Oh, man... I apologize for the delay. Life has been crazy busy these past few months. I can't say that things have eased up, but I've shifted my priorities, leaving me more time for my writing. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Suggested Listening: "Skin" - Boy

Take Your Time

~Paper-Thin Skin~

Lately, I had started reading the Bible again, flipping to random passages and making note of whatever jumped out at me.

Maybe I was trying to make sense of it in my own way, instead of holding to others' black-and-white teachings.

Progress was slow.

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Isaiah 2:22, The Holy Bible, "The Message" translation

"Quit scraping and fawning over mere humans, so full of themselves, so full of hot air! Can't you see there's nothing to them?"

[The above passage is circled so boldly in red pen that it has left a furrow in the journal page. Below it, a note:]

Paradox: I'm stuck on myself because I worry how others perceive me, leading me to fabricate an increasingly complicated persona to please and/or shock people, which – of course – involves me being even more stuck on myself.

Solution: fuck if I know. (Or I should just stop caring what people think about me.)

Old habits and my big bitch of an ego die hard.

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Besides meandering into the treacherous maze of self-examination, I'd also kept myself busy for the past week by helping my parents in any way that I could. One of these ways was going on a grocery run. My mother "volun-told" Miranda to go with me.

"Don't put those on top of the bread," I barked. "Don't grab that one; the date's too close. We want that one," I scolded. When I felt my meagre amount of patience completely drying up, I snapped: "Are you even listening to me? It's like you have fucking cotton in your ears."

I'll never forget the calm look that my fifteen-year-old sister levelled at me. "Yes," was all she said.

My face felt suddenly very warm. I was all too aware of the woman shooting glances at me from further down the aisle, frowning disapprovingly as she did so. I felt small; I felt weak. Control was slipping through my fingers like water, and it bothered me that my sister was there to bear witness.

I released the breath I'd been holding through my nose, and then ran a shaking hand through my hair. "I'm… I'm tired."

The unsaid I'm sorry was like a tangible apparition standing between us.

"Mihael? Is that you?" I heard an older man's gruff voice behind me.

A thrill went up my spine; a sense of déjà vu swept over me. I turned to see my old Social Studies teacher, Mr. Ruvie, standing behind me. If his ridiculous glasses hadn't given him away, his strange hairdo would have: the one large tuft of white hair on the top of his head swirled like frosting on a cupcake, and the sides and back weren't much better. Throughout the time of knowing him during my high school years, he had always been a crotchety, old windbag. Matt and I had taken to calling the man by his first name, Roger, out of his spite. It could have been because of his advanced age, or because my classmates and I had worn him down, but he'd retired after we graduated.

"Ah, yes. I thought it was you," he carried on without acknowledgement. "Your voice did always carry in a room with shocking vehemence."

I wrinkled my nose like I'd just noticed a bad odour; and truly, I had, given he still wore the same shitty aftershave. "My pleasure," I deadpanned.

"Who's this?" my sister asked, in case we'd forgotten her existence.

I answered, for old times' sake, "The Mr. Roger Ruvie: retired teacher, hobby entomologist, and one mean bastard."

Roger chortled. "Mihael, if your wit was half as sharp as your tongue, perhaps I would take your criticisms of my person under consideration."

Miranda's eyes went wide, but, with surprising restraint on her behalf, she didn't say a word.

I, on the other hand, took issue. "It's Mello to you," I spat.

Roger peered at me down his aquiline nose. "Only when it's Mr. Ruvie to you."

My ever-present exhaustion rolled over me again, and I averted my eyes as I took a steadying breath. When I met his eyes again, the challenge in my own was feebler, and I knew that undoubtedly he noticed.

"What do you want, old man?"

"Nothing more than exchanging pleasantries with a past student that I bumped into while running errands."

"Well, the exchange is over." I turned to leave.

His raised voice followed me: "I had an interesting conversation with my old friend, Mr. Wammy." This stopped me in my tracks. "Out of all my students, I would have never imagined that you would be one to loaf."

Something inside me snapped. I imagined whirling around, grabbing him by his stupid turtleneck, and sweeping the rows of canned corn and peas off the shelf with his thick skull. But all I did was turn around and ask him in an eerily detached tone, "Who the fuck do you think you are?" It wouldn't take but a second to close the space between us if I so chose.

Miranda might have squeaked; I couldn't hear much besides my blood roaring in my ears.

But Roger's voice cut through: "I used to hear that sycophant, Mrs. Donnelly, sing your praises in the staff room. I agreed that you were the finest writer in your year, but I never saw fit to mark based on style above substance. Perhaps, being that she was an English teacher, she felt she had more leeway in such matters… But I wanted you to strive for excellence! And with each mark I withheld, the brighter I could see the flames of your passion burn.

"But I see you here before me, and I see you stagnant where you used to be definite in your trajectory. Tell me, Mihael, where did your ambition go?"

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to hold back the hysterical laughter. Unlike the time at the lakeshore, Matt wasn't here to bring me back to myself. I could never hold back everything, though, and true to form, I'm sure some of the insanity leached into my tone: "Oh, you know. Too twitterpated from fucking my boyfriend all the time to give a shit. Love makes morons of us all, right?" I grinned.

This time, I succeeded in getting my feet to move, and I used the momentum to get myself to the end of the aisle. Then, I shot over my shoulder, "I'll tell my dad you asked about him before I go back to sitting on my ass."

I turned down the next aisle, stopped, and listened.

"I… uh… I'm sorry about that," I heard Miranda mumble. "Mihael's under a lot of stress right now."

"Quite alright, young lady. I apologize for my insensitivity. I only wish for Mihael to think of his future." Roger sighed. "Well, give my regards to your parents. And forgive me for saying so, but I am glad that Mihael is the last Keehl I will have to teach."

Miranda's reply was merely a grunt. A moment later, and she appeared before me.

We gathered the rest of our groceries in silence.

Later, as we were putting the bags into the trunk of the car, I picked up several heavy bags by myself. Just a month ago, I could have easily handled the weight; I prided myself in keeping myself in peak physical condition. This time, though, I just wanted to drop everything. Miranda must have seen the strain on my face, because she helped shoulder some of the load.

Her tone was light. "You don't have to do everything by yourself, stupid."

I knew she was talking about more than just the groceries.

I wanted to believe what she said, but I was too scared to stop.

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Later that day, I found myself at Matt's house. Though I spent a great deal of time running errands for my parents and working at the shop, most of my free time was spent in Matt's company these last few weeks. For those people that knew us from our younger years, maybe this would seem normal – but for the two of us, the change was apparent. There was a weight on our interactions, a desperation. We both knew of my need for escape, my desire for distraction. I didn't spend nights in my own bed anymore; Matt's bedroom became my refuge. When I entered my room at my house now to grab something or get a change of clothes, it was like entering a strange, impersonal space.

As for the time I spent with Matt, we mostly hung out the way we used to when we had been just friends. There was one key difference, though: when we were younger, I would drag his attention away from his video games with a rude comment and an elbow in the ribs, but now, nine times out of ten, his gaming time would end abruptly with my hand slipping into his pants.

Try though he might to act like he was immoveable by my ministrations, he was betrayed by the flush that crawled all the way from the hollow of his throat to his hairline, the sweat that beaded on his brow, and the glaze that veiled his eyes. He'd always had a bad habit of chewing his lip, but Matt now outdid himself by chomping down so hard that he drew blood. Still, he persisted on staring at the screen and mashing buttons.

But my hand persisted in its motion.

I leaned forward to nip at his bobbing Adam's apple. "D'you think I've lost my drive, Matty?" I asked almost tauntingly.

Matt swallowed convulsively, and I figured he was past intelligible speech.

"I don't think so," I said. "See, I still know what I want and how to get it." A tighter grip, a twist of the wrist on the upstroke.

Matt shuddered and his eyes fell shut, his long lashes dusting his cheeks. When he opened them again, he noticed what had been a source of amusement to me during this entire tryst: his character in the game was doing nothing more than running into a wall. With a curse, he curled into me, giving into the power I was exerting over his body.

I watched as he shivered and moaned (he always did so quietly, as if he didn't mean to make the sound, but he was too overwhelmed not to). My own desire surged as a result. "You're so fucking beautiful, Matty," I breathed, and then I pressed a kiss to his damp forehead.

I was affected with reverence, and the sensation only heightened as he reached his peak. As he came undone, I felt a part of myself knit back together.

When he'd gotten his breathing back under tenuous control, Matt slid off his bed and onto his knees, fumbling with the laces on my pants.

I closed my hand over his. "Babe, you don't have to."

He pushed his hair back and grinned. There was a wildness in his eyes that resonated deep in the pit of my stomach. I felt warmth spread all the way down to my toes. "I've got my own goals, Mells," he said. With his other hand, he raised his phone to show it to me; I saw the stopwatch function pulled up on the screen. "I wanna beat my highscore, dammit."

Well, hell – who was I to refuse that?

And Matt being such a quick study, I didn't last very long at all.

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With the beginning of the New Year came the disruption to our pattern. Instead of merely going to work and then slinking back to Matt's house to hole up in his bedroom, Matt and I went out to a party – Near's New Years' party to be exact.

Well, truly, it was more like Linda's party, while Near was just holding it in his apartment. Furthermore, it was being held a day earlier than New Year's Eve; the reason being that several of our friends were back in town for Christmas holidays, and time was short before they had to go back to school.

"Just like old times, eh, Mells?" Matt smiled at me as we waited outside Near's apartment.

I only nodded, my lips pursed. I felt like my guts were tying themselves in knots. While I was excited to see everyone (L, especially), my apprehension took precedence. Things weren't "just like old times," and that fact couldn't be ignored.

Suddenly, the door opened with a squeak, and Matt and I startled. A big, booming laugh heralded the arrival of Far in the doorway. "Jeez, guys! Calm down!" He wrapped his arms around our shoulders and ushered us in. "So, what trouble have you kids been up to?"

Matt shrugged. "No trouble; just work."

I kept silent, unsure how much I wanted to say.

Far pouted at Matt. "My sympathies." Then, he turned his head to look at me. I felt his arm slide down from my shoulder to curl around my ribcage. He wolf-whistled. "Damn. Have you lost some weight? Looking good."

Now it was my turn to shrug. "Probably." But here I was thinking, Yes, thirteen-and-a-half pounds. I'm losing muscle mass. Thanks for noticing!

Matt stepped away from Far and shoved his hands in his pockets. "My boyfriend always looks good."

"Oh… well." Far blinked slowly. "Of course." He pulled his arm back pretty quickly after that.

Just then, Linda walked over, and Alfie wasn't far behind.

Linda pulled us both into a bear-hug. "I'm so glad you guys made it!"

"No problem," Matt wheezed as we both patted her back awkwardly.

When she released us, she was frowning. "Well, you guys did take long enough getting here."

As Matt took offense and started in on an explanation about traffic, I overheard Alfie say to Far, "Are you behaving yourself?"

Far grinned impishly. "Of course, lover," he murmured as he kissed his husband on the forehead.

I turned my attention back to the other conversation just as Linda said, "Regardless, people are waiting to say hello, so come on in."

As we filed in behind the other three, Matt took my hand and whispered to me, "You okay?"

"Yeah. Fine," I muttered. He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.

And then I felt his hand slacken its grip. I looked over to see that his face had turned red and his eyes were wide. Ahead of us, a tall, blonde woman in a short, black-and-white cocktail dress swept her tresses out of the way as she craned her head to watch us enter the room. Her ruby-red lipstick shimmered under the low lighting. The moment our gazes met was unmistakeable; we mirrored each other as we both frowned.

Wedy.

I didn't notice the man standing at her side until several moments later. But Matt… his eyes seemed to be stuck on her.

I decided that as soon as the moment presented itself, I was going to fix myself a stiff drink.