Chapter 6: Good-Old Past-Times

When Jonah wakes the next morning, he finds he's still fully dressed in day clothes, curled up in the middle of his bed under a worn woven blanket. He's in his room for a change, in his bed, light streaming in, the sun higher in the sky than he expected. Something nags at the back of his mind—a half remembered dream—but he can't remember it, doesn't remember having any dreams. That's odd, for him. He always does. He doesn't remember getting into bed, and when he opens his closed bedroom door, odd, he listens, the house quiet and still. He peeks around, seeing Matthew's bedroom door still closed.

A quick search of the downstairs and a glance out the front and back windows reveal Matthew is still in bed, at ten in the morning, according to the clock in the kitchen. Unsettled, Jonah puts on a full pot of coffee. He stands in front of the machine, impatiently watching the slow drip and pool in the carafe, a cigarette pinched in his drawn mouth. Glancing around for the ashtray, he spots his drawings, still scattered on the table, and freezes. There, out in the open, is the drawing of Matthew's lake dream, and next to it, the drawing of Matthew asleep, aura swirling around him. Jonah realizes, with rising horror that Matthew knows—after all, he had spotted Jonah in his dream. This drawing must have confirmed any suspicions Matthew must have had. Cig in his mouth, he gathers the papers with trembling hands, struggles to tuck all of the art supplies back into their designated storage. A litany of words swirl in Jonah's head, intonations in the voices of past people, of his would-have-been friends, fellow patients of the hospital, nurses, doctors, attendants to the sceances, the dead, the damned dead, and his Father, his heavily-accented, disgusted voice:

Freak. Witch. Abomination, devil-spawn, trespasser. Freak, freak, freak!

He just has to get out of this damned house for a while.

Jonah goes back to his room to dress in a manner suitable for romping around outside, rooting around in his wardrobe and dresser until he finds something appropriate—a pair of dark blue overalls made of heavy duck cloth, meaning they're damn-near waterproof. They're a little long on him so he cuffs the bottoms, and he rolls up the sleeves of his pale green dress shirt, leaving the first few buttons undone underneath the bib. He pulls on the black work boots, and after much thought, puts on a wristwatch that's been sitting on the dresser since the day he awoke from death. Bounding back downstairs, he packs up the portable radio and his art supplies in Matthew's dark green canvas bag, the one with all the patches.

When Matt wakes, it's almost noon, according to the blurry face of his bedside clock. He sits up with a groan, head pounding, his mouth dry and tasting like shit. He hauls himself out of bed, staggering out of his room to the bathroom, stark nude. He spits into the sink with a grimace. He fixes up his toothbrush with paste and begins brushing his teeth, pausing midway though to relieve himself, upright at the toilet with the toothbrush sticking from his mouth, foam at the corners of his lips. He finishes both tasks and spits toothpaste into the toilet, shaking himself dry. Staggering back to the sink, he squints at his reflection in the mirror. Gross, he thinks dimly. His pallor is wan, his eyes slightly bloodshot and baggy with bruises. He washes his face and feels a bit better, a bit more human and alive. He swallows down some Advil and chugs a glass of water, feeling nauseated. He hasn't been hung over in years, is shocked at its veracity. He tried to recall just how much he drank last night, and struggles to remember.

It hits him in waves, then, his revelation, his epiphany. Jonah is a dream-walker, a visitor of people's minds in their most vulnerable state. He remembers dumping the kid off in his own bed and feels a wave of guilt, his sober mind absolutely sure that Jonah meant no harm in the trespass. After all, it's not as if he tried to manipulate the dream in any way. He had simply quietly observed, a long way off. Why he drew the dream, though, Matt has no clue.

He'd just have to ask the kid.

Matt dresses in jeans and a t-shirt, pulling on unlaced shoes before bounding down the stairs. He finds cold coffee in the kitchen, but no other signs of life. Jonah's art supplies are entirely missing. Matt searches the rest of the house, his concern and guilt growing as he comes up empty-handed. Where the fuck could Jonah have gone? Even his cigarettes are missing, for fucks sake. Matt paces back to the kitchen and notices with a start that the small radio is missing, though he can't hear any music in the house.

Oh. Not in the house, duh. Matt doubles back into the hallway and strides to the back door, realizing it's open, just the screen closed. Feeling like an idiot, he walks outside, but can't see the kid here, either. He walks out into the lawn, all the way to the shed, where he spots the compost bucket. He studies its contents and feels another wave of guilt. The kid is composting food scraps for better soil, Christ. He's a kid born of hard times and harder living, of discrimination, loneliness, and potential parental abuse. Matt isn't an idiot. He's seen the way the kid flinches at any loud noise, at any unexpected touch. He's still as thin as a rail, had already been bruised up when reincarnated.

I'm an absolute fucking asshole, Matt thinks, sinking to a crouch by the compost bucket. He's staring listlistly at strawberry crowns and coffee grounds when he catches the faintest sound of music off to his right, in the woods. Head whipping around, Matt freezes, absolutely still. There's music alright, and if he squints, he can see the faintest trail into the trees, the grass worn thinner here, trees parted. He follows the path, and the music grows louder. He walks for a solid few minutes, growing more and more confused. Is this forest technically part of the Aickman property? He quickens into a jog, suddenly worried that the conduit may have wandered further from the house than the parameters of his existence would allow. If that's the case, Matt wonders what he will find. A pile of ashes? An organic, Jonah-shaped corpse? Nothing? Nothing but a pile of clothes? Matt breaks into a run.

He's rounding a tree into a clearing when he spots the kid, Matt stopping dead in his tracks. Jonah is very much alive, but seemingly not entirely fine. Underneath the sound of the radio, Matt can hear faint sniffling. As he watches, Jonah angrily scrubs his face with his hands before wiping his hands on his thighs. The kid is sketching again, his back against a large rock, his watercolor book balanced on bare knees, the watercolor pan and his pencil roll open and laid out next to him on a cloth in the dirt. He's discarded his shoes and socks to submerge his feet in a creek Matt didn't know existed.

Jonah sighs and leans forward, one hand on his sketchbook as he rinses a brush in the stream. The radio begins playing a new track, some upbeat 90s boy-band pop, and Jonah utters a sound of frustration. He shakes out the brush before popping the wooden end into his mouth, holding it with his teeth as he reaches to change the station, surfing through and settling on classical, the soft sound of piano a somber accompaniment to the sound of the tumbling water, the birds and cicadas in the trees. Seemingly satisfied, the teen gathers up a different color in his brush, going back to washing areas of the piece. He pauses here and there to blow on it, flapping the book in the breeze before going back in with colored pencil. Jonah's expression is one of concentration and melancholy, from what Matt can see, his thin little mouth gathered in a frown. He swipes at his own face again, and though Matt can't see the tears, they must be flowing rather steadily.

Matt hesitates at the edge of the clearing, watching the lonely, peacefully-pained scene. Though Jonah is nineteen physically, his mannerisms, expressions, style of dress, even his voice, always make him seem so much older, an elderly man in a lanky body, thin and short from a childhood of malnourishment born of poverty. Seeing Jonah like this, steadily in tears, doggedly and deftly creating something beautiful in his time of sorrow, really resonates with Matt, drives home the reality that Jonah never really lived past nineteen. He looks lonely and isolated, delicate amidst the rough, broad trees, the jagged rock protruding from the riverbed.

Matt retreats, unwilling to disturb the teen, unsure of what he would even say, how he would console him. He winds his way back out of the woods, careful not to make noise until he clears the treeline. He strides with purpose to the house and into the kitchen, standing restlessly. He anxiously lights a cigarette, smoking ponderously in the silence of the house. What has Jonah so upset? Was it how Matt treated him, dumping him in his room and shutting him out, severing their connection? The connection was one-sided, though, Matt is pained to admit. He hadn't consented to Jonah rooting around in his dreams, he wishes Jonah would have at least told him, explained it to him. Whether the medium can control it or not, if Jonah had just told him…but then, he would've had to open up to Matt.

Uh, Matthew? I must warn you…I project dreams, in my sleep. I can also experience yours, when you're asleep. Terribly sorry, it's just—

What, a habit? Matt can literally imagine Jonah's halting voice, soft and deep and even, wavering as he tries to explain this ability he was born with. An ability Matt's sure the kid is worried will disgust Matt, drive him away. Make him seem even weirder, to Matt. But that's the thing, Matt slowly realizes. He doesn't really care, it's fine, considering all the other extraordinary abilities the clairvoyant teen has. It's just one more thing to add to the list of abilities that make Jonah who he is—a talented, powerful, medium, a natural-born witch, a being out of books and folklore. Is this feeling of anger, of violation, born of jealousy, Matt wonders? Or is it that classic fear of the unknown, the stereotypical burn-the-witch reflex. Lord, he'd had to drink himself brave last night just to touch the kid.

With a sigh and groan, Matt sits at the table, re-lighting his barely-smoked cigarette, the one he'd forgotten, lost in thought. How could he make it up to Jonah? He'd have to apologize, for sure, but that also means they'd have to talk about it, which could be weird. Matt goes in circles in his head imagining the conversation, coming up with half-formed apologies and assurances. He finishes his smoke only to realize he'd come up with no real dialogues. The clock above the sink reads around one-thirty, meaning it'd been more than an hour since he'd went to look for the kid, only to turn back to the house with his tail between his legs. He must be hungry, the occultist surmises, finally setting on a thought that didn't lead to a spiral. He stands and crosses to the closet, procuring a square wicker basket with a lid that buckles and a long leather strap, a pseudo-picnic basket, though a bit smaller than most, and more mobile. Matt likes to use it to collect herbs and plants for his craft. He sits it on the counter and lines it with a cloth before rooting through the fridge, filling it up with odds and ends of food and leftovers. He fills two jars with sweet iced tea and wraps them in towels, scooting the contents of the basket around to make room for them. He remembers to pack napkins before closing up the basket, the lid gaping a bit, held not-entirely shut by the leather and buckle, stuffed full as it is.

The walk back to the creek feels like it takes longer this time, the basket heavy at Matt's hip, his shoulder straining. The kid is still listening to classical, head bent low over his paper, other papers littering the ground around him. Hovering at the edge of the clearing, Matt looks around, finding a low-hanging branch to rustle, and snaps a twig underfoot for good measure. Jonah jumps about a mile high, head whipping all around, and Matt sheepishly steps into the clearing. Jonah's gaze catches him, as stormy and dark as a thunderstorm, and the prickling sensation rushing up Matt's arms, the numbness in his fingers, makes him truly wonder if he's been struck, shocked by this medium. Jonah's expression belies surprise, then hurt, before quickly shuttering into an unreadable, distant expression, his mask falling expertly into place.

"Hey, Jonah," Matt offers, his voice quiet and respectful. "It's late, so I brought us some lunch…could I sit with you?"

The teen's expression softens slightly and he nods, turning away to start packing up his supplies.

"No, hey…you can keep drawing…I was wondering, could I look at them?"

Jonah's shoulders hunch, pausing in the middle of drying brushes and tucking them away into their roll. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, and Matt is starting to feel lost.

"Well, I…I just really would like to see them…you're really talented, Jonah, and…I don't care what you draw, honey. It's all fine, it's alright—"

"It's alright?" Jonah interrupts, his voice tearful and incredulous. Still facing away from Matt, he shakes his head, hunching forward.

"Yeah, kid—"

"No. It's not, alright, Matthew!"

The medium tries to stifle his tears, but his breath hitches. Matt dumps the basket on the ground and rushes to him, stopping to face Jonah, who immediately hides his face. Matt goes to pull his hands away, and Jonah flinches hard, shrinking away from him, a tiny sound of fear slipping from him.

"Shit! Hey, I'm sorry Jonah. I'm so sorry, kid,"

Jonah shakes his head miserably, finally looking at Matt, awash in grief.

"No, Matthew, I—I'm so very sorry, I never meant to invade your privacy, I didn't even think about it, I didn't even think about how it would make you feel," he speaks between gasps, his chest hitching, the panic and misery evident in his voice. Matt tries to stop him, but the medium continues, "I'm a monster, Matthew, a fucking freak—"

"Stop!" Matt orders, his voice firm but quiet, careful not to shout at the kid, who shrinks away anyway, going back to hiding behind his hands. Matt sighs, shocked at the kid's language, and sits on the bank next to Jonah.

"You're not a freak, Jonah, Jesus. I already knew you were one hell of a medium, kid, I just didn't know about the, uh, dream stuff. You're powerful as hell," Matt pauses to bump his shoulder into Jonah's causing the medium to look at him. Matt waggles his eyebrows at him before continuing.

"I'm honestly a little jealous."

This wrenches a water-logged laugh from the teen, a lopsided smile, and Matt smiles brightly back, so relieved to have broken into the kid's shroud of doom and gloom, his spiral of shame and self-hate.

"I'm sorry I got mad with you Jonah. I think I just wasn't expecting it, I was so surprised, and I felt a little violated. But it's really okay, kid. I doubt you intended to do me any wrong,"

Jonah shakes his head slowly, sniffling and drying his tears. "No, Matthew, I didn't mean to hurt you or upset you. It just kind of happens. Anytime I'm around someone, and they're dreaming, I get vague ideas of what they're dreaming about, wisps, and well, whiffs. Though, to get inside, like I did…like I did with you," Jonah's voice drops lower in shame, obviously feeling guilty, "I do have to concentrate to go into someone's dreamscape like that, and I am so, so sorry, Matthew, for doing that to you."

Matt listens to Jonah's explanation, honestly relieved the medium offered all this information without further questions or prodding.

"It's okay, Jo. Like I said earlier, I know you didn't mean any harm,"

"I won't do it again," Jonah interrupts, "I'm sorry. I'll steer clear of you while you're asleep,"

"Aw, kid, you don't have to. I like being able to sleep near each other, so we know that the other is safe…I have a feeling you prefer it, and well..I do too." Matt admits awkwardly, unsure of how weird that came across or not.

"Well, okay, but I'm not gonna pry again."

"Fair, I guess. Now, kid…do you know, like…are you aware that you project, while dreaming?"

Jonah's eyes meet Matt's eyebrows gathered in confusion.

"Project?"

"Like…when you're asleep, Jonah, if you're dreaming, and I sleep near you, I have your dream. Like the Beltaine dream, the Mayday bonfire. I had that dream right alongside you."

Jonah's eyes widen almost comically, a look of horror settling in his owlish gaze.

"Oh God, really?"

"Yeah, but it's not bad. Honestly, it kind of makes us even, kid. Even when I'm not asleep, if you're dreaming, you…give off, like, a smell? Like scents in the dream? If that makes sense."

Jonah just stares at him, mouth slightly ajar. Great…he may have just weirded the kid out.

"So, that kind of makes us even, in my opinion, Jonah. It can't really be controlled, yeah?"

"Yeah," Jonah lamely agrees, still looking troubled.

"How about this," Matt offers, "if one of us has a bad dream, or like, a private one, the other one will leave the room, or the dream, or whatever. We can even wake each other up, okay? Like you did after my nightmare two nights ago. I don't think that's a bad thing."

"Actually," Matt laughs, reaching out to gently squeeze Jonah's shoulder, "this means I'm lucky, kid. I have quite a few bad dreams, as you know—and now, I have a built in dream-catcher."

This analogy brings a genuine smile to Jonah's face and he nods. Relieved, Matt gently tugs Jonah in, wrapping him in a brief, but warm hug. It seems Jonah is finally all cried out, looking tired. Matt stands and retrieves the basket before coming back to sit.

"I have a feeling you've spent most of your day upset, hun, you really should eat something," he states, opening it up and dishing out its contents. "I've got a whole spread, here."

They eat together, in silence at first, Jonah picking at his food, before Matt drums up some idle conversation. He asks to see whatever art Jonah would be willing to share, and the medium shyly shows Matt some of them. They're good, really good, almost hyper-realistic and vibrantly colored. Most of today's are landscapes, and things. The stream, a flowering bush on the opposite bank, and a cardinal, bright red and black crested, dignified. As they talk, Jonah picks his abandoned sketch back up, a drawing that uncannily captures the flowing water of the stream, down to the reflection of light in the water, somehow looking as clear and refractive on the page as in real life, pebbles and worn bedrock glistening under layers of texture and color.

They finish up the food and the boys start packing everything up. Jonah is packing up the food as Matt gather's up Jonah's things, carefully storing them away in the worn canvas messenger bag Jonah brought with him, Matt's old one from college, covered in patches and pins for rock and metal bands. As he tucks the drawings away, Matt glimpses one that gives him pause. It's not really of anything, more of an abstract of color, washes of red and black and orange, twisting with shadows and vaguely-silhouetted figures, one amongst them more boldly defined, this one a vivid purple. The figure is engulfing its head in its hands, head bent forward, seemingly doing its best to block out all sound and sight. This artwork is much rougher than Jonah's other works, an anguished, quick-handed rendition of unreality. Matt tucks this drawing carefully into the sketchbook, glancing at Jonah, who's currently trying to fit the radio into the basket. Matt slips everything into the bag and offers that they can fit it in with the art supplies, his voice light and amicable. Matt locks the image away in the back of his mind, resolves to forget the peek into Jonah's head, as close as Matt would ever be able to truly get to trespassing into Jonah's innermost thoughts. While the medium is conscious, at least.

Back in the house, a tired Jonah is sitting at the kitchen table, restless as Matt unpacks their unplanned picnic. Anxiety rolls off the teen in discontented waves. Matt sits with him, lighting one of his cigarettes for him, which Jonah accepts gratefully. They smoke quietly together for a while.

"You okay, Jonah?"

Jonah shrugs, sighing smoke out his nose, gesturing aimlessly with his cigarette between stiff fingers.

"I'm fine, Matthew, really, I just…I don't know. I feel really nervous, I think. I wish I could get out of my head."

"Mhm, I can relate to that pretty hard," Matt replies, nodding in understanding, "I feel like I spend most of my life trying to turn my thoughts off."

Jonah peers at him curiously, consideringly, taking a slow drag. Thoughtful.

"How do you?" He asks. "Are you able to, I mean. Turn your thoughts off?"

Matt laughs suddenly in response, lighting up with a sense of mirth he immediately tries to tamp back down.

"What?" Jonah asks, head tilted, brow furrowed. Slightly annoyed. "Gonna share your secret?"

Matt chuckles again, smiling before shaking his head, a look on his face that says he's weighing the pros and cons of telling the kid something.

"Well, Jonah…hmm. Do you know what weed is, kid? Did that have that back in your day?"

"Weed?" Jonah's voice rises incredulously. "You mean like…a reefer? Like Mary Jane?"

Matt cackles again, waving a pointed finger at his glorified, resurrected roommate.

"Yes, that. Marijuana. Did you ever…partake, back in your day?"

To Matt's endless surprise, the teen blushes pink and laughs awkwardly, his gaze skirting away, an impish grin spreading, unbidden, over his face.

"You did?" Matt gasps, dramatically, sounding delighted.

Jonah sighs but smiles, laughs, shyly meeting Matt's eyes, nodding.

"How?" Matt asks, "When? Where? I don't imagine your dad would be one to let you blaze up in his house."

It's Jonah's turn to cackle this time, a spiteful, mischievous laugh.

"You'd be correct, Matthew. Father would've been livid if he knew," Jonah's tone softens, his gaze focused in the distance as if lost in thought, or lost in his memories of his past life.

"No, Father never knew, for sure. I was careful never to come home smelling loud," Jonah's soft voice intones, the glee on Matt's face growing with each second he listens to Jonah recount disobeying his dad to smoke weed, of all things. Holy Christ.

"I smoked at parties sometimes, but I didn't go to those often, or with friends…it was everywhere, easier to acquire than alcohol. I mostly smoked alone back then, I'd go down to the creek, at night, or hide in the shed if the weather was shit. I used to buy from Eugene, his daddy owned the colored drugstore. He always had the best ganj, for sure."

Matt's brows have shot to his hairline, his expression one of glee and shock. He files Jonah's old-fashioned, er, terminology, in the back of his mind for consideration later. For now, an insane, potentially dangerous idea is forming in his head.

"Jonah," he starts, a downright devious grin on his face, "would you wanna smoke with me? By the creek? For old times' sake? Or in the house, whatever. If you wanted."

Now it's Jonah's turn to be shocked.

"You smoke? You have some, like right now?"

"Of course, Jonah! I grew up in the 80s, for fuck's sake! And I still do, hell, I'm a heavily-traumatized occultist!" Matt laughs maniacally, already rising from his chair. "I'll be right back!"

Sure enough, he comes back with a box, from which he procures a suspiciously large and full jar of weed, a grinder, and papers. Jonah reaches for them immediately, unscrewing the lid of the jar and taking a deep whiff. He whistles, a low, cheery sound, and smiles.

"Whoa, Matthew…this shit is loud, like silly stinky," he giggles, "must be strong."

"Well, yeah, probably, especially for you, considering weed these days is probably like, a thousand times stronger. We need to be careful, Jonah, I want you to have a good time, not get, like, fucked—"

But Jonah isn't even really listening. He's already stuffed a bud into the grinder, working it loose with deft hands. Matt trails off, completely disarmed as he watch the medium, Jonah fucking Aickman, roll a perfect fucking joint, tilting his dainty head to expertly seal it with his mouth. Now, this? This was a reality Matt never could have guessed in all his years, an activity he absolutely literally never imagined engaging in with Jonah. Matt had simply assumed he'd smoke in secret, or not at all, to protect the kid. He had wanted to make him uncomfortable, after all. But here Jonah is, already expertly rolling a second and reaching to roll a third, using tiny strips of his sketchbook paper to make filters, what the fuck, pinching and rolling ends with expert precision.

The perfection of it, Matt quickly realizes, feeling numb with shock, comes from years of frequent practice. He's struck by the absurdity of it, the potential possibility of Jonah sneaking out, like, nightly to smoke refers alone in the dark, listening to the stream and gazing at the stars, smoking blunt after blunt just to escape the constant voices in his head. It makes Matt a little sad, all of a sudden.

"So, you usually smoked alone, kid?"

"Mhm. Yeah," Jonah replies, sealing the third with a swipe of a peeping pink tongue, "but now, I've got you to keep me company."

It's somehow exactly what Matt imagined it would be like, and simultaneously the exact opposite. He'd warned Jonah to take it slow, that the weed was probably stronger these days. And the teen had taken it slow, leaving Matt to smoke most of the first joint by himself, only taking two hits total in about an hour. But after finding the high totally agreeable—maybe just a little stronger, but honestly, not by much, Jonah explains—the medium matches Matt drag for drag on the second. It's absolutely mind boggling.

The two previously-dead boys lay side by side on the bank of the creek on a blanket, propped by pillows Jonah had thought to bring. He also packed several lanterns, some snacks, the cigarettes, and the radio, and Matt realizes now that watching the kid pack for a late-night smoke session should have been his first clue that Jonah wasn't bluffing, was certainly not a stranger to the ganj, as he'd called it.

They chatter aimlessly with each other, talking about everything and nothing again. Sometimes they pause to just listen to the radio, heads close to each other, gazing up through the dimly-lit foliage into the velvet sky beyond.

"There aren't as many stars now," Jonah states, his soft voice low and sweet and steady, reverberating in Matt's skull.

"Light pollution," Matt explains, going into light detail. Jonah absorbs it all intently, nodding here and there, one leg sleepily draped over one of Matt's, heavy, one of the medium's arms curled on his own chest, his bony little fingers playing with one of the buckles on the front of his overalls.

"Hhm," the reincarnation sighs, "that's fine. Remember what you said, Matthew? Most of them are already dead, right? I hadn't known that."

Matt frowns, turning his head to look at the teen, only succeeded in brushing his nose along Jonah's cheek. Jonah giggles, bumping his head into Matt's in response. This version of Jonah, the one floating in a weed-induced cloud of contentment, differs from the sober version in a lot of ways. This version is entirely calm but quick to laugh, and talk, and conspire. He asks questions, he tells secrets, and stories. He doesn't flinch away, but leans in. He initiates tiny gestures, moments of contact, though brief. This Jonah is entirely different from the reserved, slightly withdrawn, well-mannered boy he usually is.

"Nah, Jo," Matt replies, "I'm not really sure if that was true. It was different, then. I was probably just being dramatic, or depressed. Dramatically depressed."

Jonah giggles again, a soft ringing bell.

"Dramatically depressed." he echoes. "What are you like now, Matthew?"

Matt stares up at the stars, muted white pinpricks, and absorbs the feeling of the being breathing next to him, warm and living.

"Hopeful, I think." he replies, voice soft and thoughtful, "Excited."

Later, Matt is intently listening to the radio, pretty fucking high, when he realizes Jonah is sound asleep next to him, his face turned and pressed to Matt's shoulder, huffing heavy little breaths into Matt's shirt. He doesn't stir as Matt slowly and steadily packs things up, securing the basket across his chest as he lifts Jonah into his arms, gentle this time. He arranges the undead teen against his front, holding him by the backs of his thighs, though his dead weight is almost impossible to carry.

Stooping low, the medium slumped against him, Matt uses mud to draw the sigil on his right palm, pressed quickly and carelessly to Jonah's forehead. The teen wakes immediately, a confused and slightly pained sound escaping him as he sluggishly wraps his arms around Matt's neck, and his legs around Matt's hips, feet locked at the ankles, before immediately passing back out.

Matt breathes in the smell of Jonah's hair the whole walk back, smiling stupidly to himself, floating along through the underbrush. Matt's arms or legs never seem to tire, adjusting Jonah's weight as needed here and there. He dumps the basket by the back door and carries Jonah all the way into the house, up the stairs, and into his room. He rouses Jonah gently and sits him on the bed. He fetches his nightclothes from his room and returns. Helping a very, very tired and very, very stoned Jonah arduously wriggle out of the overalls and shirt, the buckles on the straps of the overalls clacking to the wooden floor. Matt pulls the nightshirt over Jonah's head, mussing his hair in the process. Jonah leans forward heavily, already drifting back to sleep, so Matt shuffles the medium up higher in the bed, tucking him in amidst pillows and blankets. When Matt joins him in bed, in an undershirt and boxers, Jonah rolls to face him, a slim hand reaching out to rest on Matt's stomach. Breath caught, Matt watches a soft smile spread across Jonah's face, as if the medium is happy to have the confirmation that Matt is there, right beside him, breathing and well. Matt understands all too well the feeling, falling asleep to the feeling of Jonah's breath on his face, his warm body next to his own. The familiar, comforting feeling of home, and protection.