This was odd. Though death never paused for the passing of time, to have someone unexpected knocking at the mortuary's main door without calling first was-- Emile emerged from the lower level. The knocks echoed louder. He was still fully dressed, having been awake for at least thirty hours at this point. "Who is it?"
The doctor stood at the door, cold, drenched, confused. It had been raining, and he hadn’t felt rain in a long time and these circumstances were.. Extraordinary. He had very little recollection of things, minimal memory of who he was. He had a name, he knew his profession but.. Other than that he wasn’t quiet sure who he was.
He didn’t know why it felt wrong to be here, why knocking on this door made him uneasy. He felt as if he was supposed to be dead, someone else beyond the living but at the same time.. He also enjoyed this. It felt like he hadn’t breathed fresh air in several hundred years. Which was weird
Seeing as he was thirty six years old. At least, that’s what he remembered, however his memory was failing him as he can’t remember what he’s done for the past thirty six years, only that he was a certified doctor born in england with the name Silas Philostrate Radcliff.
Yet.. He hated his last name. He sighed as he stood at the door, listening to the voice of the man who called out. Of course they wouldn’t let a stranger in! Americans were so untrusting these days..
“I’m sorry to bother you sir, I’ve.. I’ve been out in the rain and quite frankly I have no clue where I am..!” Silas said quickly, glancing away. He had a partial 8ball fracture on his right eye, well.. Left when looking straight at him. But it was his right. He didn’t remember how he got it or why it was there, but right now, with no shelter or money he needed the kindness of a human. Even if the gesture was for malicious purposes.
// just in case you don’t see this @goodspiritradio
2p Canada (2p CanAme, wendigo fic) -- to escape what's inside of me
He wakes up hungry.
Admittedly, Matt is usually hungry. It’s a deep-set sort of gnaw in his belly, an all-consuming festering ache that never quite goes away no matter how much he eats. And he eats a lot. He eats between full course meals, on the way to work, during meetings.
Powdered sugar under his nails. Croissant flakes on his tie. Bacon between his fingers as he goes to meet with his boss because he has a baggie of it in his suit pocket.
Matt’s licking a smear of grease off his thumb, nodding along to his Prime Minister’s words. He’s thinking about picking up more steaks in the evening, throwing two onto the grill and saving one for breakfast. He’ll need eggs, too. And another loaf of bread, probably, because he’ll be out in a day or so.
“Just hungry.” He shrugs. His boss frowns, for a moment, and starts to rummage around in his desk.
He eventually finds a granola bar and hands it to Matt. “It’s a good sign, right? You’re a growing nation.” And he smiles so wide, so proud, and Matt can just duck his head and blush, rising out of the chair.
--
At home, he cooks his steak in a pan. First one, then the other, on the off chance he’s not hungry enough for both.
But the first doesn’t quell the raw ache, and he turns up the heat on his sputtering stove. Idly scratching at the thick hair just below his belly button, Matt frowns and prods the slowly cooking steak.
He tries not to go for a handful of chips while he’s waiting.
(He ends up slicing the forgotten cucumber in his fridge after cutting off the squishy parts and eating it while he waits.)
--
Matt has always eaten a lot, a habit after the long cold years of his youth where there never seemed to be anything to eat. He doesn’t like remembering that time. For him, any time without Arthur isn’t worth remembering, no matter what Alfred insists.
But Matt has never eaten this much. And, it starts to make him nervous when he wakes up, feeling like his stomach is rending itself in two. It’s the middle of the night; he rolls over into the moonlight stripes on his bed and groans, broad palm pressed against the tense plane of his stomach.
He lives on the tenth floor of a high rise, but when Matt looks up to check his clock, he swears he sees black trees rising up around him, menacing branches and naked boughs.
There are no trees for miles, Matt knows.
He worries.
--
It doesn’t go away, and, in fact, his stomach starts to hurt worse.
Matt starts to dry-heave at his desk, barely makes it to the trash bin before his stomach gives out.
At some point, he slides to the carpet from his chair, his hulking form suddenly bent over the trash bin. He’s hidden behind the desk, so his Prime Minister does not find him until he comes up to the desk and sees the red of Matt’s uniform, the sprawl of his arms across the carpet.
Of course, he gets sent home.
--
Of course, Alfred comes up within the afternoon. He’s got arms of brown paper bags filled with Tupperware, and he builds towers of them on Matt’s kitchen table.
“I’ve got, like, five types of casserole and salmon and rice and chicken pot pie and—“
Matt raises his beer to silence Alfred’s babble. Then he rubs absently under his eye, frowning at the, no doubt, bruised skin there. “I’m not hungry.” He says, firmly, quietly.
Alfred just looks at him, shoulders slumping. He looks frustrated, almost nervous, and Matt just presses his lips together and takes another sip of beer.
“You should go back to Washington.” He suggests, at length. “I think you’re more needed there, anyway.” Matt tries to say it as kindly as he can when all he wants is for Alfred to leave.
But Alfred just glares at him and then starts transferring the Tupperware to the fridge.
--
“You just don’t take care of yourself.” Alfred sighs after a few minutes of silence. “You keep filling yourself with all this crap.” He holds up a back of ketchup-flavored chips for emphasis. “And all that red meat. And beer.” He bends down to peer into the fridge again. “Are those canned pears?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s pear season, damn it, Matt!”
“You’re such a fucking nag.”
“Go fuck yourself, you fuck.”
--
Alfred’s a good cook, so no matter how much Matt wants to blame his churning stomach on the tuna casserole, he can’t bring himself to utter the phrase “food poisoning” when Alfred is holding back his hair, his fingers trembling as Matt retches into the toilet.
“Fuck, Matt.” Alfred takes a deep breath. “Fuck.”
“Water.”
And Alfred is on his feet, already bounding down the hallway. Matt shudders, wipes the corner of his mouth on his wrist, and then flushes the toilet. His head bursts between his eyes, and he groans softly.
Through it all, he’s still starving.
--
Alfred comes to check on him in the middle of the night, but Matt is awake. When Alfred comes to sit next to him, red eyes catching moonlight, moonlight catching the downturn of his mouth.
“You worry too much.” Matt shifts, raises his arm for Alfred to lie next to him but Alfred doesn’t move. “What do you want?”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re in bed.” Alfred shifts. Matt reaches over to touch his bare knee, fingertips sweeping down his skin. “You sleepwalk. I found you in the kitchen.” He pauses, hesitant, catches Matt’s hand on his thigh. “Matt…you were eating raw steak.”
Matt blinks. “That could be what’s making me sick.” But he says it tonelessly.
“Yeah.”
When Alfred goes to leave, Matt pulls him down, and arches up for a kiss.
Alfred only hesitates for a moment.
--
He goes back to work after driving Alfred to the airport.
There’s a niggling hollow ache behind his heart, magnifying when he thinks of the uncertain way Alfred had eyed him from the gate. Like he didn’t want to leave, but Matt knew he also didn’t want to stay.
Alfred turning away from him hurts more than Matt could have imagined, but at the same time, he can't blame him. He knows.
He knows.
--
He gets thinner and thinner, until his uniform hangs at his elbows and he tucks more into his trousers before tightening his belt.
He wakes up outside, in his office, in the kitchen, and, then, in South River.
Matt wakes up, on the shore of a lake, feet in the water, looking up at the cloudless sky.
There’s no noise. Even the water is quiet, the lake a placid sheet of glass under a raging sun.
Behind him are the tatters of a red and blue tent.
Under him, the ground is red.
Matt just decides not to go back.
He can't.
--
His heels burn and the wind whistles in his ears, but he keeps heading north, the ache building and building in his chest until it might burst. Metal and lightning under his nails and in his mouth, and Matt flees.
1p2p Canadas (short-haired!Matt) -- i'm fresher than that Gucci
“So…” Matthew trails off, long fingers carding through Matt’s newly shorn hair. His eyes are a little wide and he’s kneeling on the bed next to Matt.
Matt raises an eyebrow, aviators low on his nose. “Yeah.”
Matthew makes a noise, now tugging lightly at the short chunks of hair. He leans in and his shirt brushes against Matt’s reddening cheek. “Haircut?”
“I fell asleep.” Matt pauses while Matthew nuzzled him. His cheeks warm. “With gum in my mouth.”
Matthew would laugh, call it the “Gum Incident of 2013”, but he’s more fascinated by how much softer Matt’s hair is now. It’s smooth under his hands. It looks soft.
“…Are you rubbing your face on my head?”
Matthew freezes, blushing. “No.” He says, quickly.
There’s a little bit of laughter in Matt’s voice when he murmurs, “You like it?”
Matthew tries to twirl a strand around his index finger. It doesn’t work. Truthfully, he’ll miss tangling his fingers in Matt’s hair and pulling. He curls his fingers into it and gives an experimental tug. It works.
And Matt makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat and Matthew sits back long enough to see pink creep up his cheeks.
He can see Matt blush now, without that curtain of hair in his face.
Matthew grins and Matt gives him a wary look.
It takes less than a minute for him to have Matt pinned onto the mattress while he sits on his chest with a downright wicked smile.
“I really like your hair.” Matthew murmurs, leaning down for a kiss. Matt’s fingertips dig into his hips and he arches up just enough to meet Matthew’s lips.
It’s quick and messy and Matt will end up throwing both of their jeans into the wash while Matthew looks entirely too pleased with being able to make Matt cum in his pants (even though he was making needier noises and kept humping Matt’s thigh but whatever).
When Matt comes back to bed, nude from the waist down, and slips next to Matthew beneath the tangle of sheets, Matthew curls against him. He’s already playing with his hair. Matt gives him a fond sort of smile.
2p Canada (i really don't know) -- this fantasy, this fallacy, this tumbling stone
(Based off Miss Annie's 2p comics and art)
He steps into the kitchen and sees Alfred there, scraping eggs into a fluffy mound on a plate. He’s humming under his breath, some pleasantly off-tune song from My Fair Lady, and Matt stops in the doorway, something heavy churning in his gut.
Alfred looks over his shoulder, smile crooked and eyes lazy. “Morning, baby.” He coos.
“Don’t you know how to fucking knock?” Matt snarls, heart rate picking up, stalking toward the fridge.
Alfred ignores him, doesn’t see the tremble in his fingers when he reaches for the juice carton.
He should have woken up longer before Alfred let himself in.
He should’ve known before Alfred even crossed the border, entered his airspace.
He curls up under his quilt, fingers curled into the worn fabric.
He is hyper alert, questioning every rustle outside his window, every car that passes. He strains to hear voices across the street.
He does not sleep that night.
Or the next. Or the one after.
The nights blend into sunrises and back into starlight and Matt curls up under his quilt and stares at his alarm clock and tries not to shudder.
--
He disconnects. He is cut off. There is a snip and suddenly he feels bare.
His Boss says something to him and Matt just sees the off-tilt way he speaks. He stares hard, expression shutting down as the seconds tick by. He wants to reach out, grab the fleeing light and have just a few more seconds.
The terror settles, bitter and wet, in the back of his throat. His world slants and he squints, trying to catch every angle and shadow before everything goes lopsided again.
“You sick?” His Boss asks, gruff, shuffling his papers. “You haven’t said a word.”
Matt stares at him, tie askew, wisps of hair in his face.
The streets are emptying and, God help him he doesn’t know where his people are.
Rust and decay wind around the overgrown skyscrapers, pulling at their joints to their roots. Sidewalks crack under his feet and dust flutters around his dress shoes.
The bus is late. The second one doesn’t come.
He walks home and hopes it doesn’t rain.
--
Matt spills hot coffee on his hand and grimaces, flecks of coffee staining his shirt when he shakes his hand.
The shiny red patch of skin stays on his wrist for several days. Eventually he resorts to some drugstore ointment and wraps up his wrists—both because he doesn’t want anyone to ask him questions.
No one asks him questions. And anyone whose gaze lingers too long gets a glower.
--
He gets food poisoning from bad Chinese take-out and spends half a night curled over his toilet, hacking and spitting.
Face clammy and stomach twisting, he wipes his forehead.
He feels like his body is tearing itself apart from the inside.
He eventually falls asleep in the bathroom and wakes up, neck stiff from resting on the edge of the tub.
--
When the paper cuts don’t heal, when the bruises don’t fade, when he ends up in the hospital because he slipped on ice and broke his wrist, Matt decides he must be dying.
Wrist still in a cast, he stands in front of his oven, good hand on the knob.
“What are you doing?” Alfred asks, setting groceries on the table. He’s in some all-natural cotton tunic thing and his tattoos are visible because of the huge v-neck it is.
“Baking a cake.” Matt retorts, staring at the numbers on the dial, mouth tense. “Can’t you knock?”
“What’s the point?” Alfred comes around, grinning at him, completely at ease. He frowns, then, noting the sickles of black under Matt’s eyes. “You okay?”
Matt glares down his nose at him. Alfred doesn’t flinch, but he looks uncertain.
“Matt?”
“Just keep it down. I have work.” Matt finally mutters, shouldering Alfred out of the way and stomping up the stairs.
His bear, at the top of the stairs, sniffs at his ankles and then lays his head back down.
--
He doesn’t sleep, sheets twisting around his knees and pillow thrown to the ground.
He doesn’t hear Alfred leave. He doesn’t hear anything.
He should be in Ottawa but everyone is speaking French and all the buildings are crumbling and stone so he doesn’t really know.
