CHAPTER VIII
For days and days, Matthew simply cleaned, his mouth shut and his eyes watery. Those desolate eyes asked for nothing, only emptiness. No one bothered him; no one went searching for Toris. That was what he wanted: to be alone and sort things through as he focused on small tasks. It pained Alfred to see him so lost, so hurt, but he knew the boy needed time to himself after recovering his memory.
Sometimes, he thought he heard the guest room's shower running over five times a day. It was as if Matthew was trying to purge himself of the memory, and the impurity that came with it. Al had become accustomed to the seeing the boy with damp hair, his sweatshirt pulled up far enough to shroud his neck as he trudged along through the daily chores. As he'd thought the time he bathed him, there were some things that just couldn't be washed away.
One late afternoon, Alfred walked into the den to find the boy lying on the couch, his back to anyone entering the room. Careful not to startle him, he asked, "How are you feeling?"
"Bad," Matthew simply answered, his tone flat. Al kneeled in front of the couch, slowly rubbing his friend's back, who made no effort to stop him. As he made circles in the fabric with his palm, the boy's sweatshirt gradually slinked down from his neck, and something caught his eye.
"…Matt, what's around your neck?"
"N-Nothing," he immediately denied, shrinking into the couch cushions.
Alfred's concern grew in light of this response. Why would Matt lie to him? He grabbed the sweatshirt, yanking it down to confirm his suspicion.
Matthew was wearing his collar.
"Matt…" Al uttered softly, his friend flinching at the sound of his voice. He was giving up, reverting to his apathy and losing his sense of worth. Al couldn't let that happen to him; he just couldn't. "Take it off."
"No," Matthew refused, trying to inch farther into the sofa. He would do anything to get away from his brutal reality.
"Matt, take it off."
"No."
He tried to remove it himself, but Matthew slapped his hand away, pulling up his sweatshirt again. Alfred wouldn't let him succumb to atrophy, no matter how much Matt resisted. "Matt, you can't do this. You're better than this."
"I'm worthless."
"No, you're not."
"Worthless."
"Matthew, you're beautiful."
The boy quivered at these words, fighting to keep his indifference, the only way he knew to cope with the trauma. "D-Don't say that. I'm just a worthless tool. That's all."
"Matt, you're worth so much more than that!"
"A tool's worth is in its use," Matthew cynically spoke, shifting over to face his friend. "So use me."
Alfred couldn't believe what he was hearing, his blue eyes wide in horror. He watched, stunned as the boy bent over the edge of the couch. Hands reached for his fly, but he pushed them back.
"Al, just use me," Matthew pleaded, his hollow eyes sullen.
"I won't," Alfred declined, determined to break the boy's mentality.
"Use me. I exist only to be used."
"You're not a tool," he fought back, gripping the hands within his own. "You're human; you have rights. Listen to me, Matt: I will not use you."
Matthew looked away, morose. All he wanted was to be used, so he could just forget everything and drift away. Why couldn't Al understand that?
He was beginning to turn away when he heard, "What about Toris?"
"…Toris is dead."
"You don't know that! You said you were going to run away together and start life all over again! What about that life?"
He glanced over to Alfred, seeing the worry in his face. His lips trembled, rationalizing, "Th-That life died the moment those guystouched me. All I want is to be used, please."
"Really? Do you really want this, Matt?"
The words broke through, the memories he was trying desperately to suppress resurfacing through the perforated barrier. Life came back to his diluted eyes as they emitted dull tears, and he began the mantra. "No…no, I don't want this. I-I don't want this. Oh, God, Al, I don't want this!"
He tackled Alfred to the ground, sobbing into his chest as he repeated the words over and over. Relieved that he finally got through to him, Al comforted the boy, embracing him as he cried. Little by little, so that Matthew wouldn't notice, his fingers crept up the boy's back until he reached the neck. In a swift flick, he snapped off the collar, causing Matt to gasp.
"Wait!" he exclaimed, looking up frantically at Alfred.
"You don't need this," Al solemnly told him, keeping this hand with the collar in it far from the boy.
"Al…"
"We're going to burn this. We're going to free you from the hold it has over you."
Matthew hesitated, wanting to hold onto the refuge that came with the collar. "Al…"
"It's okay, Matt," Alfred assured him, sensing his friend's apprehension. "I'll be here."
Finding a sense of security in his words, Matt reluctantly nodded to show his approval.
The two rose from the carpet, Alfred with his arm around the boy as they plodded over to the garage to collect the firewood. With arms full, they carried the fuel over to the fireplace, carefully arranging the logs. Al rifled through the kitchen cabinets, searching for the matches. Once he found them, he came back to the den with a crumpled newspaper page. As he struck a match, he threw the paper into the hearth, followed by the small fire. The paper began to burn, the printed words of worldwide catastrophes consumed by the flickering flames.
As the newspaper died, the logs crackled in ignition, the sparks spreading. The two watched the fire grow, the light reflecting in their resolute eyes. Matthew looked to the other as the fire burned on in heated radiance, waiting for affirmation. When Alfred returned the glance, he nodded, signaling it was time.
They stood to face the flames, and Matthew quaked, his hand clammy as it clutched the collar. He stared into the blaze, afraid to go through with the plan. A gentle squeeze on his other hand, along with the words, "It's okay," empowered him, his resolve restored. In vehemence, he hurled the oppressive leather into the fire, his breathing rising with the flames.
Alfred tenderly placed his hand on the boy's shoulder, calming him as the flames licked the collar and the stench of charred ruin filled the room. They sat before the hearth, the sweltering heat causing them to perspire. Matthew groaned, pulling off his sweatshirt as the warmth overpowered him. He wanted to keep watching the fire, and the performance was worth shedding the stifling cloth. Al mimicked him, casting off his own shirt.
Together, they sweated and panted, basking in the afterglow. The flames began to die down, reduced to smoldering ashes as night fell. With the remaining embers still burning, Matthew made a decision, sharing it with his friend. "…I want to stop looking for Toris."
Unsure if he heard him right, Alfred turned toward the boy, baffled. "What are you talking about?"
"We've searched for him and he hasn't turned up. Honestly, I'm convinced that either those guys…raped him and took him somewhere or he left after trying to find me."
"You said yourself that he wouldn't leave without you. Besides, it's a big town, Matt. We probably just haven't run into him yet."
"Al, at this point, he could be anywhere." He gazed forlornly into the fireplace before continuing. "…Yes, he could still be here, but it's a small chance. I want to see him and make sure he's okay, but I can't keep worrying like this. I need to let go and move on with my life."
"…All right, we'll stop searching for now, but I don't want you to give up completely. Take some time to heal and focus on other things, but don't completely forget about him. Okay?"
"…Yeah."
A silence passed over the room, and they returned to watching the dying flames.
"…Matt," Alfred addressed him uneasily, unsure how to express what he wanted to say. When Matthew fixed his innocent eyes on him, he sucked in a deep breath and declared, "I know I'm not Toris, but if you want, you could, you know, start life over…with me." Why did he have to lack confidence at such a vital moment?
At the sight of Matthew's surprised face, he was sure that he'd decline the offer, until the boy hugged him. Now, it was his turn to be shocked. "Matt, what-?"
"I'd like that," Matthew asserted, resting his head on Al's shoulder. "I'd like that a lot."
Smiling, Alfred wrapped his arms around the boy, reciprocating the embrace. They held each other peacefully as the last cinders faded away in the late August night.
. . .
"Alfred, you cannot be serious," Arthur griped, rubbing his temples. God, he was going to need a beer after this, and it wasn't even twelve in the afternoon yet.
"Dad, please, please let him live with us!" he begged. Al knew that this was going to be the most difficult persuasion of his life, but it was the most crucial.
"You said that this would only be temporary."
"And you said that he could stay here until we found Toris, but that's the problem. Matt's really upset after the…incident, and he wants to stop looking for him. And even if we did find Toris, where are they supposed to go?"
"The point is that his residency was intended to be short-term, not permanent."
"So what, are you just going to toss him into the streets? What happened to being an 'upright citizen and nurturing a stranger'?"
"I don't know what to do, Al! What do you expect me to say?"
Al groaned, slumping over the counter. This fight was going to be nearly impossible to win, even for him. "Then what's wrong with letting him stay?" he complained, his words almost muffled by the granite surface. "It's not like you have a better idea."
Confused, Arthur asked him, "Why is this so important to you?" He had never seen his son so passionate and devoted to his side of the argument.
Alfred lifted his head up from the counter, only to rest his elbows on the surface and slouch again. "…I think I love him," he mumbled.
His father was stunned by the response, stuttering, "A-Al you've known him for less than- than a month."
"Well, I think that's what I'm feeling, but if you want to be all skeptical, then fine. I really care about him and I want him to stay with us because I want to be with him and comfort him and all that awesome stuff."
Arthur sighed, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "Alfred-"
"Does being gay run in the family?" he asked candidly, causing his father to nearly jump off the stool.
"What? What the bloody hell?"
"Well, aren't you gay? You're always going down to the bar to see that bartender."
"W-We are not in a relationship!"
"Dad, I didn't ask if you were. Now, I'm serious: does it run in the family?"
His face burning and his bushy eyebrows twitching, he replied with difficulty, "N-No, Alfred, being gay doesn't run in the family. I'm pretty sure it's not genetic."
When his son opened his mouth to ask another question, Arthur interrupted with, "And no, I am not gay. How do you think you were conceived?" Sure, he and his former wife had gotten divorced soon after their son had been born, leaving him with the job of raising a child on his own. However, that was a consensual decision based on marital problems, not sexuality. "Look, Francis is just a very good friend of mine."
"Come on, Dad," Al teased him, a favorite hobby of his, "I know. You try to hide it be acting like a total ass, but it's so obvious. Admit it, you're at least bi."
Arthur hated that his son could see right through him. He groaned, deciding that he definitely needed a beer. "Look, Alfred, I don't want to talk about this right now. I'm going to head down to the pub, and we'll discuss this whole ordeal later, okay?"
The boy pouted, crossing his arms, but accepted it. Letting his dad get roaring drunk at the pub would give him more time to work up his case, so he'd use this to his advantage. "All right. Say hi to my future dad for me."
The Brit cringed, trying his hardest to ignore this last statement as he walked through the garage door. God, sometimes, he really let his kid get the better of him.
. . .
Francis was busy shining off the many wineglasses and beer mugs when he heard the knock on the pub's door. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed Arthur standing outside, that signature disgruntled expression splayed all over his face. The Frenchman smiled, sauntering over to unlock the door to inform his dear one that the bar wouldn't open for ten minutes.
When he opened it, the Brit immediately declared, "I don't care that you're not open yet; I want a beer, and you're going to give it to me, dammit."
"All right, mon cher, but you're going to have to pay extra for this exclusive access," Francis explained, stepping aside to let the man pass through. "Only it's a different currency than you're used to…"
"I don't have time for your flirting," Arthur spat as he took a seat at the bar counter. "Just give me a beer."
"Are you sure you do not want to try that French wine I am always recommending?"
"Fine! Whatever! Just give me something as long as it's alcohol. I really don't give a damn, okay?"
"Aren't we testy today?" Francis noted, pouring some exquisite French wine into a glass for him. He poured another for himself, figuring they had a long conversation ahead of them. "Now, tell me what's wrong, mon amour, and I'll make it all better."
Arthur took a sip, questioning the odd taste of the grapes, but deciding to drink it nonetheless. "…He asked me if being gay runs in the family. In the family, for God's sake!"
"'He?'"
"Alfred, of course! What other family do I have?"
The bell rang as a Cuban man walked through the door, looking to the two men at the counter. "Sorry, are you open yet?"
"Oh, why not?" Francis proposed, shrugging his shoulders. "What would you like?"
"Anything, really," the man said and he plopped down on a stool. "I'm not picky."
The Frenchman chose the same wine since it was already out. After serving the Cuban, he returned his attention to Arthur. "So Alfred came out to you?"
"I don't even know," the Brit mumbled, the wine already having an effect on him. "He started insisting that Matthew live with us permanently and after that, it just all goes downhill."
"Ah, Mathieu was that cute boy Al was hanging out with when you came here a few weeks ago, right?"
Arthur grunted as he processed the way Francis had just pronounced the boy's name. God, his French accent was so annoying…annoyingly hot. "Yeah, he's convinced that he's in love with him or something."
"And how is that wrong?"
"I'm not saying it's wrong; I'm just afraid he might be jumping the gun. He's known the kid, what, a month? And he's only seventeen…"
"How old is Mathieu?"
"I think he said…sixteen? I don't even remember." Arthur took the wine bottle and poured himself some more. It really wasn't that bad.
"There is nothing wrong with young love, Arthur."
"I'm not saying there is! I'm just worried!" The man sighed, resting his head on the table. "God, this wasn't even supposed to happen. I let him stay thinking he'd just find his friend and they'd be on their way."
"Oh, he still hasn't found him?"
"No, hence why he's still here." His words were starting to slur, but he didn't slow his intake of the wine. "And now they want to take a break from the search for God knows how long."
The Cuban man stood up from his seat to fish his wallet out of his pocket. "Thank you for the wine, but I must be on my way." He paid for his drink and walked out as Francis consoled the complaining Brit.
Once he had put distance between himself and the pub, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number as he strolled through the sidewalks. "Status report, Ismael?" A voice asked him once the call went through.
"Matthew's definitely here," Ismael passed on the information. "He's been staying at some drunken Brit's house, probably the one the destroyed collar pinpointed us to. No news about Toris yet, except that he's been looking for him, so they both must be here."
"Good work. I want you to stay in the town for a while. Don't make any moves until I order so. I want you to stay under the radar."
"Affirmative. I gotta say, Ivan, you've got some nifty technology. Installing chips in the collars that send out a signal should they become damaged…maybe not as effective as GPS tracking, but still ingenious."
"You know me," the Russian stated in his icy manner, "I like to make sure nothing happens to my pets. Report to me should anything else happen."
"Roger that," the Cuban replied, slapping his cell phone shut. Those kids were going to regret running from the ring.
(A/N: Longest chapter yet. I decided to use Cuba's fanbase name for this story. See you guys next week!)
