Fai_Ryy
almost home
todays bird
noise dept.
One Nice Bug Per Day
roma★
icyghini twinkie
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YOU ARE THE REASON
Xuebing Du
if i look back, i am lost
Game of Thrones Daily
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ellievsbear
The Stonewall Inn
cherry valley forever
$LAYYYTER
pixel skylines
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
★
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@griefbound
# ㅤ GRIEFBOUND : chained to what he lost, and haunted by what survived. a dependent single-muse blog affliated with maggotcreek . featuring matteo nassar (the chain). penned and adored by veer (she + her). introduction. pinterest. musings.
alistair only smiled in response to the question matteo spits out. he’d not gone deaf in the void; if anything, it was the opposite: he heard too much, but with the way he was ignoring anything that suggested or outright stated matteo wanted him to fuck off, he might as well have been. when matteo lashed out at the man from the ground, his smile almost softened despite the blow he received; even when he’s being told to leave, even when matteo is acting like he wants him gone, he has alistair’s back. it was almost like before; the two of them watching out for the other as they kick ass or get their ass kicked. it was almost like it should be, except… matteo was in pain.
for the first time since this started, nobody is looking at him. matteo notices because his body doesn’t. it stays wound tight for a hit that never comes, every muscle still cinched like his bones got the message before his brain did and decided to keep waiting for the next boot anyway. he’s half-crouched where the stumble dumped him, one palm smeared flat to wet concrete, the other clamped hard to his own thigh like he can bully the leg into remembering its fucking job. breath comes in short, ragged pulls. his whole body feels cheap, overworked, and one good hit past busted—like a car held together with spit, bad wiring, and somebody swearing it’ll make one more mile. it takes a second for it to sink in. matteo's not the center of the fight anymore. the men have turned stupid on each other—shoving, cursing, swinging at shit matteo never heard, all of them mean-faced and rabbit-brained, too pissed off to notice they’re tearing at the wrong throats. alistair did that. somehow, in the middle of all this shit, pryde took three men and pulled their attention apart until matteo got shoved out to edge of it, like something that needed dragging out of harm's way. and that pisses him off more than he already was.
he should take the opening. anyone with half a brain and the survival instinct god forgot to beat out of him would. let them tear chunks off each other. let alistair play whatever grave-dug, wrong-in-the-head game he’s picked up. limp out of the alley before somebody decides to remember he’s there. go home. rinse the blood off in a sink that coughs brown before it runs clear. sleep face-down on a mattress that smells like old smoke and summers that never amounted to shit. wake up tomorrow and go right back to pretending none of this ever happened. his fingers flex against the concrete. grit bites wet into his palm. one of the bastards lets out another mangy curse. another swings wide and stupid, and the only fist still landing clean belongs to the one in front of alistair. matteo looks up just in time to see it connect and just like that, the opening goes straight to hell. there’s no thought between one second and the next. no decision matteo can later resent himself for making. one moment he’s several feet away with one hand pressed against his leg, and the next he’s shoving himself straight into the space he spent the last ten minutes demanding alistair vacate, wedging himself into the narrow slice of space between alistair and the coming hit like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the punch catches matteo hard enough to snap his head sideways. teeth split the meat inside his cheek, copper spills over his tongue. then his leg goes. “fuck—” his hand shoots out on instinct and catches a fistful of alistair’s shirt, taking him down with him. alistair hits concrete first. matteo comes down over him after, all deadweight and sharp bone and bad luck. one palm slaps wet concrete beside alistair’s head, barely catching himself before he can smash face-first into him, but it’s not enough to stop the rest: chest crashing to chest, the bad leg tangling between alistair’s legs, hips caught too fucking close.
pain detonates up his knee. matteo bares his teeth around a grunt. "what the hell is your problem?” he spits voice flayed raw around the blood filling his mouth, fist still knotted in alistair’s shirt. his other hand plants flat against his chest and shoves—not to get off him, but to keep him there. because this idiot might be stupid enough to try it again. the alley keeps beating the shit out of itself around them but matteo barely hears any of it. his whole miserable world has narrowed to the heat under his palm and the blood threading from his own mouth in thin, dirty strings whenever he parts his lips. he can feel alistair breathing beneath him. he can feel the heartbeat there if he presses just a little harder. proof of life beating right into his fucking hand. “look at you.” blood thickens the words. he spits red off to the side and looks back down at him. “letting him get clean shots in like some dumb fucking dog.” he wants that one to hurt, needs it to. except his hand is still spread over alistair’s chest. keeping anybody else from getting to him. matteo’s tongue worries the torn meat inside his cheek and comes away tasting like pennies. blood slips over his bottom lip, strings briefly when he sucks in another breath. one fat drop rolls down his chin. lands right on alistair’s throat, red as a sin in the alley light. jesus fucking christ. something black and filthy unfurls low in his gut. his blood on alistair like a mark. like spit swapped in a fistfight and mistaken for a claim. like the night reached down, grabbed them both by the back of the neck, and shoved them close just to see if either one would bite. humiliation should've been enough. apparently not. his fist knots tighter in the front of alistair’s shirt, fabric twisting up in his hand like he'd rip the thing off him it'd make this stop meaning anything. everything matteo could say next is too honest to survive. don't let them hit you, don't do that. i thought you were dead. i didn't— he chokes on it. kills it before it gets out. takes the whole soft, rotten center of it and does what he’s always done. drags it through the dirt. his face lowers without him meaning it to, close enough that there’s hardly room left for air between them. close enough that the next breath belongs to whichever one of them steals it first. “you stupid fucking bastard."
the thing about the visions, the ones she still likes to think of as dreams, is that they didn’t always happen while she was sleeping. that was when they would most frequently slip in, her defenses down and the facade of normalcy only an echo, but it wasn’t the only time. they were unpredictable, uncontrollable, and happening at an ever increasing rate.
maybe it’s the proximity, the brush of a slayer's bloodied knuckles; maybe it was nothing more than a coincidence.
one moment she’s standing beside matteo in the old laundromat, and the next she’s somewhere else. the first thing that registers is how wrong it feels. there’s an underlying sense of dread, an ashy taste on her tongue, and the feeling of something heavy and old in her hands. the weight is familiar, the scent one of old books tucked away on a shelf, although there’s a subtler note of decay. she glances down, but instead of seeing a book weathered by time, there’s scorched earth and something rising from it. it’s a feeling more than anything else, a knowing; lettie can’t actually see what is emerging from the ground, but it can see her. an almost familiar laugh breaks the silence and then the ground is crumbling beneath her feet, and someone’s screaming and she thinks it might be her.
the scream rips through the laundromat just as he’s watching his blood swirl pink in the drum. matteo jerks so fast he slams his hip into the coin-op door, white-hot, stupid pain shooting up his side hard enough to wring a hissed, “shit—” out of him, but his hand is already on her, fingers locking around her arm. one look at lettie's face and whatever curse was coming dies behind his teeth. because she's not looking at him. she's not looking at anything in the room. eyes wide open and fixed somewhere else, parked on something that sure as hell isn’t here. matteo’s seen men knocked stupid in fights. seen bar drunks go glassy while the whole room pitched sideways around them. seen his ma sit dead quiet at the kitchen table, cigarette ash falling soft as snow over overdue bills, gone somewhere mean and far down inside her own skull. he knows that look. knows when somebody's still standing there but ain't all the way inside anymore. this is something else— not a fit, not panic. one of those goddamn sight-things. “hey—hey. eyes on me.” he yanks her hard enough to rattle her. matteo doesn’t know shit about gentle. gentle’s for people who got room for it. his free hand hovers stupidly near her cheek, like maybe there’s something useful in it, like maybe he’s the kind of man who knows how to do comfort. he isn’t. he knows pressure. impact. how to keep something from coming apart by throwing his own weight against it until his bones start to ache. so he drags lettie closer instead, keeping her upright before whatever has hold of her can pull the rest along with it. behind them, the machines keep up their idiot racket, wet denim hammering steel like locked-out fists. “come on. i’ve already dealt with enough shit today.”
No one: John Logan: 🖕🏽
OFF CAMPUS 1.01 "The Deal" 1.02 "The Practice"
›› closed starter for matteo nassar ⸻ june 23rd, 1:13 p.m. at backroads auto. @griefbound
the air is hot and thick with summer, the smell of rust and oil enveloping ece like the fog that still clings unnaturally to the ground as she slides out of the car that's sat untouched and neglected inside her parent's garage for the last six years of her abandonment. three days since she'd been back in magnolia creek, and it already seemed fitting to have some sort of escape plan, a feat she figured would be annoyingly hard to accomplish without a working vehicle, hence the march towards what ece was very convinced might be the world's most depressing garage. like the rest of the town, it somehow seemed worse for wear, as if the entirety of magnolia creek had decided to unravel the same way they all had after halloween. that same wrongness prickles her skin, has her steps moving faster like the city girl she's tried so hard to become. gravel crunches beneath her leather boots as she rounds the entrance, and it's with a belated sense of concern for scuffing that ece wonders if maybe designer anything wasn't best reserved for parading around the dregs of sawtooth. but whatever worry she had for the aesthetics of her own appearance are thrown aside when her dark eyes land upon a pair of filthy jeans, nose crinkling as her gaze slides up the figure hunched over a car engine. one beat, and the hard lines of her face break into the kind of smile that can stop you in your tracks; the kind that, when given, have you scrambling to repeat whatever it was that had you earn it in the first place just for the chance to see it again. the homecoming queen smile, not the disgraced run-away returning with her tail between her legs and scared shitless smile. the mechanics at backroads were never very hard to charm. "if you've been missin' seeing a jaguar on the road, this could be your lucky day." perhaps if she wasn't so fixated on making sure the strap of her slip dress fell just slightly over her shoulder, ece would have recognized him before he turned around. "my car's making this funny noise and i was wondering if maybe you could—" the words are halfway out her mouth before their eyes meet, her stomach dropping as she takes in the sight of matteo nassar for the first time in six years. and it's automatic, the way she stands just a little taller, spine going rigid with all the statuesque glory of a goddess preparing for the battlefield. "—take a look at it."
some voices stay with you. they stick in the nerves, in the teeth, in whatever dark little drawer the body keeps its old irritations alive. ece’s voice had been lodged there for years, shrill as chalk dragged over slate, thin as rusted hinges crying out in the heat. even before he looks, matteo knows who it is. it’s a lifetime of knowing, that’s all. back then, when they were children, it looked a lot like mutual attempted murder by playground rules: ece with her chin tipped up like she owned the monkey bars, the swing set, the sky above it, matteo hating her for it on principle. she’d declare something hers just because she wanted it; he’d answer by pulling her ponytail, knocking his bike into hers, pitching rocks at her tires hard enough to make her shriek. she’d claw at him, he’d grin blood-bright, and somehow that was just the language they spoke back then. then they got older, and the fighting lost some of its noise. the insults got more personal. pride got baited, nerves got pressed. by the time they were old enough to trade playground grudges for weapons, matteo had mostly learned how to leave the old childhood methods behind. mostly. he still knew how to take it far enough to earn a slap. matteo glances up from under the hood, rag hanging from one hand, and the grin that catches hold of him is a rare sight these days. a laugh follows—louder than it needs to be—not because he’s glad to see her. god, no. but because of course it’s her. “well,” he says, and the rag in his hand lands against the workbench with a damp little smack, “ain’t that a sight.” there’s something downright exhilarating in finding out that ece candemir—ece who was too good for magnolia creek and everything in it —still got yanked back all the same. whatever version of herself she’d built somewhere else, lacquered neat in silk and perfume and pretty lies, it hadn’t been enough to save her from this place. this town catches what runs. even the pretty things end up in the mud. his gaze flicks over her, and the old name comes back to him: mine. not tenderly. never that. just a nickname he’d given her as a boy whenever she planted her flag in something and called it hers. matteo clocks enough at a glance—the ready smile, the fallen strap—right up until recognition hits and draws her spine taut. that’s what does it, in the end. not the dress. not the car. not even her. the crack in the performance. “thought you’d rot before you let this town touch your designer heels again.” his eyes slide past her, out toward the jaguar sitting there in the grit like some sleek foreign animal that’s wandered into a junkyard by mistake. “i'll take a look,” matteo adds, pushing off the bench, “gonna cost you, though. luxury tax.”
with matteo’s attention elsewhere, the woman takes in his appearance. she’s used to seeing him with his sleeves rolled up, grease clinging to hands that have managed to bring her car back to life against all odds. lettie has heard the talk around town, has noted the tone in which some speak of matteo and his penchant for a fight. still, hearing of it and seeing the blood clinging to his clothing and the bruises under the harsh lighting is another thing entirely.
blinking back to attention, she closes the book she had been reading and places it beside her on the counter. “i don’t know if wishful thinking is effective on blood stains,” she attempts to joke, shifting as she reaches for the box she brought with her, ‘cheer!’ written across its front. there’s nothing cheerful about pinewood, but it smells nice and is cheaper than tide.
leaning against the machine, she holds out the little plastic scoop, detergent already measured out. “i think they have a first aid kit in the back. do you want me to grab it?” her tone is casual, although she winces at the way he seems to favor one side.
the detergent in her hand catches his eye—bold red cheer! hollering against the pallor of his face, loud and stupidly bright under the laundromat’s wasp-buzz lights. the kind of cheerful that’s never limped home half-dead with somebody else’s blood drying cold on its sleeves. at the mention of a first-aid kit, that same gaze cuts toward the back room too fast. the light back there keeps flickering on and off, like a bad thought that won’t die, and his mind is already pawing through the possibilities: iodine, peroxide, gauze. then straight past them, toward the chance of something stronger shoved where it shouldn’t be, something useful to sand down the raw scrape of his nerves. by the time sense comes limping in after instinct, matteo’s already reached for the detergent, fingers brushing hers only long enough to steal the scoop. his own hand is rough as busted pavement, nicked to hell, dried blood and ash ground deep into the lines of his knuckles like they’ve rented the place for good. “depends what’s in that kit,” he says, voice dragged sideways into something that could almost pass for playful if you didn’t listen close enough to hear the rust in it. he dumps the detergent in with all the care of a man who’s never treated anything carefully in his life. blue powder rattling into the drum and spilling over the rim in a soft chemical dusting, some of it catching on the scuffed toes of his boots, some of it vanishing into the grime already living there. “if it’s just iodine and disappointment, i’ll pass.”
✷ TIME 〳 july 8th, 1:30am ✷ PLACE 〳xingyu’s apartment, sawtooth ✷ FT. 〳 matteo nassar ( @griefbound )
THE GLOW OF SAWTOOTH’S STREETLAMPS REACH WITH CAREFUL FINGERS past his curtains, casting long shadows onto the hardwood, as if etching its own ghosts to keep him awake. Not that he needed anything more to haunt him lately. Xingyu stands with his back pressed against the kitchen counter, rubbing tired eyes with the back of his hand. He tried to go to sleep hours ago. Last month he had been on a bit of a streak of restful slumber, and as if Magnolia Creek had to remind him not to become too comfortable, the events of the past few weeks brought back an insomnia with renewed vigor. It was like the ground had split open beneath him to reveal all that he thought to have been well-buried. Every time he closed his eyes, the memories from six years ago came surging forth in a clarity that gripped his throat too tightly. He’s grateful then, that before more memories begin to claw for him, a knock at the door ushers it away. Xingyu glances at the clock and figures who it must be. He had given Matteo the key to the door that opens to Sawtooth, considering the amount of times he’s come to Xingyu’s apartment ( or the amount of times Xingyu has dragged him here ). Some days he recognizes the oddness in the quiet clockwork of it all, a cadence which was not unwelcome, just… a reminder, perhaps, of all that changed in the aftermath. He checks through the peephole to confirm his assumption before swinging the door open, inviting Matteo in with a tilt of his head. “Always good to see you at this hour,” Xingyu greets courteously, shutting the door behind them.
Then a smile, even if the dark circles under his eyes betray his lack of sleep. A quick once-over to assess any injuries, like he’s back at the clinic, then meets Matteo's gaze, as if to open the floor to him, if he wants to elaborate on a reason; but it's less a hard prodding and more a gentle nudge. He offers with a sweeping motion of his arm towards his small kitchen, a sense of normalcy returning to him as they perform a familiar rhythm. It's almost enough to ignore why he's awake at this hour. “Snack? Something to drink?”
matteo lingers outside xingyu’s door long past the point of normal, staring at the same splintered rectangle of wood like it might rearrange itself into something he can understand. pupils blown so wide, they've nearly swallowed the brown clean out of his eyes. every time he tries to fix his gaze, it slips somewhere else. his hands go searching anyway. sweater pocket. jeans. inside pocket. back pocket. again. the key's gone. the one scrap of metal he’d sworn he'd never misplace, because there was still one door in this moss-eaten town that opened without a side-eye or a spit-comment about him. the sweater hanging off him is thin enough for summer, lettie's detergent caught in the knit, the cuffs stretched loose where he’s worried them apart over the years. yeah, the trailer park's got his back. they’ll feed him, patch him up, even cuss out the sheriff if it comes to that, but the minute he steps past the hollows, doors close quicker and porches go quiet. now his pockets turn up nothing but a busted lighter out of fluid and a bent marlboro, filter already kissed flat. “fuck.” when the door finally opens, one shoulder is already braced against the frame, the building doing most of the work of keeping him upright. “lost the key.” it comes out blunt, irritated, as if the offense is the key’s and not his. “don’t know where the hell it went.” matteo doesn’t say sorry, but the way he avoids xingyu’s eyes says enough as he slips inside, without collapsing onto the couch like he owns the place. tonight he moves like the floorboards might shift if he trusts them too much. “not hungry,” he answers, one hand worrying at the loose cuff until another thread snags beneath his nails. instead matteo keeps talking, because silence is dangerous; silence means room for the blood in his ears, the riot in his head. “park’s still got people up.” the excuse comes out too fast, already lined up and waiting. “some stupid birthday shit. i dunno. whole place was packed. ” his fingers catch another loose thread and pull. “everybody’s still asking about him. where he’s been. what happened. like i fucking know what to tell them.”
in the three-ish weeks he’d been back, alistair had made a quick habit and routine to spend his nights anywhere but his motel room when he could— sleep was very quickly discovered to be an unkind thing that he had no interest partaking in. some nights that meant time at the animal shelter he’d volunteered at, dogs good company for a restless soul; other nights it was hours spent at fryday’s making himself sick on milkshakes, every so often coins spent at the neon dreams arcade where the lights threatened to go out in a way that had his adrenaline pumping, keeping him awake. but most nights were spent at one of the bars in sawtooth, drinks by the dozen, lines of white taken with a prayer only when offered— mind-numbing chaos that kept him from thinking of anything better left unthought. tonight, was the rusty nail.
“you deaf now too?” matteo spits, but alistair’s smart mouth buys him half an opening, and matteo ruins it by wrenching too hard, too fast. he jerks against the loosening grip. boots skid across wet concrete. one knee buckles ugly and the ground comes up hard—knee, then palm, then the rest of him after, a sound punched out of his chest that he hates the instant it’s loose. impact blooms white; the edges of everything cinch tight. for half a heartbeat, the alley is nothing but rushing blood. his body's been keeping score this whole time. from the first round. the second. the dumpster at his back. three weeks of bad sleep and worse decisions have run his engine dry. adrenaline had covered the bill for a while; now it comes due all at once. his split knuckles throb. his shoulder burns where metal met bone—every part of him he’s been ignoring suddenly remembers it exists. sight slams back in a blink: wet concrete under his palm. alistair still there where he shouldn't be. “i told you to get the fuck out.” he bites out, shoving the words through clenched teeth. one of the bastards takes that moment to move toward pryde, mean-faced and dumb enough to try it, and matteo’s temper flares hotter than the hurt. from half on the ground, he lashes out on instinct, heel whipping low and hard into the side of the man’s knee. not clean. not pretty. just enough to take the leg sideways and make him stumble with a curse. and still, beside him, alistair bleeds like pain doesn't mean a damn thing.
blood slides from his temple. the blow lands where matteo knows it should hurt, should drag some reflex out of a body trying to protect itself. alistair gives him none of it. matteo has seen those hands gentler than this. seen alistair take pain from other people like it was something he could cup carefully and carry for them a while. this feels like the same thing turned wrong. he doesn’t have the breath to name it, only the sick recognition of something familiar hollowed out. “what the hell are you doing?” he hisses, quieter than the rest, almost swallowed by the shouts around them. then alistair slides into that old angle at his side and matteo’s body betrays him immediately, hand shooting to the same patch of fabric he’d once fisted to yank him in for a kiss, the first one, though neither of them had known then it would also be their last. sudden and breathless and so long-awaited it had felt almost stupid in its simplicity. back when halloween was still just a date on a calendar, before it came down like an axe and ruined the awful softness of finally having him. muscle memory wants to curl, to pull. instead it flattens, slams hard into alistair’s chest. the shove is ugly with pain, uglier with effort. enough to break the shape they've fallen into before it can turn into something matteo’s body remembers kindly. his fingers catch the line of alistair’s jaw on the follow-through—the same jaw he’d cupped a lifetime ago, only now the touch is all force, the heel of his hand pushing his face away instead of drawing it close. “get out,” he grits, voice gone thin and raw. hurt catches wildfire at the edges of his expression before he can smother it. “i don’t want you here.” the one with the bad knee staggers, catches himself, and laughs wet through his busted mouth. “the hell is this, you fightin’ him or us?” that lands meaner than it should. because for one sick second, matteo doesn’t know the answer either. hate is easier than that. he reaches for it fast, shoving off the floor on one bad leg, making a weapon of the stumble—shoulder-first into the bastard’s middle.
billy crudup as TOMMY MARCANO in SLEEPERS (1996) dir. barry levinson
𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑: matteo – the chain @griefbound 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: pinewood laundromat, july 5th, 11:15 pm
school had been out for two weeks now, although this summer doesn't feel like the others she has spent in magnolia creek. lettie has become accustomed to unpleasant visions dreams, but hearing the students whisper about alarmingly similar images and watching as the pale skin beneath their eyes grows darker leaves her feeling uneasy.
the fog refuses to disperse, the birds have fled well before they usually do, and her neighbor's cat hasn't been seen in weeks. the cherry on top was that 'hardly used' secondhand washing machine she'd purchased choosing tonight to sing its swan song. so here she sits, gaze shifting from the washer trying desperately to remove oberon's gift and the well-loved book in her hands. at least it's quiet, the building empty. if she pretends not to notice the flickering light towards the backroom, it's almost peaceful.
the bell above the door chimes, and lettie looks over without thinking. the face is familiar, although it's clear he has had better days. "matteo," she greets, ever polite, trying not to let her gaze linger on the marks across his face.
the bell above the door chimes, and matteo stumbles in with yesterday still clinging to him. “lettie,” he greets, distractedly. his shirt hangs off him, damp where it sticks between his shoulder blades. blood darkens one cuff and drags over the front of his jeans—enough of it that it stops reading like a busted lip or split knuckles and starts reading like hours gone wrong in more ways than one. his attention moves from her to the rest of the laundromat. no other fucker around to annoy him, at least. fog blurs the windows, smearing whatever's outside into pale shapes and making the empty laundromat feel even deader. in one hand, he carries a stained-up pillowcase knotted at the top—no proper laundry bag, not even a trash bag—heavy with clothes too filthy to leave rotting in a heap back at his place. “washers at the park are still fucked.” his mouth pulls crooked, too tired to become a smile. “figured i’d bring my laundry someplace with higher standards.” matteo moves further inside then, stiff through the ribs, favoring one side just enough to show. cigarette smoke follows him in, tangled with the iron-rich stink of old blood. last night's tension never quite left him. the machine beside hers rattles once when matteo kicks it with the side of his boot, testing. alive, at least. more than could be said for half the things in this town. matteo works the knot loose, one hand braced on the lid. head dipped, he starts shoving things into the washer. “you got detergent?” he asks, already knowing she does. “or am i supposed to scrub it out with wishful thinking?”
it was a laugh that left her lips in response to his words. did he think he was original? that this was he first time she had heard comments about her teeth, or her lack of a heartbeat? he was not the first slayer she had interacted with, and he certainly would not be the last. "my teeth will only go near those willing," for now. even that lie felt forced on her tongue. she was certain he would not believe it. but did it matter what he believed? or just that she acted in ways that would provide the slayers and co with enough trust to let her off her leash?
she watched him come out of the alley, the darkness no longer enveloping the hatred on his face. she took another drag from her cigarette as her eyes found his hands, brows raising as in judgement. perhaps he had not truly been following her. perhaps he was simply upset at being caught. "just because i'm dead doesn't mean i cannot have fun." she teased, walking closer and flicking the ash from the end of her butt towards him. "and as i am sure you've found, entertainment is lacking in this quiet, little town."
at some point she began to circle him as she spoke. like a predator watching it's prey. but also to ensure he was less likely to snag her if he tried to reach out to do so. she wasn't confident he wouldn't try anything. "did the group send you on this little reconnaissance mission or did you decide upon it by yourself?" her eyes flickered to his hand once more, the one that held the bag. when her gaze returned to his own it held a knowing look. would he make an excuse? if he did she would file that information away for the future.
she flicks ash at him. for a heartbeat, the ash tugs at him, promising memory if he lets himself reach for it. his fingers twitch at the pull. but whatever it might give him isn't worth going blind to her for even a second, so he grinds the flecks into the gravel beneath his boot. then odette starts to circle, and something old and backyard-born wakes up in matteo: chain-link. rusting bicycles. pitiful grass gone bald in the dirt. dogs straining themselves half-mad on rope leashes, never taught the difference between guarding and mauling, only that something always came close enough to hate. he turns with her on a slow heel, never giving her his back. “slayer pantry was running low on party favors,” his mouth hooks mean around the words, “so they sent me out to pick up a little pest control.” even as he says it, odette is already under his skin. it’s the lazy, hunting rhythm of her, the cigarette ember dragging red, the way he catches her attention towards his stash like she's found the weak seam. every pass she makes pulls his nerves tighter. every step winds the chain one notch shorter. matteo snaps before sense can get a leash on him. he lunges, hand flashing out for odette's wrist, her waist, whatever he can catch first, aiming to break that smug orbit she keeps tightening around him. but the bag slips from his fist in the same motion, dropping between them. his eyes betray him for one thin second, cutting down to it, caught on the pale promise. habit, ugly and eager, gets there faster than pride. it is enough to throw the grab off.
joseph gordon-levitt in brick (2005) dir. rian johnson
⸻ closed for alistair pryde, the rusty nail. july 4th, 1:17am @scythebcrn
matteo should have gone home an hour ago. instead he’s wedged between a dumpster and the bar’s back wall, lip split, somebody else’s blood drying iron-black across his knuckles and a cigarette burned down to a bitter nub between his fingers. from inside, his name gets dragged through a mouthful of curses, loud enough to carry clear through the side door. the mess he started. the asshole who started it. it won’t take long. men like that always came looking for things that bruised their pride. sure enough, the side door kicks open hard enough to make the dumpster shudder against his shoulder. “there he is.” three of them spill out into the alley, big as feed-store freezers, liquor-sour and broad-necked, their shadows sliding long through the wet. one of them’s got a pool cue snapped in half. matteo rolls the cigarette to the corner of his mouth, spits red into the puddle by his boot, and grins with all the wrong parts of himself. “what,” he drawls, voice rough as gravel in a garbage disposal, “you boys come out here to kiss me goodnight?” he never did know when to shut up. that's half the trouble. the other half lands clean across his cheekbone. white pain bursts. copper taste floods his mouth, and the cigarette skitters into the wet, ember hissing in the grime. feels almost good. almost holy. not because it is, but because it’s simple. because pain like this doesn’t ask questions. just arrives and swings. the second hit drives him back into the dumpster. rusted metal booms behind him like a church bell nobody’s prayed to in years. his shoulder lights up. one of them grabs his shirt and yanks him forward again. matteo answers with his forehead. cartilage goes with a wet, ugly crunch. the man stumbles back howling, blood pouring through his fingers, and matteo goes after him anyway. his fist meets teeth. somebody catches him from behind, hauls him off, and matteo kicks wild, heel clipping a shin. and that's when he sees him. for one thin, ruined second, everything in matteo goes wrong, like some rusted hook under his ribs got yanked hard enough to tear. somebody's shouting in his face. matteo doesn't hear a damn word of it. because some buried, humiliating part of him still knows alistair on sight. because his body remembers before his mind can get mean enough to stop it. remembers what it used to be like to find him at the edge of trouble and have the whole world shift a fraction back into place. three weeks of avoiding, six years of mourning. this is how he gets him back in his sights: with matteo looking exactly like the ruined piece of trash magnolia creek always knew he’d turn into. one of the men still has a fist knotted in matteo’s shirt. another breathes through a broken nose. matteo’s heart is hitting hard enough to feel stupid with it. “keep walking, ” he grits out. “this ain't your problem.”
who. odette beaumont & open. where. outside the rusty nail. when. july 1st, after the sun had set.
she misses the effects of alcohol.
her almost nightly visit to the rusty nail was providing the residents of this town with the notion of familiarity. emboldening them to speak to her, as if they were worthy of her company. a man with a balding scalp and reddened cheeks took the seat next to her, and when he turned towards her with a leering gaze, she ignored the instinct to tear his head from his neck. this was not the time nor the place. unfortunately, in a town as small as magnolia creek, such a scene would spread by sunrise. and even if she were to lure him out somewhere else, one less body accounted for would be noticed.
so, instead she left her seat and pushed through the doors of the scummy bar, grabbing a pack of cigarettes out of her bag and lighting one up. the burning of smoke would always be more fulfilling then the burning of alcohol, anyways. looking towards the nearby alley, she immediately recognized a face in the darkness. "if you are here to keep watch you might as well come out and join me," she called. she could use the entertainment anyway. "they should send someone else next time. you're espionage skills are rather pathetic."
once, matteo hoarded dollars the way yard-dogs hoard bones: dirty, desperate, half-chewed hope. he stuffed them in coffee tins, slid them under loose floorboards, in all the hiding places boys stash futures when they're still arrogant enough to think one can be built. gas money, first-month's rent, and just enough faith in his truck to believe it could carry them somewhere magnolia creek couldn't sniff them out. him and elias. always him and elias. now the cash disappears the same way beer cans do in a trailer-park fire. the buy lasts a heartbeat: crumpled bills, plastic knot, the dealer already skittering off like a cockroach when the kitchen light snaps on. inside are pills the color of plaster. matteo thumbs one free, halfway to dry-swallow salvation, when smoke brushes the back of his hand—soft as cobweb. a thin cigarette drag sidles over his knuckles through the wet summer dark, giving the vampire away before her voice can get its fangs in. “i’m here to make sure you keep your teeth to yourself,” he snarls, loping out of the alley's throat, spoiling for a fight. bar-light salts every hurt it can find: lip split raw, bruise flowering plum-dark across cheekbone, knuckles busted into rust-red seams. slayers have crawled home from uglier nights than this, but matteo isn't dumb enough to set a welcome mat for a leech just because the rest of them did. there were enough soft-necked fools stumbling out of the bar tonight without offering her an invitation. his stare catches on her throat, on that bloodless hollow where a pulse should be. “comforting,” contempt thick as chaw, “seeing even corpses chase a buzz.”
can you feel it, MATTEO NASSAR? it’s starting again. something’s up the creek bed — and soon, there’ll be nowhere left to hide. but i can tell by your eyes, you’re not the running type. yeah, you’re too PERCEPTIVE and SELF - DESTRUCTIVE for that, aren’t you? just about what i’d expect from a SLAYER. so you’ve been in magnolia creek about YOUR WHOLE LIFE now? word travels fast in a small, dying town like this — i hear you’re 26 years old and GAS STATION NIGHT CLERK. don’t think that’ll help much in a fight against the hunger, but at least you’ve got your BASEBALL BAT. that’s more than i can say for most. i’ve seen the cycle turn before, and i think i know how it ends. you think it’ll end THE SAME? well. we’ll see. i’d love to be proven wrong in all this.
JACK O’CONNELL as JAMES COOK in SKINS (2007-2013)
