Flash! Bam! Alakazam!
Title: Flash! Bam! Alakazam!
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brian/Matt
Summary: This one might be heaven-sent, Matt, so don't screw it up!
Disclaimer: The only thing here that is mine is the plot. I do not intend to besmirch any actual people, whom I also don't own. The title belongs to Nat King Cole from "Orange Colored Sky." This chapter's title belong to Imogen Heap.
Matt felt like this was a way of shedding skin. As he closed the deal on his house, he felt a bitter relief. All the walls were back to their white state, the floors were clear, and the simple curtains let in sunlight. It was like nothing had happened here.
The furniture was long since cleared out and put in storage, and Matt had packed about half his closet into three different suitcases: just the business attire, underwear, and one outfit for whenever he wanted to go out. The rest was also in storage.
He looked around for a half-decent motel room where he would stay until he found a house that he liked. From now on, he simply existed to work.
After a few weeks of living in that room, bottles lay in pieces around the tattered area, and the “Do not disturb” sign hung perpetually on the doorknob. In one single moment of sobriety, he thought, This is exactly like the West Wing of that Disney movie. He laughed bitterly and took a swig of tequila.
On the plus side, his rage fueled his work for a short time. His advertising got phenomenally creative, and he was able to hang on for a while. However, when he started showing up to work grumpy and hungover - or just missed work altogether - Jimmy had to tell him that he was becoming a liability.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Matt said, rubbing his temples and staring deep into the coffee mug. It was the same color as a familiar pair of eyes.
“We can't have employees showing up in your state of disrepair. Especially someone like you in such a visible position,” Jimmy sighed, scratching at the beard he was growing out. “It's going to bring down morale, because people will start to think something's horribly wrong.”
“And they'd be right,” Matt said without thinking. Jimmy shook his head and started to leave.
“This is a warning from a concerned colleague. The higher-ups are already buzzing about what to do.”
---
Friday night, and Matt found himself actually going out. The karaoke bar across the street from his motel called to him. “Grand prize $100!” claimed the poster in the front window. Matt had no need for it, but hey, what the hell, right?
First step: get smashed. Check.
Second step: get on stage. Check.
Matt was feeling frisky. He didn't care what others thought at this point, so he chose the song “I Will Survive.” In his head, this was a perfectly acceptable, non-cheesy way of expressing how he felt. He'd taken voice and piano lessons as a child, so this couldn't possibly be too difficult.
Well, when he finished singing, there were some cheers and some cat calls. When he got off the stage, some woman came up to him and said in a deep voice, “Well honey, that was just about the cutest thing I ever saw! How about you and I get out of here?”
Before responding, Matt looked over her. Her chest was flat and her hips were narrow. She also had a little bit of a 5 o' clock shadow.
“Sure,” he said, before the situation totally registered in his brain. Without thinking, he led her back to his motel room and had her up against the wall. After missing and hitting the wall a few times, he finally managed to land a few kisses on her. However, even this situation, something can be missing.
Matt was not getting hard. Finally the drag queen shoved him away.
“Look, buddy, if you can't get it up, I'm gone. That's the deal.”
“At least I won't get herpes.”
She scoffed and left him there, bewildered and alone.
Of course, the next night, he found himself in the same place again. This time, he sang “More Than a Feeling” when he was almost sober, and he won the grand prize. Several other drag queens pestered him, and he bought them all drinks. Why not? He was out for a good time.
By 2:00 AM, he was the man of the hour. Everyone knew his name, and the place was out of control. People were still singing, and Matt arbitrarily jumped on stage and sang with them.
In any case, he blacked out, and when he woke up he was in bed with three other men. And his ass hurt.
Every week night was a pity party, and every weekend was spent in a whirlwind of hedonistic indulgence in gaudy lifestyle. He was pretty sure that somewhere along the way he'd snorted a few lines, smoked pot, dropped acid, and probably stolen a few things. The proof was the mysterious appearance of several lamps in his room.
It had only been a matter of time, he told himself as he listened to the sirens wailing around him and he shifted against the handcuffs. The night in jail helped clear his head.
---
“Matthew Sanders, the jury finds you guilty of assault and battery, and sentences you to one hundred hours of community service with a fine of ten thousand dollars in damages.”
The sound of the gavel resonated in his head, and he felt shame wash over him. At least he wasn't going to prison. He knew what was coming next, though.
Jimmy was sitting at his desk, and Matt felt sorely out of place. Like at a principal's office or something. With a sigh, Jimmy said, “Look, we're not firing you: that's not the company policy. We're just suspending you, and requiring that you see a therapist until this sentence is all cleared up.”
Matt outwardly cringed at the word “therapist.” It was totally surreal. “Well, how will I live?”
“We give a pension for this kind of thing.”
“So now I'm living on charity?”
“It's not charity. It is a compensation you get based on how long and hard you've worked here, and how many vacations you've taken.”
Shortly thereafter, Matt packed up his office and went back home... to the motel room. He picked up his phone and started dialing around to therapists right out of the phone book. After finding a nondescript “Dr. Burgan,” he set the phone down. Thinking again, he picked it up and thumbed through the phone book for a familiar name.
“Hello?” came the light voice over the line.
“Hey, is this Valarie DiBenedetto?”
“Yes, and who is calling?”
“Hey, it's Matt.”
“What do you want?” Her voice was suddenly hasher.
Matt thought for a moment. “Why did we break up?”
“Are you serious?” she laughed, “We broke up because you said you thought that it wouldn't work out.”
Matt cleared his throat. “Is it too late to say sorry?”
Click.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brian/Matt
Summary: This one might be heaven-sent, Matt, so don't screw it up!
Disclaimer: The only thing here that is mine is the plot. I do not intend to besmirch any actual people, whom I also don't own. The title belongs to Nat King Cole from "Orange Colored Sky." This chapter's title belong to Imogen Heap.
Matt felt like this was a way of shedding skin. As he closed the deal on his house, he felt a bitter relief. All the walls were back to their white state, the floors were clear, and the simple curtains let in sunlight. It was like nothing had happened here.
The furniture was long since cleared out and put in storage, and Matt had packed about half his closet into three different suitcases: just the business attire, underwear, and one outfit for whenever he wanted to go out. The rest was also in storage.
He looked around for a half-decent motel room where he would stay until he found a house that he liked. From now on, he simply existed to work.
After a few weeks of living in that room, bottles lay in pieces around the tattered area, and the “Do not disturb” sign hung perpetually on the doorknob. In one single moment of sobriety, he thought, This is exactly like the West Wing of that Disney movie. He laughed bitterly and took a swig of tequila.
On the plus side, his rage fueled his work for a short time. His advertising got phenomenally creative, and he was able to hang on for a while. However, when he started showing up to work grumpy and hungover - or just missed work altogether - Jimmy had to tell him that he was becoming a liability.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Matt said, rubbing his temples and staring deep into the coffee mug. It was the same color as a familiar pair of eyes.
“We can't have employees showing up in your state of disrepair. Especially someone like you in such a visible position,” Jimmy sighed, scratching at the beard he was growing out. “It's going to bring down morale, because people will start to think something's horribly wrong.”
“And they'd be right,” Matt said without thinking. Jimmy shook his head and started to leave.
“This is a warning from a concerned colleague. The higher-ups are already buzzing about what to do.”
---
Friday night, and Matt found himself actually going out. The karaoke bar across the street from his motel called to him. “Grand prize $100!” claimed the poster in the front window. Matt had no need for it, but hey, what the hell, right?
First step: get smashed. Check.
Second step: get on stage. Check.
Matt was feeling frisky. He didn't care what others thought at this point, so he chose the song “I Will Survive.” In his head, this was a perfectly acceptable, non-cheesy way of expressing how he felt. He'd taken voice and piano lessons as a child, so this couldn't possibly be too difficult.
Well, when he finished singing, there were some cheers and some cat calls. When he got off the stage, some woman came up to him and said in a deep voice, “Well honey, that was just about the cutest thing I ever saw! How about you and I get out of here?”
Before responding, Matt looked over her. Her chest was flat and her hips were narrow. She also had a little bit of a 5 o' clock shadow.
“Sure,” he said, before the situation totally registered in his brain. Without thinking, he led her back to his motel room and had her up against the wall. After missing and hitting the wall a few times, he finally managed to land a few kisses on her. However, even this situation, something can be missing.
Matt was not getting hard. Finally the drag queen shoved him away.
“Look, buddy, if you can't get it up, I'm gone. That's the deal.”
“At least I won't get herpes.”
She scoffed and left him there, bewildered and alone.
Of course, the next night, he found himself in the same place again. This time, he sang “More Than a Feeling” when he was almost sober, and he won the grand prize. Several other drag queens pestered him, and he bought them all drinks. Why not? He was out for a good time.
By 2:00 AM, he was the man of the hour. Everyone knew his name, and the place was out of control. People were still singing, and Matt arbitrarily jumped on stage and sang with them.
In any case, he blacked out, and when he woke up he was in bed with three other men. And his ass hurt.
Every week night was a pity party, and every weekend was spent in a whirlwind of hedonistic indulgence in gaudy lifestyle. He was pretty sure that somewhere along the way he'd snorted a few lines, smoked pot, dropped acid, and probably stolen a few things. The proof was the mysterious appearance of several lamps in his room.
It had only been a matter of time, he told himself as he listened to the sirens wailing around him and he shifted against the handcuffs. The night in jail helped clear his head.
---
“Matthew Sanders, the jury finds you guilty of assault and battery, and sentences you to one hundred hours of community service with a fine of ten thousand dollars in damages.”
The sound of the gavel resonated in his head, and he felt shame wash over him. At least he wasn't going to prison. He knew what was coming next, though.
Jimmy was sitting at his desk, and Matt felt sorely out of place. Like at a principal's office or something. With a sigh, Jimmy said, “Look, we're not firing you: that's not the company policy. We're just suspending you, and requiring that you see a therapist until this sentence is all cleared up.”
Matt outwardly cringed at the word “therapist.” It was totally surreal. “Well, how will I live?”
“We give a pension for this kind of thing.”
“So now I'm living on charity?”
“It's not charity. It is a compensation you get based on how long and hard you've worked here, and how many vacations you've taken.”
Shortly thereafter, Matt packed up his office and went back home... to the motel room. He picked up his phone and started dialing around to therapists right out of the phone book. After finding a nondescript “Dr. Burgan,” he set the phone down. Thinking again, he picked it up and thumbed through the phone book for a familiar name.
“Hello?” came the light voice over the line.
“Hey, is this Valarie DiBenedetto?”
“Yes, and who is calling?”
“Hey, it's Matt.”
“What do you want?” Her voice was suddenly hasher.
Matt thought for a moment. “Why did we break up?”
“Are you serious?” she laughed, “We broke up because you said you thought that it wouldn't work out.”
Matt cleared his throat. “Is it too late to say sorry?”
Click.