@affaridicuore
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From Isabel to Matt:
• secrets : my muse sharing/confiding their deepest, darkest secret with your muse.
“Fire Meets Gasoline” […continued from HERE]
With the hangover fading, the day had been a looming one, but one that he was grateful for. Isabel had been far too patient with him. Maybe it had been his obvious wounds from the night before, the lack of ability to really stand, or the inability to keep much down after drinking himself to a damn near unconscious state, but she hadn’t really laid into him yet. Just simply allowed him the day to recover.
Nightfall had made another appearance, but it wasn’t shrouding his ability to remember what had happened the prior one. Now you woulda thought he’d be able to mask it all under the fog of alcohol, but sadly, Matthew’s tolerance after many years of drugs (along with pill-poppin’, doin’ lines, and various other types of substance abuse) had lent him a far more aware brain when it came to his mistakes. Escaping those downfalls would take a bigger mix than some simple liquor blend, unfortunately.
With a furrowed brow, he sat up on the side of the bed, hands bracing at the edge as she stayed laying on her opposite side. He could hear her breathing normalize under the shift in his movements. Knowing she was lying there awake was almost making this more difficult, but the sobering man from New Orleans cleared his throat and began pulling on his jeans, one leg at a time to slip up over his boxers, zip up and fasten. With a heavy sigh, he reached over to grab his watch from the end table to check the time, shimmying it on as he glanced back over his shoulder to Izzie’s frame, brow arched and wondering how much more she could endure from him.
Turning his head away to reach over and grab his socks and shoes, Matt sat back on the side of the bed and started to confess, “This isn’t the worst of it, ya know.”
He slipped on his shoes one at a time, after putting both socks on and sat there, elbows turned out as he pressed his hands down over his legs and thought for a second. With an angled cock of his head back at Izzie, he asked, “Did you know I used to be a hustler? Homeless, even?” He looked back to her for a second, then got upright and turned his sights back to his button-up black shirt and vest, grabbing them off the back of the chair to start getting dressed as he spoke.
“Look, I ain’t perfect. I got a whole world of shit I’ve gone through, and we ain’t even come close to touchin’ base on it yet.” Rogers paused as he slipped his head and arms through the sleeveless vest and continued, “One of which has to do with me dealin’ drugs, darlin’, so… wherever you wanna take things, I get it. Just don’t think yer gonna be comin’ to my rescue every time. Cuz I may have fallen from grace, but I fell a long time ago. I may not be perfect, but I ain’t no damn devil, neither. You gonna be able to see past all’a that?”
