Prologue
The first time Matthew had a panic attack, he was seven years old. He'd been at the store with his father, but saw a toy he liked. While he was gazing longingly at the stuffed bear, Matthew's father kept going, not realizing his son had gone. When Matthew looked back, he was alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces.
"Papa? Papa!" Matthew had yelled over and over again. He started to breathe fast. His heart seemed to be pounding out of his chest, and he felt more scared than he ever had been. A few minutes later, Matthew had felt strong arms pick him up and his father's voice in his ear.
Matthew kept having these spells of anxiety. Every time something happened, his breathing would speed up and get shallower, and his heart would pound, again and again and again. Eventually, Matthew found a name for these spells; panic attacks.
:-:
"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" Matthew thought he'd never have to hear these words. Never have to reply to them, never be shaking and sobbing and breaking while he did so.
"Alfred-he he. He was hit. On his motorcycle. Help, please help," Matthew's voice cracked and he was on the pavement, kneeling next to his brother. Holding his pale hand and breaking.
Sirens came from behind, and Matthew looked up. His vision was blurred by tears and he seemed unable to let go of Alfred's hand.
Paramedics, a warm blanket, whispers and comforting murmurs, tears and a ride to the hospital. Everything was happening so fast, yet so slow. In the waiting room of the emergency department was the worst. Matthew sat in the hard plastic chair, looking at a magazine but not reading it for hours at a time. Finally, a solemn looking nurse called Matthew back 'to say goodbye.' Matthew managed to put one shaking foot in front of the other, trying to make it to Alfred's room.
The walls were white. There was a big sink with a mirror. The curtains were blue. Matthew looked at everything. Frantically searching for something-anything that wasn't his brother. Finally, truth smacked him in the face. Matthew's breath was stolen, and his heart beat too fast. It was dizzying, sickening. Alfred's eyes were closed and he was void of color. Then, there was the blood. Staining what used to be Alfred, the shell of him.
"Sir, I'm so sorry. We wanted to wait for you before we decided whether or not to take him off life support," the nurse tried to sound comforting, tried to make things better, but they couldn't be. Alfred was going- maybe even gone. Matthew collapsed on the bed, clutching at Alfred's lifeless, cold hand. The shell of his hero, his older brother. The one that used to wear bomber jackets and talk too much about his boyfriend, Arthur, and ride his motorcycle, always trying to get Matthew to go with him. The one day Matthew had risked riding the motorcycle, his brother had slipped from his grasp, into a body, kept alive with just tubes and wires.
Matthew wanted to believe that Alfred would wake up, but he knew he wouldn't, he couldn't. So he tried not to panic. Tried to say his goodbyes, but he just ended up a mess. A panicking, sobbing, gasping, shivering heap of misery. In a last act of desperation, Matthew picked up his phone and dialed the second number on speed dial; Arthur.
"Artie. I-I need you. I'm at the… the… hospital. I need you, please," Matthew shook with dry sobs. There was nothing left, nothing to let out, he'd already run out of tears to shed. What would go next?
"Mattie? What happened? How badly are you hurt?" Arthur was getting in his car now, speeding down the road. Just as he turned onto the highway, the line went dead; Matthew had thrown his phone against the wall.
As Arthur sped down the almost empty strip of road, he saw it. Police cars and ambulances gathered around something. When Arthur craned his head to look, he honestly wished he hadn't. There was blood, spotted all over the asphalt. And in the middle of it all, one motorcycle.
Immediately, Arthur recognized the american flag pattern and his stomach dropped. That motorcycle was his boyfriend, Alfred's. When Arthur walked into the hospital, a numbing sensation entered his heart. Whatever had happened, he was obviously not prepared.
Matthew, a shaking mess on the floor. Alfred, a body encased in a plethora of wires. "Oh, Mattie. Mattie, I'm so sorry," Arthur choked back his tears and clutched Matthew. "I-I'm going to say goodbye. Before…" Arthur stopped and bent over what was left of his boyfriend.
Nothing is more cruel than a last kiss. Kissing someone who once held so much life. Now, dependent on a clunky pile of machinery to even keep breathing. Arthur kissed Alfred like he never had before. Desperately and sadly. Tears fell from his eyes, landing on Alfred's face. Matthew was sitting down now, wishing he were dead instead. His brother didn't deserve this. An end like this.
:-:
Matthew tried to sleep. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. He pulled his bear close to his chest and let his Papa stroke his hair. But every time he got even close to slumber, Matthew fell. Sometimes off a cliff, sometimes off the motorcycle. The scene played over and over in his mind.
The car coming and hitting them head on. Matthew jumping off before anything could happen to him. Alfred hitting the ground, then wheels bouncing off his chest. Crushing him, nothing Matthew could do.
The night ended up being a frenzy of panic attacks and crying. There was no option labeled sleep. Just panic, cry, and die. At some point, Papa left. At some point, Matthew dragged himself out of bed. At some point, Matthew picked up his knife. At some point, Matthew let the blade trace over old scars. Perfect, bloody lines on his arms and thighs.
At some point, Matthew thought about slicing his wrists with the knife. At some point, he almost did, but decided against it.
Hi, Dante here. This chapter was a kind of base chapter, setting the scene. I promise you there will be some fluff and romance in the future. I think this is turning out to be really angsty… XOXO, Dante.
