Chapter Eleven: Private Property
Waking is like fighting, learning to swim again as he struggles up through a molasses-thick sleep. His eyes blink open, disoriented in the darkness of Matthew's room, head and heart pounding. He feels breathless, as if he's just told or heard a deep and damning secret. He rolls over, searching for Matthew and finding nothing, not even warmth. It seems the professor hasn't been in bed for quite some time, though the clock communicates the early, ungodly hour of three in the morning. The teen sits up, uncovered and naked in their bed. Confused, he rises and staggers to the hallway. The bathroom light, still on and yellow, swims. I'm still ossified, Jonah realizes, weaving his way into the white-tiled bathroom.
Jonah sits on the pot, grimacing and sore. He studies his naked flesh, confusion mounting at the bruising covering him, already darkening to purple. What mischief even befell, he wonders, wracking his memories of the night before. He vaguely remembers a highball-soaked fall and the sound of breaking glass. Silly drunk goose, Matthew had called him, and Jonah smiles, laughs to himself. Relieved, he cleans up, flushes, loud in the sleeping house, washing his hands, then his face. He brushes the taste of mud and gin from his mouth as he sloppily roots through the bathroom cabinet, finding medical disinfectant. He blots at his scrapes and small cuts, grimacing to himself. He downs two of the blue pills in a white bottle, the ones Matthew gives him when he has a headache.
Leaving the bathroom, Jonah catches a glimpse of the door to his room—the one that used to be painted blue, with birds. A lifetime ago, he thinks, entering the room to stare at where they used to be, a vague memory of Mother's deft, paint-stained hand. Matthew is out cold in Jonah's bed, the bed Jonah has only slept in once, procured and staged just for him. The professor's long limbs hang off the edge, shoes still on, clad in his mud-stained, creek-smelling clothes from yesterday, his long hair messily hiding his face. Jonah's heart floods with fondness. Long hair had never been the fashion, in his days, not even truly for women, at least the young, and certainly not the men. Father would've labeled him a ragamuffin miscreant. But Jonah thinks it suits him prettily. They're beautiful curls after all, and they frame Matthew's English features, compliment his trim little mustache and his broad shoulders. Jonah decides to let the man sleep, rather than drag him to their bed. Jonah does return to Matthew's room though, pulling on a pair of the man's sweatpants and a t-shirt, unwilling to wake him by rifling through his own wardrobe.
Sufficiently roused, smiling, Jonah picks his way downstairs, turning on lights as he goes. The kitchen radio is missing, so he turns instead to the victrola, selecting an album of the Boswell Sisters', turning their harmonious and beautiful voices to a low volume. Back to the kitchen, the teen slowly but surely puts on coffee. He reheats a biscuit and sausage in a pan, making a sandwich that he eats standing at the counter. It quells the nausea in his stomach, and the hot coffee washes down strong, and Jonah finds himself sobering, the room no longer spinning or soft at the edges. Jonah decides to get to work on a cure for the hangover he and Matthew will undoubtedly have.
The process of making bread, of throwing bits of nothing together to make something, kneading dough soft and supple-smooth, has always been Jonah's absolute favorite chore. He had loved watching Mother work, her silken and shining hair a waterfall of ink tied back with ribbon, reaching the backs of her thighs tied, knee-length when down. She'd always had a little smile on her face as she kneaded dough, and when Jonah got old enough, she taught him how, patient and sure. He'd get up early just to make bread with her, to tend the garden with her in the cool rising dawn as the bread rose in a wooden bowl, covered in a damp towel, on their tiny kitchen table.
"I've got a mission, it's just a simple thing…I've one ambition, to have the right to bring you, your coffee in the morning, and kisses in the night…" Jonah sings along with the victrola, finishing up the bread and setting it to rise.
Thinking of this and feeling a little rebellious, Jonah pours himself a fresh cup of coffee, stopping by Matthew's study to grab a book from the Art section of Matthew's library—a collection of Sir John Everett Millais' work—and stands in front of the front door to Hell House. His great-grandmother had made the stained-glass inset, milky-white and patterned with blinking red and black poppies…this recreation is a decent rendition, though there are differences. The door is heavy but silent as Jonah eases it open, the screen door less so, though, and Jonah pauses, listening as the creak travels through the house. Once satisfied he's not roused Matthew, the medium slips outside. Green Street is empty at this hour, black-paved and dim-lit by buzzing streetlamps. So much electricity, Jonah muses. He wonders if they turn off by themselves, and at what time, or if it's one man, a man with a big old switch in City Hall, in charge of the enlightenment of all of Goatswood.
Jonah is about to sit on the top porch step when he notices the package in the grass, small-ish and brown, rumpled as if the delivery man had thrown the package from the street, unwilling to approach Hell House. Jonah scoops it up and returns, sitting to rip it open, pulling forth an object, a bulky black square. It sure is something, and Jonah turns it over in his hands, this way and that, fascinated and confused. He finds a piece of it that flips up, clicking into place like it's supposed to be there. The device is covered in little translucent squares—screens, like the television? Like Matthew had said. Its face, the round screen in the middle, reminds Jonah of something distant. He wonders, studying it further, pointing it what he thinks is the right way. He peers through the little window on the flipped-up part and grins, looking at the fishbowl, bowed image of the street. It is a camera! He thinks to himself, delighted at his own cleverness. A few more moments and snap, whirr, Jonah's fingers find a button, and a rectangular piece of paper spits out of the slit at the bottom of the camera.
Jonah is disappointed, though, devastatingly so, as the 'picture' comes out all black. Must've had it wrong, Jonah thinks, and sighs, setting the camera aside for now. He flips through the book of artwork and drinks his coffee, the sky slowly but surely lightening as it approaches five in the morning, feeling independent and happy as he sits on the front steps of his house, directly disobeying Matthew, his benevolent, well-intentioned warden.
He finds himself particularly entranced by one piece, titled The Vale of Rest, of two nuns in a graveyard. One is digging a grave, while her companion stares at the viewer with her dark-eyed gaze, her rosary-laced fingers interwoven as if in prayer, expression unreadable. Jonah reaches for the black-and-white printed rectangle to bookmark it when he startles, emitting a soft sound of wonder. The picture has changed, now depicting the street. They have to develop, Jonah realizes, awed at the quickness and efficiency of the modern camera.
As dawn breaks over the trees, Jonah meets it with an expression of pure joy, aligning the view in the fishbowl-gaze of the camera before it snaps, whirrs, capturing the bloody red sunrise, the first one Jonah has witnessed in this life.
Jonah spends the rest of his morning cooking, cooking off beef and onions in a pan of water, making a broth from this and bouillon cubes, in which rough-chopped cabbage, tomatoes and potatoes currently simmer away. It's frugal but it'll do the trick, Jonah reassures himself. Bread to soak up the remnants of alcohol in one's stomach and something easy and hot to ease away a hangover. Jonah finishes his perusal of the artbook while it stews, smiling in the early morning light, comforted in the smell of fresh-baked bread. The meal is finished around seven in the morning, according to the kitchen clock. Jonah lines a tray with newspapers and cozies, ladling out a bowl of soup for Matthew, buttering him a slice of bread, pouring out a cup of black coffee and a glass of ice water.
Careful on the stairs, Jonah sings quietly to himself again, warm in the domesticity of it all.
"I've got a mission, it's just a simple thing…I've one ambition, to have the right to bring you, your coffee in the morning, and kisses in the night…"
He eases into his room, finding Matthew still asleep. Tray placed on a side table, Jonah goes to rouse the man, stopping short as a smell wafts from Matthew.
It's heady, hot and sweaty as a summer's day. There's an undertone to it, an organic sort of body-smell, and Jonah's stomach goes sour with a sense of unease. He brushes Matthew's curls away with a gentle, sneaking hand, finding the man flushed. Matthew mumbles, something unintelligible, mouth slack in sleep, and sighs out a low-rumbled mmm.
Jonah stands there, watching Matthew sleep for what feels like forever, conflicted, shifting from foot to foot, a hand to his face at the smell, considering Matthew's expression, which displays both satisfaction and stress. Matthew's aura is strange, it's changed, a roiling kaleidoscope mess of bright red, baby pink, forest green, and yellow. As the medium watches, Matthew groans and shifts, one mumbled word rising from his mouth like a breeze.
"Jonah…"
I promised Matthew I would never eavesdrop again, Jonah frets, uncertain, a feeling of nervousness curling in his gut. There was a tone to the way Matthew had said his name, a sense of urgency and something else, something dark and husky—
Maybe it's just another nightmare, the teen desperately hopes, unwilling to consider other options. If so, I should wake him from it, he reasons to himself, weakly trying to justify the sin he's about to commit, as he steps forward, crouching down on his haunches to be eye-level with Matthew's sleeping, vulnerable face, unguarded and unknowing. The smell rolling off the occultist is so strong, and Jonah feels hazy with it, almost giddy. Just for a second, just a peek, to make sure, as Jonah closes his eyes and reaches out, visualizing his own consciousness and aura as a bubble around himself. He pushes the edges of this bubble towards Matthew's aura and space. With a deep breath and a feeling of guilt, he pushes through until their bubbles overlap.
Sound emerges first, the gentle babbling of the creak, water, but also something slick, a rhythmic clicking sort of sound almost entirely lost in the sound of the creek and the drone of cicadas. Another sound disturbs the others, a high pitched whine that sounds suspiciously like a—
Oh. Oh, no.
Jonah feels frozen in horror, stock-still and bowstring-taunt as the feelings crash over him next. The summer sun beating hot, water lapping, something chilled and writhing, damp and tremulous, juxtaposed with a sense of movement, fever-hot and heavy, hard, fucking slick—
The image wavers together in organic slips, high-definition and damning. He stares down at himself through Matthew's eyes. He's on his back on the creek bed, chin almost to chest with eyes closed, his expression pinched and shaking, bright pink. One of Matthew's hands, jarringly tanned and scarred against Jonah's pale skin, rucks up his translucent-wet nightshirt, pinching a pebbled nipple between his large thumb and index finger, and his other hand…his other hand…
His other hand works gently, firmly up and down Jonah's sex, weeping and red, swollen and wanting, the buttons of his drawers undone, the fabric pushed carelessly down to trap shaking knees. As Jonah watches, screaming soundlessly in Matthew's consciousness, dream-Jonah's mouth parts around a strangled sigh and that same damnable fucking sound, deeper this time, a full-bodied moan. His eyes open, dark-blue slivers staring up at Matthew, conveying something, everything—want and need and lust, and—
Love, pure and simple. His dream-self looks positively ecstatic with it, shaking and writhing on the bank under Matthew's attentive, expert-hands, his squirming sending pebbles tumbling into the stream.
"Matthew—"
Jonah rips himself from the dream, falling back to the floor, almost banging his head on the wardrobe. He scrambles to his feet and bolts, running clumsily from the room and all the way down the stairs, mindlessly to and out the front door, finally coming to a shuddering stop on the top of the porch step, teetering unsteadily, gasping for air like he'd just run a marathon. His hands shake and his vision swims. He gags and lurches forward at the waist, unprepared as acrid bile, the remains of black coffee, come rocketing back up, gagging around it as it spews forth, spattering the steps.
He probably loves you, or at least wants you, he certainly wants to—
Jonah yells audibly, an anguished wail that breaks into a sob. He staggers and sits down hard on the porch, crying into his hands as the image replays like a lurid confession in his mind's eye, slick and writhing. The emotion in Matthew's dream conjuration of him, such an open expression of want and lust and consent, makes Jonah feel sick again. Jonah can't shake the image of Matthew pumping his…his member—it feels like a violation. It feels like a confrontation, or even an accusation, if the bulge between his thighs means anything.
How long has Matthew been thinking of me like that? Is that why he even brought me back—
This thought only makes Jonah cry harder, as another emotion rises unbidden in his chest. Waves of gladness, happiness, the same need and want in his dream-self's eyes, strangle and drown him, thick and heavy and as sweet as honey, slow moving as molasses, dawning like that sunrise, that damned bloody sunrise, unassuming and innocent—
Fucking freaks, fairies, helpless little faggots, Jonah's conscious and morals scream, frantically trying to put out the fire with douses of disgust. He's already been through this, been through this with Father, it's wrong and so damned, just as bad as anything, worse than stealing, worse than violence, on par, perhaps, with necromancy—
But isn't it fitting? Jonah's heart whispers, hopeful and full, shouldn't it be this way? Of course it will be, you've both always been damned but damned together, two hearts beating as one, side by side—brains like nesting dolls—
Jonah's tears rise to fever pitch and begin again anew, heartbroken, in love and disgusted. He does his best to wipe his mind clear. They can't be parted, Jonah knows that much, isn't willing to live alone in this house forever, isn't willing to be separate from Matthew, not in this life…but shouldn't they be? How can they manage it otherwise, stewing along in these feelings, these feelings that should never be realized, in the same room as each other, breathing the same air?
I'll just keep it to myself, I'll keep it locked down and away, Jonah reasons frantically, trying hard to get his breathing under control. He'll just ignore it and kill any advances Matthew knowingly (or unknowingly) makes in their tracks. Jonah staggers to his feet, doing his best to stem his tears. He's turning to go back inside, when a cold chill races up his spine. Feeling like eyes are on him, he whirls around, scanning the street, the other houses, before stopping dead in his search. Two women, one old and young, watch Jonah from the porch of the house next door. Caught, the young one averts her eyes, but the elderly woman…she simply stares, fingers laced, expression unreadable, meeting Jonah's gaze. Like two nuns, digging a grave.
He turns and flees back inside, wondering if she'd seen his sinner's soul, berating himself anew for disobeying Matthew. Never go out the front, or the jig is up.
Matthew wakes to the midday sun, head pounding, with a hellacious fucking headache. Groaning, he sits up with his head in his hands, hissing suddenly at the tightness of his stiff, muddy jeans. He frees himself and looks at his own erection, puzzled, half-remembering some vague, translucent dream, of someone moaning his name.
Oh Lord. Well. This hasn't happened in a long time.
He shuffles his jeans the rest of the way off and half-heartedly takes himself in hand, administering a few lazy strokes before he grimaces, erection flagging at his own pounding headache and the nauseous swoon of his stomach. Sighing, he looks around the room. How did he get in Jonah's room anyway?
He spots the abandoned tray of food, confused. He crosses to it and realizes it's cold, the fondness he feels for the kid slipping into worry. Nice of him to bring him food, weird of him to just leave it. Matt undresses, looking quickly around the hallway before depositing his clothes in the hamper and putting on fresh ones. He retrieves the meal and takes it back downstairs and into the kitchen, his worry increasing. Jonah has yet to be seen. A loaf of bread lays abandoned on a cutting board with only a slice missing, a full pot of stew cold and uncovered on the stove. A quick search of the house finds Jonah missing. Thinking of the radio missing from the kitchen, Matt toes on his Converse and sets off for the creek.
When Matt first spots Jonah, the hairs on the back of his neck rise. It's an eerie scene. The kid is standing in the creek. He's wearing a pair of Matt's sweatpants, the man realizes, the elastic bottoms pulled over bruised, red and purple knees. He's shivering and out of place in a Muse Absolution shirt, silhouetted humans flying over a parking lot. It's the kid's stare that has Matt unsettled, blank and damn near unblinking, fixed to one spot on the bank of the creek.
"Jonah?"
Matt calls out to him, but Jonah doesn't react at all. Matt draws closer and interrupts the teen's line of sight. Not even a twitch, not even a flicker of recognition in those eyes, so focused and troubled they swim navy. He looks like he's been crying, his under eyes hugely swollen and puffed, red, his ruddy face streaked with tear tracks, translucent in the sun. There's no ectoplasm in sight, though, to Matt's relief. Heart pounding, he steps towards Jonah, uncaring as he steps in the stream, water flooding into his shoes and soaking his socks.
"Jonah?" He tries again, before reaching out to grasp the medium's shoulder, shaking him gently.
The reincarnation comes crashing back, recognition finally coming to his eyes. He flinches hard and steps away from Matt. He would've slipped if not for Matt's hand on him, who catches him at the stumble, now gripping him about the waist.
"Hey, kid! Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
Jonah doesn't reply. He's looking at Matt with a weird, unwarranted look in his eyes, one of horror and crushing sadness, blurred at the edges with anger. The kid just shakes his head, mouth opening and closing, looking like he's struggling to say something.
"Hey now, honey, you okay? What's wrong?"
"Not your honey," Jonah replies, so soft it's almost a whisper. Matt doesn't quite catch it.
"What? What's wrong?"
The teen shakes his head.
"Nothing."
He steps away and walks back to the bank. He stares again at the spot from before and skirts it, seemingly unwilling to even step on it. He starts back up the trail, not even turning to Matt once. Matt watches his retreat until the kid passes out of sight, worried, a feeling of fear and apprehension coiling in his gut. What the fuck is wrong with Jonah?
Matt is gathering up the things they'd left there the day before, the radio, pillows, a picnic basket, and spies shatters of broken glass. He remembers Jonah's tumble, a laughing mess of limbs and reaching hands, muddy and scuffed. Little, weird. A weird little goose? No, a drunk little goose! Matt smiles at the memory, tucking it away in his mental archives, doing his best to emblazon it in high definition.
Back in the house, he'd found Jonah already plunked in front of the TV, sitting on the bare wood floor with his knees to his chest, controller in hands, looking exhausted. The haunting, ear-splitting shrieks of re-deads echo through the speakers as Jonah navigates the Royal Family's Tomb. Jonah's face is slack and expressionless, eyes dark and dull blue as he rolls quickly past each one, practiced presses of buttons. Again, not even a flicker of anything, any emotion at all, as Jonah's successful navigation awards him the Sun's Song. Matt watches, deeply concerned, as Jonah memorizes the pattern, clicking it out listlessly on the D-pad. Where had this kid's joy gone? Just yesterday the kid had played this game, laughing brightly and cheering to himself, fully engaged and entertained, deriving immense joy from the fantasy world.
"Hey, kid?" Matt tries, his tone worry-laced and hesitant.
"Mhm?" Jonah replies, not even looking at Matt. He taps out the song repeatedly, clearing out the tomb, exorcizing the dead with an emotionless, zombie-like expression.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," he replies, his voice a dead monotone, "I'm fine."
Well. Fuck.
Restless, Matt goes to the kitchen and starts to pack up the food before hesitating. He reheats some of the stew and dishes out two bowls, butters two slices of bread. He ducks into the hallway, staring at the back of Jonah's head.
"Hey, Jonah? You hungry? Your stew is super good, you should have some—"
"Not hungry," he quietly replies.
Matt's heart sinks. Rejected, he goes to the table. He eats some, feeling numb. It is good, the stew, but Matt finds he can barely finish his bowl. As he struggles through the meal, stomach sour, he pulls the book on the table closer to him, finding it's his collection of Millais' artwork, with pages bookmarked. He opens it to these bookmarks and is endlessly surprised to find that the bookmarks are polaroids, one of the street outside—sneaky boy—and the sunrise, bright and beautiful. Jonah's bookmarked The Vale of Rest and Ophelia. Fitting, Matt thinks to himself, heartsick. He spots the shipping envelope in the paper recycling, signed Wendy Reynolds, with her address. Inside is a note, forgotten, reminding Matt of their history with this camera, stating she thought to send it after Peter called and told her Matt had requested his Nintendo 64. Matt smiles a melancholic smile, resolving to call and thank her later.
Jonah is still immersed in his game, so Matt goes to his study and shuts the door, resigned to complete some work during this alone time. He does so, successfully, for a few hours, until the gnawing feeling of worry and uneasiness takes over. Just what, exactly, has got the kid so depressed? Matt wracks his brains, doing his best to walk through what he remembers of the night before, which isn't much, and comes up with nothing at all. This morning, either, as he woke up to the kid like this.
Feeling lost, Matt rifles through his open tabs until he's looking at pictures of the abandoned Seaside Sanitorium, with its gaping windows like unseeing, dead eyes. Not to make the dead see, but to make them unseen. He shivers and slams the laptop shut, rifling around in his desk and producing the whisky he hides there. He drinks straight from the bottle until his brain hazes slightly, comfortable and warm, quelling some of his worry and uncertainty. Hair of the dog, and all that.
A few guzzles later finds Matt annoyed at how cold the medium is being to him, how withdrawn he is, practically ignoring him. He'd brought him here to keep him company, he can't live without him, for fuck's sake. Matt leaves his study and approaches Jonah from behind, watching the kid play for only a moment before he steps in front of him, blocking the TV. He shuts it off carelessly.
"Matthew, what the fuck?" Jonah exclaims, his voice finally rising above a monotone, gaining some color to it. Happy to get a rise out of him, delighted at that particular curse leaving the usually well-mannered reincarnation's mouth, Matt states his case.
"Jonah! Are you gonna tell me what's wrong?"
"I didn't even get to save, Matt!"
Matt simply scoffs, turning the TV back on, the 64 still up and running. He snatches the controller from Jonah's hands, saves, and turns it off for good.
"Come on, kid, you've got to tell me what's wrong! This silent treatment of yours has me sad," Matt whines, looking genuinely upset. This brings Jonah to pause, considering the man in front of him. Standing there with arms crossed, looking like a kicked dog with all that sadness in his face. He doesn't remember. He doesn't know, he has no clue, Jonah realizes, and his heart aches, the rise of tears that's been behind his eyes all day finally cresting and slipping free.
"Aw, honey," Matthew softens instantly, crouching down to his level, "what's wrong, will you please tell me?"
Don't call me honey, you're not fucking helping—
"Are you drunk?" Jonah simply asks again, smelling the alcohol on Matt's breath.
"Not yet—"
Jonah sighs. At times like this, Matthew almost seems pathetic.
"Bring me a drink too, and maybe I'll tell you."
Even a little fried, Matthew makes a good French 75, Jonah thinks, taking a sip before downing it. Matt simply leaves brings him another, stumbling and smiling like a giddy schoolboy. It makes Jonah feel a little sick. They sit quietly together, Matt's expression expectant, as Jonah sips his second drink. Jonah wracks his brain for an excuse for his mood to give Matt.
"I went out on the front porch this morning," he finally settles on a truth, though riddled with omissions, "and I think the old lady next door saw me."
"Ah, shit, Jonah," Matthew sighs as if relieved, shaking his head, "she's old as dirt, honey, she probably thought you were a ghost."
"A young woman was there too, saw me too," Jonah replies, annoyed.
"They're probably not going to do anything, Jonah…what would they even do, or say? I seriously doubt they recognized you," Matthew states, shrugging it off.
Jonah hopes he's right…really though, what would they do about it, exactly? Matthew's right, it's probably fine. Jonah sighs and finishes his drink. Matthew is sitting so close to him, in front of him, indian style, his knees almost touching Jonah. Jonah closes his eyes, breathing deep, fighting, fighting for his fucking life against this rising swell of emotion, heartbroken hopelessness and—
"Hey!" Matthew suddenly exclaims, clamoring to his feet, "I know what might cheer you up!"
He leaves, comes back again with cocktails for them both, and staggers over to the victrola, selecting an album to put on. The upbeat, jazzy tune of It Don't Mean a Thing, If It Ain't Got That Swing, Louis Armstrong, fills the room. Matthew beckons Jonah closer, clapping and waving his hands as if urgently.
"Come on baby, dance with me!"
Jonah tipsily snorts, grinning despite himself, rising to his feet.
"No," he simply replies, watching Matthew clumsily jig around to the jazz, taking a sip of his third drink, already feeling fuzzy, slightly spaced.
"Oh come on," Matthew groans, practically begging. "You should teach me to do the Charleston, or something, Jonah, anything."
"Please dance with me," he trails off, mumbling, a look of rejected dejection settling on Matthew's whisky-warm face.
Jonah's heart positively aches. Just because he can't get…too close, to Matthew, doesn't mean they can't still enjoy their time together. They have the rest of their lives together, after all, with no one else, just the two of them in the walls of this damned house. Jonah sighs and downs the rest of his drink, flinging a prayer up to God, begging for strength to ignore temptation.
"Alright," Jonah begins, determination lacing his tone, standing squarely in front of Matthew. "You start with your feet angled like this, and then rock a step back—left or right foot, doesn't matter—and then rock the step back again, switching feet, then repeat…yeah! There you go, a bit like that, but faster now—"
Matthew kicks through the steps messily, laughing in delight, his expression one of pure joy, pinning Jonah down with that warm doe-gaze. Jonah can't help but smile back, a hesitant, bashful expression, basking in the contagion of Matthew's happiness.
By nightfall, the two dead boys have all but tired themselves out. Jonah taught Matthew the Charleston successfully, Matthew actually pretty damn good at it. He's also taught him the Foxtrot, the Shimmy, and the Texas Tommy, all to varying degrees of success or disaster. Lost in the seemingly never-ending flow of booze and the upbeat riffs of the music reverberating through the walls, Jonah's despair has been seemingly washed away, his worry, his biggest fears drowned down in some unknown mental well. At some point, Matthew had grabbed the polaroid camera, and he snaps pictures here and there, snap, whirr of Jonah, and himself, of their two feet entangled.
The two of them stumble along, laughing at each other as they messily practice. Matt's put his hair up, ponytail swinging, and he's shucked his shirt, flushed and sweating with exertion. And there's Jonah, breathless and alive with an expression of sheer delight on his face, cackling as Matt spins him around. The medium's laughter turns to a shriek when Matt suddenly dips him, but they're both drunk and unsteady, and they both almost go crashing to the floor, catching each other, all knees and joints and hands on limbs. They're still clasped together like that, clutching for dear life in the rolling ocean of the room spinning around them, when the music changes to something soft and low, a slow song.
Matthew seamlessly rights Jonah into position and takes the lead, stepping back and forth, left and right, soft spins. We're slow dancing together, Jonah thinks hazily, feeling nothing but happy, the shrieking siren of his earlier homophobic desperation muted under liters of gin. He rests his head on Matthew's bare chest, tucking his head up under the man's chin. Matthew hums, a low sound like a purr deep down, and Jonah smiles against his skin, his fingers absentmindedly running along Matthew's sides, fascinated as he finds the scars are in fact raised, reading like braille under his palms. He floats mindlessly in Matthew's arms as the professor leads them around the room.
Matt watches the room revolve around them in washes of color as he rocks gently, side to side, Jonah in his arms. He buries his nose in the medium's hair, breathing in the scent of him, that smell so inherently Jonah, like coffee and cloves, like ozone and ashes, sheer electricity, warm and burning gold. Mind swimming, he stumbles as they veer a bit too close to the victrola, bumping it. The record skips for a moment before resuming. Jonah laughs, that damned beautiful bell-laugh, and he looks up at Matt. Matt's brain stumbles to a halt at the look in that gaze. He's seen it before, somewhere before, like a dream, all warmth and happiness and love—
Unthinkingly, Matt dips his head and captures his soulmate's mouth with his, parted and gin-sharp, soft and yielding and so warm, responsive. A sound escapes Jonah, a needy slip of a sound, hands trembling into fists on Matt's chest as he kisses back—