Matt
Matt had been losing sleep. This mattress was foreign, it was stiff, unyielding. It jabs into the scar tissue that Matt had on his body that makes Matt wince in the slightest. This is the nights of punishment that reminds him of home. Oh how he missed home. His own bed. Sheets that caressed his skin like water over stone, it wasn’t the suffocating cloth that had the smell of cigarettes and strangers. At home, he wasn’t chained by the ankle, no reminder of captivity disguised as shelter. This flat was not his, nothing here was, obviously. He wasn’t safe. And Jake…? Jake is here, it means one thing Matt knows with certainty tis deception.
He turned in the dark, restless. His body cold and hot. His senses stretched far for his liking. This city sang its song, traffic, sirens, people cheering for some party, maybe for an engagement. But this room, being here was wrong. Wings, or maybe the idea of wings, flapping against the walls and windows. The sound was too big, too close. He tasted copper in his mouth, was the air bleeding?
What is God's plan? Was this real? Are the angels real? Were they really sent from the Father himself? Or was this another test built from his burn out and sin?
Well let’s say they are real, why that they were sent from heaven, why would Jake lie? Why was Jake so insistent in his lap and lay on his breasts? Jake must be using Matt to get close to him then snatch it… and use it to make this world a hell for the better ‘good’. Jake doesn’t care about Matt. Jake must have planned this whole thing, get pulled into a police station, call Matt’s law firm, take him home, and somehow follow him to London, and knew about the bag. To get that pouch. Matt didn’t know how. But these angels were messing with Matt internally, to be so naked, for the sake of placing balance in this world. The angels pressed harder, the whispers scattered in his head like glass. And possibly possessing him.
—-------------—--------
“For what if some were without faith? shall their want of faith make no effect on the faithfulness of God? God forbid: yea, let God be found true, but every man a liar; as it is written, That thou mightest be justified in thy words, And mightest prevail when thou comest into judgment ”(Romans 3:3-4 ASV).
Matt tasted the salty pearls and the heart break of iron and heartbreak. Tears? Jake was crying? This was tears that Matt didn’t understand as the angels chanted in his ear, they surrounded all parts of the apartment, blocking every part of his escape.
Cut the roots. Cast out the deceiver Matthew. Purge the defier.
The place was a mess, making him overwhelmed with all the damn paper and books stacked on books, everything collecting and almost falling on the chair that wasn’t there before “Matt…” Jake’s accent rougher “don’t start this” Matt fumbled back to sit on Steven’s couch “Stop it” Matt pleads, not knowing if it was meant for Jake or for the angels. For their faces pressed against every opening in this apartment, luckily Matt can see but in the center, Jake’s heart was skipping every beat. Matt pressed his hands to his ears but the angels were just scrambling his mind to cut Jake out and to serve his task “Shut— stop twisting his words… stop… stop-!” The voices messing up his radar vision till Jake cut through the overlapping demands.
“You’re not talking to me?” His tone mocking and grounding, the thing that always gets to him and the thing cutting through his fog. Jake stood over him, the pouch waved in his face then stuffed into his pocket “You’re talking to those losers” Matt snapped his head up. Jake’s outline contorted with horns then with a halo the next. And whoever was behind Jake, was towering over him… colossal, inhuman. The angels still whisper “He is your captor. Destroy the ropes. Destroy what binds you”
Sweat trickles down his cheek, his throat dry. “Matt” Jake says, tender, commanding, Matt sees the outline of the pouch, he darts from his seat but his legs give out. His hands clawed the carpet as he pushed himself to Jake. His heart rampaging against his chest, protesting to stop this heart ache, its beats thundering in judgement. Matt’s vision wavers, but it doesn’t stop him from going after the pouch, the damn thing that caused this whole shit show. Heavenly Father please… Please make them go away as soon as I get the pouch. It burns. I promise to have Thy will done as in heaven, so on earth. I’m your son. But I am afflicted and in pain; May Your salvation, O God, set me securely on high.”
“Kill him. He’s in your way. Kill it. Cast him out.”
Matt roars with an inflicted heart, Jake grabbed his arms, hard but not enough to bruise “careful, abogado (lawyer)” Jake murmured, such a gentle warning “you don’t know what’ll do”
“So what? Let me have it!” Matt thrashed again, making Jake curse and sit to his knees and pinning both arms to be stilled. Jake brought Matt close, both their breathing ragged, hot and collided. Matt turns the other way, teeth bared as if he was going to bite “I know this is tearing me apart… and you. You… don’t know what it will do either and you’re just letting it all happen! You just sit there while I’m in pain!”
“I’ve been doing my dammest to keeping you alive man!” Jake protested “ They’re filling your head with a bunch of shit about me and that stupid pouch!”
Matt’s chest heaved, his lungs greedy for air, trembling as the words were relentless and causing more agony in his already, pounding head. Church bells were bashed into his head over and over again, Matt wished to scream as he tore the angels from his skin “You can’t just say that!” Matt spat “It’s the only way…It is, it has to be…– I don’t… I don't know what's real anymore”
Oh
Oh Father
Oh Lord
Matt finally admits his wrongs, his voice small and broken, Matt wanted Jake to go, to leave him like everyone else had and solve his own mess. Again. Matt is left alone to decide what is right, who is real, and to put himself back together “Tell me Jake… tell me why it feels like I have to, because… because…” Jake lets go. His hands move to brush their soaked hair “love does that sometimes” his words too close but in a comforting way. Matt’s hands come to Jake, drawn to the pulse that rhymes with his. The pouch sat between him and Jake, a simple little bag, tied up so neatly to contain whatever life was inside that Matt can’t see or map with his fingers, it twitched with life and the heat of it made Matt’s skin crawl with unease. Then his hands draw forward to the bag and Jake grabs his wrists again “Don’t” He warns again, patient, and yet ready to snap. And the angels are even more frustrated, their singing was louder, making Matt’s ears ready to burst again.
Matt was almost safe, he was grounded, his body coming to be at ease, the singing drowned into a muffled choir. Matt’s body was worn out, mentally and physically pushed beyond his limits, way past the stage where Matt throws himself to a fight, becoming a ragdoll with punches. His body leaning to Jake’s touch, their hand at the back of neck. For a split second, Matt believed he was safe, back in Jake’s grace. During the silent vow, the pouched pulsed, reminding Matt his mission. Matt shoved Jake to the carpet with little strength he had, tearing himself free and dug into Jake’s pocket. The heat of the pouched scorched his palm, it was alive, writhing. Jake cursed under his breath, he grabbed Matt’s wrists, harder this time, yanking him back to him so their chests collided again “Matt” They hissed, every word laced with both threat and plea “You don’t want what's in there” Matt gave less of a care, blood and angels roaring in his ears “Cut him. Kill him. Banish those roots. Burn what binds you Matthew”
“OH? And so why should YOU??” Matt rasped, his voice breaking, and his body barely able to contain the fury and the hunger building within him “Why are you guarding it like it's yours?” His words caught Jake’s throat, his breath hitched. His grip on Matt’s arm loosened at the slight, enough for Matt to take advantage of the wince of hesitation. The pouch pulsed between them, alive again “And you dare don’t tell me it’s for my safety” “You just want me to yourself”
Matt broke himself free and lunged for Jake’s pocket again, his fingers brushing the pocket before Jake grabbed his wrists again, this time with unrelenting strength “orale pendejo (come on stupid)!” Jake growled, twisting their bodies so Matt’s back hits the floor. He straddled him, holding their wrists above their head, putting his entire weight onto Matt. The angels kept screaming to kill Jake and take back the pouch. Matt writhed and squirmed, teeth bared and breath ragged like a dog “It’s mine!! You can't…! You can't keep it from me!!”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works