Chapter Text
It was hard to encapsulate what the next several hours were like. Matthew couldn’t tell if he was conscious or caught in a nightmare. Nee-naa-nee-naa went the ambulance, and it drowned out the sound of every living thing. They shot him up with Ketorolac and an IV to rehydrate him. Matthew either fell asleep or passed out, but when he woke next, the pain had stopped.
His brain still felt bruised, like it had been beaten flat with a meat tenderiser. He couldn’t think past the head haze, and the lights still scalded him. But his parents were there, and Alfred, whose face was splotchy like he’d spent the last hour crying, and eventually—it was just before dawn, Matthew learnt—he was allowed to go home.
Nobody said anything. That was the eeriest part. Matthew heard no lecture from Dad, no dramatics from Papa, no comment, no joke, no jibe from Alfred. But he was allowed back into the bedroom, which had been cleaned and smelled strongly of disinfectant. He was put into bed. The lights were switched off. And Matthew saw Alfred walk off with his laptop.
When Matthew awoke next, it was mid-afternoon. He could hear sounds from the kitchen. Matthew lay there, shaken, and considered going back to sleep. His leg hurt, as usual. It hurt a lot. But his head and neck were pain-free and tender. He’d never had a migraine so devastating before. Usually they were just bad headaches, that at worst put him out for a day. He’d never thrown up because of a migraine before, never had to be rushed to a hospital, never had to be injected with an NSAID.
Alfred poked his head in through the door. He was in tracks and a t-shirt he’d found at Comic Con last year. In his hands he had a mixing bowl. A chocolate chip was stuck to his cheek. “Hey, Matt, good morning.”
Matthew sat up. “Hi, Alfred.”
“You feeling better?”
Matthew swallowed and nodded. The gesture sent a warning shot of pain through his temple. He immediately stopped. “I really need to wash my mouth, though, yuck.”
Alfred’s eyes darted to the restroom. “Need my help walking?”
“No, I think I’m good.” He reached for his crutches.
Matthew took his time. He brushed his teeth thrice. He had a hot, slow bath with the hand shower, directing the steaming water at his head. It parted away the worst of the brain fog, though he could tell he’d be feeling hazy for at least the rest of the day. When he finally emerged in the kitchen, he was glad to be smelling of shampoo and seafoam soap and toothpaste, and not stale vomit.
Alfred was shoving a tray of cookies in the oven.
“What are you doing?” Matthew asked, settling down on a chair.
Alfred glanced over his shoulder and wiped his hands on his tracks. He put on some coffee. “I can make you scrambled eggs for breakfast, if you’re feeling up to a meal,” he said by way of response.
“Uh, sure, thank you. What are you making all those cookies for?”
“Oh.” Alfred’s laugh was high-pitched. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned his back on Matthew. He knelt in front of the oven and stared through the glass, as though watching an engrossing movie. “I’m stress-baking, I think. Like Pops does.”
Matthew’s heart sank. “Alfred, I’m really sorry—”
“—I found this recipe book in the cabinets so I’m trying it out. How hard could it be, really, to follow a recipe? And Pops said I could text him if I have any questions, so I probably won’t burn the house down?”
“Alfred.” Matthew sucked on his lower lip. “I’m really sorry about yesterday.”
“No need to be sorry, Mattie, you were sick.”
“For making you write my conclusion.” Matthew covered his eyes. “I can’t believe I couldn’t send it out in time.”
He only hoped his professor would understand. What could he do? He’d sell his soul and everything in him to go back in time, to be a better student, to possibly avoid getting bodied in the first place.
“You were sick, Matthew,” Alfred said, his voice cool. “Really, really sick. It was terrifying. And all you cared about was your stupid essay. Let it go, it doesn’t matter. You’re going to kill yourself overdoing it at this rate.”
“I don’t overdo it,” Matthew mumbled. Alfred said nothing for several minutes. He set down a coffee cup in front of Matthew and turned away.
“No, you got bodied on the ice because you were taking it easy.”
“It’s a sport!” Matthew snapped, already annoyed and too tired to fight. “It’s my favourite sport!” He stared down at the black ink of caffeine in the mug. “Maybe not anymore.”
“You could stand to be a bit more like me, you know,” Alfred muttered. He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “It wouldn’t kill you to relax a little bit. In fact, it might just save your life.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, anyway,” Matthew said in an undertone. He’d been kicked off the hockey team, and now, he was likely going to get expelled. Nothing at all mattered. He’d had the noose of accomplishment on his neck his entire life, and now it had come undone. He was free.
“What do you mean?” Alfred squinted. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter anymore?”
Matthew didn’t answer. He pivoted, instead. “What are you doing home in the middle of the day?”
“Dad suggested it. Someone had to watch over you, we couldn’t have a repeat of yesterday.”
Shame flooded Matthew’s face. He covered his eyes with his hands. “I’m so sorry it came to this. I’m so sorry.”
“Mattie,” Alfred sighed. “It’s okay, dude. You’re saving me from a day of listening to assholes like Kyle.”
“Who’s Kyle?’
“Oh my god, Kyle.” The kitchen was starting to smell of freshly baked cookies. Alfred poured himself a coffee and pulled up a chair. “Where do I even begin?”
Hi Matthew,
We need to talk about your future at this university.
Could you come in, sometime this week?
Thanks.
Matthew told nobody. He didn’t know why. His parents would certainly find out when Matthew failed to graduate with the rest of his cohort. They’d know, when the plaster came off and Matthew didn’t resume classes. They’d be furious. They’d be so disappointed. They’d never forgive him. Matthew was such a waste of fucking space—how could he tell them something like that? Where was he supposed to find that kind of courage? How could he confess and watch the love leave their eyes? He was supposed to be on top of this. This was his education, his future, his responsibility. How could he have let them down so badly?
So, Matthew told nobody. He waited for a few days, until his parents finally felt safe at the thought of leaving him home alone again. Alfred had to go to work anyway, and while Matthew had feared his parents would be overprotective—especially Papa—he had managed to convince them to back off a bit. (“I thought I could handle it, but this migraine was much worse than I expected. If it ever happens again, I’ll tell you guys first thing. I’m so sorry, I love you so much, I promise I’ll take better care of myself.”)
Matthew took an Uber to the university. The sheer normalcy on campus was disorienting. He’d been out of commission for weeks, and his life had been nothing but pain and ennui ever since, but the world was moving on regardless. It really didn’t matter, did it? It didn’t matter that Matthew had been injured on the ice. It didn’t matter that he was going to get expelled. In the grand scheme of things, none of this crap that he cared so much about, mattered.
Hello Matthew, check in with us, please, or we’ll all panic. How are you feeling?
It was Dad. He sighed as he typed, I’m not home.
-What?!
-Are you trying to give me a heart attack mon chou!!!
-Dude mattie what lol???
-Um, yeah, a friend of mine had a birthday and i was feeling kinda lonely and bored so i took an uber. Matthew stared at the message a little longer, then added, i’ll be back home soon though! I’ll probs catch a ride with the others. It’s good to see them all :) Oh, i’ve reached now! Love you! Bye!
He didn’t feel too bad about the white lie. He just didn’t want them to come home to check on him or something and find him missing.
“Mattie?”
He turned to the voice. Silver-haired, crimson-eyed, with a t-shirt clinging to his biceps, Gilbert strode over. He was grinning like a fox, a backpack hanging off his shoulder in a display of casual college ease. “Dude, Mattie!” he cried, “You’re up! Why didn’t you tell me you were here? Can I hug you?”
“Hey, Gilbert,” Matthew said softly. “I’d love to hug you but I’m a little scared I’ll keel over.”
“Ah.” Gilbert glanced down at the crutches. His grin melted to an understanding smile. “No worries! Where are you going? Are you back at classes? We should eat! Are you free today?” He leaned closer. “By the way,” he whispered, “I have the stuff. If you want to do that later.”
“Oh, really?” Matthew swallowed a bubble of apprehension. He was habitually conditioned to say no to weed. He had always been curious to try it, but he’d also always been bound by the rules of the sport. But now it doesn’t matter. And the pain in his foot was so constant, so tiring. And he’d asked Gilbert, right? So why not just do it? There were no consequences anymore. None whatsoever. “Yeah,” he grinned. “Okay, yeah, let’s do that. I have to finish off some business here, but afterwards?”
“Sure. I’m done with classes, just text me! I’ll come fetch you in my car so we don’t have to walk.”
“Oh, thanks, yeah perfect.”
It was a long meeting. Or it felt longer because Matthew was so disgusted by their attitude. His professors were all there, along with his academic advisor and the head of the department. They were talking about his poor grades, his unfinished assignments, his negligent attendance record. “It was because I was constantly at hockey practice,” Matthew said, though he knew it was futile. He had to make a case at least. “Because I was trying to do my best to win games for this university. And I’m not saying my academic record wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t an expulsion-worthy offence until after I got kicked out of the hockey team.”
“This is a university, at the end of the day. You’re here to study.”
“Yes, it’s all well and good to play sports, Lord knows it’s good to be fit…”
“But academics come first.”
“And it’s just not good enough to spend all your time at university having fun.”
“Having fun?” Matthew repeated. “I’m sorry, what part of nearly bleeding to death sounds fun to you? You think I’ve been having fun these last few weeks? Do you have any idea the pain I’ve been in?”
“Well, then you should have tried harder to avoid getting bodychecked. Right?” The department head raised his eyebrow.
“Oh, so it’s my fault I got hurt.”
“I’m saying that clearly, all those so-called practices didn’t amount to anything when push came to shove. Literally.” He had the audacity to look sympathetic. “I’m sorry Matthew, but with this kind of academic performance, I can’t let you graduate. It wouldn’t be fair to the other students.”
Matthew just stood. He gripped his crutches harder than he needed to, and he eyed them all with his dirtiest glare. “You guys…none of you guys…would last five minutes in a student-athletes’s shoes. None of you. So I’m not going to sit around and listen to you condescend to me anymore. You want to expel me? Fine. Do it.”
And it was so freeing, so blissfully freeing, to leave that office and its noose behind.
Matthew was on his own now. He stood in the sun and watched students pass him by. They had tests, assignments, standards, consequences, pressures, demands—
—and he could breathe. None of it mattered. None of it mattered anymore.
“You’re not doing this right.”
Gilbert’s dorm room was surprisingly tidy. Matthew didn’t know what else he expected, really, but they were sprawled out on his bed with a large bag of potato chips, as Matthew tried very hard to inhale from the bud. There was more to this than he’d previously expected. He’d never smoked a cigarette before, so he didn’t know what to do. He inhaled deeply from the roach, but the second he took a puff, it left his lips in a plume of thick smoke. Gilbert, stuffing crisps into his mouth, just kept laughing.
He wasn’t getting high with Matthew. As promised, he was “keeping an eye” on him. “I’m not going to let you smoke the whole thing,” he’d said when they started. “You’re so new to this, I’m sure you’ll just fall asleep. So I’ll roll you the J and you start with a little bit and when I tell you to stop, you stop, ja?” he’d said, and Matthew had no problem going along with that. It was nice not to be in control, for once. Someone else could deal with the responsible parts of being alive.
Now, however, Matthew had taken four puffs and inhaled virtually none of it. He giggled, anyway. It was embarrassing, but also hilarious. How could he not do what every stoner in the world could? “Am I supposed to feel light? Am I supposed to hallucinate?” he laughed.
“Are you? Are you feeling light? Are you hallucinating?”
“I’m feeling pretty normal. Though…” he stared at his plaster. “Though, you know, I think that’s hurting a little less.”
“Okay, good. You want to stop now?”
“What? No, why? Let’s keep going until the pain stops.”
Gilbert regarded him closely, that grin fading a bit. “You know, Matt, I’m all for experimentation. I mean, I’m no stoner, but it helps me unwind sometimes, but I feel like…ugh…I don’t know if I have the right to say this, but it feels like you’re not doing this with good intentions.”
“What do you mean?” Matthew tried another puff. He coughed into his elbow and snickered at his own incompetence.
“I mean, there’s something a little self-destructive in this whole thing, so if you don’t mind, I think you should take a break for now.” He reached out and pried the joint out of Matthew’s hands. He snuffed it out in the ashtray. Matthew stared at the blunt, half-burnt, half-wasted. He knew he wasn’t really high, because if he were, he wouldn’t be so irritated.
“Can I take that home, you think?” he asked Gilbert quietly.
“No, you can’t.”
“I’ll pay you for it.”
Gilbert narrowed his eyes.
“I mean, I’m sure I owe you anyway, right? How much was it?”
“Matthew,” he smiled, “relax, okay? Have some potato chips and we can watch a movie. What do you want to watch?”
God, not movies again. Matthew was sick of movies. His life consisted of nothing but movies and failure. “Okay.” He sat up and rubbed his face. “Well, I think I’ll go, then.”
“Dude, Mattie,” Gilbert let out a nervous laugh. “Just relax. If you don’t want to watch a movie, we could talk. What’s been up?”
“What’s been up,” Matthew parrotted. He grabbed a handful of chips. He stuffed them in his mouth, internally recoiling at the taste of stale industrial cooking oil and salt. He chewed them into little shards, and it felt like he was eating glass. He swallowed. “Well, I got kicked off the hockey team and expelled from university, so mostly just that.”
“Wait, what?”
“Yes,” Matthew replied evenly, almost feeling pleasure at the shock on Gilbert’s face. This was how it was going to feel when he told his parents. This astonishment, this disappointment. It felt like picking at an itch. It hurt less this way, to do it to himself. “I was kicked out, because I’m just a fucking idiot who can’t pass a class. I’m a fucking idiot who got bodied and nearly dropped dead. I’m just a fucking idiot and I don’t care anymore. So please, Gilbert, can I have that blunt? I really, really don’t need any more pain.”
Gilbert just got up and took the blunt away. “This is exactly what I thought was going on. I’m not going to let you spin out like this. So why don’t I order us some burgers, and we can eat and chill and watch some TV, and talk about your shit if you want to—”
“I’m not doing any of that.” Matthew grabbed his crutches. “Look, thanks Gilbert. I really appreciate it. And let me know how much it cost, I’ll pay you back. But I’m sick of TV and I’m not talking about my feelings,” he added with a sneer and an eye-roll. “I’m just going to go home.” He whipped his phone out and opened Uber. “Thanks though, Gil. Really, thank you.”
“Matt—”
“Oh, cool, my Uber’s only two minutes away.”
“You could not have booked it that fast.”
“Bye, Gil!”
The fresh air was bracing and hit him in the face. Matthew immediately knew he wasn’t nearly as high as he’d hoped. Not only was his mind clear, but the pain in his leg wasn’t as numbed as he thought it was. It had awoken again, screaming at his nerves, and Matthew gritted his teeth and dealt with it, as usual. He feared Gilbert would come running down to stop him, but he didn’t. Technically, he had no reason to. Matthew wasn’t doing anything crazy. He was just going home. He didn’t even have that stupid doob on him, so Gil had no reason to freak out. Everything was fine. Everything was always fine because Matthew was in control.
The Uber came and he got in. For about fifteen minutes, Matthew stewed in silence and thought about the uproar there’d be at home, when his parents found out about the expulsion. He thought about the trophies in the living room, and how they were just monuments of garbage. Matthew ached to wrap his fingers around them, to break them against a wall, to throw the pieces in the trash. They were meaningless. Nothing mattered.
Then the car sped over a bump. Matthew’s plaster jolted against the floor and the pain shot right up into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. A stream of expletives, and Matthew had curled in on himself, blinking back tears.
“You okay, sir?” the driver asked.
“Pull over. Pull over now.”
The car stopped at the side of the highway and Matthew forced out three deep breaths. The pain was a hundred times worse, the dizzying monstrosity. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right. What had he done to deserve this?
No, he wouldn’t accept it anymore. He wouldn’t accept it!
“Is there a pharmacy nearby?” he rasped.
“Yes, there’s a strip mall just off the highway. It’s a bit seedy, but I know there’s a pharmacy there.”
“Okay, please take me there.” Matthew pulled out his phone, opened his email. He just had to find his prescription.
The strip mall was really quite an odd place. There was a pharmacy and a grocery store, but many of the shops were shuttered. A dingy old bar with flickering neon lights made him turn his head away, lest it trigger a migraine. Inside the pharmacy, a couple of shady characters were looking through a shelf of condoms. They glanced his way, sizing him up, and Matthew just ignored them. He walked straight ahead.
Matthew showed his prescription to the pharmacist. “Can I get the…um, the Oxycodone there?”
She narrowed her eyes. Her gaze went all over him, but then she glanced at the prescription and looked up something on her computer. “So, this prescription was already filled. I can’t help you, sir.”
“Look,” Matthew’s patience was running thin. “I’m not a drug addict. I fractured my leg in a hockey match, okay? My dad threw out the original prescription, and I’m in a lot of pain, so please just help me out here.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t.”
“Do I look like an addict to you?”
“Look, kid,” she snapped, “you’re reeking of marijuana. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
If it was astonishment, despair, or fury, Matthew didn’t know. He turned away and left, the cocktail of volatile emotions burning in his throat. How did it come to this? How had any of this happened?
“Hey, kid.”
Matthew jumped. It was the shady guys from the store. They’d followed him out. Matthew was waving down his Uber driver, not daring to look at them. “Leave me alone.”
“You said you wanted Oxys?”
He paused. Half-turned. This was such a bad idea. “I’m not buying Oxycodone off some randoms in a dilapidated strip mall, but thanks.”
One of them laughed, sticking up his hands. “Relax, buddy. We just thought you wanted a little pain relief. Hockey injury, you said? What position did you play?”
Matthew knew better than to engage. He knew better than to—“Forward.”
“Ah. I had a brother who played a Forward.” He smiled at Matthew, almost warmly. “Concussions fucked him up, of course. And some busted bones. He told me that Oxy really helped him. Now I have a friend in there,” he gestured with his head to the seedy bar, “who can help you out.”
“I don’t have cash.”
“ATM’s right there, kid.” And there it was, an ATM outside the bar.
The Uber pulled up on the sidewalk, and Matthew knew he should have jumped in. Knew it. He was playing such a dangerous game, a game he was not cut out for. God. Fuck. Matthew stared at him. “I just need a little. Just until my leg heals.”
“Tell you what, kid,” he said, “I could probably give you a little for free right now.”
The pills. The cash. The lights. The booze. Matthew knew he was falling. He knew what he was doing was dangerous and wrong and bad. He knew he was tempting fate with the decisions he was making. But it didn’t matter anymore. He’d been so good, for what? What had his compliance accomplished? People younger than him had done worse things. People younger than him had lived a little more. So if this was a spiral, perhaps he could ride its tailwinds. Perhaps he could see where he was now allowed to go.
“Are you Matthew?”
“...Who?”
“Are you Matthew?”
“Yeah…yeah, I think so…”
“Mierda.”
Matthew awoke. Somehow, waking up feeling like hell was becoming a theme. He blinked and sat up on an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar apartment, with unfamiliar voices filtering from the next room. He sat up, or tried to—the whole room spun like a boat in choppy waters. His crutches were propped against the wall but when he tried reaching for them, his arms were heavy and uncoordinated. He felt half-submerged in a dream.
The door burst open and Gilbert entered. Matthew saw his handsome face break into relief—and then, immediately, fury. “Are you FUCKING stupid ?” he roared, and two pairs of footsteps raced after him. Matthew couldn’t recognise the men who entered. One was taller, with curly brown hair and green eyes. He was holding a spatula and wearing an apron. The other man, shorter and skinnier, with an intense stare and a wayward curl in his hair, gently eased past Gilbert and approached Matthew.
“How do you feel?” he demanded, and his voice was soft but commandeering.
“I…” Matthew squinted. “Um, not great. I don’t know. Real fuzzy.”
“Yeah, of course you’re fucking fuzzy,” Gilbert hollered. He was pacing. Arms in the air like he was wrestling a ghost. “Do you know how dangerous Oxy from the street is? It can be impure! Have you fucking heard of fentanyl, you absolute prick? And you took some random fucking pills with alcohol, are you insane or stupid or suicidal, which is it?”
“Ay, Gilbert,” said the man in the apron.
“Don’t ‘Ay, Gilbert’, me, Antonio, man. You know if he died, we’d be fucking liable here. You would. Because you found him.” Gilbert whipped back to Matthew. “And you were on crutches, too, so fucking anything could have happened and you couldn’t have run away. Seriously, Matthew, that’s the most irresponsible nonsense I’ve ever heard of—”
“Gilbert.” The smaller guy stood, turning to him. “Either calm down, or fuck off.”
“Don’t tell me to fuck off, Lovino—”
“Gil, come on.” The man named Antonio put a hand on his arm and led him out. “Let Lovi take care of him, yeah? Come on, I’ll make you some tea…” Antonio shut the door and Lovino rolled his eyes.
“Matthew,” he said, “first of all, lie the fuck back down.”
And there was something in his voice that just made Matthew obey.
“I’m Lovino,” he said. “I’m a med student. My boyfriend Antonio works as a bartender at that place you were at, that strip mall? Do you…do you remember what happened?”
That was the thing—Matthew didn’t. He’d been concussed four times but he’d never lost time in quite this way. He felt lethargic and vaguely nauseated, but there was a blank space in his head that explained why. The last thing he remembered was going to the strip mall to buy Oxycodone.
Oxycodone.
Wait, what the hell had happened?
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I think I took some pills from some guy.”
“Yeah.” Lovino’s expression turned hard with disapproval. “Antonio watched the sale. I hate that he works there, because the customers are so shady, but it’s close to our apartment and Toni needs the money, so…well, anyway, he saw you take the pills, swallow some, and then one of those guys offered you a beer. And you drank it. Do you understand what you did, there? You mixed street Oxy with alcohol. Gilbert is right—you’re fucking lucky you didn’t die of a fentanyl overdose.”
“I seem to be cheating death a lot lately,” Matthew murmured.
“Uh-huh.” Lovino stood. “Anyway, Toni thought he recognised you because Gilbert, his best friend, showed him a picture of you.”
“Wait…what?” Matthew squinted. “Why?”
“Why did he show Toni a picture of you? Well, I think he has a crush on you, but that’s by the by. Anyway, so Antonio got you to our apartment,” he gestured around the room.
“Did I OD?”
Lovino actually laughed. It was a hollow, exhausted kind of laugh, and it made Matthew feel sicker. “No, you didn’t,” he said. “But only because you’ve got someone in your corner up there,” and he pointed to the ceiling. Matthew wasn’t sure he believed in god, but he was grateful to have been afforded two miracles already. “Also, your family has been calling like crazy—”
“Oh fuck, my family—” Matthew’s stomach nearly fell to his ankles. “What did you tell them?”
“I was all for telling them the God’s honest truth,” Lovino muttered. “They were talking about some cock-and-bull you spun about going to a friend’s birthday. Gilbert told them you were tired and that you had decided to stay over, and that you were already asleep. But I take it they’ve been worried sick.” Lovino went to the dresser and picked up his phone, which he tossed to Matthew. Matthew tried to catch it, but his limbs wouldn’t listen. “Yeah,” said Lovino, as the phone flopped uselessly onto the pillow, “it’ll take a while for the effects to wear off.”
“I need to get home! How long was I out?”
“All night.”
Matthew picked up his phone. It took several minutes to unlock it and open his chats with his uncooperative fingers. The group chat was filled with a stream of increasingly hysterical messages from his parents. Alfred had sent a stream of texts demanding to know where he was. The last one simply read, mattie, they’re freaking the fuck out and i’m having to calm them down. please call
“I’m going to get you something to eat if you can stomach it,” Lovino said, leaving the room. Matthew didn’t respond—he just called Alfred.
His brother answered on the first ring.
“Matthew, what the fuck.”
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said automatically.
“You sound…weird, you okay?”
He swallowed. Was he slurring or something? He couldn’t tell. “I’m fine. Sorry, I…yeah, I’m fine.”
“I spoke to Gilbert? Gilbert from grade school? I didn’t even know you guys were still friends. He’d said you were just sleeping. Did you get drunk or something?” Alfred’s voice was odd, somewhere between concern and amusement. “Don’t let Dad and Pops find out, there’s still a couple of weeks to go before we’re twenty-one.”
“I didn’t get drunk,” Matthew lied. “I don’t know, I guess I was more tired than I realised.”
“When are you getting home? Because Pops was so stressed about you last night that he woke up at two am and baked sixty-four croissants.”
“What? How? Our oven isn’t that big.”
“I don’t know, man, but when you wake up and find every free inch of space in the kitchen covered by an army of croissants, you know something’s going on. Not to mention, Dad—he was all snarly and shouty and nitpicky, like he gets when he’s anxious, and—” Alfred let out a frustrated sigh. “Can you just come home? I’m tired of keeping the peace.”
“Gosh, Alfred.” He screwed his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be home soon, I’m leaving now.”
Gilbert drove him back. And it was the most awkward drive of his life. Matthew offered to take an Uber again, but was shot down immediately by a fuming Gil. “I’m going to make sure you get home in one piece,” he growled. “You’re not pulling the same stunt twice.”
In the car Matthew kept his head pressed against the window, awake but groggy. Lovino had made him eat some plain toast. His boyfriend Antonio kept to a corner of the kitchen, watching him with huge eyes and an expression that betrayed uncertainty. Gilbert was eerily quiet now.
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said. “I shouldn’t have done that. Any of that. It was fucked up. I shouldn’t have put you and your friends in that position. There’s no excuse.”
“You need help,” Gilbert said shortly.
“I swear, I don’t have an addiction or anything. It was just…” Matthew grimaced at himself. “A one-time, non-repeating bad mistake.”
“No, I don’t mean recovery help, I mean fucking therapy, you idiot.” Gilbert glanced over at him, then glared back at the road. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, I don’t know how you’re wired anymore, but getting injured and expelled would mess with anyone’s head, and you need to deal with it instead of buying pills off some creeper in the middle of nowhere.”
“I did that because I was in pain,” Matthew murmured.
“Right. And therapy—”
“No, like, literal pain.” Matthew glanced down at his plaster. He couldn’t feel the hurt anymore. It was distant and dull, like a cavity that hadn’t burrowed deep yet. It was so much quieter than the fog horn agony he felt near constantly. “My Dad threw out my original prescription of Oxy, and I’ve been in so much pain ever since. They just expect me to ignore it. And I know it was done out of concern, but,” Matthew’s voice wavered. He wiped away a stray tear. “I don’t know. I guess I feel like…the day I fell on the ice…like, I’m still falling.”
Gilbert said nothing for minutes. “Look, Matthew,” he said at last, “It’s not my place to give you advice. But I will say that I’ve seen friends get hooked, seen them die. And you’re fooling around with something you don’t understand. So if you’re feeling this way, maybe, instead of taking matters into your own hands, you should talk to your parents.”
Matthew chuckled. “Yeah, I can’t…” he swallowed. “I can’t do that.”
“Why? From what you told me, they seem nice.”
“They’re lovely,” he said, because they were, truly. “But they’re not going to understand any of this.”
“Come on, your dad’s in finance. I guarantee you, that guy has seen a cocaine rager or two in his time.”
“What? I don’t think—” Matthew shook his head. “I’m not even getting into that. No, I mean, they won’t understand what I’m going through because they’ve spent their whole lives just…coping. Dealing with things. They’ve survived by being tougher than the rest. Smarter. More hard-working. When I was in hospital, and I found out I’d never play hockey again, they basically said it wasn’t the end of the world because I could still complete my education and get a job.”
“...Yikes.”
“They didn’t mean to be dismissive, I think they were being comforting, actually.”
“Double yikes,” Gilbert muttered.
“They’re the best at what they do,” Matthew went on. “They don’t accept anything less from other people. So they will not understand how I’m struggling to…to just handle myself, anymore.” He blinked back more stupid tears. “I used to be really good at that, you know? Handling myself? I don’t—I don’t know why I can’t do that anymore. It feels like something inside me, something I could depend on, some kind of strength or resolve, is gone. Why else can’t I deal with the pain?” He blinked up at Gilbert. “I’ve been hurt before. Badly hurt. I’ve had bruised ribs and concussions and broken arms. I’ve been so tired I could barely stand, yet I’ve managed to win my games. So why isn’t it working anymore? Why can’t I just—why can’t I just soldier on?” Matthew could see his house coming into view. His heart sank. He tried desperately to dry his eyes. “Thanks,” he said as the car pulled over.
“What for?”
“For not ratting me out. For driving me home. For listening. For offering the weed and then taking it away, too.”
Gilbert snorted at the last one. “I’ll get high with you any time you’re not going to combust on me.”
“After yesterday, I don’t even want to take the rum in a rum chocolate. Pure sobriety, that’s the way forward for me.”
“I can respect that,” Gilbert smiled. “Good luck at home.”
“Thanks,” Matthew said again, grimly, as he opened the car door. “I’m going to need it.”