A video. That's all it takes to unravel everything. A fucking video. A video that wasn't supposed to be posted, but was and now, he's in the thick of it.
He doesn't blame anyone, at least not anyone who matters and going dark isn't exactly the best move when your phone's blowing up - but as he stares at the doorway with nowhere to go while a shadow passes by it fleetingly, he can't help but blame himself as the seconds tick by before it comes back again.
He's the one who decided to make a plan after all.
He doesn't realise, at first, that he's fucked.
Fair game, he's had a turbulent couple of months, so it's not exactly a surprise that things slip his mind here and there when he should be more concerned. He's been on tour, recording in the studio, flying between states, partying- honestly, he doesn't think he's closed his eyes for more than a few hours at this point.
Obviously, they're closed right now, but that was more to keep tears at bay as he banged his head against the all too sterile wall of the doctor's office. Normally, gangly mountains from Minnesota (someone's words, not his) don't exactly cry, even if they don't have an ounce of toxic masculinity in their body, but Matt can already feel his efforts being in vain as the first hot track slides down his face and makes him shudder.
He's thankful the doctor is one of those typical LA types that can be paid to keep this under the table. Plus, he's pretty sure his Midwestern charm may help in that department, should it come down to that. He hopes it doesn't, really hopes, because the fallout of this would kill everything he's built up so far.
Then again, he's not sure how he's going to get through all of this knowing what he knows now, as he palms his stomach hesitantly. He's thankful that it's still flat, no evidence of anything incriminating that some random person would see and post to the internet, but he knows he's only been lucky (6'8" does have its advantages) up to this point.
He's too far along to get rid of it and not close enough to just somehow forget about it, but he knows, just /knows/ exactly who is to blame other than himself for this.
Alex. Because of course, it had to be Alex.
Alex who he was on tour with, Alex who he had casually hooked up with over the years because they could, Alex who had grown up with him and risen to stardom by his side, fucking Alex who was in Vancouver and had no clue that Matt was spiralling.
Alex, who couldn't know about this. Not yet.
He can't help but tense up as he watches the underside of the door where light is creeping in from the hallway. It's only early afternoon, but his eyes hurt despite everything because he's already had a bathroom cry this morning when everything had happened.
The shadow's come back several times, pacing on the landing, the black mask casting its shape over Matt as he sits on the bed, barely breathing as he waits to see if it comes any closer. His phone vibrates again. He tries unsuccessfully to muffle the noise as best he can. It's not like he can move. He's practically a sitting duck right now.
He could hear other noises despite the ringing in his ears. It sounded like someone's voice, deep and scratchy, calling his name at first. It had echoed up through the hall downstairs, hence why he had fled to the furthest place he could, despite his bedroom barely being a place of refuge. He flinched every time as it got closer and closer, saying words he can't hear or really make out, a broken sob leaving his mouth at one point that he swallowed quickly - not quickly enough by the sound of silence that followed it.
Then there's a step, the sound of a shoe against the wood. Then another. Then another.
The shadow gets closer.
He tells his management he needs a break. That's how the plan starts.
He doesn't tell them exactly why, he just doesn't want to go and perform right now.
He's earned it, so he thinks and he can arrange to send them recorded material from Minnesota from some local studio and meetings can happen over the internet if needed or wanted because he's totally available even on break because business is a bitch.
The excuses are endless, but he must have convinced them well enough as they both sign off on it and let him go. It's no surprise that he practically collapses into his parent's arms the minute he crosses the threshold of the house. In Minnesota, he isn't Yung Gravy. In Minnesota, he isn't famous (well, okay, a little). In Minnesota, specifically Rochester out of it all, he's just Matt Hauri and that's all he wants to be right now.
Thankfully, his parents understand. Unlike a lot of other people who wouldn't.
His Mom gets him a desk job at her clinic and while it's boring for the most part, it gets him paid somehow as he tries to manufacture a lie that he's still in LA, still in the rap game and still doing business as usual. It works for a while, a few reposts here, a few sunset posts there with a red cup or a bottle of something from his Dad's stash, a few posts from the studio with himself just out of frame, from the back or closeups of his face.
He texts people as well, friends and people in the industry. Some know he's on break, others think he's on the scene and send him invites. He pretends he's working or invited somewhere else, chasing them in circles as despite looking cosy, no one in LA talks unless it's dramatic and Matt's not looking to get involved in drama. Not now.
Alex's texts hurt the most, which he regards as a side effect and it shows. He understands the grind, so he doesn't push, but Matt feels like he can read a trickle of disappointment every time he tells him he isn't home or he's busy. He almost thinks about inviting him out to Sota, to hang out and put him off or something, but looking at himself in the mirror tells him almost daily that he can't. Not right now.
That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt less.
It's only the next time he thinks about Alex that he wishes it was right now, because Alex is missing out. Missing out on seeing Matt a wet and snotty mess as he holds this shrivelled, shrieking thing to his chest in the middle of his parent's living room and bawling his eyes out.
He knows she's going to have Alex's eyes.
The shadow is right at the door now and Matt can feel himself dissociating almost automatically, bile bubbling in the bottom of his stomach and where his heart feels like it's in his throat. His arms clutch his chest as if it's getting ready to run, but why?
Where could he go from here? It's not like someone his size has places to hide.
There's a balcony that winds around the room, but it's all glass, so there's no point.
There's the bathroom, but locking the door is only going to give him away.
There's the walk-in, but he can't fit into any of the cabinets and even if he could move to one of those places, someone, that shadowed someone, would hear him.
Fuck, maybe, if he contorted himself, he could disappear under the bed? Or maybe behind a curtain? He didn't have shoes on, so that was a plan, but he might crush - god, fuck!
Another broken whimper leaves his mouth and curses internally as the door handle moves, jiggling as if to be checked it was locked, before it's pushed down and creaks open.
She has more than Alex's eyes. She's his complete fucking copy.
All dark hair and big cheeks and a smile that makes him melt like butter in the sunshine. He can even picture her with glasses in the future, though he hopes she never needs them.
He wants to hate it, as this is the universe's way of getting back at him, but he can't - he can't find it in him to hate her. Not even a little. He loves her. Alex would love her. He was going to tell him, the plan had been to tell him obviously, when there was a pause, when they could talk, when they could actually work things out. Alex doesn't pause however and eventually, neither can Matt. Matt has to resume.
While returning alone to LA under the radar with a baby in hand is no mean feat (and reminds him of a heist from a TV show), he does it with promises from his parents to come back if he can't cope. Plus, he can't count how many NDA's he's taken out under management's noses for people who he needs for this to work out, so he doesn't want to cope. He has to make it so he does.
He manages to avoid the paps somehow in the homecoming, most of them probably thinking that the freakishly tall dude with a three month old baby strapped to his chest isn't anything to worry about, but he can't avoid his friends as easily.
He can't count on how many fingers the parties he's been to with a binder on under his fancy clothes just to flatten him out or worse, a chest that was bandaged over or bare and ached as people danced around him, photos from the nanny he interviewed personally and trusts with everything he holds dear cycling through in moments of quiet he seeks out quickly, depression hitting hard when no one's around.
He also can't count how many times he'd been in the studio hooked to a portable chest pump either under baggy hoodies and shirts, so there's also that hanging over him.
He also reunites with Alex again and it's like nothing changed. Almost nothing. He doesn't stay out as late as he used to, nor stay over in seedy hotel rooms and he doesn't drink much anymore, but it seems no one notices. Not even the latter as he's pulled into places and shenanigans that he'd been avoiding for so long. It's almost nice. If he didn't miss her during them, that is.
He wishes he could just tell Alex that as the months fly by. He'll never come out and say it, but he hates it when he's away from her, so he spends as much time with her as possible without people getting sus and somehow, he's pulling it off one day at a time, living two different lives all at once - with everything on the line.
Yung Gravy and Matthew.
Funny how life can unravel in a split second.
He can remember the video, word for word, as it only happened yesterday.
Yesterday had been a dream - the SoCal sun was shining down, he had the week off and while her nanny had his baby girl covered, all he wanted to do was spend it with her. He wished that he was still dreaming. He wished he hadn't done a lot of things that day.
He wished that he hadn't given the nanny his phone to record them. He wished that the video clip of him and her, where he tells her she's big, brave and beautiful before hugging her tightly wasn't so heartbreakingly adorable as he was trying to teach her how to swim given she'd mastered walking already and she was scared.
He wished that she hadn't had a nap straight after that he forgot to time and then let her keep him up all night as a pre-toddler did and most of all, he wished he had fucking checked his photo library before he went to bed, exhausted, but full of dopamine for once.
All that, however, fell to the complete wayside as the door finally creaked open and…there he was. Alex. Alexander. Looking about the same as Matt felt in this moment as they just stared at each other, 500 feet between them. Tired, broken. Matt can't look him in the eye, so he looks down at himself, his baby girl - their baby girl - against his chest, her hand resting on his clavicle as his arms that dwarfed her cradled her despite them shaking.
She had woken up that morning rather early and though he had been trying (and succeeding) to wean her properly for months, the almost 12 month old wouldn't go down after breakfast for her nap until Matt popped a nipple in her mouth as they were out of the formula she normally drank herself to dreamland with. That was why he couldn't move and that was why he was so cornered here despite having a million options on where to go, her mouth having slacked away from his chest as she'd fallen asleep during the feed.
He didn't want to wake her up. Waking her up would be a nightmare. Almost as much as this was.
Seemed Alex noticed as well, judging by the fact that his shirt was half unbuttoned, his nipples out for London and France to see, rosy red and slick with spittle (hey, no one said parenting wasn't messy) from a few attempts to get them working again.
He almost felt like someone from that stupid Handmaid's Tale book or something as Alex came closer like he was approaching a wild animal before he sat beside him on the bed, Matt's fingers flexing around her in response to the jolt of electricity it produced, along with the sliver of fear that comes with it.
He still can't look at him.
It's only when he can see Alex's hand in range of her does he freeze up completely and watches as those long fingers that had, more than once, been all over him go lightly through the thick stands of dark hair that are gathered together behind her back in a ponytail similar to Alex had once as she sleeps.
She moves towards the touch, seeking it out like she also knows it, her eyelashes fluttering and limbs moving almost as if she was still inside him, before she still as his hand palms her back and Matt can't help but think that it's still bigger than her, even if his hands keep her baby sized to him.
He can feel Alex take a shaky wet breath beside him, before he hears the inevitable. "Why?"
Why. God, Matt asked himself that on a daily, no, hourly basis. Why, Matt, why? Why haven't you told Alex? Why haven't you told anyone else? Why did you hide her from the world? Why didn't you think? Why now? Why, why, why. He hates the question of why.
In fact, he hates it so much that as soon as Alex asks it, he makes a sound like a dying animal and shuts his eyes again, just like that day in the doctor's office, throat clamping up as his chest shook not from fear, but sobs. Quiet, echoing sobs, measured by his body so he somehow, doesn't wake her. He can feel Alex startle for a minute and he honestly just hopes that the man just up and leaves and makes this easier, but that's not what happens.
No, instead, of casting them out, Alex pulls them in. He pulls them into his space, into his body where he clutches onto them like they're going to disappear. Where Matt wanted to be a long time ago, but marked it down as a passing dream. Some stupid whim that existed in the time and space between Gravy and Matthew that would never happen. At least, not between him and Alex.
Matt of course, towers over the latter normally, but right now he can't help but feel almost as small as their daughter is as Alex holds them, before he's finally able to speak, his words soft and almost dissolving as soon as they leave him. "Pasadena."
"What?" Alex's whisper came from beside him and he closed his eyes for a third time like it would somehow help him before he finally turned his head where it was resting in the crook of the other's neck to look at his face. "Her name's Pasadena. I would have called her Betty, but Taylor Swift got us beat"
Matt felt the tension ease from Alex's body a smidge, the arm around his waist tightening slightly as the man let out a small laugh. It was almost sad, but it was something. Something was always better than nothing. Alex leaned back slightly to look up at him, their eyes meeting for a moment before Alex whispered, "Why didn't you tell me?"
Matt took a deep breath. "Because I didn't want to ruin what we had, I guess. I was scared. I didn't know how to tell you without losing everything, without losing you. You're my best friend and I-" He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. "I just didn't want to mess this whole thing up."
Alex searched his face, his eyes filled with a mix of hurt and confusion. "Matt, for fuck's sake, we could have figured it out together. I would have been there for you, for her. You know that right?"
"I didn't know that, Alex!" He couldn't help but let a note of frustration seep into his voice, despite Alex not deserving it. He looked away after, quiet again. "I didn't want to force you into something you didn't want. I don't want to force you to..." He swallows again. "I didn't want to force you to love me. Or her."
Alex's eyes searched his, the silence thick and heavy between them. "Matt," he says, his voice softer than it had been before. "Look at me."
He can't help himself and turns back, the look in Alex's eyes stopping his breath for a second. It's a look he's never seen before, a fiery mix of anger and something else, something more profound. "You don't get to decide what I love," Alex says, and it hits him like a brick wall, especially when Alex pulls him up so their foreheads touch, Pasadena between them. "You don't decide for me," he repeats, voice steady. "I would have chosen to love you both, even if it was hard. I've always chosen you, and I'll always choose you."
Matt's eyes burn with unshed tears as he nods, the weight of his fears and regrets suddenly feeling heavier. He's always known Alex to be a rock in times before when they were just two idiots living in an apartment together, but this was more than he really deserved. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry."
Alex pulls back just enough to cup his face in both of his hands, thumbs gently wiping at the trails of tears on Matt's cheeks. "Don't," he says, his voice firm yet gentle. "You don't get to be sorry, Matt. What you get to do is explain everything when we're both ready. I'll forgive you, but not today. Maybe not tomorrow either, but I will forgive you."
He follows it up with a dip down as he kisses their little girl's forehead, before speaking again. "Right now, I am just happy to have you back in one piece unlike everything else I've thought about and I want to get used to having Pasadena in my life properly. So, tonight and maybe for as long as the next couple of weeks while we figure shit out with her, we can pretend nothing happened to us, but after that, we are going to couple's therapy and individual therapy and we are talking about this. All of this."
"Okay," Matt choked out, the word barely audible as he just sat there.
"Good." Alex echoed back, kissing his temple. "...you know I love you, right?"
"…Yeah." Matt can't help himself and he nods.