Chapter Ten: Capsize

Matt wakes to an empty bed and the sound of Jonah playing Zelda echoing up the stairs, all hyaaa's and huh-ah's and hups! Rubbing his eyes blearily, Matt dimly recalls his dream last night. A strange one, in which he rode a horse-sized German Shepherd, sword and shield in hand, through a lush, realistic Hyrule Field. Matt completes his morning ablutions and gets dressed, padding down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he finds still-warm coffee. In the living room, he finds Jonah huddled in front of the TV, swaddled up in a blanket all the way up and over his head, bare toes peeking out from under crochet. Both of his hands are clenched tight to the controller, and looking at the screen, Matt realizes Jonah cleared the boss of the Great Deku Tree on his own, has made it all the way through Hyrule Castle, and is currently fucking around Kakariko Village, roaming around its graveyard.

"Jesus, kid," Matt states, sipping his coffee, rearranging his sleep-mussed mustache, the ends tucked in his mouth, "you've gotten really, really far. I'm very impressed and slightly concerned."

Jonah startles and mashes the big red button, pausing the game. He turns to face Matt, his face pale, eyes wide, black hair sticking out in tufts from under his blanket. His expression is the slightly-manic, mildly-catatonic stare of a gamer.

"And how! I woke up early and got started not long after. Gohma, the spider monster? She was difficult…I didn't like it, I hated the way she moved," Jonah groans, rubbing his face with a hand, continuing, "and then, in this village, I found a house full of them, tons of disfigured spiders with human parts and faces—"

"Ah," Matt responds sympathetically, "that would be House of Skulltula. It fucking blows for sure, gave me nightmares as a kid."

"I see why, Matthew, it's horrifying! Just as terrifying as anything Lovecraft could've dreamed," the teen bemoans, shuddering. He reaches for his coffee, taking a sip, sighing when he realizes it's cold. His stomach growls, and Matt laughs, Jonah's ears blushing red.

"I'll get started on breakfast kiddo, you keep on trucking—"

"No, Matthew…I think I'm done for quite a while. I'm stuck in this graveyard for now, I don't know what to do."

"Ah. Come back at night."

"Oh. Huh. Thank you!" Jonah chirps brightly, swiveling back around to save his game before shutting off the 64, standing to follow Matt to the kitchen.

Despite Matt's offer of making breakfast, the teen pretty much takes over, though they share tasks. Jonah orders Matt to chop and cook off the sausage as he preheats the oven, opening and shutting cabinets and filling their tiny kitchen table with bowls, butter knives, flour, salt, baking powder, milk, and butter. Matt is perplexed at first, as he watches Jonah eyeball his ingredients, sifting flour through a sieve. As Jonah begins cutting butter into the dry mixture, Matt realizes it's biscuit dough, fascinated as Jonah clenches two knives between his fingers, deftly using them to incorporate the fat into the flour into little tiny balls, a wet sand-like texture. Once he's satisfied, the reincarnation sprinkles flour down and turns it all out directly onto the kitchen table, pushing the sleeves of his nightshirt all the way up to his elbows. He's beautiful like this, Matt realizes. Delicate hands working the dough, muscles working in his arms, bare feet on the tile floor, finely-boned knees peeking from under his long shirt. In the morning light streaming through the flimsy white curtains, the clairvoyant looks ethereal, hallowed and dewy-cold as snow. Matt stares, transfixed. Something about the way Jonah's nightgown catches the light is plucking faint strings, tugging on a memory. Something about a pale-blue dress—

"Your sausage is burning," Jonah informs him, steady in his own task. Matt flounders and turns back, a cough in his throat, scraping and unsticking the meat from the bottom of the cast iron. He turns the burner off on the sausage, stepping back awkwardly, as if afraid to fuck something up even more. He watches Jonah instead, watches as the boy flours a spare can to cut his biscuits out, dusty-soft full moons. He generously greases a pan with butter and his fingers before spacing them out evenly, brushing past Matt to put them into the oven. It's like a dance, Matt thinks, as Jonah bobs and sways along to a song playing on the portable radio.

Matt puts on more coffee as Jonah spoons the sausage out of the cast iron and into a bowl, turning the burner back on and shaking in flour. He stirs constantly with a wooden spoon, the flour browning and smelling toasty, before he adds water a little bit at a time. A rue, Matt's memory supplies. The domesticity of the scene, Jonah stirring away, flour smeared on his chest and arms up to the elbows, shakes Matt to his core. The value of Jonah, his culminated decades of experience, washes over Matt like a wave. How can one person be so adept at everything?

He asks Jonah as much, and the medium just laughs, a belly laugh that flickers in his aquamarine eyes.

"Dear Matthew, what a foolish thing to say," his voice, a voice straight off talkie radio, "I'm not so skilled at everything. Hell, if you'll only remember yesterday, I am quite unstable. A basket case, really."

"Well, at least we're two eggs in the same basket."

They made it halfway through breakfast before the telephone rings. Matthew groans and rises to answer it, and the conversation he has—once again with a man named Eric—sounds, from at least this side of it, like a bad one. Matthew says the swear fuck quite a few many times. He comes back into the kitchen after, looking annoyed and red in the face. Jonah simply sips his coffee, legs crossed at the knees, arm across his lap. The two men stare at each other for a moment, Matthew seemingly too upset to speak first.

"So," Jonah prompts, "what is it? Who rang you?"

"The dean of the fucking university," Matt all but growls, rubbing his face with his hands. "I'm sorry Jonah, but I'm going to have to go to my office for a while."

He turns and starts down the hallway, Jonah following anxiously on his heels.

"Wait, Matthew! At least finish your breakfast!"

"Can't," the professor brusquely replies, struggling to unlock the sliding door to his study.

"It's that important?"

Matthew just nods.

Jonah flits away and returns with Matthew's coffee, handing it to the man before the door is shut in his face. Feeling dejected, Jonah returns to the kitchen and begins cleaning up, clearing away the food, washing dishes. Soon, he hears the sound of Matthew talking in his study. Strange, considering the telephone is in the hallway. It sounds like a heated conversation. Jonah passes by the study on the way to the front door, doing his best to overhear what he can, but the words are quite muffled behind the heavy oak doors. Sighing, the teen fishes the newspaper off the front porch, careful not to step over the door jamb. He reads the comics absentmindedly, snipping out the good ones for later. The old newspapers are piled in a milk crate by the kitchen closet, and Jonah is just thinking about how he may shred them all up and recycle them into new paper, when the door to Matthew's study bangs open. The man is back into the kitchen in seconds, nodding briefly to Jonah before crossing immediately to the cabinet they keep the liquor in, pouring a double shot into an empty jelly jar.

Jonah watches the occultist down the raw whisky with a feeling of concern and disgust, his snub nose wrinkling. Matthew moves to pour another, and Jonah takes the glass and bottle from him, scurrying to the kitchen table. A few minutes, a lemon, and some club soda later, he hands Matthew a highball, good and strong. Matthew sips it this time, and his mouth quirks up in a small smile. Jonah sighs, grateful to have quelled some of the professor's bad mood.

"This is nice, Jo, thank you."

"Of course," Jonah replies, all manners and strict upbringing. He makes himself one, so Matthew isn't drinking alone, and lights both of them a cigarette. Matthew smokes one cigarette and then lights another, drinking down half of his highball, before he's able to talk about it.

"So…Jonah. Do you know what I mean when I say the term tenure, specifically in regards to a college professor?"

"Uh…" Jonah struggles, wracking his almost-a-century-year-old brain, and coming up with blanks. He'd never actually known anyone who went to college, at least not closely. He doesn't want to count doctors and psychiatrists. "No, I don't Matthew. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, honey," Matthew sighs, and Jonah's stomach squirms. "Tenure is a status a college professor gains after teaching for so many years, usually six. Tenure basically means that the university can't fire the professor easily. The professor would have to do something pretty much illegal, or just severly fucked up, to be terminated under tenure. I have tenure."

Jonah nods along in understanding, a worried expression dawning on his fine, freckled face.

"Ah, oh no, Matthew. Would they fire you, if you didn't have tenure?"

"Yeah, probably. They're pissed I've moved away, the dean wants me to move back and go back to teaching in-person full time again, instead of teaching part time by sending my TA lesson plans and grading students' papers from afar."

"Oh…I see," Jonah replies. The kitchen feels a little blurry around the edges all of a sudden, all the lights too bright. "Are you going to have to move away, Matthew?"

Matt catches the tremor in Jonah's voice, sees right through the question and into the implication.

"No no, honey, I am not moving out of this house, and nor will I ever. You're here, and I'll be damned if you're ever alone again. What will most likely happen is just that I'll have to work full time, meaning I'll be in the study a lot more during the day. Chances are I may even have to teach my classes remotely."

Matthew sounds exhausted just thinking about it, his forehead creased deep in a frown.

"Do you have to teach today? Do you have any other work you have to do today?"

"No," Matthew replies, "I finished this week's work yesterday—"

"Good!" Jonah replies, smiling brightly. He stands and returns with all the making of another highball. "That means we can raise Hell and have fun today, and the weekend, before you have to buckle down on Monday, right?"

This startles a laugh out of Matt, his eyebrows raised in shock. He shakes his head and smiles as Jonah lifts his drink, the two of them cheering.

"I love how you think, Jonah. You're damned right. Fuck the dean,"

"Fuck the dean!" the teen parrots back, and the two dissolve into fits of laughter, downing the rest of their drinks. At this rate, Jonah isn't sure how the two of them will still be standing come noon.

"Hey, Matthew? What's a dean?"

Miraculously, they are still standing at noon, and doing just fine. Or at least, Jonah is, currently in tears, he's laughing so hard. Matt is cursing a blue streak, swears echoing down the stream, and this only makes the medium laugh harder, clutching his sides, writhing in mirth on the banks of the stream.

"Matthew, stop, stop! I'm going to—ah—vomit or wet myself, whichever comes first."

"Serves you right! Damn Jonah, can you see the future too, is that how you keep winning?" Matt throws his hand, scattering cards along gravel and stone. "Do you have that kind of second sight too, the kind that makes you unbeatable at poker?"

Jonah gasps for breath amidst fits of giggles, struggling to sit upright, a lit joint pinched daintily between thumb and pointer.

"Noooo," he singsongs at Matt, mockingly, "you just can't bluff worth a shit, Matthew, bless your heart! Plus, I'm just lucky!"

"Lucky!" Matt yells. "Lucky? You've fleeced me of almost every crystal I own, you little thief!"

"And your ouija board!"

"My—fuck, my ouija board? When did I bet that?"

"Three rounds ago, before I won your daith and your grandfather's pocket watch, too!"

"Fuck! Fuck!" Matt roars, Jonah's pealing laughter echoing off the rocks. It's a possibility that the whole neighborhood can hear them. Matt can't bring himself to care, at this stage of inebriation. What are they gonna do, kill them?

Jonah points at Matthew with his free hand, tears streaming down his beautiful, spiteful little face.

"Fleeced!" he cries, cackling like the witch he is.

With a shout, Matt darts forward and snatches the boy up, all kicking limbs and shrill laughter. This turns to a surprised shriek as Matt unceremoniously dumps the medium into the creek, sending up a huge splash. Jonah flounders for a moment before surfacing, his hair plastered to his head, blue-black in the sunlight, pale and shivering and angry.

"Matthew!" He gasps, water dripping from his nose, his hair. "The reefer, you damnable idiot!"

Matt's face falls, his expression of glee morphing to one of horror.

"Shit!"

Jonah fishes the soaked joint out of the water and throws it at the man. He stands in the creek, submerged up to his milky mid-thigh. Clad only in his nightshirt and drawers still, the thin fabric transparent over every nook and cranny of the teen. Jonah shivers, filmy and clingy, the small buds of his nipples clearly outlined, dusty pink compared to the rest of him. Matt's face grows warm immediately, and he averts his eyes. He feels uneasy as that same damned, fevered feeling slinks and coils in his gut, spidering down into his loins. Shame fills him at the reaction, and he does his best to tamp it down, bury it away where it will never see the light of day. Why did his body choose now to decide it actually has feelings?

Matt is broken from his spiraling horror as Jonah springs up from the creek, deftly grabbing Matt by the shirt and tugging him into the water with him. Matt struggles hard before finally righting himself in the water, coughing and sputtering, sitting upright on the bottom of the creek, water at chest-level.

"What the fuck, Jonah!"

And Jonah just laughs, a creature of abandon as he kicks around in the creek, his balance a thing of perfection, bare soles on slick moss.

"You're a sore loser!" the teen exclaims. Matt just groans and tries to stand, heavily weighted down in his sodden jeans. He shucks his wet shirt, shaking out his hair. He waves the kid closer and uses his shoulder for balance as he struggles his jeans down and off, throwing them to the bank.

Jonah struggles slightly under the weight of Matthew leaning on him, gripping Matthew's hand with both of his own. He watches Matthew's underwater progress, his muscular legs kicking, following them all the way up past Matthew's thighs and groin to his waist and chest. Matthew's scarring glitters in the sunlight, taunt and shiny. Jonah finds them morbidly fascinating, studying their raised texture. He wonders if he could feel them, if he ran his hands along Matthew's flanks. Water runs in rivulets through the man's chest hair, the trail of fur that descends into the band of his black underclothes.

Jonah's mouth feels dry, and he damns himself to all oblivion. He feels a sense of loss as Matthew parts from him, wading over to the bank. Jonah follows, feeling suddenly shy and exposed. He glances down briefly, utterly relieved that the water is too cold, his body temperature too low to betray his sinner's soul, his damnably human form.

Matthew's drinking straight from their highball jar, a sixty-four ounce monstrosity that's more whisky and gin than soda. He offers it to Jonah, standing in the edge of the creek. He reaches for both hands, the jar almost slipping through his waterlogged hands, thankfully caught by Matthew before disaster strikes. Matthew holds the jar up for him and tilts, helping Jonah, who takes a long, hard draw of the liquor. Jonah's vision swims slightly and he stumbles, sitting down heavily in the water. Matthew laughs, deep and low.

"Silly little goose," he taunts, and Jonah's face burns.

"Hey," Matt continues, helping Jonah up and out of the water, "does this creek go any deeper, anywhere on your property?"

"Yeah," Jonah considers. "It should still be house grounds."

Matthew is already packing up their things in his bag and basket. Jonah stoops and takes great care in spreading Matthew's jeans and t-shirt on a low, flat rock to dry.

"Lead the way," Matthew says, and so Jonah does. Matt watches Jonah's pale little feet billy goat their way through the gravel and rocks, careful and sure, his arms stiff at his sides, fists clenched to help maintain his balance. They pick their way up the creek, Matt helping the kid up the steeper, slippery edges. They finally make it to the top, the reservoir of the creek, and Matt is impressed to see the equivalent of a small, freshwater pond, complete with fish.

"Damn, Jonah. You have your own little slice of heaven up here."

"Mhm," Jonah replies, climbing his way up a larger boulder to stand on top, shading his eyes. "If you look through the trees there," he says, pointing, "you can see the remains of my great-great-grandfather Harlow's cabin. It's all but gone now, but you can still see the water well a bit. It's fed from this stream."

Matt joins Jonah up on the rock, squinting in the direction of Jonah's pointed hand. Low and behold, the wide mouth of a stone well can be seen, weathered and white, covered by a massive slab of rock. A rocky foundation can be spotted too, amidst a grove of overgrown weeds and trees, weathered planks peeking here and there.

"Jesus Jonah, that's super fucking cool, that this is still here. That your family can trace this land back so far."

Jonah still shrugs, sinking to his haunches before sitting. Matt does the same, shoulder to bare shoulder, thigh to thigh, bare and gooseflesh from the cold.

"Have you ever, uh…spoken with him?"

Jonah just nods, is busy procuring the highball jar and taking small sips. He offers the jar to Matthew, who looks absolutely floored.

"Well? What was he like?"

"Well," Jonah sighs, "he certainly was a product of his time."

Matthew laughs, a loud, barking laugh that makes Jonah flinch.

"Well, kid, so are you!"

"Well, I suppose, but…that Harlow Aickman, now, he was a real piece of work. Actually touched in the head, and not in the fun way, like Mother and I."

"How so?"

"Well, he was a violent, misogynistic man who beat his wife after she birthed him six children." Jonah states, matter-of-fact, "He was a drunkard and a tyrant."

"Huh. Let me guess, he's from your dad's side of the family," Matthew jokes, drinking his fill as well, a dopey smile on his handsome, weathered face.

"Yes, actually...maybe that streak of anger runs through the family." the teen replies, his voice soft and distant. Feeling regretful, Matt watches as Jonah stares off in the direction of the cabin, his expression thoughtful and pained.

"Well, what happened to him?"

Jonah smiles suddenly, a soft, malicious thing.

"He fell down his well. I climbed down there once, to talk with him. He begged me to recover his remains and give him a proper burial, but he was just so rude, Matthew, yelling and cursing. I climbed back up and left him there. The Freeman boys—Eugene's cousins, if you remember him—came over one day and helped me put that rock up there, sealing him in there."

Matt stares at the conduit in shock, chilled to the bone. Imagine that kind of fate, your spirit sealed up for all eternity at the bottom of a well by your own great-great-grandchild; your only company, your own moldering bones.

"Damn, Jonah."

"Damned, indeed. That monster didn't deserve a proper burial." Jonah fishes a fresh joint from Matt's canvas bag. Matt lights it for him.

"The, ah, Freeman boys…did they know why?"

Jonah exhales smoke, his smile morphing into a kind one, fondness lighting his face from within.

"Why, yes. I'd told Eugene what I wanted to do and why, and he told his cousins offhand one day. The oldest, Leroy, actually stopped by to talk with me…Father was livid," Jonah laughs, shaking his head in memory, "he had to meet me back around the shed, later. He told me what he knew, and I filled in the rest. Everyone in town knew what I was—am— so he wasn't surprised. He was actually kind, so kind to me, believing every word I said. After I finished explaining who he was, what he'd done, how he died, how I'd talked to him…he simply nodded and said he and his brothers wanted to help. Turns out Harlow had family down south that had traded in slaves, back in the day…Leroy quite liked the idea of Harlow stuck down in that well."

Matt simply nods, speechless. Jonah shrugs, seemingly content to return to smoking and drinking. They take long tokes together, passing from hand to hand, smoke lilting on the summer breeze. Jonah's leaned back on his arms, head lolled back with his black-lashed eyes closed, sunning himself in the late afternoon glare, all limbs, ghost pale and practically see through. He looks like an apparition from another time, Matt thinks. Truly a ghost, a slip of humanity, forever preserved youth, gangly and awkward and positively ethereal. Matt finishes the joint, tossing the filter to the ground. He nudges Jonah with his shoulder, the medium's eyes cracking open like a lazy cat.

"Last one in's a rotten egg," Matt whispers, before rolling forward and tumbling into the pawn in one quick motion. He surfaces to see Jonah standing hesitantly, wringing his damp nightshirt in his hands.

"I, uh, don't swim so well," he calls to Matt.

"That's okay," Matt hollers back, spreading his arms, his expression warm and inviting. "I do, and I can teach you. I won't let you drown, kid, you'll be alright. Come on, I've got you!"

Jonah hesitates for only a moment, leaping in, plunging down quickly into the water, a few panicked bubbles escaping him before Matthew catches him and hauls him to the surface. Jonah sputters, coughing weakly, Matthew's tanned face inches from his own, scarred lips pulled in a bright smile. Jonah feels as if his heart could combust at any moment.

"Alright, little one, let's teach you to float first, then swim,"

Little one, Jonah's waterlogged brain repeats. Damn the both of them straight to the coldest depths of Hell.

Jonah has decided he quite likes floating. It's nice. He smiles up into the sun, arms outstretched in the water.

"I feel like an angel," he murmurs, eyes closed in the spinning red-dark of his closed eyelids, the whisky and gin keeping his core warm, muddling everything but the feeling of the cold, still water and Matthew's hands, broad underneath him, spread along his back, holding him suspended.

"You look like one, too," Matthew says, his tone too sincere for the reply to sound like a joke.

Jonah simply smiles, entirely unaware as Matthew gently lets him go, giving him space, leaving the medium to float on his own. Matt meant it too. He does, observing the conduit bob along in the water, outstretched underneath the fading sky, fresh and baptismal. His peace is undisturbed for many long minutes before he realizes Matt isn't there, training wheels gone, and he kicks in the water, quickly ducking under. Matt rights him again, pulling the boy's thin frame to his own.

"Good enough, kid. Now, lean back. There you go…trust me, baby, it'll be okay…alright, now, arms out, feel your lungs, full of air, all that air'll keep you afloat. Arch your legs up and out…there you go! Get your balance now…perfect!"

Jonah flounders under the weight of Matthew's praise, but holds himself sure and steady. Slowly but surely, he floats. His tired brain feels accomplished, and Matthew's beaming smile is enough, so very more than enough. It's everything.

"You're learning quick, Jonah! Remember, if you ever get scared in the water, you can always float, okay?"

"Okay," Jonah breathes out, tremulous in his faith. Absolutely ensured in his faith in Matthew.

Later, Matt teaches the kid how to doggy paddle, which he does not pick up nearly as quickly. Interestingly enough though, in a moment of panic, Jonah figures out how to backstroke all by himself. Matt cheers for him, whooping and hollering. Jonah eventually swims his own way to shore, looking exhausted as he hauls himself up onto the rocks. Matt joins him, and they finally finish off the highball jar. Jonah leans against him listlessly, clammy and heavy and drunk. The sun has sunk so low it's gone, the forest darkening quickly. Matt realizes neither of them had brought a lantern, had not expected to be out at the creek the entire day like this. He ushers Jonah up and standing, the teen wavering in the dark like a specter, white and glowing and unsteady on his feet. Matt packs up what he can, toeing on his shoes, and takes the lead, tugging Jonah along.

"The jar," the teen murmurs, stooping to pick it up, cradling it in the crook of an arm. They make slow progress down the steep bank, and Matt shifts Jonah in front of him so he can keep a better eye on the exhausted, alcohol-addled medium. They're halfway down when Jonah's foot slips on a mossy rock, and the kid goes tumbling down the rest of the way, a shriek shaking free of him as the jar he was hugging breaks in his arms.

"Fuck!" Matt exclaims, rushing to the teen, expecting the worst.

Jonah simply smiles up at him, the blue of his eyes an aqua, half-lidded glimmer. There's an emotion in them Matt can't place. Matt takes the kid's head in his hands, turning him this way and that, running his hands through sodden black hair, checking for blood. Jonah flinches, and Matt's stomach swims with worry, speeding up. Jonah flinches again, as Matt's thumb rests on one of his temples, rubbing there, and Matt withdraws his hands as if burned, horribly aware now of the thick, textured scarring under the pads of his fingers.

"Sorry, Jonah, shit—"

Jonah just laughs, head lolling.

"Oops!" he drawls, "Cat's out the bag…I'm crazy!" he adds in a dramatic whisper, making himself laugh.

"No, you're not, you're just a silly little goose." Matt informs him, firmly, quickly sobering up.

"M'not little, you weirdo. Stop calling me that," Jonah slurs, his accent haughty and low, long-vowels, "m' an entire adult, Matthew, and I'm older than you."

"Fine. A drunk goose," Matt corrects, his voice taunt with worry. He checks the kid for any further injury, noting his badly scuffed legs, knees, elbows, tiny pinpricks of blood beading up through layers of mud. The kid is caked with mud now, his nightshirt and drawers heavy with it, ruined. Broken glass on the bank glimmers in the moonlight, it's a miracle Jonah isn't more badly cut.

"Okay, loosey-goosey, up you go," he warns Jonah before hefting him up in his arms, leaving their stuff on the banks. Things can be replaced, but a spirit can only be reincarnated once. If Jonah were to die in this form, Matt's worried he'd disappear completely, body and soul. It's entirely a possibility, and Matt speeds up, completely sober now, practically running through the woods with Jonah in his arms, clammy and boneless.

The screen door slams behind Matt as he staggers into Hell House, taking the stairs by two straight up to the upstairs bathroom. He tries to sit Jonah on the edge of the tub, only for the kid to slip to the floor, laughing to himself, his fine little face blushed pink. Matt starts the bath before turning back to the teen.

"Arms up."

Jonah listlessly complies and Matt struggles the nightshirt over his head, translucent and waterlogged, stiff in places with drying mud. He really has to work for it, getting the kid's drawers off. It's reminiscent of yesterday morning, though Matt is endlessly grateful for the tonal difference—this Jonah, warm and giggly and squirmy as Matt undresses him, is entirely different from the sobbing, broken boy of memories past. Stuck or stunted or well beyond, well-matured depending. Trauma does that, Matt thinks grimly to himself.

Jonah seems to come back a bit, stirring as Matt peels his damp clothes off. He bats Matt's hands away uselessly, muttering something.

"What, baby?"

"You just want me…naked, right?"

Caught off guard, Matt laughs, though his hands are all-business. Stuck or stunted and well-beyond, Matt reminds himself. Matt knows all too well what it's like to grow up young. Cut down as a sapling and forced to pretend to be a full-grown tree.

"Uh-huh, yep, so I can wash you up."

Jonah looks down at himself, tilting a skinned and muddy knee this way and that.

"M'filthy," he slurs, mildly upset.

"Yup. A muddy little goose."

"Mm, no, I am…so filthy," Jonah whispers. Matt doesn't know how to respond to that. He stares at the teen in confusion, before his tired—and still tipsy—brain registers the weight and meaning of Jonah's words. His blood runs cold as he studies Jonah, huddled naked and battered on their bathroom floor, leaning against Matt's bare chest. And there, between his slim, pale thighs, a twitch, a slight thickening, rosy pink. Dear God.

"Sorry, sorry, Matth'ew," Jonah calls after him, as Matt leaves the bathroom, pacing in tight circles on the upstairs landing, hands clenched behind his head, tugging his still-damp curls at the roots. He breathes hard through his nose.

This can't be happening this can't be happening this can't be happening this can't be—

Yes, it is, a cold voice replies in Matt's head. Maybe the kid—maybe Jonah—feels the same way as you. Feels for you, like you feel for him.

No no no no no—

Yes—

No. No, it can't be. It's just teenage hormones, it's just the alcohol, it's just the…closeness—

It's just everything.

Matt returns to the bathroom, stomach swimming with nervous emotions, primarily shock and discomfort and guilt. And there, in the back of his mind, a gnawing satisfaction, a feeling of euphoria. Matt wipes tears from Jonah's face with an unfeeling hand, shushing him absentmindedly as he gathers the kid up by his armpits and the hollows of his knees, arranging him gently in the tub. Burning blue eyes, swimming with some feeling turning them cobalt, meet Matt's, creek-bed mud-brown and shuttered.

Matt looks away first, jaw clenched as he wets and soaps a washcloth, reaching for the limb nearest him. Jonah's eyes shut tight and he makes a wounded sound, a slip of a whimper as Matt scrubs banged up joints and skin, scraped flesh rosy with risen pinpricks of blood, sure-to-be bruises. The sound resonates somewhere in Matt's bones and sears its way into his memory. Matt just focuses on breathing, doing his best to shut down his alcohol-addled brain.

Any higher thoughts Matt could be capable of right now are dangerous ones; the slinky, hushed kind that usually come to mind during a church service, damned and unbidden, immediately smothered under the immense guilt and horror of the Messiah's tortured consideration.

"M' so sorry—like the nightmare, again, so sorry—"

"I know, Jonah, It's okay—"

"Noooo," the teen cries, a weak little wail,"I'm sick—"

"No, Jonah, you're not sick, just hurt—"

"M' gonna go to Hell. Gonna burn there forever."

Matt pauses, grimacing.

"No. You're not. This is normal and fine, you're just—"

Jonah's right hand lifts weakly to Matt's jaw, traveling up, slim fingers mapping out Matt's cheekbone, his nose, his mouth. He stares at Matt unblinking, his gaze the low, curling blue flames of a stovetop burner. Matt feels blinded, burned, rendered speechless in the immensity of that gaze, the sheer intent and feeling behind it.

"Mhm, no…"Jonah whispers, the rustle of dead leaves, "I...burn for you, you know…Matthew."

Matt is pulling away, shrinking under its weight. The walls feel like they're closing in. Jonah babbles half-formed rambles of adoration, of an adjective Matt refuses to think or entertain, as he dries the teen off. He gathers the half-passed-out reincarnation and takes him to their bed, flinging the naked body on top of the covers. The necromancer lies next to that body, already in a dreamless sleep, and swims in his own thoughts, thoughts that struggle to the surface and break like boiling water. He turns to watch the face of his fixation, slack in sleep, and considers each one. He holds them in wonder for mere seconds before they're gone to oblivion, a child awash in grief at the impermanence and fragility of soap bubbles.

After a while of staring at Jonah's sleeping face and fighting internalized, hate-filled demons, Matthew gets up and leaves his room. He goes to Jonah's instead, and passes out in what was supposed to be Jonah's bed, the one the medium has only slept in once, preferring instead to be a damnable nuisance, pressed up nightly against his creator's scarred body.