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Mattie

Yandere Canada/Reader — A memoir of your college days.

The prequel to No Compromises

⚠️ Yandere content, heavy emotional manipulation, self-harm, stalking, noncon, somnophilia, smut, no use of Y/N, gender neutral reader (though you do cosplay a female character for Halloween), emetophobia, perversion of religion.

A/N: WE'RE SO FUCKING BACK 😭 happy one year anniversary to the first fic, and thank you all so much for waiting!!!

-----

You've started to get sick of hearing your own name.

Your head turns, your forehead feeling tight and thin in the effort to try and keep up a kindly appearance. You turn to face the man who called your name, even if you immediately knew who it was the moment you heard his quiet footsteps. You're not sure how you even noticed despite the bustling atmosphere of your classroom.

"Yes, Mattie?"

Like always, to the point it's almost annoying, his breath catches in his throat, and his pupils dilate at the sight of you. His cheeks are pink, always have been, at least only around you.

"Oh, hi– Can we– C-Can we hang out again after class?"

You sigh through your nose, "I don't know why you're so nervous, Mattie, this is the eighth time you asked this week. And it's only Friday."

His body hiccups at the revelation of how clingy he sounds. Nervously, his long fingers adjust his glasses. "R-Right. Is that a no?" He asks as he fumbles with the buttons on the sleeves of his shirt.

As your eyebrows crease in the slightest to think, you ponder over your options. This Matthew guy has been all over you for around a few months now, relentlessly sticking to you like sap. He means well, you tell yourself, and if it ever annoys you, you convince yourself it's your own fault for ever asking him for directions. It's your fault for picking him because he looked kind in your eyes, your fault for continuing to accept his help when your day kept going wrong, because ever since then, he'd rarely ever give you any time by yourself or with anyone else.

"Just turn him down!" Your friends would say, and at that you'd contest that it isn't as easy as they think, at which they would remind you that your empathy had always been your Achilles' heel.

Matthew was not an unremarkable man by any means, he was kind, hygienic, and punctual, which is already an incredible feat when you consider the metric you have for other men. Besides being a decent man, he was attractive, intelligent, soft-spoken with a nerdy twang, all traits that should make him incredibly likeable, yet it felt like the world kept glossing over him, and you couldn't understand why. Your friends didn't even know who he was until you spoke of him one day.

He was the kind of person who sort of blended into the background, never in any circles, rarely ever thought of, seldom spoken to. You thought you would crumple in on yourself when, one day, you asked Matthew why he always hangs around you, with a bit more bite to your tone than intended, and he simply replied; "I don't even know anyone else."

You felt a strange sense of responsibility over him. If no one will witness him, who will? To feel human is to feel seen, and it always pains you when you think of how lonely Matthew's life must have been before that fated day you asked him where your first class was.

"... Yeah, sure, we can hang." You finally let up, sighing with a tired smile on your face. That warm grin he gives you always feels like such a nice treat after sacrificing more of your time to him. Guilt settles slightly in your stomach when it dawns on you that you might be allowing him so much leeway just because you find him cute.

"Y-Yeah? Oh, thank god." Matthew breathes out happily, looking like he was absolutely glowing. He pushes his glasses up his tall nose, "Um, I-I'll take you to my place? We can do whatever you want, honestly. I don't mind anything." He rushes this out with a fervor that comes off as a little creepy. His teeth catch his lower lip as he looks at you in anticipation.

You hum and stuff your hands into the pockets of your coat—Well, his coat that he gave you. It's a nice coat, a nice, sandy beige trench coat with a simple plaid pattern on the inner linings. It sat warmly and loosely around your shoulders.

He gave it to you after your first day of classes. It was pouring outside, neither of you had an umbrella, but he decided to provide you his coat anyways. He went home that day soaked from head to toe, sneezing, but with the biggest smile on his face he's had in years.

When you tried to return it, he was already wearing another coat, and insisted you keep it. From the look in his eyes and the way his hands tremble, you can tell he absolutely adores the look of you in his clothing. You felt a little evil right now, truth be told, feeling like you were taking advantage of this man who was so clearly wrapped around your finger.

"Wanna binge-watch something?" You suggest, "Was thinking of the Sam Raimi Spiderman movies. They were fun." Matthew nods eagerly, "O-Of course!"

You give him a tight-lipped smile, "Alright then, I'll see ya after class, Mattie. You should go now, you'll be late to yours."

He returns your smile with much more enthusiasm than you have shown, "Yeah, yeah, um, just– Thank you so much. I'll see you." He's visibly giddy even when he walks off, and the universe decides to only add to your guilt when someone bumps into him on his way out, not having even noticed his presence.

-----

"Ah, damn, I shoulda brought some extra clothes before coming over." You curse, while Matthew stared in mortification after spilling water on your jeans. He's sputtering like he's begging for his life, and you have to quickly bring him back down.

"Hey, hey, calm down! It's just water, Matthew." You laugh lightheartedly, "It's just uncomfortable at most, is all."

His lower lip quivers, you called him by his full name instead of the nickname he's come to see as a term of endearment. He's nervous. "I can– I-I can dry them off for you. I'll give you some pants to borrow." And before you could even say anything in response, he scrambles to his feet and runs off to his bedroom, quickly returning with a pair of black sweatpants.

"Here, um, I dunno if y-your underwear's wet," his voice drastically lowers in volume as he says those last two part, like a child saying a cuss word, "but, uh, I-I've got some boxers you can borrow, too." He nervously readjusts his glasses, his mouth running faster than he can think.

"Please." You request, just about as embarrassed as he is, but you knew if you showed any weakness you two would be bumbling messes the rest of the night. He nods and almost trips over his own feet running back to his room.

Truth be told, Matthew is absolutely fucking ecstatic that things are going so well for him right now. Of course it was a mistake that he spilled the water on you, but now it's the thing he's most grateful for this week. He gets to see you in more of his clothes, in his boxers, for christ's sake! You know how sharing straws or cups or utensils would be called an indirect kiss? So, of course, just the thought of sharing underwear and what it implies makes his heart beat way too hard for what it is.

Admittedly, he's having a bit of an underwear shortage right now, since he's had to keep changing them, always leaking way too much precum in your presence. He knows it's a little excessive, but he's so self-conscious about things like his appearance and his hygiene that he can't help but fuss over it. He fetches the newest, freshest pair he's got, and returns to you. You take it graciously, and as you change in the bathroom, Matthew wonders if he can snag your spent underwear and indulge a little later when he has to excuse himself to the bathroom.

-----

Matthew glances sidelong at you, studying your serene, happy expression with your eyes on the TV screen.

"You seem to really like this movie."

You are snapped out of your stupor by his observation, and let out a small, embarrassed laugh at being caught at such a vulnerable moment.

"Oh, well, yeah, 'course I do. I think it's also just cause I really like Spiderman."

"Is he your favorite superhero?" Matthew asks, pulling his long legs onto the couch, resting his elbow on the backrest, and facing you with his cheek resting on his palm.

You nod, meeting his gaze for a moment, his heart skips a beat, then you return your attention to the screen. "Yeah, he's cool. I like Peter Parker more than I like Spiderman, though."

Matthew pouts slightly, trying to keep his voice playful, "What, is he your type, or something?"

You snort, "You could say that!"

The moue on his lips deepen, and he begins to compare himself to said character. Matthew is also an awkward, nerdy white boy who tends to get walked all over. He wonders if, just maybe, he was your type, too. He's always been down on his luck, but maybe it's finally turned around, and by some divine blessing, his upbringing and its resulting personality made him just a little more likeable to you.

"I kinda relate to him." Matthew mumbles, and it captures your attention.

"Huh, you're right," you agree bluntly, looking him over as if you're seeing him for the first time, "surprised I never made the connection before."

A shy smile replaces the troubled frown on his face, and there it goes again, that feeling of gratification from making him smile.

"Halloween's coming up." You suggest teasingly, turning your full attention to him and mirroring his pose.

"Mhm?" He hums, slightly oblivious.

"You'd suit it well, cosplaying him." You clarify.

Matthew's cheeks redden. "A-Ah, really now?" He rubs the nape of his neck bashfully, his honey blond curls brushing against his knuckles.

"Yeah! It'd be super fun." You try to goad him on.

"It's such an embarrassing thing to wear, though..." Matthew whines, before a thought pacifies him. He glances away for a moment, then continues eye contact. "I'll do it if we match." He boldly bargains.

"Shall I be Green Goblin?" You laugh, and Matthew whines louder, which in turn makes your noise graduate into a cackle.

"Nooo! I want you to be Mary Jane."

You blush. "Well that's not very flashy or embarrassing at all. How will that comfort you?"

"You'll be with me."

He always knew exactly how to tug at your heartstrings.

"... I'll think about it. I'll update you in a few business days."

Matthew rolls his eyes and laughs, hitting you with a throw pillow as weakly as possible.

-----

As the night comes to a close, you find yourself instinctively growing more and more nervous with the knowledge you'll have to say goodbye to Matthew soon. Not because it's late, or because you'd miss him, but because you knew exactly what would happen once you'd try to return to your home. You glance at the clock one more time, before taking a deep breath and speaking up.

"Hey, uh, I should probably get going."

And like always, the soft smile drops from his face chillingly.

"... Oh, really?" Matthew breathes out quietly, sounding almost ghoulish.

You grit your teeth and feel a tightness in your head as you anticipate his next words.

"Can't you... can't you stay for a little longer? Can you stay the night?" He pleads. His voice is pathetic. Fragile. Decrepit. Pitiful.

"No, I'm sorry." You reply curtly, with as much sternness as you allowed yourself. You knew you had to be strict, that you had to show you weren't fooling around, but you felt like you were kicking him when he was already at his lowest, and you couldn't stomach that thought.

Matthew's eyes well up with tears, his violet eyes twinkling with the reflections of the warm lamps in his apartment. You were screwed.

"But I..." His voice shakes a little, "I want you around. I'll be lonely. Can't we spend a little more time together? Just a bit. We can watch one more movie, then I'll let you go." This was a lie. He knew this. He'd try and keep you as long as he could long after said movie was done.

Running a hand through your hair, you duck your head slightly to try and hide the frustrated expression on your face. "No, Matthew." There it is, the lack of a nickname, and his heart breaks again. Normally you'd be elated that the weekend would begin tomorrow, but right now, you cursed it since it didn't leave you with many excuses to avoid Matthew. "I've, uh, got some errands to run."

"I can come with you. It'll be more fun if we do it together, right? You can sleep here and we'll go and do them first thing in the morning." He's practically arguing at this point, but his soft tone of voice makes it sound more like begging than anything else.

You could barely hold back the hint of a groan in your voice. "No, Matt– Come on, I could just come over again some other time. I'd rather be alone tonight."

In response, Matthew's pitiful, pretty face scrunches up in hurt, and he lets out a quiet, pained noise as a few tears roll down his freckled cheeks.

"Why? Did I do something wrong?" He chokes out through the painful lump in his tightening throat, "I-I'm sorry– What did I do? I'll make it up to you. Don't– Don't leave yet, you need to let me apologise properly first."

Before you even have the thought to start rising from your seat on his couch, his long, cold fingers wrap around your wrist, and keep you from leaving.

"Let me, let me, please–" He begs weakly, and your irritation from all his dramatics, his crying, his grovelling, his incessant whining—it catches up to you, and this time, an irritated groan cuts through his wobbly ramblings

"Oh my god, could you just let me have a weekend alone for once, Matt?!" You snap, and you visibly recoil at the way Matthew flinches and looks like his heart had just been ripped out.

With a gulp that was a little hard to force down, you continue with a thick, shaky voice, trying meaninglessly to mend the emotional damage you had dealt him. "Please, dude, you've– You've been taking up all my time this past month, a-and I really just need some time away."

It's like he heard nothing you said, and the only idea that was clear to him was; "I've gotten tired of you, and I don't want you anymore."

"... Do you hate me now?" Matthew whimpers, sniffling and hiccuping openly, just letting his tears roll down his flushed cheeks and drip off his thin jaw. He hoped that the heartbreaking sight would coax some sympathy from you, even though he knew it always did.

He has to hold back a relieved laugh when he sees your fingers twitch, hesitating to comfort him, but you give in anyways, pulling his glasses off his face, and wiping his tears away with the heel of your palm.

The gesture wasn't the most gentle. It was a little callous, maybe even done out of pity rather than love, but the act meant you cared either way, and just the thought makes Matthew smile warmly and nuzzle his wet face against your palm.

"No, I don't hate you, I–"

"Then why do you wanna leave me?" His glossed lower lip trembles as he argues this, as if it were a valid point.

You let out a strained sigh, and comb his wavy hair back with your fingers before settling them back on his lap, where his trembling, clammy hands immediately hold onto yours. The sight of them slightly dwarfing yours remind you of how strange the situation is, but it also makes you feel relieved. He was larger than you, but, still, he showed you docility. Like a large dog with attachment issues.

"Matthew." You say sternly, and he whimpers like a kicked puppy at the coldness in your tone, "At least for the weekend. That's just two days."

His mouth keeps opening and closing, trying to find some bullshit logic to dispute your reasoning with, but he can't find anything besides just outright begging you to stay solely because he feels like he could die without you by his side.

Despite all his docility—Rather, because of his docility, Matthew has come to use less than noble methods to get you chained to him instead of using brutish violence.

"I... I'm not good at taking care of myself." He whispers hoarsely, "I'll do something stupid again."

Your gaze immediately softens with worry when you realise what he was implying, and your gaze unconsciously drifts down to his slender forearms, and the thin scars that littered along it like ladders.

Matthew can't help a small, victorious smirk this time, but due to his tragic state, it looked more like a desperate, pleading smile. A smile in the attempt to appear strong.

"Hey, hey, no, c'mon..." You mutter softly, all your previous irritation dissipating and being replaced with that terrible kindness Matthew loved exploiting just to keep your eyes on him.

"I... I-I've been having a lot of stress from my thesis paper, and the bullying, a-and you're the only one I have." His voice cracks shamefully at the end of that confession, but he presses on. It was a good thing, anyways. All it would do was just make you dote on him more. "I just wanted to spend more time with you. You make me happy. Really happy."

You knew you'd scold yourself for this, come some time after he eventually wins you over. He always manages to, so you find yourself crumbling under all his guilt-tripping and the use of those damned puppy eyes of his.

You hesitate, glancing at the door for a moment, and his heart sinks, immediately squeezing your hands to pull your attention back to him.

"Please, you're all I have." Matthew begs, with a sincerity and adoration so genuine that it hurts him, and makes a few more twinkling tears spill from his glistening eyes.

With an uneasy look on your face, you finally relent. Immediately, a shaky, bright grin spreads on his flushed, dripping face, and you hate how the sight makes your heart flutter.

-----

Nights spent with Matthew are surprisingly normal, despite the messy altercations that usually preceded them.

Somehow, he's manipulated you into thinking that sharing a bed with him was something completely normal and innocent, despite his very obvious attraction to you.

"My couch isn't that comfortable."

"I don't own any other blankets besides the one in my bed."

"You'll get cold. I can keep you warm."

"You can have all my pillows. Y-You can cuddle me too, if you want."

"I'll get lonely."

Matthew waits for you to settle into his bed first. It was nestled in the corner of his room, so you'd be on the side that was against the wall. He's always insisted on it, since it was a silent effort on his part to keep you trapped there. Maybe if he held you tightly enough, you'd find it hard to leave him in the morning.

Once you were laid down on his soft mattress, he lies next to you, immediately drawing closer to you like a magnet. His lanky arms hesitantly drape over your waist, as if worried he'd upset you more, but, selfishly, his desire for closeness wins out over your own feelings. Just like always.

You were laid on your back, staring straight up at his mundane, creamy beige ceiling. Matthew was on his side, gazing at you with that familiar awe and yearning constantly swirling in his hazy, violet eyes.

His pale hand rests on your stomach, his long fingers shyly playing with the fabric of your sweater, like he wanted more from you. Matthew himself didn't even know what exactly he was pleading for, but he wanted it anyways. He wanted you. A soft sigh leaves his nostrils, and the cool air brushes over the skin of your face.

It remains silent for a long while. You were still stewing in the headache-inducing frustration of the earlier altercation with Matthew, and, like always, you coped by forcing yourself to forgive him.

He was just lonely.

He needs me.

He's my responsibility.

I am his only friend.

I am all he has.

"Can I come closer?" Matthew whispers, the sound of his weak voice so close to your ear sends shivers down your neck and across your shoulders. You don't answer, you look annoyed, but you're not fighting him off, and that's good enough for him. His arms tighten a little around your waist, and he scoots in so close the tip of his nose nudges against the soft skin under your ear. You can hear every little breath, swallow, and mouth sound, and despite the quietness of the room, it feels overstimulating.

"You look like you're thinking really hard about something." He murmurs, sitting up slightly for a moment to pull his thick duvet around the two of you even tighter. "Are you still mad at me?"

"... I just need to rest." You reply vaguely.

Matthew's heart hurts a little. He knows you're still upset, but you tolerate him anyways. You really were a saint. He nods, and shuts his eyes, trying to calm himself down for your sake, willing himself to slow his breathing and his heart rate so yours could sync up with his. Your scent and the feeling of you in his arms does just the trick. "Okay, rest, then." He whispers reassuringly. "I'll keep you warm."

"Night." You mumble stiffly, rolling to face the other way. While it was meant to be a small act of defiance, Matthew was just happy he gets to be the big spoon now. That, and you even greeted him a good night despite it all.

"... Goodnight."

-----

When you weren't awake, Matthew liked to pray.

The young man wasn't very certain if he was religious at all. He grew up surrounded by ideas of Christianity, but besides a brief period in his childhood where he attended mass regularly, he wouldn't really consider himself one. It did, however, impact his beliefs in a way that went beyond just faith and kindliness.

In his adolescence, Matthew learned a formula for prayer. ACTS was the abbreviation for it. Matthew would use this formula to pray for small things in his life, like exams, someone he thought needed help, animals, and, most commonly, he'd utilise it for those late nights when he'd pray for someone to finally notice him.

Something strange and cruel in the universe would finally respond, and decided to offer you as his most perfect blessing. You would become his god.

A is for adoration.

"You're so amazing... so pretty... You're so beautiful. Oh, you're so kind to me, e-even when I'm being so annoying." A deranged, self-deprecating chuckle forces its way out of his tight throat. He has to swallow a little forcefully to try and soothe the hoarseness with his spit. "I'm sure you're so tired of me, but you still lov– A-Ah, should I even use that word? Hehe, I'm not sure if I'm allowed to, but, ohh, it would make me the happiest man in the world if you did..."

The air is heavy and damp, yet cold enough to make your cheeks sting. He kisses them with his soft lips, and the ragged exhale that follows warms them up.

C is for confession.

"I'm... I'm really dirty, though." He chokes out quietly, before his racing heart demands a sharp, ragged gasp to help it settle. It doesn't do much. "I act so nice around you, a-and I am a nice guy, I swear, but... But I'm human, too. I've been hiding so much from you. I'm so sorry for doing this to you, but you– y-you'd hate me if you knew this side of me..."

"Oh, you'd hate it if you knew just how often I think about you in the most... t-the most unholy ways... S-Sometimes, I get so excited when I'm around you that I have to excuse myself, and, w-well, you know." In an absurd act of bashfulness, he glances away from your face when he mutters this last word, as if he weren't stroking his dripping cock over your abdomen right now.

"You'd hate it if you knew that what happened to your friend was my fault... That I'm the reason your door's lock has so many scratches on it, that I'm the reason your window's hinges are so loose... A-Ah, my angel, today, I... Just earlier, I sniffed your underwear, and it made me cum instantly." A quiet, sickening giggle follows this putrid confession. "That's horrible, i-isn't it? I barely lasted a few seconds, b-but, I swear, I won't be like that with you. I'll go much longer. I'll go as long as you'd like me to, honey. You can use me all you'd like, and I'd love it. I'd always love you."

He almost lets out an unrestrained moan at the thought of you using him for your pleasure, but he bites on his tongue at the right moment, and it results in a stifled whimper.

"I know... S-Somehow, I know that I'm being ridiculous. Sometimes, when I'm picking your lock, when I'm licking your toothbrush, when I'm spitting in your body lotion, o-or when I'm cumming inside your bottle of conditioner, I... I know how terrible it is. I-I know I'm doing something disgusting, but it makes me realise how much of an angel you really are... You're so nice, even to someone as irredeemable as me. I love you."

His right hand fists at the fabric of the pillowcase right beside your head. The veins twitch beneath his pale skin with the strain of holding himself up above your sleeping body.

"... I'm sorry I isolate you so much, but I'm s-such a loser, and you're the only person in the entire world who's given me a-any attention. I don't want to lose that. I don't wanna lose you, don't wanna see you give this attention to anybody else, hurts so much, feels like I'm dying whenever I see it..."

Along with sweat, precum, and drool, tears now begin to join the mix. Matthew's weak voice begins to crack.

"I love you so much. I love you, I love you... Please never leave me. You're all I have. I-I'd die if you ever did."

T is for thanksgiving.

"But still, you... H-Heh, you still spend time with me..." Matthew swoons, as if the simple act of companionship were something sacred. "I'm so happy that you do... Thank you so much... Thank you, thank you, love you..." He babbles on breathlessly, his hand stroking his flushed, slick erection with more fervour as he felt that familiar, thrilling tension begin to build in his lower abdomen.

"Ahh, you're such an angel, you really are..." Matthew hisses in pleasure, his gritted teeth showcasing the points of his canines, which, usually, were a charming point, but right now, all it did was really drive home the idea that he was nothing but a predator. "S-So good to me, even when I don't really deserve it... So kind, so precious, s-so holy... I'll be yours forever. H-Hah, merde, I already am, I always was..."

He's panting, gasping, gritting his teeth and whimpering through pressed lips.

S is for supplication.

"Oh, the love of my life, my angel... Please be mine. Please. Ah– I'd... I-I'd never ask for anything else once I have you. You're all I need. I want you to only look at me, only smile at me, g-give me all of your time, spend y-your life with m-me– Oh, f-fffuc–!"

His fully dilated violet eyes roll back blissfully in their sockets when he finally spills his load all over his hand. At the same time, he lets out a choked gasp that was just a little bit too loud.

Matthew has to collect himself, sit back on his haunches, and dig his teeth into his right hand's knuckles in a clumsy attempt to muffle his needy, orgasmic moans. All the while, his left kept stroking that painful hard-on he's had ever since he cuddled up to you in bed.

His long fingers, pink-tipped and trembling, messily aim his spurting cock upwards, wanting to make a mess of his own clothes instead of yours. It truly pained Matthew to force himself not to paint you with his seed. He saw it as something like an offering to a deity. His semen was a product of his love, desire, and all the admiration he felt towards you. It was proof of his devotion. It was proof that you owned him.

Matthew is now a panting, quivering, flushed mess. The look on his pretty face was nothing short of debauched, with the slight, sweaty sheen on his reddened cheeks. His eyes, half-lidded, framed with long lashes, heavy with pleasure and love. His lips, swollen and pink after he had bitten on them in the useless effort to silence himself. Oh, and if you looked at the corner of his mouth, you'd see a bit of a spit trail glistening on his skin. He always got way too excited whenever he had the chance to 'pray' to you. Forgive him.

Well, the small droplets of drool on your face were the least of your problems, when, right now, as Matthew began to collect himself, noticed a spurt of cum that had landed on your cheek.

A shiver racks through his sweaty slender body, while the corners of his spit-glazed lips curled up into a disgustingly aroused smile.

He takes a few deep breaths, sloppily tucks himself back in, and wipes his cum-covered hand on his pyjama pants. He would clean this all up anyways. He'll clean you up, too.

Those dirtied fingers, still stained with the scent of salt and an unmistakable masculine musk, gently hold onto the side of your jaw. Matthew's eyes, now softened in his post-orgasm glow, just silently admire you for a moment. Here you were, his angel, his love, the centre of his entire universe, with the evidence of his worship on your cheek.

Ah, he was so happy...

He leans down, his warm tongue only hesitating for a moment before he shakily—eagerly laps at the cum on your face. Gotta keep your altar clean, right? He thinks this to himself with a satisfied, pleasured little hum in his throat.

When he pulls back, Matthew fully squeaks and stops breathing at the sight of your barely open, squinting eyes in the dark.

"... What are you doing?" are the only words that seemed to make sense at the moment, so it's what you chose to croak out.

The damp chill of the air cools the patch of saliva on your cheek, and it makes your hairs prickle and raise.

"N-Nothing." Matthew sputters out, his voice a little rough from the strain of trying to keep himself quiet. He coughs to clear his throat. "I'm sorry, did I wake you? I just, ah... I..." Matthew was always good at lying, but in the damning situation of being caught right after prayer, he fumbled a little. "I was... I-I was just looking at you."

As creepy as his excuse sounded, it was one that didn't faze you much when considering everything else he's ever done. Him watching you in your sleep was nothing compared to when you found a small ziplock bag of your what looked like your hair in one of his drawers. What did make you second-guess his excuse, though, was his heavy, shaky breathing.

Your narrowed eyes, stinging and squinting in effect of being prematurely woken from your sleep, slowly begin to adjust to the light. The moonlight seeping in through the blinds and the dim, warm lamp on his nightstand illuminated him just enough for his features to be properly discernible. The light caught the glistening fluids first—the sweat on his throat, the tear tracks on his red cheeks, the trail of drool on the side of his mouth, the drying ropes of cum on his shirt—and that was all you needed to see.

You spit out a startled, horrified curse, and immediately sit up straight, shoving Matthew's weakened body off of your own.

"What the fuck?!" Your cry comes out mangled, slurred with adrenaline and disgust.

"No, no, it's not like that!" Matthew hurriedly tries to defend himself, and even he knew how ridiculous and damning this was, to try and excuse this act. Damning was an incredibly weak word for the gravity of what he had done. He had ruined it all, he had desecrated the one good thing in his life, and he could only (as ironic as it was) pray that the kindness you had repeatedly shown him would save him from this.

You, while mortified, saw this as an opening. You finally had a reason to abandon him, to cast him away like the rest of the world did. In that moment, Matthew didn't see a single sliver of that expected empathy in your eyes, and he felt like he was going to die.

"You piece of shit!" is a guttural scream that tore his heart into shreds. You disentangle yourself from the blankets and his long limbs to try and scramble off of his bed, but a firm, trembling hand to your waist stops you.

"I didn't touch you!" He sobs. It's a pathetic, useless thing. It felt terrible to lie to his god like this. It was blasphemy.

"You touched yourself! That's fucking gross enough!" You shriek, kicking him away so your feet could finally touch the ground. Matthew scurries after you, his body unceremoniously falling to the ground with a harsh impact against his knees. They were sure to bruise, but like always, Matthew saw the harm to his person as another show of devotion. With you, he's come to see every single thing you do as a kindness, regardless of your actual intent. Right now, all you were doing was punishing him for being so sacrilegious.

He frantically wraps his arms around your knees, wailing and begging for forgiveness, and you feel like you could be sick at the knowledge that he was smearing his dirty fluids all over your clothing. With his sniffling nose pressed against your stomach, he knew he had nothing else to do but grovel.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Matthew cries miserably, "Please don't be mad. Please, please don't leave me! Ahh, I'm sorry– hic– I'm so sorryyy..." He whimpers your name repeatedly, as if pleading for repentance. "I-I know I've been bad. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I won't do it again. Y-You can– You can go out with your friends, okay? I'll– I'll let you. And you can have some alone time. Just please don't hate me for this! Please don't leave me!"

Matthew's belief that he had authority over your actions almost disgusted you as much as the feeling of his erection against your leg. You felt bile burn at the back of your throat when it twitches the moment your eyes meet.

A violent shudder racks through your entire body, and you have to slam a clammy hand over your mouth to suppress the gag that builds in your oesophagus. It comes up anyways, but at least your palm against your lips muffles the gross sound and grounds you slightly.

You force your legs out of Matthew's desperate grip, and bolt to his bathroom. He chases. Your own knees ungracefully land on the floor in front of the toilet, and contrary to his own pain, which he saw as love, this was a tragedy. Like a chip in expensive porcelain. How could he allow his angel to be ever harmed in any way? Let alone in a situation that was completely his fault.

With a sickening retch, you dry heave, then empty the contents of your stomach into the toilet bowl.

Matthew, still trembling and snivelling, kneels beside you, and wordlessly holds your hair back with one hand, while the other, try as it may, fails to comfort you by rubbing your back. Still, it's all you have at the moment, so for the meanwhile, you don't fight it.

Once you've gotten it all out, you spit, rinsing the taste of puke out of your mouth, watching your saliva land in the slurry of your vomit. Matthew flushes it down for you.

"Are you okay now?" He whispers, his voice still shaky from trying to stifle his sobs. His cold hand repeatedly pets your hair, and you just want to scream and puke again at how it reeks of semen.

You raise your head slowly, trying to focus on Matthew's red, snotty face through the glaze of tears in your hollow eyes.

"Matthew," you start roughly, your voice gritty from the stomach acid, "you can't keep being friends with me anymore. You realise that, right?"

His face crumples immediately, and he whines, like a child throwing a tantrum.

"No, I-I don't want that." He cries, "I really don't want that. I can't do that. I'd hate that. C-Can't I make it up to you? Please? I can– I can buy you something. Whatever you want. I-I'll save up for it."

The idea that he could buy your forgiveness after something like that was appalling.

"Oh my fucking god..." You let out a low, destroyed laugh, resting your forehead against the cold surface of the toilet seat. "Why are you like this?"

Matthew's never seen you like this before. So cruel, so blunt, so mocking. It makes him feel ill. "W-What do you mean, sweetie?"

You choose to ignore that pet name, as much as it makes you want to slam your head into the toilet seat right now.

"That," Your voice softens after you swallow, your saliva soothing your hoarse throat, "instead of everything you do, you could've just... Y-You fucking like me, don't you, Matthew?" You accuse him with another weak wheeze, a tear finally dripping from your waterline. It was so obvious, it had been that way from the start, but as stupid as you were, you kept choosing over and over again to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he had just been that lonely, maybe he had been so alone for so long that he didn't know how to interact with other people anymore, maybe he just cared.

In the end, you couldn't help but feel like it was your fault for continuing to enable this. You ignored all the red flags, and that is what ended you up in this situation. You were to blame.

Matthew, in his naivety, genuinely had no idea that his feelings were this apparent. He didn't want them to come to light like this. He wasn't even sure if he had the courage to confess sometime in the foreseeable future. He never wanted it to be like this, though, that was for certain. He's thought about it a million times. It's what he spends his time doing in lectures while the rest of the world forgot about him.

He's daydreamed about confessing in the form of a love letter (he's even written a few that would all eventually end up in the trash), spending a painstaking amount of time making your favourite sweets for Valentine's and spilling his feelings then, or even in a scenario like that rainy day he met you. You two would've gotten stuck in the rain, ran off to his apartment to get away from it, and in the intimacy of cleaning up, borrowing his clothes, and spending time together in the storm that followed. Then, his confession would come. Unplanned but easy, slipping out in the comfort of the moment, and you would accept it with a blush and a smile on your face that finally mirrored his own.

Anything would've been better than this. Himself, dirtied with his own cum, snot and tears, and you, his angel, looking at him with tears in your exhausted eyes and the scent of fetid bile in the air.

"I... I do, yeah." Matthew responds hollowly, "I love you." He whispers with a crack in his weak voice, "Had it been that obvious?"

You scoff and wipe your tears, finding a tragic humour in his confession.

"Why didn't you just ask me out, then? You– You jumped straight to giving me your clothes, making me stay the night, and fucking jerking off on me while I was sleeping!" You cry hysterically. Matthew flinches at the sudden escalation of your tone. You continue after taking a few heavy breaths, "You were already acting like a damn boyfriend anyways. Why couldn't you just... be normal? Oh, god, Mattie, it didn't have to be like this..." You sob helplessly, getting up from your knees just to sit on your bottom with your back against the cold wall.

Matthew absorbs your words, not with defeat, but with the thrilling idea that, in some way, you would've been okay with being with him. That's what this meant, right? He was just a huge mess right now, and when he's all cleaned up and normal again, you could forgive him. Like you always do.

He gets back up on his feet, and heads for the sink to hurriedly scrub his face and hands clean of any traces of sin. Then to his wardrobe, where he fishes out clean clothing and races to dress in them before you even thought of moving. He almost stumbles over his own feet, but soon enough, he's in front of you, kneeling and casually tying his hair back in the effort to look more presentable. He thought of putting his glasses on, but decided against it. Maybe he looked more handsome this way.

"I can be normal." He affirms with a chilling certainty. He knew he couldn't be that, not ever, not when it came to you, but he'd pretend. He had been sloppy, but that came out of the eagerness that came with falling in love for the first time. "What else do you want me to change? What do you want me to be? I can do it."

You look at him, now cleansed from the physical manifestations of his depravity, and he looks so beautiful right now that it hurt.

"Just grow a damn backbone, Matt." You plead, your anger held back slightly just for this one, genuine, request, "We've known each other for months now, yet I feel like I don't know a single fucking thing about you besides the fact that you're clingy and that you like me."

His chapped lips parted, and for a good long moment of silence, his mind went unnervingly quiet. How could he even respond to this? That he is different, that he is his own person, that he is unique, when all he's been obsessing over this entire time was you, and how to be perfect for you.

That lost, kicked puppy look on his face haunted you, and somehow, it made you feel terrible. Again, all you could feel was pity. It was the closest to your affection he could ever get.

"Yeah, of course you'd have nothing to say about that." You mutter to yourself bitterly. Some terrible part of you preened in the attention that such a beautiful man gave you. For a while, you had actually wanted to get to know Matthew, to begin liking him for other aspects besides his attractiveness. Perhaps that's why you kept bothering with him, why you kept tolerating him, and it made you feel repulsed by yourself.

"... I'll just... Matt, I'll leave. I can't look at you right now. I need some time away from you. You don't have a say in this." You mutter with a disappointed, exhausted coldness.

You stand up, use his sink for a moment to rinse out the lingering taste of acid in your mouth, and then you're gone.

Matthew had a lot to think about.

-----

The weekends were quiet. Matthew, true to his word, kept minimal contact. At most, he'd text you "good morning" and "good night" texts, along with a few words of encouragement for the day. He couldn't bring himself to stop doing that. It seemed terribly distant and rude.

In his time away from you, he tried to, for once in his life, really focus on himself. Matthew thought himself to be a selfish person, but for all the wrong ways. He spent a lot of time on grooming himself, keeping his home clean, and doing his best with his own studies and whatnot, but he wasn't really sure what to make of himself outside of that. He liked cooking, maybe. He wasn't sure. He just really liked pancakes, so naturally, he'd teach himself to make them well. Was that an interest, or just a necessity?

He liked things, of course. Everyone had things that they liked. Matthew liked movies, games, music, and books, but could it even be described as a hobby? It's like saying that you liked fried chicken. Sure, some people may not like it, but the vast majority did, almost to the point that it was a given. What good was it that Matthew liked the first Avengers movie? Who cared that he liked Stephen King's novels? Wasn't it pointless to say that he listens to Bruno Mars? Who the hell didn't play Minecraft?

This was Matthew's great problem. He saw no value in his pre-existing interests, or any interests at all unless they had some sort of connection to you. It was a mental blockage that truly needed some outside intervention for him to realise, but all he had was you, so he was stumped.

Then he started trying to link his interests to you. He could make your favourite foods, then maybe that could ignite a passion for cuisine within him. Maybe he could ask you to play Minecraft with him. He could try and make good on that fantasy of his, and start writing the perfect love letter. He could also try to learn something new. Who knows? Perhaps he just hadn't explored enough, and the hobby made for him was just somewhere out there.

Currently, by his desk lamp on a Sunday evening, Matthew had since found that hobby. Things that involved him tinkering with his hands. It explained how quick he was to learn how to lock pick. He had learned how to fix basic household appliances, sew the small tears in his clothes and even tailor a few, and just today, he learned how to make bracelets. Nothing really fancy, of course. It was basically just braiding a very short rope made of thread, but it was something. He had redone these specific bracelets quite a few times by now, tugging on the embroidery floss so hard that he frayed a few in his frustration, and left little indents on his reddened fingertips.

Matthew was frustrated he kept breaking the hairs, too. He hated wasting the ones of yours he had collected, and his scalp was starting to sting where he kept plucking a single strand from.

These two red bracelets were completely plain and unassuming, yet hidden in the slight sheen of the red embroidery floss he had chosen, were your hairs, braided together and into the bracelet. It was creepy, even he could acknowledge that, but the small, soft smile on Matthew's face showed that he was confident you would never know. This was just a little thing for himself.

He continued to fuss over these until midnight struck, but by then, he had snipped and sealed away any little imperfection, and now, he had two perfect, dainty, braided red bracelets.

The red strings of fate.

-----

"Hey?" Matthew starts, his voice incredibly quiet and careful, intercepting you by your classroom for your first class of the day.

Seeing him again, after everything that had transpired, brought up a disgusting, warm, aching feeling in your chest.

You had missed him.

You had spent so much time with Matthew, that any moment without him felt unnerving and empty. Without the blond man constantly sitting next to you like a cat who didn't really know how to ask for affection, or constantly staring at you with that heartbreaking, yearning gaze, your weekend had felt... boring.

"Yo." You great him back with a curt nod and a smile, feeling so awkward interacting with him now that you knew just how biblically he wanted you.

"Good morning," He breathes out reverently, a brilliant smile lighting up his face. He was so happy you even acknowledged him. "I-I, uh... I got into a hobby over the weekend, and I... I made us these."

Matthew's long fingers trembled as he pulled the bracelets out of his pocket. They were well-made, of course they were—he even thought so last night—but now, to Matthew's bespectacled eyes, they currently looked like trash.

"They're, um, nothing special, I know," He whispers with a self-deprecation that pained you, "but... I thought you'd like to see proof that I'm... I'm doing something else with my time."

His heart leaps when you gingerly touch one of the bracelets, and take it.

"No, it..." You mumble, examining it quietly. The scrutiny made his heart race so fast it hurt. "It looks good, Mattie." Your smile softens into something less stiff after you say his nickname, and his grin sweetens up.

"Really? Oh, I'm so glad you think so..." The young man swoons, "D-Do you want me to help you put it on?"

You weren't planning on wearing it at all, but it was significantly easier to agree instead of putting him down.

"Yeah, please." You answer casually, holding your wrist out. He pockets his own, and holds onto the bracelet you had taken. His trembling hands, usually so stable in the mundanity of his life, struggle a little to tie the bracelet around your wrist. His cheeks burned with embarrassment, and the sweat on his palms definitely didn't help, but he eventually managed to do it.

Matthew lets out a shaky exhale, his hand holding onto yours for a moment to examine his work. The bracelet was sort of secondary, though. Getting to touch you was the real blessing.

His hands drop to his sides, and he takes his bracelet back out from his pocket. He shyly tries to put it on his own wrist, and he genuinely almost squeaks when your hands wordlessly take each end, and you tie them up yourself.

"Oh!– Ah, thanks, um, thank you." Matthew stutters. He'll make sure to seal the knot—the memory—so it never undoes.

"They're matching." You point out bluntly. Not really to insult or to compliment, but to acknowledge. It makes him a little shy.

"Yeah, they are." He murmurs, "It's... It's like the red string of fate, isn't it?" His anxiety bubbles out in the form of a quivering, unsure giggle.

The mere suggestion that this man could ever be your soulmate made your throat constrict with a familiar tightness.

"I guess so." Your vague agreement is slightly clipped. "It's... cute."

Matthew is absolutely overflowing with warmth right now.

You couldn't stand to see it, that bright, rewarding smile on his flushed face.

"I'll head in. You should go, too."

Matthew's little dreamy bubble pops, and he tries to stifle his smile a little, so he wouldn't look like a lunatic. He was unused to really schooling his expressions, considering no one would ever notice it anyway, but now that he existed in your world, he'd have to learn.

"Okay, I'll... I'll see you later?" He asks hopefully.

A shiver runs down your spine when you remember what happened the last time you agreed. It was probably time to begin distancing yourself from him. It was long overdue, actually.

"Ah... No, you won't, sorry." You don't know why it felt like a knife through your heart watching how you had managed to instantly erase that happiness you brought him. The bracelet around your hand felt heavy. It was a symbol of his hard work, of his intent to change for you, but really, all it was, was a string. "I, uh, I'd still rather have some time to myself."

He could beg you to change your mind. He could cry. He could go home, slit his wrists, and show you the scars the next day, but he promised his god that he could be normal. He's already sinned enough, and it felt like this was at least the one thing he could do to repent.

"... Okay." Matthew murmurs, though as much as he wanted his voice to be stable, it breaks a bit. "Umm, I-I... I'll... I hope you have a good day. Y-You can text me whenever you want, about whatever. I'll always be there."

You can't help but chuckle a bit. "Yeah, I bet."

"Bye-bye." You give him a small wave before entering your classroom, while Matthew watches your back, before letting out a hopeless, dreamy sigh.

-----

Halloween would be at the end of the week. A Friday. Matthew had kept what you said a week prior in his mind. He'd even bought a Spiderman costume in advance, but he was a bit too afraid to outright ask you if you two would still be matching, let alone even interact on Halloween. This week had been a series of watching you from behind corners, trailing behind you like a shadow, and sending needy texts from a distance, always asking how you're doing and if you'd ever like to hang out again.

He's even been texting you about his hobbies, which was a big deal to him considering how unused he was to sharing anything about himself.

On Tuesday, he showed you an origami bear he had made, with multiple messier versions behind it. His perfectionism was apparent, even then.

Wednesday would bring you a picture of a mysterious slab that Matthew called an attempt at baking bread, and a screenshot of his Minecraft base that had gotten blown up by a creeper.

Thursday was a timid selfie of him in that Spiderman costume, though he had accidentally put the suit on backwards, and was poking fun at himself.

He hadn't planned on sending that picture of himself, but, hey, he looked particularly good in it, and he used the chance to ask you about Friday, about Halloween.

You, seeing that he'd already gotten the costume, felt terrible if you just backed out on the plans that you yourself made to match with him. Considering you hadn't even planned on celebrating Halloween anymore after what had happened, you were incredibly strapped for time to find a costume. Thank god Mary Jane wore normal clothing, because you managed to get away with just a black headband, a lavender shirt, jeans, and a green coat. On your own, you looked like just an ordinary person, but next to a guy dressed like Spiderman, it'd be recognisable enough, right?

You had offered to go to Matthew's place to meet up there before heading to that haunted house you two planned to visit, but he had insisted on coming to you instead. It was something about not wanting to bother you with walking all the way from your dorm to his apartment, even if it'd only be around ten minutes of your time. In the end, you oblige.

Matthew is there at the exact time you agreed on, six on the dot, and knocks excitedly. This is the first time in a week since you two have spent any real time together, and while that would be an extremely reasonable amount of time to anybody else, to Matthew it felt like an eternity.

When you open the door, his shy, smiling face is the first thing you see, and he greets you with the enthusiasm of a soldier returning to his wife.

"Hi, Mary Jane!" He addresses you playfully, his heart thrumming right beneath the webbing and the spider symbol on his chest. The modifications he had made to the costume were intriguing. Considering the cold weather, it made sense that he wouldn't wear the suit alone, and decided to wear jeans and a navy blue jacket. His attention to detail shone through in what would be such a common costume, because you swear the casual clothing he wore on top was exactly what the actor had worn when he was Peter Parker instead of Spiderman.

That, and owed to Matthew's sewing skill, he had made the suit fit himself perfectly, clinging to his slender waist, flat chest, and surprisingly broad shoulders. It didn't have those strange wrinkles, or awkward bagginess in unsavoury places that came with the convenience of buying a one-size-fits-all costume. Since Matthew had a huge preference for wearing loose clothing or multiple layers of such, no one would've ever known that Matthew had such a fit figure, especially for such a socially-stunted nerd. You tried to hide the shock in your eyes, and the flustered attraction that followed.

You let out a small, amused scoff, and nod at him in greeting. "Penis Parker."

Matthew laughs merrily, "No, that's not your line. C'mon now. Flash would fit my brother more."

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, "A brother? Huh, you never even mentioned you had one until now."

Matthew had done this on purpose. His brother, a stereotypical popular jock, was the polar opposite of himself, as much as they looked alike. The terrible thing was, that unlike those stereotypes, his brother was actually a somewhat decent person who had spoken of Matthew in a good light, while all Matthew had ever done was try and erase his existence from his mind. He felt that his brother was superior to him in every way, and to be constantly reminded by his reflection that there was a better version of himself out there was a pain he could not bear. He never wanted you to know this.

"R-Right," Matthew's smile shrinks a little. It's clear he's still learning how to control the faces he makes. "I guess it never came up in conversation."

He coughs, and gingerly holds out his hand, almost shoving it forward a little clumsily in his eagerness. He's wearing the bracelet. You're not. "Anyways, should we..." The words die in his throat. Right, you had wanted him to have more of a backbone. He clears his throat, and starts over with a slightly more assertive tone. "Let's go, before it g-gets too crowded there."

Matthew was terrified for a second that maybe that had come off as too aggressive, despite having as much brawn in him as a baby deer, and the relief hits him like a punch to his chest when you accept.

Your hand felt so perfect in his.

-----

That night was the happiest Matthew had ever been in his entire life.

Your friends weren't present since they all went to some house party, so Matthew had you all to himself. Like this, walking through the haunted house hand-in-hand, with you yelping and laughing like a maniac whenever a scare actor jumped you, and you clinging to his side whenever you got antsy, he could pretend this was a date. In this moment, he could pretend.

The thought never left his head, much like the loving smile never left his face. How wonderful would it be, if his everyday life were like this? To be spent by your side, feeling your warmth, smelling your scent, listening to your giggles, admiring your face, and memorising every single feature of your body...

Matthew, too distracted by you, walks into a pole at that moment, a prop for the prison bars in this room. It makes you laugh, and this just makes his smile widen and reaffirm his romanticised belief that his pain equated to devotion.

"Jesus, dude, look where you're going." You scold him, though the giggles breaking up your words showed you meant it out of care rather than malice. It makes his heart flutter. "You should've worn your glasses. Why didn't you?"

Matthew laughs sheepishly. "It doesn't fit the character, does it? Peter stops wearing them once he gets his powers."

You sigh dramatically, and brush his hair away from his face. His breath hitches, and he immediately lets out a ragged exhale before he leans into it. "Okay, yeah, but you aren't Peter Parker, are you?"

"Nooo, guess not." He pouts kittenishly, though a small smile still lifts slightly at the sharp corners of his mouth. "Going to a dark haunted house without my glasses wasn't the smartest decision in hindsight, was it?" He jokes with a mischievous glint in his dilated eyes. He then adds with a self-deprecating chuckle, "I think I prepared for just about everything except for this. I'm a dummy."

"Eh, being a little unprepared is fine." You brush his bumbling off with a flippant shake of your head. The reassurance makes him stop pouting, and he holds your hand a little tighter. You're not sure why, even now, you choose to go out of your way to show him such kindness. He just looked so pretty tonight, he had even begun to put in an effort to change for you, and he was staring at you with so much adoration in his gaze, just like he always did...

"... What are you thinking about, angel?" Matthew asks quietly, with a shy blush on his faintly freckled cheeks. You hadn't even noticed you had been staring in silence for much longer than socially accepted.

You are caught a little off guard by this. Never before had you ever found yourself looking at Matthew in this way. He had always been handsome, it's why you tolerated his behaviour for so long and continue to do so, but right now, it was devastating how good he looked.

His eyes, always so full of warmth for you and a devotion that was terrifying in its ferocity, had softened a little in the darkness of the room. His moist lips were parted slightly, as if waiting for you to respond. His wavy blond hair fell just right around his cheekbones, framing his sharp jawline in a way that made him look ethereal. Like he was something holy, like he was an angel looking at the god he served. Though, the red light that leaked in from the next room illuminated just half of his face, and shrouded the other in darkness, undercutting the divine imagery with the eerie reality of Matthew's place in your life.

You blink dumbfoundedly, and force yourself to speak.

"Sorry, I... I just zoned out." is the excuse you decide on, and it was a weak one, you knew it, but due to Matthew's docility, you trusted he'd just accept it and let it go. He did.

A soft, warming smile spreads on his lips, deepening the thin dimple by the corner of his mouth. "Are you feeling sleepy already?"

"Yeah," you chuckle, "you can say that. Maybe those fumes from the fog machine finally got to me."

Matthew snorts a little dorkily. The sound endears you. "Okay, yeah, we should get you home."

His fingers, while still trembling slightly from the rush of having you look at him in that way, in a way he's only ever witnessed in the media he consumes, felt more sure now as they reached for your hand.

His fingertips brush against your palm in a silent, cautious question, and when your hand tilts slightly to accommodate his, he immediately slots his fingers between yours and gives it a small, firm squeeze. He can't help the shaky, pleased sigh that escapes his mouth at the mere sensation of holding his beloved's hand.

With a small, gentle tug, Matthew leads you out of the haunted house. It was an incredibly bittersweet feeling he didn't know how to place. On one hand, this perfect night was ending, but on the other, it was ending so, so perfectly. He hated this. He had wanted it to last forever.

For once, the pain he felt didn't feel like love, and was more like a stab wound that wouldn't stop bleeding until he was left hollow and cold.

-----

When Matthew drops you off at your door, his long fingers stay clutched to your sleeve, like he didn't want this night to end quite yet. He wasn't sure he ever wanted it to, and to be frank, the thought of this day passing by and only becoming a memory for him to cling to made his eyes sting a little.

"I had so much fun tonight," Matthew admits bluntly with a small crack in his voice, "I really did. I'm... I'm so happy. I've never been this happy before."

His gloved fingers tremble and hesitantly intertwine with yours. "I-I don't want it to end, but..." His heavy gaze flickers from the floor to your face, and the weariness on it makes his heart ache. "... I... I promised I'd be good for you, didn't I?"

"You did." You whisper gently.

Matthew nods, and the gulp he has to take to hold back his tears was incredibly painful. "A-Am I doing a good job?"

Try as you may, whenever you think about all the pain he had caused you, the memories of all the good he's done instead quickly took over. He is the only person who checked in on you whenever you didn't show up to class. He is the only person who makes sure to text you every day, even if you don't respond. He is the only person to see you in that state, vomiting and crying because of him, and still think you were the most beautiful thing in the world. Despite how you had treated him, he still wanted you. He would always choose you.

"... You've been doing a great job, Mattie."

His bottom lip quivers with the desperation to not break down, but when you're looking at him like this, like you actually cared about him, and saying his name so tenderly, he couldn't help but let out a choked, pitiful sob.

Matthew, for once, did not want to use his tears as a weapon. He was ashamed. He didn't want his dirty tricks to ruin this night. He didn't want to be reminded of his sins. It was perfect, it was perfect, it had all been going so perfectly, oh, stupid, how could he do this?

His free hand lifts to cover his face, wanting to stifle his sniffles against his palm and hide from your eyes, but then you do the unthinkable. You grasp his forearm gently, and tug on it to part his palm from his mouth. He was about to let out a small whine of confusion, when you suddenly pull him in for a warm hug, and rub his back soothingly.

Matthew's crying completely stops for a moment, with his arms awkwardly bent by his sides. He was too in shock to even process it, before a quiet sob tears its way out of his throat, and he hugs you back with a crushing force that almost makes you stumble.

This was the first time you had ever hugged him.

It has happened many times before, yes, but it was always Matthew who initiated it, while all you did was accept them casually. He was already happy with that, of course he was. His most favourite person in the world could stand to be held by him. What more could he ask for? This was something he barely even dared to entertain, though. The concept of you wanting to hold him.

Matthew had thought this night was going to be a disaster the moment his tears started flowing. That it would end up being another incident for you to mark as a reason for why you should leave him, and that he would end up making you cry and hate him all over again. Instead, you gave him a gift that was so magnificent that he had never even thought of it in any of his wildest dreams.

The idea that he was wanted, not tolerated.

You would then pull him into your apartment, and this would also be the first time he had ever been invited inside instead of showing up and asking to be let in. You just didn't want to humiliate Matthew by leaving him crying in the hallway, but to him, all that mattered was that you had let him in.

As you wiped his tears, and fussed over the hot mess that he was, he couldn't help a small, awestruck smile as he gazed right into your eyes.

Even at his lowest of lows, you still cared for him. You looked deep into this broken down man, and saw something inside him that perplexed even himself. What it was, he hadn't a single clue. But you saw something that was worth caring for, worth wanting, worth choosing. Something that was worth salvation.

Yes, this night was perfect.

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