Fulfilling Promises--FFTL one-shot
Author: Beca-Bex
Pairing: Travis Richter/Matt Good
Warnings: sexual suggestion
Disclaimer: I do not own any member of From First To Last
Summary: After a trip to Italy, Matt and Travis need to face some demons they created between themselves.
Notes: Ahh, Italy. I MISS YOU SO MUCH! T_T
“It’s raining again,” Travis huffed, drawing away the blinds to check outside. “That’s, what, the fifth day in a row now?”
He waited for an answer, but after a few silent moments, realized he wasn’t getting one. He turned his head to look at the person he had spoken to, groaning when he saw what was keeping the attention away from him. Matt was sitting at the kitchen table, preoccupied with mixing something in a bowl and using a few choice Italian swear words Chris had taught him. The five of them, Travis, Matt, Chris, Derek, and Manning had recently gone to Italy for a week and ever since, Matt had been displeased with his own cooking.
It was hard to compare with authentic Italian cuisine, the rest knew, considering the fact that everything, everything, in Italy was organic and fresh. The tomatoes had a sweet tang to them the American fruit-yet-vegetable noticeably lacked, the meat and the poultry were always juicy and tender, the bread was constantly wrapped in brown paper bags to keep warm and soft, and even the water, always presented in two separate bottles of bubbling and spring, had a certain cleaner difference to it. American food-which was, in the crudest term possible, shit-took hours long of expert preparation to even vaguely resemble the privilege taste of Italian.
But Matt, who a long time ago had been declared the band cook, still tried.
“The hell are you doing now?” Travis demanded, carelessly letting the blinds fall from his fingers and nearing the vocalist.
“Gotta get this soup right,” Matt murmured, his eyes barely flickering up to Travis.
“You haven’t even eaten breakfast yet,” the older man pointed out.
“It’s 2:30.”
“Stop sleeping for so long then.” Travis chuckled, daring to come even closer and brush his lips against Matt’s scalp. “Put that away, let’s do something today.”
“After this.”
Travis scowled. “You’ve been saying that for the last five days.”
“Didn’t succeed for the last five days.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Matt, I’m not fucking around here.” Ignoring the vocalist’s cry of protest, Travis grabbed a hold of the bowl of various vegetables and pasta and wrenched it away. Matt seized his arms and pulled himself off of the chair he had been sitting on for the past half hour, his extra long pajama bottoms stepped on by his own heels.
“Give it back!”
“I’m putting it in the refrigerator, you can work on it later.” Travis tried to pull his arms out from Matt’s possession but the younger man wouldn’t let go so he opted to drag the vocalist with him instead. “Stop it!”
“You stop it!”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“You’re stealing my fucking work,” Matt protested. “How would you like it if I stole your guitar riffs, huh?”
Travis smirked. “You wouldn’t be able to get away with that because everyone knows I’m so much more awesome than you on the guitar they’d know something’s up.”
Matt apparently didn’t find that to be very funny, glowering at his friend. “I’m not talking to you for the rest of the week if you don’t give it back. Now. I’m totally fucking serious.”
That’s when the older man stopped. Gave the vocalist a hard look, not quite liking what he was hearing. He knew that tone of voice, after eight years, he knew it well even though it was rarely used. Matt’s Last Straw voice. This-Better-Go-My-Way-RIGHT-NOW-Or-I-Will-Make-Consequences-for-You voice. When it came to the other band members, and those that From First To Last toured with or used as techies, that voice usually meant everything will be smooth sailing for Matt from that moment on.
But Travis, he had known Matt the longest. And when it came to Matt he was never like the rest.
“I’m throwing this out,” he said, tone flat, dead. Shifted his hands’ positions so he could grasp the bowl out of Matt’s reach with one hand and reach for the cabinet with the garbage underneath with the other.
That’s when Matt started shrieking. “NO! NO, NO, NO!”
And Travis hated when he did that even more because that wasn’t an original Matt characteristic. Matt had learned the Temper Tantrum Trick from Sonny who would go as far as to throw papers up in the air and violently drop guitars and hit the walls with drumsticks. Most people didn’t know about that side of Sonny, but to those associated with him and FFTL it was no surprise that kid-who had a high note range even longer than Matt’s which, in its own way, was pretty damn impressive-ended up getting surgery twice in his throat.
“Cut it out,” Travis growled, his irritation quickly leaping to fury. “Cut it out and stop acting like a fucking baby or I swear to God, Matt, I will…”
Well, he wasn’t quite sure yet what he’ll do, but Travis wasn’t uncreative. Nor was he forgetful. He’ll come up with something eventually.
“I’m acting like a baby?” Matt snapped. “I’m the baby? Really now?”
“Yes, really now,” Travis mocked him, which possibly wasn’t the greatest idea on top of the use of the word ‘baby.’
“Ah, I see. That’s great, Travis, real great. You know what, I don’t care anymore; take the fucking soup, I don’t give a shit.” And with that, Matt shoved Travis’s arm so the bowl tipped over, letting the wet mixture fly onto the older man’s clothes, and then turned and stormed away into his room. Slammed the door shut behind him.
“FUCK!” Travis yelled, feeling the foul smelling liquid quickly soak through his shirt and start making his skin slippery. He tore it off himself, tossed it into the sink, and then stumbled over to the over to get a dish towel to wipe himself off. “The hell was that?!”
He didn’t get a response.
Matt always made good on his word-or at least the Last Straw voice’s word-as the rest of the day was spent in complete silence until Derek came home, promptly laughed at Travis’s moodiness, and then coaxed Manning and Chris in to help clean up the mess left on the kitchen tiles.
“What is this?” Manning asked, making a face as he picked up a bunch of greens and tossed them in the trashcan. Even though he was going to do the same thing hours before, Travis miserably watched him with a half a mind to tell him no, don’t throw it out. Matt didn’t want it thrown out.
Chris sniffed his fingers. “Italian Wedding soup, I think.”
“D’we have that while we were there?” Manning tried to remember.
“Not that I know, he must’ve found it in a cookbook,” Chris brushed it off, getting off his knees. “You coming to the bar with us, Trav?”
Travis didn’t hear him, not at first. Staring down at the sad remains of Matt’s meticulous culinary inside the garbage bag, something stuck out in his mind. Something repressed was coming, clawing back up, vivid details springing. A dimly lit restaurant with one level of tables and then a short staircase leading to a higher level, like a high porch to a patio. Bottles of alcohol glimmering in shelves behind a dark, wooden bar in the lower level with the usual vodka and rum, the until-recently-illegal-in-America absinthe, and, of course, a plentiful selection of Italian wine.
Up on the higher level, where he and Matt had sat alone that night, the kitchen door was wide open and they could watch the capocuoci at work. Matt had had some kind of soup and pasta with pesto, a sauce made out of basil leaves, and Travis had had lasagna even though he hated it back in America. But it was good in the restaurant because Italians were perfect with their own foods. The two of them had talked, not just discussed as they usually did, but actually talked, unlike what they have been doing for… well, awhile now. Instead of waiting for their own turns to speak again, as they and almost everyone else in the world did to one another, they were actually listening to each other for once.
The night had been clear, as clear as all the other nights they had spent in Italia, and it was a warmer night than usual. So the two of them carried their jackets as they wandered the streets, peeking into the dark windows of closed shops and trying to understand the language of the passersby, both utterly failing and choosing to make up funny, inappropriate conversations they pretended were spoken instead.
The only true negative moment of that night, Travis remembered, was when a man and a woman walked by, a couple, both smoking. The Italian cigarettes had so much more tobacco, so much more nicotine that to those unused to them had their noses burned when they caught the second-hand smoke, like inhaling a tiny amount of pepper-spray. Matt had commented casually, wistfully that this was a terrible time for him and Derek to quit smoking because Italian cigarettes probably had their own experience for those that smoked them. And perhaps he probably should have tried some before quitting.
And for some reason, Travis really, really did not like that. He didn’t know for sure why at the time either, the only reason he could solidly come up with was that he didn’t like the smell of Matt’s breath when he smoked. Travis liked it better without or sometimes with something pleasant like the pesto that then layered Matt’s teeth and the stench of the soup.
They had later shared a few drinks at the bar, how could they not? Ate gelato outside because Matt, giggling relentlessly, wanted it for the fifth time that day. Then they had a few more drinks at another bar and Travis--who usually was the drunker one in previous sittings but apparently that night had to take responsibility--lugged them around completely lost for a few streets before finding their way back to the hotel. By that point, Matt was acting more sober and he staggered up to the room they were sharing while Travis sat at the hotel bar and had a few more drinks.
Beyond that, Travis's mind allowed no recollection. None at all except an awful, uneasy feeling. Because ever since that night, even though it was so beautiful, so much fun, Matt and Travis’s relationship had become different, strained.
“What’s that in Italian?” he asked Chris slowly.
“What’s what in Italian?” Chris replied, helping Manning up to his feet.
“Italian Wedding soup.”
“Zuppa matrimonio,” the youngest member of their band said indifferently. “Why?”
Zuppa matrimonio. That was the name of the soup on the menu that Matt had had in the restaurant, before the pesto. And his mouth had smelled like it.
“No reason,” Travis said quietly, although with that word was the trigger. The dam was fully open now.
***
“I’m sorry,” Travis said, standing in the doorway. The others were gone, having left just seconds before.
Matt was lying in his bed, on top of his blankets and his limbs crooked and angled like a mannequin carelessly thrown aside. He hadn’t changed from his pajamas and his dark blue eyes stared unseeingly at the ceiling, not even twitching at Travis’s presence. Usually when he got like this everyone else stayed away, but Travis never did. Because Travis was like Matt in the sense that when he wanted something, no matter how small it was, he wasn’t going to walk away from it.
Of course, this wasn’t small.
“I’m not just talking about the soup… although I get it now,” Travis continued, walking up to the side of the bed. “I’m talking about that night.”
He had forgotten that Matt was sly, that Matt was quick to plan things out. He only remembered as Matt lashed out at him with his pillow, yelling, “Sorry?! What do you mean you’re sorry?!”
“Matt, hold up,” Travis tried but Matt just hit him harder.
“You’re an asshole, you’re the biggest fucking asshole I’ve ever met! You’re a psycho, lying, manwhore-prick. How could you fucking do this to me, how the fuck?”
“Matt, stop, c’mon.” Travis seized the younger man’s wrist to attempt to hold him close. He managed to catch Matt’s eye for an extended second but then the vocalist pushed himself forward and stuffed the pillow right into his face. His next fruitless words, “Wha’ the hell, stop!” were muffled.
“I told you to stop too but you fucking persisted and now this is where we are and it’s all ‘cause of you. So fucking deal with it!”
“Wha’ you…ugh!” Travis pushed the younger man away, a little harder than he intended, and Matt fell back, the back of his head colliding against the wall. “Oh shit! Matt, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“Just add to your list of things you don’t mean then,” Matt snarled, rubbing his skull. “I’m sure you don’t mind adding one more.”
“Matty, c’mon, don’t act like this.” Travis crawled on top of Matt’s bed and wearily held his arms out. “C’mere.”
But Matt looked away. “No, I’m not fucking talking now just because you want to.”
“…Okay.” Travis rubbed his eyes, his forehead. A headache was beginning to form. “We won’t talk ‘til you want to, but I want you to know I’m not goin’ anywhere ‘til then.”
And so he did and a good amount of time had passed with unbearable silence, with Matt looking out at the pouring rain. He was probably watching the drops, their frequency, their velocity, listening to the pitter-patter they made on the glass. Travis was looking too but he was studying the actual window pane, how the water had smeared it so nothing outside and beyond them could be clearly viewed. The marred glass reminding him of Matt’s red, glassy eyes and the shine of the skin on his cheeks as he whimpered to Travis in that hotel bed that yes, yes, it hurt. But please, he only needed to go slow, don’t stop, don’t stop…
Travis could, with a sort of ill-feeling, recall the slimy feel on his cock as he thrust in and out, the lubricant-the lotion they had found in the bathroom-becoming less and less of a factor as the action went on. And the pinching of skin near his spine as fingernails burrowed deep. And the cries of pain from Matt beneath him, trying to bear it but simply unable to.
But there was a time after that, where the words “ti amo” had sneaked passed Travis’s lips and pasted themselves into their history, forever changing their story. And Matt looked at him because, through watching an Italian-captioned American movie in a cinema, they both knew the meaning. Matt had given him the most bizarre expression, one that had long crossed the line between the meaning of lust and something more, and then had snuggled his face into Travis’s bare chest, whispering ti amo, ti amo, I love you too, I love you too. Don’t stop, please…
Travis was too drunk then to know at that time, Matt didn’t mean stop with the sex. But somehow in there afterward, he had managed to call him ‘baby’ at least a dozen times and babble a million things into the younger man’s ear about a future…
“I think I should move out,” Matt said presently and even though he had purposely angled away his face, Travis knew he was crying.
“What? No!” he exclaimed, moving to touch Matt again before deciding that perhaps right now wasn’t the greatest of time. “You-you can’t. Why?”
“I’m presuming it’s harder to get over someone if you live with them,” Matt responded stuffily, stabbing Travis in the heart.
“You… want to get over me?” he asked weakly.
Matt’s whole body trembled, he bent his head down over his chest. “I have to.”
“But Matt-“
“How the fuck do you expect anything else? You’ve made it more than obvious, thanks a fucking lot, that you fucking played me like a doll that night and in your drunken fucking horny-ness somehow got me to let you fuck me,” Matt cried. “But don’t worry, I don’t entirely blame you, I was drunk that night too, wasn’t I? I was stupid and I let you do to me what I’ve seen you do to a million girls before…”
“It’s not like that,” Travis said angrily and this time he did reach out and take Matt’s hand because he couldn’t contain himself. Matt let out a noise of rejection and he attempted to tug away but Travis held fast. “You’re not like that.”
“Fuck you,” Matt spat. “You’re just saying that because you feel bad, or-or you pity me, or you don’t want to lose me as a friend or some shit.”
“I meant what I said that night,” the older man insisted.
He had anticipated some kind of verbal retort, predicted some delayed reaction due to Matt’s surprise, or perhaps even some joyful acceptance. What he didn’t expect to happen was Matt’s open palm cracking against his cheek. “You are extremely fucked up,” Matt hissed.
“Extremely?” Travis repeated, prepared to deny but then, after a brief pause, decided on a different route. “You know, I think you’re right.”
“What?” Matt said blankly.
“You’re absolutely right, I’m extremely fucked up. I’m a total uncaring dickface, I’m a prick, like you said, I’m a fucking manwhore.”
The younger man looked at him nervously, tears still rolling down his cheeks. “Trav…”
“I’m in-fucking-sane. In fact, I’m so insane, you know what I’m going to do?”
“…What?” Matt was uncertainly directing his attention to the door now, only making the shot perfect for Travis.
“This.” And with that, Travis pushed himself onto Matt, grabbing right below his shoulder, curling his fingers into his hair, and then pushing his lips onto his.
“Mmph!” Matt squealed, struggled vainly, trying to rip his mouth away. But the only second Travis let him breath, he forced him into a reclining position so he could get on top of him and it was finally then that Matt half-heartedly opened his mouth so once again their tongues can meet one another.
“’Member this?” Travis asked when they parted, lowering his aim so he could kiss up the younger man’s neck.
“Mmhmm.” Matt’s eyes, half-lidded, shut in relaxation, and his fingers clenched Travis’s arms, clung to him. “Promise me…”
“Promise you what?” Travis rose his mouth to kiss the younger man full-on again.
“Look at me this time, please.”
Travis stopped to mull this over, but still holding onto Matt as to let him know that he wasn’t going to leave. When Matt opened his eyes again, Travis leaned in closely, let their eyes meet straight on and told him, “I will fulfill every promise I made to you.”
Pairing: Travis Richter/Matt Good
Warnings: sexual suggestion
Disclaimer: I do not own any member of From First To Last
Summary: After a trip to Italy, Matt and Travis need to face some demons they created between themselves.
Notes: Ahh, Italy. I MISS YOU SO MUCH! T_T
“It’s raining again,” Travis huffed, drawing away the blinds to check outside. “That’s, what, the fifth day in a row now?”
He waited for an answer, but after a few silent moments, realized he wasn’t getting one. He turned his head to look at the person he had spoken to, groaning when he saw what was keeping the attention away from him. Matt was sitting at the kitchen table, preoccupied with mixing something in a bowl and using a few choice Italian swear words Chris had taught him. The five of them, Travis, Matt, Chris, Derek, and Manning had recently gone to Italy for a week and ever since, Matt had been displeased with his own cooking.
It was hard to compare with authentic Italian cuisine, the rest knew, considering the fact that everything, everything, in Italy was organic and fresh. The tomatoes had a sweet tang to them the American fruit-yet-vegetable noticeably lacked, the meat and the poultry were always juicy and tender, the bread was constantly wrapped in brown paper bags to keep warm and soft, and even the water, always presented in two separate bottles of bubbling and spring, had a certain cleaner difference to it. American food-which was, in the crudest term possible, shit-took hours long of expert preparation to even vaguely resemble the privilege taste of Italian.
But Matt, who a long time ago had been declared the band cook, still tried.
“The hell are you doing now?” Travis demanded, carelessly letting the blinds fall from his fingers and nearing the vocalist.
“Gotta get this soup right,” Matt murmured, his eyes barely flickering up to Travis.
“You haven’t even eaten breakfast yet,” the older man pointed out.
“It’s 2:30.”
“Stop sleeping for so long then.” Travis chuckled, daring to come even closer and brush his lips against Matt’s scalp. “Put that away, let’s do something today.”
“After this.”
Travis scowled. “You’ve been saying that for the last five days.”
“Didn’t succeed for the last five days.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Matt, I’m not fucking around here.” Ignoring the vocalist’s cry of protest, Travis grabbed a hold of the bowl of various vegetables and pasta and wrenched it away. Matt seized his arms and pulled himself off of the chair he had been sitting on for the past half hour, his extra long pajama bottoms stepped on by his own heels.
“Give it back!”
“I’m putting it in the refrigerator, you can work on it later.” Travis tried to pull his arms out from Matt’s possession but the younger man wouldn’t let go so he opted to drag the vocalist with him instead. “Stop it!”
“You stop it!”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“You’re stealing my fucking work,” Matt protested. “How would you like it if I stole your guitar riffs, huh?”
Travis smirked. “You wouldn’t be able to get away with that because everyone knows I’m so much more awesome than you on the guitar they’d know something’s up.”
Matt apparently didn’t find that to be very funny, glowering at his friend. “I’m not talking to you for the rest of the week if you don’t give it back. Now. I’m totally fucking serious.”
That’s when the older man stopped. Gave the vocalist a hard look, not quite liking what he was hearing. He knew that tone of voice, after eight years, he knew it well even though it was rarely used. Matt’s Last Straw voice. This-Better-Go-My-Way-RIGHT-NOW-Or-I-Will-Make-Consequences-for-You voice. When it came to the other band members, and those that From First To Last toured with or used as techies, that voice usually meant everything will be smooth sailing for Matt from that moment on.
But Travis, he had known Matt the longest. And when it came to Matt he was never like the rest.
“I’m throwing this out,” he said, tone flat, dead. Shifted his hands’ positions so he could grasp the bowl out of Matt’s reach with one hand and reach for the cabinet with the garbage underneath with the other.
That’s when Matt started shrieking. “NO! NO, NO, NO!”
And Travis hated when he did that even more because that wasn’t an original Matt characteristic. Matt had learned the Temper Tantrum Trick from Sonny who would go as far as to throw papers up in the air and violently drop guitars and hit the walls with drumsticks. Most people didn’t know about that side of Sonny, but to those associated with him and FFTL it was no surprise that kid-who had a high note range even longer than Matt’s which, in its own way, was pretty damn impressive-ended up getting surgery twice in his throat.
“Cut it out,” Travis growled, his irritation quickly leaping to fury. “Cut it out and stop acting like a fucking baby or I swear to God, Matt, I will…”
Well, he wasn’t quite sure yet what he’ll do, but Travis wasn’t uncreative. Nor was he forgetful. He’ll come up with something eventually.
“I’m acting like a baby?” Matt snapped. “I’m the baby? Really now?”
“Yes, really now,” Travis mocked him, which possibly wasn’t the greatest idea on top of the use of the word ‘baby.’
“Ah, I see. That’s great, Travis, real great. You know what, I don’t care anymore; take the fucking soup, I don’t give a shit.” And with that, Matt shoved Travis’s arm so the bowl tipped over, letting the wet mixture fly onto the older man’s clothes, and then turned and stormed away into his room. Slammed the door shut behind him.
“FUCK!” Travis yelled, feeling the foul smelling liquid quickly soak through his shirt and start making his skin slippery. He tore it off himself, tossed it into the sink, and then stumbled over to the over to get a dish towel to wipe himself off. “The hell was that?!”
He didn’t get a response.
Matt always made good on his word-or at least the Last Straw voice’s word-as the rest of the day was spent in complete silence until Derek came home, promptly laughed at Travis’s moodiness, and then coaxed Manning and Chris in to help clean up the mess left on the kitchen tiles.
“What is this?” Manning asked, making a face as he picked up a bunch of greens and tossed them in the trashcan. Even though he was going to do the same thing hours before, Travis miserably watched him with a half a mind to tell him no, don’t throw it out. Matt didn’t want it thrown out.
Chris sniffed his fingers. “Italian Wedding soup, I think.”
“D’we have that while we were there?” Manning tried to remember.
“Not that I know, he must’ve found it in a cookbook,” Chris brushed it off, getting off his knees. “You coming to the bar with us, Trav?”
Travis didn’t hear him, not at first. Staring down at the sad remains of Matt’s meticulous culinary inside the garbage bag, something stuck out in his mind. Something repressed was coming, clawing back up, vivid details springing. A dimly lit restaurant with one level of tables and then a short staircase leading to a higher level, like a high porch to a patio. Bottles of alcohol glimmering in shelves behind a dark, wooden bar in the lower level with the usual vodka and rum, the until-recently-illegal-in-America absinthe, and, of course, a plentiful selection of Italian wine.
Up on the higher level, where he and Matt had sat alone that night, the kitchen door was wide open and they could watch the capocuoci at work. Matt had had some kind of soup and pasta with pesto, a sauce made out of basil leaves, and Travis had had lasagna even though he hated it back in America. But it was good in the restaurant because Italians were perfect with their own foods. The two of them had talked, not just discussed as they usually did, but actually talked, unlike what they have been doing for… well, awhile now. Instead of waiting for their own turns to speak again, as they and almost everyone else in the world did to one another, they were actually listening to each other for once.
The night had been clear, as clear as all the other nights they had spent in Italia, and it was a warmer night than usual. So the two of them carried their jackets as they wandered the streets, peeking into the dark windows of closed shops and trying to understand the language of the passersby, both utterly failing and choosing to make up funny, inappropriate conversations they pretended were spoken instead.
The only true negative moment of that night, Travis remembered, was when a man and a woman walked by, a couple, both smoking. The Italian cigarettes had so much more tobacco, so much more nicotine that to those unused to them had their noses burned when they caught the second-hand smoke, like inhaling a tiny amount of pepper-spray. Matt had commented casually, wistfully that this was a terrible time for him and Derek to quit smoking because Italian cigarettes probably had their own experience for those that smoked them. And perhaps he probably should have tried some before quitting.
And for some reason, Travis really, really did not like that. He didn’t know for sure why at the time either, the only reason he could solidly come up with was that he didn’t like the smell of Matt’s breath when he smoked. Travis liked it better without or sometimes with something pleasant like the pesto that then layered Matt’s teeth and the stench of the soup.
They had later shared a few drinks at the bar, how could they not? Ate gelato outside because Matt, giggling relentlessly, wanted it for the fifth time that day. Then they had a few more drinks at another bar and Travis--who usually was the drunker one in previous sittings but apparently that night had to take responsibility--lugged them around completely lost for a few streets before finding their way back to the hotel. By that point, Matt was acting more sober and he staggered up to the room they were sharing while Travis sat at the hotel bar and had a few more drinks.
Beyond that, Travis's mind allowed no recollection. None at all except an awful, uneasy feeling. Because ever since that night, even though it was so beautiful, so much fun, Matt and Travis’s relationship had become different, strained.
“What’s that in Italian?” he asked Chris slowly.
“What’s what in Italian?” Chris replied, helping Manning up to his feet.
“Italian Wedding soup.”
“Zuppa matrimonio,” the youngest member of their band said indifferently. “Why?”
Zuppa matrimonio. That was the name of the soup on the menu that Matt had had in the restaurant, before the pesto. And his mouth had smelled like it.
“No reason,” Travis said quietly, although with that word was the trigger. The dam was fully open now.
***
“I’m sorry,” Travis said, standing in the doorway. The others were gone, having left just seconds before.
Matt was lying in his bed, on top of his blankets and his limbs crooked and angled like a mannequin carelessly thrown aside. He hadn’t changed from his pajamas and his dark blue eyes stared unseeingly at the ceiling, not even twitching at Travis’s presence. Usually when he got like this everyone else stayed away, but Travis never did. Because Travis was like Matt in the sense that when he wanted something, no matter how small it was, he wasn’t going to walk away from it.
Of course, this wasn’t small.
“I’m not just talking about the soup… although I get it now,” Travis continued, walking up to the side of the bed. “I’m talking about that night.”
He had forgotten that Matt was sly, that Matt was quick to plan things out. He only remembered as Matt lashed out at him with his pillow, yelling, “Sorry?! What do you mean you’re sorry?!”
“Matt, hold up,” Travis tried but Matt just hit him harder.
“You’re an asshole, you’re the biggest fucking asshole I’ve ever met! You’re a psycho, lying, manwhore-prick. How could you fucking do this to me, how the fuck?”
“Matt, stop, c’mon.” Travis seized the younger man’s wrist to attempt to hold him close. He managed to catch Matt’s eye for an extended second but then the vocalist pushed himself forward and stuffed the pillow right into his face. His next fruitless words, “Wha’ the hell, stop!” were muffled.
“I told you to stop too but you fucking persisted and now this is where we are and it’s all ‘cause of you. So fucking deal with it!”
“Wha’ you…ugh!” Travis pushed the younger man away, a little harder than he intended, and Matt fell back, the back of his head colliding against the wall. “Oh shit! Matt, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“Just add to your list of things you don’t mean then,” Matt snarled, rubbing his skull. “I’m sure you don’t mind adding one more.”
“Matty, c’mon, don’t act like this.” Travis crawled on top of Matt’s bed and wearily held his arms out. “C’mere.”
But Matt looked away. “No, I’m not fucking talking now just because you want to.”
“…Okay.” Travis rubbed his eyes, his forehead. A headache was beginning to form. “We won’t talk ‘til you want to, but I want you to know I’m not goin’ anywhere ‘til then.”
And so he did and a good amount of time had passed with unbearable silence, with Matt looking out at the pouring rain. He was probably watching the drops, their frequency, their velocity, listening to the pitter-patter they made on the glass. Travis was looking too but he was studying the actual window pane, how the water had smeared it so nothing outside and beyond them could be clearly viewed. The marred glass reminding him of Matt’s red, glassy eyes and the shine of the skin on his cheeks as he whimpered to Travis in that hotel bed that yes, yes, it hurt. But please, he only needed to go slow, don’t stop, don’t stop…
Travis could, with a sort of ill-feeling, recall the slimy feel on his cock as he thrust in and out, the lubricant-the lotion they had found in the bathroom-becoming less and less of a factor as the action went on. And the pinching of skin near his spine as fingernails burrowed deep. And the cries of pain from Matt beneath him, trying to bear it but simply unable to.
But there was a time after that, where the words “ti amo” had sneaked passed Travis’s lips and pasted themselves into their history, forever changing their story. And Matt looked at him because, through watching an Italian-captioned American movie in a cinema, they both knew the meaning. Matt had given him the most bizarre expression, one that had long crossed the line between the meaning of lust and something more, and then had snuggled his face into Travis’s bare chest, whispering ti amo, ti amo, I love you too, I love you too. Don’t stop, please…
Travis was too drunk then to know at that time, Matt didn’t mean stop with the sex. But somehow in there afterward, he had managed to call him ‘baby’ at least a dozen times and babble a million things into the younger man’s ear about a future…
“I think I should move out,” Matt said presently and even though he had purposely angled away his face, Travis knew he was crying.
“What? No!” he exclaimed, moving to touch Matt again before deciding that perhaps right now wasn’t the greatest of time. “You-you can’t. Why?”
“I’m presuming it’s harder to get over someone if you live with them,” Matt responded stuffily, stabbing Travis in the heart.
“You… want to get over me?” he asked weakly.
Matt’s whole body trembled, he bent his head down over his chest. “I have to.”
“But Matt-“
“How the fuck do you expect anything else? You’ve made it more than obvious, thanks a fucking lot, that you fucking played me like a doll that night and in your drunken fucking horny-ness somehow got me to let you fuck me,” Matt cried. “But don’t worry, I don’t entirely blame you, I was drunk that night too, wasn’t I? I was stupid and I let you do to me what I’ve seen you do to a million girls before…”
“It’s not like that,” Travis said angrily and this time he did reach out and take Matt’s hand because he couldn’t contain himself. Matt let out a noise of rejection and he attempted to tug away but Travis held fast. “You’re not like that.”
“Fuck you,” Matt spat. “You’re just saying that because you feel bad, or-or you pity me, or you don’t want to lose me as a friend or some shit.”
“I meant what I said that night,” the older man insisted.
He had anticipated some kind of verbal retort, predicted some delayed reaction due to Matt’s surprise, or perhaps even some joyful acceptance. What he didn’t expect to happen was Matt’s open palm cracking against his cheek. “You are extremely fucked up,” Matt hissed.
“Extremely?” Travis repeated, prepared to deny but then, after a brief pause, decided on a different route. “You know, I think you’re right.”
“What?” Matt said blankly.
“You’re absolutely right, I’m extremely fucked up. I’m a total uncaring dickface, I’m a prick, like you said, I’m a fucking manwhore.”
The younger man looked at him nervously, tears still rolling down his cheeks. “Trav…”
“I’m in-fucking-sane. In fact, I’m so insane, you know what I’m going to do?”
“…What?” Matt was uncertainly directing his attention to the door now, only making the shot perfect for Travis.
“This.” And with that, Travis pushed himself onto Matt, grabbing right below his shoulder, curling his fingers into his hair, and then pushing his lips onto his.
“Mmph!” Matt squealed, struggled vainly, trying to rip his mouth away. But the only second Travis let him breath, he forced him into a reclining position so he could get on top of him and it was finally then that Matt half-heartedly opened his mouth so once again their tongues can meet one another.
“’Member this?” Travis asked when they parted, lowering his aim so he could kiss up the younger man’s neck.
“Mmhmm.” Matt’s eyes, half-lidded, shut in relaxation, and his fingers clenched Travis’s arms, clung to him. “Promise me…”
“Promise you what?” Travis rose his mouth to kiss the younger man full-on again.
“Look at me this time, please.”
Travis stopped to mull this over, but still holding onto Matt as to let him know that he wasn’t going to leave. When Matt opened his eyes again, Travis leaned in closely, let their eyes meet straight on and told him, “I will fulfill every promise I made to you.”