Snippet #2389923

It was with only a mild flinch that Matthew allowed himself to be guided away by his new landlord, the hand on his back unfamiliar and unwelcome. Still, he didn't retreat from the touch, didn't ask the older man to keep out of his personal space despite visibly stiffening at the contact. Matthew was, by nature, not confrontational and the sooner this meeting was over, the sooner his future in Kohana Creek was spelled out in front of him, the sooner he could leave and do... something. He didn't know what, and the options that had begun to appear in his mind were less than optimal.

He relaxed minutely when Mr. Westbrook's hands returned to his sides, but not completely as the man began to speak. The words were comforting enough, dashing away any worry he had over losing his job, but the way that he said them didn't sit well with Matthew. The grin painted on the other man's face- confident and showing too many teeth, a smile that was practiced- that Matthew had glimpsed when his eyes finally risked settling on the other man felt inappropriate given the situation. The mention of Keilani, of her own doing in keeping Matthew's job safe and sound, made him feel ill, a sharp pang of loss ringing through him once more. Of course she had- she was Keilani, she wouldn't leave anyone to fend for themselves if she could help it. It was just the type of person that she was. Even after passing away, she was taking care of him.

Despite the situation, the compliments, the acknowledgement of his own value to Kohana Creek, made him embarrassed in a pleasant sort of way. If it had been a normal point of time, he might have even managed a bashful smile or even stammered out a thank-you, especially when he talked about a promotion. A promotion. He couldn't quite fathom it and everything was happening too fast for him to really understand- benefits, hot coworkers(it wouldn't be until later that he realized how weird that was coming from his new boss), new beginnings on Monday all swirled together in his mind in a sort of chaotic cloud.

"Yeah, tomorrow," He finally breathed out, then added, voice perhaps a little louder than intended, "Thank you- I mean... Thanks." He made his escape then, quickly passing by other tenants still milling about the lobby, ignoring his neighbors and their reactions in favor of following his one-tract mind, intent on reaching his apartment and soon. The elevators were filling quickly, so he made a bee-line towards the stairs. The climb would take a while, but at this time on a Saturday, they would assuredly be empty. It wasn't like he had to really worry about anyone else following behind, either- most avoided the long trek up if they lived any higher than the fifth floor.

The only downside of taking the stairs, however, was being lost in his own thoughts, the tapping noise of his feet on the steps the only other sound in the stairway. The reality of the situation was slowly setting in and his hands began to tremble once more, eyes burning with the tears that threatened to well up without any distractions to keep them at bay. Loss wasn't foreign to Matthew, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with, nor did the memories of his last attempt to cope with something like this. He needed a distraction, any sort of distraction- he couldn't sit and wallow in his own sorrow, suffering silently in his apartment. What was that saying- idle hands are the devil's playthings?

The trek up to the twenty-third floor was suddenly over and the maintenance man nearly ran to his door, fumbling for his key and not bothering to fully shut the door behind him. Matthew took a deep breath only for it to be cut off in an almost choking sob as his eyes glanced around the room looking for something, anything to do now. He was at a loss. His apartment didn't feel safe right now, more enclosed than anything, like it was trapping him within the room. It was suffocating him, closing in on him until a sudden chime broke into his meltdown. His phone. His phone. He scrambled over to his coffee table, answering the cell phone right before the ringing noise was supposed to stop.

"Hello?"

"I thought you weren't going to answer, Matty. Stay up too late partying last night?" A familiar voice gently teased and this time Matthew actually did sob, but from relief. Simon. Oh, thank God, Simon.

"Matty?" He didn't answer at first, despite the concern in his friend's voice, just curled up on the floor, sobbing. Because now it was safe because there was someone to talk to. He was alone in the room, but not alone at the same time.

"Matty, what's going on? Matthew, talk to me, please," Simon's voice was more frantic now, more serious if the lack of nickname meant anything.

"Keilani's dead." It wasn't the most eloquent statement, choked out through his tears, nor was it the best way to get into a conversation. There was an audible pause on Simon's end, a quick intake of breath and Matthew could kick himself because Keilani had been Simon's actual friend, not landlady and employer. He didn't deserve to have it broken to him like that, with even less finesse than Alan Westbrook's announcement. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't be sorry. Thank you for telling me." If there was a catch in the professor's voice, Matthew pretended not to hear it. "Are you okay, Matty?"

"Yes." No. He meant no, but he didn't want to worry Simon, not really. "My, uh, the job. The new landlord is keeping me, giving me a raise. Benefits. He seems... nice." Nice wasn't quite the right word, but it made everything sound a little more optimistic than it really was.

"I didn't ask about your job, Matty. Are you okay?"

"Yes." There he went again, the lie so obvious that he wasn't quite sure why he was even trying. "The funeral, it's- Tomorrow. At noon. Are you...?"

"Of course. I wouldn't miss it for anything," Simon reassured and Matthew let out another little sob of relief because as nice as it was to hear his friend, his support, he'd prefer him to physically be there, to be able to keep Matthew from doing something stupid.

"Lana and I will be back as soon as possible." A pause again. "Matty? You're strong, you know that? You're one of the strongest people I know. We'll be back soon, okay? Are you going to be all right in the meantime?"

"Probably." Maybe. Yes. No. He didn't know. He heard the double meaning behind the words 'Don't do anything stupid. Don't give in.' "I'll see you when you get back." Get back soon, please.

"Okay. I'll see you then, Matty." The other man waited a beat before all Matthew could hear was a dial tone. He slumped over onto the floor, clutching the phone in his hands. The relief only lasted a minute before that feeling of suffocation came back, an itching, irritating need spreading across his body. The room was too quiet and not quiet enough, his mind was racing again and he felt so stupid. He'd only just hung up and here he was, breaking down again. As if sensing that weakness, emotion was welling up inside of him, an ache of pain and loss threatening to pull him under.

The thing about drugs was that he didn't miss them. He didn't miss the smell- it was disgusting, noxious and biting-, he didn't miss the sight, the taste. It was the aftereffects that he missed, that tranquility and calm or, in other occasions, euphoria and pure bliss. With that he didn't have to deal with this pain, with the anguish or the emptiness. He didn't know how to cope without them, really. He'd never had to before, had never tried to.

His fingers brushed over the keypad of his phone, familiar numbers trailing through his mind. Miranda, Blake, Jazz... They were all just a phone-call away. His thumb hesitated before pressing down. 6-7-5-

"Matthew? Are you alright?" The voice was accompanied by a hand tenderly brushing his forehead, and he couldn't help but startle, shooting up into sitting position and skittering away from the intruder. He blinked, trying to comprehend what was going on.

"Ms. Torres? Elle?" Even in his shock, he had to correct himself. "What are you doing here?" He must have looked a right mess, face wet and red from crying, probably a bit of snot that he hastily wiped away with his sleeve(pretty criers, Matthew was convinced, were only on television or in the movies- no one looked good crying).