That lightbulb of his #2
“With some practice, I could be,” I amend.
He makes a so-so hand motion before turning his notebook so I can see what he wrote. It’s big enough to be seen from where he still stands in the doorway. Just a single word: HIDE?
“You wanna hide in here? Fuck yeah. Come on in.” I spin my chair until I’m facing my monitors, not wanting him to feel put on the spot. “Just close the door behind you, if you don’t mind? It’s up to you if you want to lock it, though. Doesn’t matter to me either way right now.”
I’ve got my main tracking program pulled up and running by the time I hear the door click shut.
I keep my eyes on the monitor while waving a hand in the direction of the hiding spot I’d shown him before.
“Wherever you’re comfortable. Feel free to ignore me.
Or bother me, if you need something. I’ve got snacks and a mini-fridge here - I think I told you that before.
Still worth repeating. There’s salty, sweet, crunchy - I even have some of my favorite licorice, which I am willing to share with you, but only if you don’t reveal my hiding space to anyone, because if those goddamn assholes figure out where I hide my candy, it’ll be gone by morning. ”
I fight the urge to glance over my shoulder at him. Wherever he is and whatever he’s doing is none of my business. He came here to hide. I promised to let him. I intend on keeping that promise. Keeping any promises I make to him, in fact.
The promise doesn’t go both ways, though, and I can feel him watching me. There's tension in the air. Maybe tension isn’t even the right word. It’s more electric. A buzzing that works its way beneath my skin. Anticipatory. Exhilarating.
It makes me want to look at him so badly. I don’t want him to feel like he’s being monitored, though. I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable here. I think he really needs this. He needs a place to hide. I want to give him that so badly. I can’t let myself ruin it.
Except, when I let myself look out of the corner of my eye, I see he’s not hiding. He’s sitting on the couch. Unmoving. Watching me.
Is he waiting for something? For permission? For my attention?
He didn’t write, VISIT, though. He wrote, HIDE.
What would make it easier for him to hide here? What had I liked when it was me?
That’s easy enough to answer, since I still use the same thing to this day. The tried and true method that a terrified boy in a tiny closet came up with all on his own.
I can play him some music.
Well, as long as I don’t scare him off first.
I grab my energy drink and lean back in my seat to take a sip. The chair I use can rock a little, so I press my toes into the floor and get the movement started. It’s supposed to make me look like I’m bored. Whether I’m pulling it off is anybody’s guess.
I don’t know if I pull of any nonchalance, either, but I pretend I’m killing it as I slowly roll my head on my neck to look over at him.
I give him an easy smile. He sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden attention, eyes going wide, before he quickly looks at the floor.
Then the wall. Then the notebook in his lap.
I watch as he flutters his fingers along the edges of it, his lips moving soundlessly.
I try not to wonder if that’s a nervous tic, or if it’s him wishing he could speak right now.
I wonder anyway.
I overheard Adam telling Jake that no one knows what’s causing his mutism yet.
As of that conversation earlier today, Adam wasn’t even sure if it was something Matt has chosen for himself, or if the ability is gone and he can’t control it.
If it isn’t his choice, is it a physical issue that we just can’t see yet, or something psycho-emotional?
I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s none of my business. The only thing about Matt that I should concern myself with is making sure this place feels safe enough for him. To create a perfect place to hide. Why - or even if - he can’t talk has no bearing on that. I’ll treat him the same either way.
“Sometimes I listen to music when I work.” I wave my hand toward my computer tower, entirely unnecessarily.
I’m sure he can figure out that the music would come from the technology in the room.
It doesn't take a genius to figure that one out. “Especially when I’m tired, or when all of this shit gets a little too heavy.”
He looks at me through his lashes.
“Music,” I say, making the sign for it as I do. He lifts his gaze to look at my hands, his eyebrows pulling together. I repeat it slowly, sweeping one flat hand back and forth above my other flat hand.
He echoes it.
I grin. “Yeah. Just like that. Music. Is it okay if I play some?”
His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he lifts his chin just enough for our eyes to meet.
I feel caught, like those brown eyes reach right out and grab me by the throat. It feels important, somehow, him looking so openly at me. So easily. It’s the first time I’ve gotten a glimpse at the person he might be beneath the weight of his silence.
He has three things he can speak with - his hands, his face, and his eyes. It’s a lot harder to control what your eyes say, from my experience. The eyes rarely lie. It’s something Keaton told me, once, when I asked how he knew when someone was lying to him.
Matt’s eyes don’t lie - and they’re saying so fucking much.
They’re saying, hi, hey, hello. They’re saying, this is really nice. They’re saying, thank you, thank you, thank you.
He repeats the sign, music, and nods.
And then he smiles.
It’s small.
It’s the smallest damn thing, really.
But it’s so impossibly bright, like it isn’t just a lightbulb that’s inside him, it’s the entire goddamn sun. It’s the first burst of sunshine peeking out from behind a storm cloud. Hesitant, not quite sure the storm is over, but full of a brilliant, fragile hope.
It’s better than any pill I have in my arsenal.
It’s better than any song I’ve ever heard.
I can’t help the way my own smile blooms beneath that light, growing into something that hurts - not because my facial muscles aren’t used to grins, but because my heart isn’t used to meaning them like this.
I turn toward the monitors to hide it, not wanting to scare him off.
If too much attention makes him squirm, a too-big smile will probably send him running.
“Cool.” I clear my throat. “Cool. Cool. Music. Okay.”