Chapter 27
He eats two bags of goldfish crackers, an apple, and one strand of my licorice. I earn the second smile of the night with the licorice by putting on a big show of how I shouldn't share with him, and he better not tell the others because he’s the only exception and I’d hate to hurt their feelings.
I show off a little, warming up by singing along with the fast pace of “You Shook Me All Night Long” before diving into “We Didn't Start the Fire”, the song Keaton used as a tool to teach me history lessons - something my actual tutor loathed.
Matt is impressed and amused, eyes bright, eyebrows raising further with every rapid-fire stanza I pull off without faltering.
When I belt out the first, “Mama!” with a fist against my chest to show the seriousness of the moment, he throws a miniature bag of pretzels at me.
When we enter the operatic section, his shoulders are shaking with his silent laughter.
When I start doing the multiple parts in differing obnoxious voices, he dramatically climbs over into his hiding spot and shoots me a look that makes it clear it’s my singing he’s hiding from.
His grin is so wide. It nestles inside my chest and starts to expand, hot and huge and ready to swallow me whole.
I don’t know how, but I manage to pull my gaze away.
The song is nearly over. I let it play, granting him some mercy by not continuing to sing along.
I’m not sure I’d be able to sing even if I tried right now.
That grin is still inside my chest, filling it to bursting.
It feels so damn good. It feels like a touchstone, one I can carry with me, one full of sunshine smiles and Matt.
Things fall into a state of quiet for a while after that. Well, as quiet as things can be when the greatest hits of the 80s are still playing. It’s not so much a relief as it’s just nice.
Bruce Springsteen sings about fires and sparks and dancing in the dark. Everything is calm and warm. We’re safe.
Then the notification comes in.
It pops up just like any other would, just a status update sent from an operative through the system. A logged advancement. A check marked task.
But it’s not just a status update.
My eyes fall closed as the news sinks in. I inhale, shakily. Exhale, even shakier.
This doesn’t mean it’s all over. We have so much more to do. We have so many more loose ends to track down. We have so many more victims to save. We have Elliot to save.
It’s not over, but it’s a start.
It’s a goddamn start.
The song begins to fade out, preparing for the next song to start. I sit forward, managing to get my hand on the mouse and pause before the next song can start. The silence is deafening.
I swallow hard, twice, before clearing my throat and calling, “Matt?”
Only a second or two passes before his head pops up from his corner like a little gopher. It’s kind of adorable - the kind of thing that would make me smile if my mind wasn’t spinning a million miles an hour right now.
“I wanted to-” I falter. Is this the right thing to do? Should I wait for Nolan or Bryce to tell him later? Or maybe Adam would in group therapy?
He’ll be happy, there’s no way he won’t be happy, but sometimes happiness is overwhelming, especially when you’re not used to it. Sometimes happiness can be fucking terrifying.
Matt’s eyebrows are pinched together now, everything about his expression wary as he climbs over the arm of the couch to perch carefully on it. Shit. I didn’t mean to make him leave his hiding spot.
I find myself smiling automatically. It’s my job to put him at ease. To put everyone at ease. I’ve been practicing since a man who was barely even a man at all pulled me out of a closet and let it fuck him up forever.
Keaton always relaxes at my smile.
Matt does too.
But maybe he can see through me, maybe I’ve given him too many real ones and now he can tell the difference, because this time my smile doesn’t make him relax, it makes him tense even more. .
I have to tell him. Just rip it off. Get it over with.
“He’s dead,” I say. “Mica. They killed him.”
It takes a few seconds for the information to fully process. I can actually see the moment it happens. I can see when, from one blink to the next, tears start to fall down his cheeks. His breath catches when he tries to pull in air. He tries again. It catches.
“Woah, hey. Alright. It’s alright.” I stand with my hands up placatingly, trying for another smile. It doesn’t work so well this time around. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” I cut myself off when he starts to sign.
I’ve never been more grateful for all of the ASL studying I’ve been doing lately instead of sleeping, because I understand what he’s saying to me.
I know that when he raises his eyebrows and points his index finger at me before bringing the tip of it to his chin and pushing it forward from there that he’s signing, Are you sure?
“Yes. I’m sure,” I promise him, signing it as I do, making sure my expression shows the confidence I’m feeling instead of the tentative hope his face had telecasted.
Then I put my hands out, one palm face up, once facing down, and turn them over at the same time.
“Dead. That’s - uh. Christ, I don’t know why I’m teaching you that right now?
Sorry. Was that inappropriate? I don’t fucking know.
I - well, you know what? No. You should be able to know how to say it.
I want you to be able to say it. He’s dead, Matt.
That’s the sign for dead.” I do it again.
“And yeah. I’m sure. I’m really sure. Mica is fucking dead. I promise you.”
His hands are shaking when he does it - when he signs, Dead.
He does it over and over, then, like he’s been sucked into a loop. Dead, dead, dead, dead- and then he’s lurching forward with a hitched breath. He nearly falls, stumbling in his haste. I barely have the time to realize what’s happening before I’m catching him on instinct alone.
He presses himself against my chest, one hand gripping the front of my shirt, the other busy holding something blue and soft. I wrap my arms around him on instinct, catching myself just in time to make sure the hold is loose in case he changes his mind and wants to pull away.
He doesn’t change his mind.
He doesn’t pull away.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s alright. He’s gone.”
I have so much to do.
I have to let Kellan know Mica’s dead and Keaton is heading home.
I have to file the official report. I have to notify Jake.
Notify Maison. I have to remove Mica from our current watch list. I have to tell one of our still-undercover guys that he can stop nosing around for information.
I have to get ready to sift through all of the tech they found where Mica was living.
Not to mention the never-ending to-do list I was already working through before the notification came in.
I don’t do any of it, though.
I just hold Matt close and tight, for as long as I can, until my legs start to give out and I have to lower into my desk chair with a soft, “Sorry, ‘m sorry. I gotta sit. You can stay, you’re fine, stay or go, no pressure, I just gotta sit, ‘m sorry.”
He curls right into me, settling heavy and close in my lap, hand clenching even tighter on my shirt. I tuck his head under my chin and gently rub his back as he quietly cries - the only indication of him doing so being the dampening of my cotton shirt.
“Messy?” I ask, gently running one hand over his hair that smells like the coconut oil I had put in his bag when he first arrived. “Is your head messy?”
He nods rapidly, the tiniest of sounds coming from his throat.
“Okay. That’s okay.” I turn the chair just enough to be able to reach my free hand out to my computer mouse.
“You know, I have a very specific type of music I listen to when my head gets too messy. The kind of music a lot of people say can cure a soul, even if just for a little while. You wanna hear some?”
He nods again.
“Yeah? Good. That’s good. I think that’s just what we need.
” I go to a playlist I’ve been ignoring since the survivors arrived here.
A playlist I think I’ve been too afraid to open.
Because what if even these songs couldn’t fix things?
What if even this list couldn’t dig me out of the darkness that’s been creeping up on me?
But I have faith. I have enough faith, at the very least, to know it’ll work for Matt. This kind of music would never dare fail Matt. “Let me introduce you to a little thing called the blues.”
I sit back, curling my arm around him again. He goes boneless there as a tinny opening rift begins to fill the air around us. I close my eyes and let myself breathe. Let myself just hold him. Let the blues work their magic.