shoulders steady, dedicatedly penciling in Matthew's slightly pained expression, one hand on his knee, the other on his chest.

Matthew isn't gone long, and at the sound of the front door opening, Jonah is quick to flip the sketch over, the back of the paper hosting a benign drawing of a stylized sailor, drawn in eskimo clothes, holding a fish next to a hole in the ice. Matt starts unpacking groceries on the table.

"Here hun, hope these are good. I'm not much of an artist myself."

Jonah's eyes widen at the array of art supplies, his hand covering his mouth in shock. A pan of watercolors in a small tin case, a set of paints in small little pots. A varied array of paintbrushes in a rolled, leather satchel, little thongs to hold each brush, tied up in string. A shiny metal case of colored pencils, the full spectrum of the rainbow. Two sketchbooks, one of regular paper, the other a heavier density for watercolor, a few canvases of various sizes. It's a lot, Jonah's never owned this many fine things in his life. They look and feel expensive, high quality. His eyes fill with tears that he quickly tries to swipe away, before Matthew notices.

"Oh hey, kid! What's wrong, do you like them?" Matthew's voice is filled with concern, reaching out to gently clasp Jonah's shoulder.

"Oh yes, Matthew, goodness," Jonah chuckles wetly, embarrassed, "these are…these are gorgeous, Matthew, and so very fine…Jesus Christ, it's all so nice. Just nicer than I'm, well, used to, and it's so much…I—I can't thank you enough, Matthew, it's so much…"

Jonah's stomach jolts, his brain halting entirely as Matthew pulls him into a hug, comfortingly rubbing his back. Jonah embraces him back, fisting his hands in Matthew's t-shirt, feeling like he could shake right on out of his skins.

"Oh, honey! It's okay, you deserve them, you know. I saw your drawings, they're really good. You're talented, I'm excited to see your work," Matthew consoles in his deep, murmuring voice, rumbling out of his chest into Jonah's ear.

Jonah pulls away, his face bright red, feeling swollen. All he can do is nod, unable to meet Matt's eyes. He dries the rest of his tears with his hands before reaching out to handle his new art supplies with care, marveling over them. Matthew smiles at him before returning to unpacking the food. He gets started on a meal, a simple one of sausages and home fries. As he cooks, Jonah uses his colored pencils to color in the play floor plan. Matt glances back at times, watching the teen color with a soft, contented smile on his face, using his thumb to blend colors, shading, and edges. He takes great care to pack up his things and move aside his drawings when it's time to eat. At some point, Jonah stands to put a kettle on. The two men have an after dinner cigarette over cups of tea, chatting amicably about this and that, and everything. Jonah compliments his new menthols, delighting in how much stronger the cigarettes of today "hit".

After dinner, Matt retreats back to his study to finish up grading, and Jonah stays in the kitchen. Matt watches him set up before he leaves. Jonah requests tape, which Matt procures. Jonah fetches a glass of water, and a rag. He switches the radio station before Matt, who informs the kid he could turn the volume up, it won't bother him, leaves. Matt finds the sound of the radio comforting, as he sits alone in his study, feeling renewed. He's surprised that Jonah is listening to new music, though it seems the station he has picked are what the kids would call 'sad boy music'. Matt smiles every time he hears Jonah singing along faintly, quick to memorize lyrics and verses, seemingly adept at multitasking. He's a bright kid for sure. Matt continues grading for a few more hours, going through several cups of tea. He finally finishes up his work. He hasn't heard Jonah singing in a while…Matt crosses to the door to shut it, and does his best to quietly scan in all the papers, uploading them to a laptop hidden in a locked desk drawer. He emails the papers in a few batches to Eric before finishing up, storing the laptop away and turning out lights.

As he walks into the kitchen, he catches the smell of summer again, the mineral smell of water. Jonah has fallen asleep on top of one of his drawings, which he's taped onto a page of his watercolor book. The glass of water is muddy next to a half-finished cup of tea, several waterlogged brushes resting inside. Various colored pencils are scattered around the table. From what Matt can see, Jonah washes the colors of each piece with watercolors before doubling back with pencil to line in finer details obscured and fuzzed by the layer of paint. Coming up to the teen, he halts unsteadily to see a sketch of himself, asleep at his desk from earlier. The piece is finely colored, but…a cloud of color engulfs Matt's head, soft hues of green and purple, specked with metallic silver flecks.

Matt stands aghast for a moment, thinking. Jonah could see auras, apparently. It's unsurprising, but it's new. Matt has met other people who can, but it didn't dawn on him that the medium would be able to…it seems obvious now, but Matt can't help but wonder about the extent of Jonah's clairvoyance. He knew the kid could see ghosts, obviously, but seeing auras is an entirely separate genre of sight. It's a revelation for sure. The paranormal professor studies the hazy colors that apparently make up his own aura, rendered by Jonah's delicate hands, observed by those inhumanely-perceptive eyes, and wonders what the colors mean. If Jonah knows what the colors mean. Matt leans closer and glimpses the piece the conduit was working on when he dozed off, and his gut clenches uncomfortably when he catches a glimpse of himself again. Leaning over the teen's sleeping form, the scent of sunshine growing stronger, he gently and patiently draws the paper out from under Jonah's arms.

He studies the drawing, and his blood runs cold.

It's himself, half crouched on the banks of Laurel Lake, Kyle standing worried next to him, reaching out as if to support him. In the distance, Jonah has detailed small islands, the overturned canoe floating listlessly, painted yellow, a detail Matt himself had forgotten but can remember now. Now, this? This was a fucking revelation. Matt had only suspected that the medium may have been able to project dreams, but now it turns out that the kid can fucking enter other people's dreams, if he wishes. Matt wonders, panicked, if Jonah can read minds. He goes in mental circles, cataloging every conversation he's had with the conduit, and determines that no, Jonah's can't read minds. But, somehow, he can trespass into others' subconscious when they aren't awake. When their walls are down. When they're vulnerable.

Matt's swirling thoughts of disbelief and horror are interrupted as Jonah shifts in his sleep, murmuring quietly to himself. Matt can't catch the words, a mumbled mmhn, a sound more than anything else. He leans down to take a deep whiff, next to the teen's head, and he can smell the chemical smell of fucking sunscreen, for fuck's sake, a smell Jonah shouldn't even know.

Matt feels nauseous. A massive headache is building behind his eyes. He stares at the beautifully-rendered, detailed memory, and struggles with his feelings. He feels strangely violated, as if Jonah has rooted carelessly around in his possessions. Matt tries to reason with himself, trying hard to internalize that Jonah's trespass most likely did not have malicious intentions. He wonders if the kid has to try to enter someone's dream, or if it just happens when he's in the same room as an unconscious person. Matt does his best to remember his dream, realizing with a sickening feeling that he'd literally seen Jonah standing on the banks of the lake, watching him struggle, undercover trespassing in a camp uniform, Jesus fucking Christ, the kid clad in khakis and a Laurel Lake Baptist Camp t-shirt, his searing gaze silent, staring. Watching and absorbing.

God, that's why he was so shaken after the nightmare I had last night, and I don't even remember it.

A new wave of uncomfortable thoughts flood Matt's mind as he remembers the kid slinking into Matt's room to sleep, a barrage of worry—just what, exactly, was Jonah's intent? In witchcraft, intent is everything, and Lord knows the resurrected necromancer is far from an innocent sheep, his soul ripped and stained from some of his previous intentions.

Matt is ripped from his spiral by Jonah's soft snoring, his head turning sleepily, one of his arms slipping to the table, sending some pencils gently rolling. He mumbles again, a soft, sweet sound, and Matt sighs hard, rubbing his face. Matt steps away, leaving the room, going back to his study. He knocks back two Advil with a whisky neat, practically chugging the liquor, quickly going back for another double shot, four in total. This helps some, helps abate the headache-nearing-migraine drumming on the insides of his skull. He pours one more drink, crossing to his desk and lighting another cigarette. He sits down heavily and broods. Thought processes sluggish from the alcohol, Matt soon finds the topic of Jonah's trespasses too hard to think about. Restless, the professor holds the cigarette between slack lips as he gathers up Jonah's discarded books, slowly and thoughtfully returning them all to their rightful place. After completing this task, and finishing his cigarette, Matt finds he is a lot more calm, head almost empty, gently floating in an amber-tinged whisky haze.

He finally leaves the study, fumbling drunkenly, at least five shots in, to lock the study. He returns to the kitchen, turning off the radio. He shakes the kid, but he doesn't stir. Sighing, seemingly annoyed, he scoots the medium's chair out and gathers him up awkwardly into his arms, Jonah's head lolling over Matt's shoulder, still stinking of summer sweat. Jonah mumbles and shifts, turning his face into Matt's neck as the man carries him upstairs, and that same slinky feeling coils in Matt's gut again. He rather unceremoniously dumps the teen into his bed, groggily pausing to sling a blanket haphazardly over the boy. Matt takes care, however, to shut the door to Jonah's room. Matt stumbles to his bed, ungracefully shucking off his clothes, stumbling in the process. He flops down onto his bed, brain melting into sleep. Matt struggles against it, rolling over to root around in his bedside table. He squints at the label of the bottle in the dark—Melatonin. He washes it down with a glug of Nyquil.

No rootin around, he drunkenly thinks to himself. His last thought is of Jonah, damn him, and his vulnerable, sleeping face, such a heavy sleeper, unable to wake, while Matt...Matt doesn't want to sleep. Not unprotected, at least.