#tbmb

The moment Thom steps off the stage, she’s surrounded. A well-oiled machine kicks into gear, brusque hands at her back, in her hair, removing the mic and her in-ear monitors, quick and efficient. The zip on her costume slides down and she steps out of it, shedding glitter in a shimmering cloud that nobody but her flinches at. Somebody takes the clips out of her twisted hair-sprayed hair, leaving little aching pin pricks over her scalp, tingling at the relieved pressure. A bottle of water appears in her hand. 

Thom rolls her shoulders; tries to take a deep breath and gulps down a mouthful. Her assistant’s trying to tell her something, but Thom can’t hear a thing, head still ringing, heartbeat loud in her ears, racing a mile a minute. Her blood is crackling, hot and sweet and alive under her skin. When it’s like this Thom feels like she could do anything, do the impossible; could swan dive from the thirtieth-storey and survive the fall—land lightly on her feet and take the round of applause she’s owed. The exit music pounds through the stadium’s speakers to their left. The crowd, muffled and muted behind the thick stage curtain are clamoring her name in unison. Thom closes her eyes and listens. A few more seconds. One, two—

Someone touches the small of her back. Thom whips around. The guy has a security lanyard and a concerned expression. There’s a walkie-talkie strapped to his belt, light blinking red, spluttering lowly. Thom knows the contents of his bulky pockets, though she doesn’t name them, not even in her own head. 

“Can we walk?” she asks, reaching down to slip off her left heel. She presses her thumb into the arch of her foot, through her thick tights, and digs into the muscle until it stings. 

When she straightens up the guy is waiting to go. Thom holds her heels in her hand. The crowd is quieting down. 

“Talk to me,” she instructs. 

They walk away from the fading noise. 

Xxx

He’s waiting in her dressing room. 

Thom shakes off the last staff member just before she closes the door behind her. 

Matty’s sitting on the couch like he owns it, like this is his space, arm slung out along the back, tan skin against the cream leather. Never mind it’s Thom’s face blown up a thousand times bigger than reality, plastered over every available space in this arena. Thom’s long past the time in her career where the dressing rooms she was assigned were little better than the spare cleaning cupboards, but the room feels impossibly small with Matty in it, always larger than life, always taking up more room in her head than she wants him to. 

Thom drops her heels to the floor. The sound makes Matty twist around. Thom gets half a second to reluctantly mourn the loss of his side profile befores she’s stunned by his crinkled smile. Nearly ten years’ worth of water under the bridge and Thom is beginning to suspect that the way Matty looks at her will always transport her back to being seventeen, standing under warm twinkling christmas lights, the smell of the Beniers christmas tree, real pine, wafting around the shape of them both, twisted up together in their damn matching family-issued pajamas. The ones that itched, even though Christine only ever bought the highest quality cotton. Matty smiles, and she can see the reflection of those Christmas lights in his eyes, even now. 

“You gave my security team a scare,” she says flatly. “What happened to being polite and announcing yourself? Where’s those infamous manners, huh?”

Matty’s smile falters, and his arm slips off the couch. “Hi, Thom,” he says easily. “Hell of a show.”

Thom lets the compliment bounce off her. She wishes Matty had showed up later, when she was back in normal clothes. Without the cloak contraption they took off her side stage, she’s just in a one-piece, hotpants and a boned bodice, sequins stitched to every inch. She rustles when she walks over to the table and picks up another bottle of water since she finished the last one. There’s a bottle of champagne sitting in ice, still glossy and beading with condensation, a present from her label to congratulate her on her recent streaming record. She wonders whose job it was to keep it cold and the ice replenished over the two and a half hour show she just put on. 

“I’m serious, Matty. You can’t do that..”

“So change your passcode,” he says, with a little shrug, smiling even still. “734? C’mon.”

Thom bristles. This is what she gets for being sentimental, for holding onto things she shouldn’t, for storing little parts of her heart on her sleeve, and thinking she’s getting away with it. Thom’s never gotten away with anything in her damn life. She always pays, one way or another. 

She cracks the top of the water bottle and looks away while she drains it. Matty waits patiently. Out of the corner of her eye, Thom can see the tension in his body, the forced appearance of relaxation. That’s satisfying at least. Matty’s good at waiting but it doesn’t mean it comes naturally to him. They have that in common. 

Thom wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, purposefully unladylike, and crumples the bottle, before she tosses it in the direction of the trashcan in the corner. Matty’s eyes follow its trajectory. It bounces off the edge. As if Thom needs something else to be vaguely embarrassed by right now. That’s the feeling, creeping up the back of her neck, sticking to the damp hair at her nape, sweat-soaked from the dance routines she’s been practicing for the past six months, ready for this tour. She doesn’t have anything to be embarrassed by, not after tonight, not after hearing a crowd of thousands people screaming her name, singing the lyrics she wrote on the back of napkins in taxi cabs and 24hr diners back to her. But Matty’s watching and it’s gut instinct at this point.

She didn’t know he was in the crowd. She’s glad she didn’t know. She doesn’t want to examine how that might have made her feel. 

She did think about it. Fleetingly. Matty’s hospital in Boston, five blocks from the venue. Matty in the same city; Matty in some harshly lit hospital corridor, handsome even at the end of a 12 hour shift; Matty in his apartment, switching on his TV to see her face; the billboard on his way to work, bleary eyed at 5am, too garish to look at. The way they haunt each other still. Thom doesn’t leave a single medical appointment without thinking of him. 

Matty’s eyes crease at the corners. “You’re losing your touch, Bordeleau. What happened to the girl who could beat me at a little basketball?”

She’s pretty sure Matty used to let her win. So. Probably that. 

“She’s out of practice,” she replies. Pauses. “What are you doing here, Matty?”

Matty gets to his feet, unfolding his long legs. He looks too good in jeans and a white t-shirt, a flannel thrown over the top, soft and well-worn. Thom forces herself to stay rooted to the spot, even as she has to lift her chin to look him in the eye. 

“I wanted to visit an old friend,” Matty says. “Heard she was in town.”

“You caught that, huh?”

“I did, yeah. Would have liked a text, but I guess seeing your tour dates in a sponsored instagram ad is the next best thing.”

Thom flushes. Matty laughs but she recognizes it as the dig it is—as the acknowledgement of how far they’ve drifted. 

“I don’t need to promote my tour dates,” she says coldly, trying to recover herself, but of course, Matty just smiles. 

“Yeah, I know. It was the venue’s account.”

“Right.”

Matty looks her over, drags his eyes across her face, smeared with stage make-up, down her body and the ridiculous corset situation, sucking her in at the waist, shining shimmering, built to sparkle in the stage lights, throwing crystal-shaped reflections on the wall of the dressing room, even in the low light of the lamps she left on before last call. Thom knows she looks hot as shit; that’s not the problem. It’s just a lot. She’s always been so much.

When he reaches out, she watches it in slow motion. He touches the pad of his thumb to the corner of her eye. It comes away silver and sparkling, a tacky diamante pressed into his skin now instead of hers. They both look at it, glittering in the space between them. 

 “Matty.”

Matty drops his hand. The tiny plastic gemstone falls to the floor. 

“You were incredible up there tonight.”

Thom wants to say “I know”; wants to say “of course I was”; wants to say “this is what I worked for. Do you get it now? Do you? Do you understand?”

“Thank you,” she says. “We worked hard to put on a good show for the fans.”

Matty nods. “Come a long way from those open mic nights.” He scoffs a little, too hollow for the joke to land, and Thom cringes.

“Matty, don’t.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” she cuts him off. “Look, thanks for coming out. I’m in Boston for a few hours tomorrow morning before my flight. Maybe we can get coffee or something, if you want. You’re probably working though. But I’ve got to get out of this stuff.”

She gestures at her face; the eyeliner she can feel slipping, the false eyelashes clumping at the corners. They’re beginning to itch. She peels them off and drops them to the table, spidery and weird looking. 

Matty sidesteps the brush-off, because of course he does. “I saw that you and Brisson broke up.”

Thom rolls her eyes. “Another sponsored instagram ad?”

“Google alert, actually.”

She takes a step back. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The playful expression she’s used to creeps back over his face. He tips back his head while he laughs, glowing golden throat. The stubble of his jaw catches in the light. Thom wants to rub her palm over it. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. It was just hard to avoid, y’know.”

Of course it was. You don’t date your record company’s director’s son without the gossip rags sitting up and paying attention. Especially if you’re Thom Bordeleau and the record director in question is Pat Brisson. Brendan’s probably in the Canary Islands on a yacht right now getting papped with a cocktail in his hand, getting ready to be plastered over the internet with a headline about how he’s handling the split well. Thom honestly hopes he’s having more fun than when they were together. Not that it would be hard. 

“If you want to complain to the Daily Mail, please be my guest,” she says lowly. Matty grins. 

“I’d be lying if I’d said the news wasn’t welcome.”

Thom shivers. It’s not fair, the hold Matty still has on her. 

He reaches for her, sliding his hand across her waist. Thom thinks about all the people he’s healed with those hands, and how she’s never allowed herself to be one of them. 

Matty pulls, and Thom goes. 

She did the hard thing all those years ago, and she’s got no energy for it now. Can’t fight him off, even if she should. 

He tugs her closer, two hands on her waist, until they’re flush together. Thom looks up into his eyes, chocolate brown but eaten up by pupil. She likes that at least; the way Matty’s weak for her. That this goes both ways. 

His breath stirs the tiny flyaways by her face and Matty takes a hand off her to tuck them behind her ear. They’re stiff with hairspray and he doesn’t seem to notice or care. 

“Matty,” she says, one last time, just to say his name, no idea what she’s trying to achieve, either to reel him in or push him away. 

“Hi there,” he says with a wonky smile, voice low and husky, and it’s so dumb—so quintessentially Matty—that she closes the gap first. 

Kissing him is like being back in college again; backstage at the talent show after the random A&R guy who somehow stumbled on her tiktoks showed up in the crowd; Matty picking her up when she ran at him, waving the business card like the golden fucking ticket it turned out to be. 

She melts into the kiss, burrowing into the warmth of Matty’s mouth over hers, trying to hide there for as long as possible. It’s good; Matty hasn’t forgotten how to kiss her, even though the gaps between doing this are getting longer and longer each time. The last time she kissed Matty she was still playing smaller size venues; town halls and social clubs. Pitchfork had just run their first review on her. They gave her a 6 but Thom was thrilled, even as she pretended not to care. She slides her hands under his t-shirt and Matty’s hands skim over her body, over the sequins, the sheer paneling, until he gets annoyed. 

“How do you get this thing undone?” he huffs, wrenching away, earlier patience gone up in smoke. 

“Carefully,” Thom deadpans. She hesitates, and then she turns. “The zip’s on the side. Don’t fucking break it.”

Matty dutifully pulls it down slowly, and the bodice falls away, leaving Thom just in hotpants and her bra. Not even a nice one. She needs support when she’s dancing, after all. Matty groans. 

“Relax,” she laughs. 

It’s a bad idea to do this here with her staff outside, probably wanting to tell her about an afterparty or the transport to her hotel, or something. Did she lock the door? She can’t remember. 

She pulls the bra over her head. Immediately, Matty moves to cup her, thumb stroking over her nipple. 

“I missed you,” he sighs. 

“With your hand on my tit? Really?”

Matty tweaks his thumb and forefinger for that and Thom traps the gasp behind her teeth. 

“I mean it,” Matty says. “Missed you so much.”

Thom tangles her fingers in his thick, wiry curls and tugs his face down to her chest instead of answering. Matty goes down easy. She lets herself gasp this time, lets herself squirm and writhe as Matty teases her with his tongue and teeth, switching to the other side and back again, until she drags him away again, a puppet on her string. 

“You got a condom in your pocket?” she asks. 

Matty blinks at her. Then he reaches for his wallet. 

“Girlfriend?” she checks. 

Matty shakes his head. It could be a lie, but Matty’s never been the type. She believes him.

She goes for his belt. 

For the first time, Matty seems to hesitate and Thom draws back. 

“Was this not your plan? Showing up here?” 

“I didn’t have a plan.”

She doesn’t believe that, though. Matty’s a planner, his mother’s son through and through. Thom always thought Christine understood her drive more than Matty did sometimes. Broadway, pop artist—there was respect there, even if she did think Thom’s decision to drop out of college was a mistake even as she saw it coming. Matty never planned for that bit at all. 

Thom found the ring box a week before she moved to Los Angeles. She’ll never know if Matty was planning on asking her to stay. They were college kids. Well, a college kid and a college dropout. It was insanity, either way, but Thom was betting on herself this time, and Matty never bought up proposing—ever, not then and not since. Sometimes Thom wonders if she imagined that small velvet cube, tucked in Matty’s sock drawer, the biggest cliches of cliches. 

“Okay,” Thom says. “You want to stop?”

“No,” Matty replies. “I just—can we do this back at my place?”

Absolutely not. That’s dangerous territory. Going back to Matty’s will mean coffee in bed and breakfast bagels and soft, ugly sheets they stay wrapped in all morning. She absolutely can’t let that happen. 

“We can go to my hotel,” she offers. 

“I have a house,” Matty presses. “It’s a ten minute drive.”

“And I have a five-star hotel room,” Thom counters. “I win.”

Matty drags his belt sharply through the loops of his jeans. It clatters to the floor. He yanks her in again, kissing her hard, teeth sharp this time, dragging against her bottom lip, thumb against her chin holding her still. Thom’s fingers scrabble at his fly, until she can get her hands on him, pushing his boxers and his jeans down and out of the way.    

Matty drops his head to her shoulder when she wraps a hand around him, hot breath on her naked skin, skating down her back. 

She guides him back onto the couch. He trips backwards, hands out to the side to break his fall, gripping the top of the cushions. 

“Keep them there,” Thom instructs. Matty’s eyes flare, but he does as he’s told.

Thom shimmies out of her hotpants and tights as elegantly as she can, which isn’t very, and then slides off her panties too. 

She settles down on Matty’s thighs. He’s hard in between her legs and she can feel the tension in his quad muscles; how much he’s having to work at keeping still to follow her direction. 

Thom has a whole team to order about now, had thousands of people yelling her name not half an hour ago, but nothing makes her feel as powerful as this. 

She pushes herself up a little, notches Matty against where she’s wet and drags the tip just inside, until Matty’s eyes roll back into his head.  

“Condom?” she asks. Matty points blindly at the table towards his wallet and then puts his hand right back where it was. 

It’s almost a shame, sliding it on. Thom wants to feel as close as possible, and she knows Matty wants the same, but she’s sensible these days, takes the proper precautions, so she makes herself do it. 

When she sinks down, Matty still groans. 

It’s satisfying. 

“Thom,” Matty croaks, when they’re both panting a few minutes later, sweaty and out of breath and pushing closer to the edge. “Please.”

Thom’s hips are getting tired. She nods. 

Matty manhandles her until she’s underneath him against the couch. He kisses her before he moves, soft enough that the first hard thrust shocks her and makes her bite down on his bottom lip. Matty moans and Thom lets her legs fall open wider. 

It also feels good to let Matty take control; to not call the shots for once. To not think, just for a little bit. 

Matty thumbs at her clit, jerky circular movements that would be more effective if he was more put together, but they’re panting into each other’s mouths now and the couch is squeaking against the floor. She snakes a hand down between them to help. Thom pays her staff well enough that she doesn’t have to worry about what they might overhear, but the scream she lets out when she comes is still loud enough to be embarrassing. Matty follows her over the edge, burying his face against her neck to muffle his answering shout. 

Once he’s thrown the condom towards the trash—Thom hopes his shot is better than hers—he rolls them both over, so she’s cradled against his chest, curved like an apostrophe in his arms. Matty’s hold is loose, but still lightly possessive. He reaches up to stroke her tits again, even as he presses a kiss to the nape of her neck. 

They lay there in silence for a minute or two, until Thom feels less like she’s taken leave of her body, settling back into her skin. She twists around in Matty’s arms. He smiles at her, droopy eyes and thick dark eyelashes. There’s glitter caught on the edge of them, which she brushes off with the pad of her thumb. 

“You want a drink?” she asks. “I have champagne.”

“Here?”

Thom ignores the disappointment in his voice. 

“Someone needs to drink that before the ice melts,” she answers, jerking her head towards the table. 

They open the bottle and pass it back and forth between them, sitting up again on the couch. Thom licks Matty’s spit off the glass each time, and it’s gross but it’s good, too. The champagne is light and bubbly and sweet, catching in her nose when she gulps too fast. Thom’s been drinking stuff like this for years now, but it hasn’t gotten old just yet. 

She sees Matty slip the cork into his jeans pocket. 

She says nothing when she hands the bottle back. Matty’s hand lingers on hers and their fingers brush.