✧*◦ FIREFLIES.

REYA: hey

REYA: okay this storm is a bitch

REYA: and it's the only reason i'm going to offer this

REYA: do you need anything ?

MATTEO: i'm at the hospital atm so i'm okay ?

MATTEO: but i won't ask you to go out of your way

❛     yeah , i don’t think that the murderer is really going to stop & let you talk to them so - guess that options out .   nice knowin’ you , though !     ❜     luca didn’t look up at the other , but instead let his gaze remain on the shimmering water , letting his mind half daydream & half stay in reality .     ❛     yeah , i know what you mean .     ❜     pause .     ❛     but then you leave the pool & realize that it’s not a vacation - just your life .     ❜     & way to be optimistic about something so mundane & innocent , luca .

          ten minutes ago, thoughts were swimming around in his head restlessly and he was having a hard time writing anything down on paper. he’s had to stop a few times just to make sure the sentences don’t overlap and his words still make some kind of sense. even as matteo speaks, sammie carries on as though transfixed and completely oblivious to the other male’s words, but once it sinks in he freezes, literally, his pen sinking deep into the notebook. “waiting for something.” he repeats, voice small, wide eyes pointed at his notes. he’s not taking anything else in. genius is an understatement. “shit. you’re so right. how have i never thought of this before? maybe…maybe they’re shining a spotlight to make sure that whoever they’re waiting for sees them. oh my GOD, teo,” sammie’s tongue pokes out and he wets his lips quickly. clears his throat. “what if,” he leans in, the corners of his lips twitching, “they keep the spotlight on when they’re away from the house. to freak people out so they don’t go and investigate?”

matteo doesn’t look at the book sammie’s writing in. he never does, it feels intrusive and rude, and instead he focuses in on his own hands.  his nails are trimmed short & blunt, he hates the feeling of scratching latex,  and there’s bruises on the back of his left hand from god knows what. he can be patient and wait for sammie to reply to him, he still sometimes feels lucky that he’s spoken to at all. waiting is no bother.  he’s still got that small smile on his face, he realizes, but he doesn’t really feel like it’s making him tired yet, so he leaves it to sort itself out. 

          the memory is fuzzy ,  vivid in emotion but lacking in everything else.  there’s restraints ,  black leather ;  they burn his wrists and pull at his ankles.  there ,  before his tearful eyes ,  is a tribe of young and old priests  —  all of them solemn ,  unflinching ,  biding the gentle tick , tick , tick of an overhead clock like the skittering opening of a dreadful drumbeat.  the beat ,  he notes ,  lines up with the pounding of his heart ;  pulse like a shuddering river in his ears.  they begin a small prayer ,  masquerading behind the veil of godliness as if they have not brought bile to the name of this unbowing lord.  soon ,  they rise ,  growing paler and losing the youth in their eye sockets ;  slowly ,  they decay to the heightening of their ministrations.  louder ,  they grow  —  oh ,  how his eyes sting at the sound  —  and begin to crumble within the constraints of their nightshade cloths.  

          with grey ,  barren skin and black ,  ghastly eyes ,  the ghouls of past priests begin advancing towards his wound and laying body.  louder ,  louder ,  louder ,  they chant ,  malignant shadows skittering past their beings like unholy apparitions.  foul ,  vile boy ,  the ghouls say ;  vile ,  sinning boy.  he’s crying now ,  sobs raking through the delicate expanse of his body.  he weeps ,  choking and breathless ,  for the life they begin to drain from him.  fair skin ceases to flush ,  body alight with sorrow and then …  indifference.  despair.  long ,  violent despair  —  inching up his flesh like the maggots that beg to encase him ,  clawing at his throat like the ravenous thing dying is ,  making him cold and worn and broken.  

          then ,  with a pale ,  shaking hand ,  the cold grasp of the unknown swoops down from the opening ceiling.  things grow bright and his body burns and sizzles with smoke of charring person - hood.  the hand ,  he realizes ,  is god ;  it bears a cross in it’s opening palm and lets it dangle by the rosary bead it teeters off of.  lower ,  lower ,  lower.  he can feel it’s brightness melting his skin.  lower ,  lower  ,  lower.  he begins to plead for an end.  lower ,  lower ,  lower.  the seething marble is at his opened mouth ;  young theodore screeches at the sensation of his bleeding ,  then cauterizing ,  face.  

          lower ,  lower ,  lower.  his skin begins rising ,  unlistening to the screams he projects into this gloomy and riotously quiet air ,  chipping from him like old paint one might absentmindedly pick at and regret moments later when they had realized the calamity of their actions ,  swaying around him like debris caught in a menacingly still wind.  

          lower ,  lower ,  lower.  he screams for his mother ,  for his small love ,  for the ache of innocence that had once quaked so viciously in his bones ,  for his life  –  wide - eyed and gentle ,  now left to rot amongst all the other flaying pities of existence.  the world is silent around him ,  moving in the slow incline of fragile things that will soon break and scatter around the tile floor.  

          the cross is at his lips now ,  searing the thin petals and letting them join the dust of him in the air.  the restraints evaporate and his hands begins to wilt and break and disappear.  how familiar this dissolving feels.

          then ,  in the light of a once majestic existence above him  –––––   the iron fist of god jams the cross down his flickering throat and lets him choke on the divinity he will never own.  

          the earth whirls and dances around him like the dying light - bulb that keeps flickering outside his room.  such a determination for existence once lived inside of theodore ,  but he has forgotten the joy of shining and remembers only the heat of being left on for too long.  he’s rejoining the waking world  —  well ,  if they were asleep before ,  he has certainly woken them now  –  and the transition is nothing short of excruciating.  it feels as if he is not one with his body ,  but hanging over himself from high ,  high above.  then ,  in a flash ,  he falls at intensifying speed into his skin ,  the heftiness of such landing catapulting his tangible body off the bed in a startled jump.  there’s knocking on the door ,  loud and irritating.  it’s matteo ;  he knows it by the voice ,  and the exasperation wafting from under his door and into theodore’s sniffling nostrils.  he stands ,  unbothered by the breeze meeting his boxer - clad body as he pads to the door.  opening the door ,  he rubs his tear - filled eyes much like a child might do at the edge of his parent’s bedroom.  when he looks at matteo ,  the tears still stream but he’s lost the will to wipe them away.  

           i’m sorry ,  his heart bleeds ,  you deserve softer souls than mine.  i am jagged and you are jagged and we pretend that the cuts we leave in each other do not sting in the open rays of this bleeding sun above us.  i was once a sun.  you have a sun living inside you.  both of us are long burned out ,  caving into ourselves and becoming black holes of pitiful ,  tragic stars.  you are more than your past ,  whatever that unraveling ,  mysterious life you left behind may be.  but me ?  i am nothing ,  and you must realize that before you devote your life to sweeping the shards of a man who was never here ,  who never will be.  i’m sorry ,  matteo ,  but you shouldn't’t forgive me.  don’t you dare forgive me. 

          ❝   ——   you - you can sleep in my bed tonight.  i’ll sleep on a blanket on the ground.    ❞

   matteo’s heard screaming before; he’s chosen to follow his career through the first-response to trauma – he’s heard children and adults alike, grief and physical pain, and somehow it never gets easier for him. he’s been told he’s soft. he’s been told he’s childish.   there’s some small and human part of him that shies away from the idea that either of those things make him less of himself, but he thinks back to her tone when she said it and somehow, it’s hard to disagree. he used to do better things with his time, sitting in radiology and instead of on his feet in the emergency room.

   something about blairsville is DIFFERENT;  he had worked in an er in southeast portland for months,  and nothing says big city like  a rushed & perpetually understaffed & overcrowded emergency room,  but he had never seen tragedy like he sees along this fifty-mile stretch of highway in fucking nowhere, georgia.   before he had moved he had seen shit, he had,  bullet holes and  sepsis and the kind of broken arm you get from a parent and not a fall, but blairsville —— this shit is supernatural,  there’s tragedy with alarming frequency along this stretch of highway, strange illnesses, hell, leprosy, and he’s rendered speechless by the realization of just how little modern medicine can do to combat a strain of bad luck.

   so yes, he’s heard screaming. he’s heard mourning wails and children begging for their parents, and he’s held the hands of people telling him they’re sorry and he’s not quite sure what for, and he feels more than   prepared  for the noises theodore makes at night.  it’s not always him who answers the boy’s shouts,  almost everyone in this damn place wants to be the good samaritan, and he has a job to do many nights, but he’s… resigned to it.

   when he’s let inside, he keeps his gaze on the floor – it’s a respect thing, even if the nuances of the human body are by no means mysterious to him anymore, and he nods, finally tearing his gaze away from carpet and to sleep-darkened eyes.   “okay.”   he wants to say more.  he doesn’t want to ask what theodore’s dreaming about, nor does he feel the need to reassure the kid that it’s okay to cry out at night – he just wants to say more. to fill the damned empty air in room fifty eight, the same as his  ( to a point )   and no less dark at night.  he smiles, quick and flighty across his mouth like he’s not sure it really belongs there at this time of night.

   there’s a more confident version of him that is, somewhere else in another blairsville in another georgia, reaching out to the kid, so childlike in the white-gold cloud light, whispering confessions of his own.  that matteo would never pretend to UNDERSTAND, but he wouldn’t pretend not to either ;  theodore is not the only person in this motel with demons, or cause to scream,  and while the thought sets matteo on edge, he thinks it could be comforting in the dead of night, alone and undressed and throat hoarse;  the old him smiles and slings an arm around theodore and treats him like a kid brother, like all problems could be solved by digging out matteo’s old pink 2ds he has hidden in a bag under his bed and trading off mario levels until they fall asleep again, but —

   — but he’s not that person anymore, is he ?   so he says nothing and the air is silent and still except for the quiet & long exhale. he tosses his pillow into what he thinks of as his space, at the space at the end of theo’s bed. he doesn’t need a blanket, and his back will hurt during his shift tomorrow, but he thinks this and does not say it out of fear theodore would feel even less deserving of basic human kindness ( because of whatever made him scream? )  and push him away.

   he sits on the edge of the bed, his feet flat on the ground, his eyes on his pillowcase  ( he bought his own after seeing the stains on the mattress he sleeps on, quiet trip to the walmart thirty miles south and fifty bucks down the drain for enough linens to feel like a fucking real adult for once, honestly )  and the threads peeling off of the edges.  has it really been three months ?  

   he’s never woken up screaming, but he’s woken up in tears, curling tight into a ball like he could keep himself from hurting just by squeezing his chest back into the right place.  it doesn’t work.   he can hold his own hand in the dark, but he’s not quite gotten a hang of kissing his own neck.  he wonders if his own struggle sounds so MINUSCULE in comparison— yeah, i’m sad all the time and i don’t know who i am, —because she never hit him,  and so many people here have been hit.  this is why he says nothing.  he’s afraid to have been overreacting, that this pain was not necessary, that this pain was dramatics and he’s so empty and cut into pieces for absolutely, strikingly, world-endingly nothing.

   there’s a throat cleared, and he knows he’s slow and quiet but theo’s never minded before, right ? or maybe he does and says nothing. teo supposes he can live with that alternative.  his fiancée said once that he talks like he’s never learned how, constantly makes her question him, just not that eloquent, and he – well. he guesses that’s true.

   “do you want me to stay up and wake you if it happens again?”   he asks, tapping his fingers decrescendo-style against the bedspread. he thinks about his sisters when he looks at theodore, and the thought causes him to feel… strange. disloyal. hadn’t she taken his sisters from him ? convinced him not to spend time with them and drew him so far away ?   strange that they love him after his disloyalty.  “i could read.”  he offers, suddenly.

the eyes of the canine ( one light blue, the other brown ) followed the ice cream carton, as though she knew a treat was within. she was well trained enough, though, and would only really approach teo when she was given the okay. when his disagreement was voiced, nils opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, though, nothing came out. always. he proceeded to sigh and shift in the water, arms now resting upon the poolside. “are you disappointed that a pool monster isn’t tugging me to the depths, teo? or would you hop in and be the ferris bueller to my cameron frye?” there was his smile. 

LAUREL: ..i haven't thought that far

LAUREL: honestly teo what would i do without you???

LAUREL: the answer is perish btw

LAUREL: yes please call me

MATTEO: not my business, anyway

MATTEO: nah, you'd be fine. you have tons of friends who could come rescue you, you know

“dragged under huh?” she repeated, cocking her dark eyebrow. “the sea is pretty deep compared to the pool, and it has a lot of creatures like sharks and other dangerous species,” she explained,  a smile playing on her lips as she swam backwards until her back hit the wall. “don’t you want to join?”

LAUREL: please lock me up if I ever say yes to a request like that, you have my permission

LAUREL: i'm sitting at the bus stop outside of the grocery store

LAUREL: there's no one around atm besides the creepy guy eyeing me.. maybe I should kick and run

MATTEO: how would i know

MATTEO: yeah, i'll come get you

                   ‘ yeah , wouldn’t want a ghoul grabbin’ my ankle in the middle of the night – or tickling my feet . i’m still … nevermind . i’d be revealing too much . ‘ she cut her eye before looking back at the tainted water below . the pool probably had not had a good cleaning in about a month of so . but what did they care ? getting a rash was the least of their troubles at the moment . ‘ i wouldn’t mind that . although …        ‘ she sighed , a puff of smoke escaping through her mouth & nose as she spoke . ‘       i never exactly finished the series . ‘ she admitted ; using her the tip of her middle finger to scratch the top of her head . 

LAUREL: I said no??? what do you take me for teo??

LAUREL: totally creeping okay I can still see him ugh he's so gross

LAUREL: if you're gonna play the system then I think you should do it some time within the next ten minutes\

MATTEO: well i didnt think you said yes i was just wondering

MATTEO: ya where are you?

LAUREL: okay i think i just got asked out by this guy

LAUREL: who is 40 going on 70 btw

LAUREL: does 'hey babe wanna hook up at my shack' sound right to you??

LAUREL: i'm honestly terrified here

MATTEO: what did you say?

MATTEO: do you think he's creeping ? cause i can come get you if you need it

   he wakes abruptly for no reason, and looks around room forty as if to reassure himself he’s still there;  he rises slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting there blinking and yawning for what could be minutes -- it’s the most he’s slept in days, and it’s quiet outside, and against his better judgement he stands and pulls on his hoodie and throws open the door to the landing.   he thought to go find the vending machine, but instead is faced with the sound of shuffling feet and labored breathing. he goes high alert in a split second, stepping lightly onto the landing and peeking outside.    there’s a fucking medium ten doors away so he half-expects to be face to face with something ghostly pale and rotting, but instead as he peeks over the railing he sees only a limping man.  it’s the glinting in the moonlight and the smell that clues him in, tangy and almost electric, and he rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie and turns back into his room, washing his hands, grabbing the box of gloves and the  ( rather large )  first aid kit he has by his door and going at a steep jog down the creaky stairs.

          “‘bout four miles north. not exactly in the middle of nowhere but sure as hell feels it when you’re there. it’s just, i guess, intensely lonely. and then, well then there’s the light, and you’d rather be lonely than meet whoever or whatever is shining a light on you.” there’s a long pause after matteo speaks. a spotlight. of course that’s what it must be, but that word specifically hasn’t crossed his mind until now and suddenly it’s too hard to try and keep up with his thoughts. “genius.” he mutters eventually, looking up to lock his gaze with the other’s. his eyes are slightly wider, bright, back straightening and fingers excitedly folding the edge of the piece of paper as he considers it. “of course that’s what it is. oh my god, like some kind of sick game. you shine a spotlight on a stranger, either distracting them or encouraging them to come investigate, and you win either way.” he’s making no sense, talking more to himself than the other, his pen moving across the page in quick strokes as he writes down words and phrases that would only ever mean something to him.

he’d been hanging out in the pool for a little over forty five minutes, now. being ridiculously tall meant he could relax in the not so shallow end —- not have to worry about working to keep himself afloat. skaði along the poolside, he paid no mind to the presence of those who were in the same area, hand gently brushing along the white coat of his companion. a brow rose, light eyes shifting over to the person speaking. “you make me want to get out,” his face was humourless, although it was a jest. “i can understand the ocean —- the ocean, in general, gives me the creeps. but a pool, no. not really.”